by Dorien Grey
She stopped and turned toward me again. I could see she was still angry.
“He hired you, didn’t he?” It was more of a statement and a demand than a question.
“Yes, he did,” I admitted. “But he did not hire me to investigate you specifically, and in any event now that he’s dead, the entire matter is moot. Please, sit down. And if it will help, I can tell you that I quit on him, and that I considered him a totally obnoxious excuse for a human being.”
She was watching my face through slightly narrowed eyes, as if trying to tell if I were telling the truth or not. Apparently satisfied, she rather reluctantly returned to the typing desk and her chair, which she swiveled to face me.
“Please.” I gestured to the more comfortable chair closer to the desk, and she took the three or four steps to it and slowly sat down.
“Tell me about your rela…about your association with Mr. Tunderew.”
She was still watching me closely, but her eyes were no longer narrowed.
“I had a two-month assignment with Craylaw and Collier,” she began, readjusting her position and sitting up quite straight, shoulders back as though she were practicing a finishing school exercise on proper posture. “I was working with Mr. Tunderew on a special fundraising project for the Eternal Light Foundation. When I happened to mention that I’d recently moved here from Dallas, Mr. Tunderew asked if I might have read or heard anything negative about the New Eden there. I told him no, of course—it’s very highly regarded by everyone who knows of it. When I said that it had been a real shame when that young man who’d lived at New Eden was murdered, he became very interested. He said he was an amateur crime buff, and wanted to know everything I could tell him about it.” She looked off into the corner as she continued.
“Well, I have something of a photographic memory, as it happens. Mostly for dates and numbers, but also for things I read. I was able to recite the entire newspaper article I’d read on it—and that was some time ago. He was very impressed. I told him my mother’s cousin, Pres—that’s short for Prescott—was a deputy sheriff in Kaufman County—that’s where New Eden is—and that he’d been in on the entire investigation. They don’t have all that many murders in Kaufman County, and I told Mr. Tunderew that Pres kept a huge scrapbook of all his cases. Mr. Tunderew asked if I’d seen what it had about the New Eden murder, but I hadn’t.”
Now it was I who was doing the close watching. “And did you and Mr. Tunderew develop any kind of personal friendship about that same time?”
I saw her look quickly at the floor and blush. Then embarrassment was replaced, again, by anger.
“I thought we did, yes. But he was only using me, of course.”
“How so?” I was pretty sure I could guess.
She drew in a long breath and again squared her shoulders.
“When I first began working with him, he seemed rather aloof. But I thought talking about the New Eden murder sort of broke the ice between us. He really became quite friendly; always complimenting me, smiling…flirting, actually. I knew he was married, but he is…was…a very handsome man. As we got to know each other better, he told me in confidence that his marriage was coming to an end.”
“Which led you to believe…” I started to say, but she merely blushed again and cast her eyes to the floor, nodding.
“And what made you change your mind about him?”
Her eyes rose to meet mine.
“He lied to me.”
Gee, imagine that! I thought.
“What happened?”
She ran her hand lightly across the side of her head to push a lock of hair back into place behind her ear, then continued. “He kept asking me about the New Eden thing, and how close I was to my mother’s cousin, and when I told him we were fairly close, he wondered if I’d ever seen his scrapbook. I told him that it was Pres’s pride and joy, and that he’d show it to almost anybody who stopped by.”
She gave a huge sigh and shook her head. “I was so stupid! Just a few days later, Mr. Tunderew…,” she paused, then looked at me with an expression that was equal parts bemusement and disdain. “Do you know I never once called him ‘Tony’? Even after…”
“Did you socialize outside of work?” I asked, not wanting to force her to go somewhere she didn’t care to go at the moment.
She shook her head firmly. “I’m getting to that, but no. Not until…well, he said his wife was insanely jealous and kept constant tabs on him, and that, while he wanted very badly to take me to dinner to show his appreciation for my help, he just couldn’t do it. He seemed very sincere. Anyway, just a few days later—August eighth to be exact—he told me that the company was sending him to the Dallas New Eden to have a talk with Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore about the project, and that he would like for me to come along to help him. I thought that was very odd, since the Dinsmores are living at the local New Eden now. He said the Dinsmores would be at the Dallas New Eden for a week or two—they maintain a home at all of the New Edens, I understand—and that it was some sort of urgent meeting and no one was supposed to know about it, so I wasn’t to tell anyone.”
She obviously read the expression on my face, and sighed.
“Yes, stupid is the word you’re looking for. There was no reason at all why he’d need me to go along on a business trip with him, but, well, I’m only human and he was a very handsome man. He said it would give me a chance to spend some time with Pres and his family while he was meeting with the Dinsmores Saturday afternoon, the twelfth, and then Saturday night I could help him with his notes, and we’d come back Sunday. I don’t know what I was expecting or hoping for, but…well, I agreed.”
She was quiet a moment, lost in thought, then continued.
“So we took an early flight to Dallas on Saturday morning and got there around noon. We rented a car and drove right to Kaufman, which is only about twenty or so miles away. I’d called Pres to let him know I was coming, and when we got to Kaufman, Mr. Tunderew…isn’t it silly of me not to be able to call him Tony?…said he had some time to kill before his meeting at New Eden, and I naturally invited him to come in and meet Pres and his family.”
She sighed and shook her head slowly. “Which is exactly what he’d intended all along, I realize now. We weren’t in the house more than five minutes when he was asking Pres about the New Eden murder—that’s what folks around Kaufman still call it—and Pres had his scrapbook out. They sat there at the dining room table for a good hour going over it, with Mr. Tunderew asking all sorts of questions, until I reminded him about his appointment with the Dinsmores. He looked almost surprised, and said he’d better get going.”
So it’s possible Tunderew had met the Dinsmores! Why hadn’t Jeffrey Dinsmore mentioned that? I wondered. Then it occurred to me that it was equally likely that the whole “meeting with the Dinsmores” story was a setup—that Tunderew had just used it as an excuse to find out more about the murder—and probably add Judith Francini to his list of conquests.
Well, one of my mind-voices said just a little impatiently, maybe you should just stop thinking and let her finish her story.
Obviously, she’d noticed that I had wandered off, and had stopped talking.
“Excuse me,” I said, lamely. “I was just making some mental notes. So Tunderew went off to the meeting. How long was he gone?”
She pursed her lips in thought, then said, “Not all that long, now that I think of it. He was back within an hour and a half. Jody, Pres’s wife, asked if we’d like to stay for dinner, but Mr. Tunderew said we really should be getting back to Dallas. He said he’d called the hotel to confirm our reservations and was told there had been some mix up due to a convention at the hotel, and our rooms weren’t available so we’d have to find another. Our flight back was at nine seventeen Sunday morning and he wanted to stay somewhere near the airport.”
She gave a deep sigh, shaking her head.
“How could I have been so incredibly stupid?” she asked. “How could I not have seen him for t
he…well, please excuse my language, but…for the bastard he was? And then for me to find out he was…well…”
Before I let her head off in the direction my gut told me she was going, I wanted to finish up the Dallas trip first.
“So what happened when you got back to Dallas?” I asked, interrupting her from changing to what I suspected was a totally different subject.
She readjusted her posture yet again and paused to gather herself together.
“He’d told me he’d booked rooms at the Sheraton,” she continued, “and then came up with that pathetic ‘overbooked’ excuse. We ended up at some third-rate motel directly under the incoming flight path. It didn’t even have a restaurant! But there was a roadhouse next door, and as soon as we checked in I asked Mr. Tunderew when he wanted to start on whatever it was he had brought me along to help him with. He suggested we first have an early dinner at the roadhouse, and I agreed. Stupid, stupid, stupid!”
I wanted to save her having to go into too much detail of what I was pretty sure happened next. “So the ‘early dinner’ turned out to be a little more than dinner.”
She shook her head. “He suggested we have a cocktail first. He was so attentive. I know now he manipulated my ego like it was a balloon and he certainly had more than enough hot air to fill it. One cocktail led to another, one compliment led to another, and one thing led to another and…well, you know.”
I knew.
Another long sigh, then, “We never did get any work done. I’m sure he never intended that we would. But he got what he wanted. We got back from Dallas on Sunday, and Monday at noon they called me in to Personnel and told them that my assignment was over. I was supposed to be there another two weeks. I asked them if anything were wrong, and they said no, that Mr. Tunderew had completed his project early and no longer needed me, and that I didn’t even have to finish out the day. I went back to his office to pick up my things and to ask him what was going on, but he had conveniently left for lunch. I never saw him again.”
Jeezus, what a total lowlife!
I knew there was something more to all this, and I hadn’t lost track of where she had started to go earlier when she mentioned “finding out” something. Now seemed like a good time to switch to that track.
“Do you remember a young man named Larry Fletcher from Craylaw and Collier?”
Her reaction was exactly as if someone had snuck up behind her and yelled “Boo!” I could swear her whole body twitched for a second there. Her expression hardened, and her eyes narrowed.
“Yes. He was how I found out…” She lapsed into silence.
“Did Larry Fletcher tell you Tunderew was gay?”
She looked alternately uncomfortable and suspicious. I deliberately remained quiet until finally she said, “Not in so many words. I told you I am good with numbers, and it doesn’t take much to put two and two together. Larry was always around. Everyone in the office knew he was…gay, and it was plain as day that he had a huge crush on Mr. Tunderew. Mr. Tunderew would always make nasty comments about him when he wasn’t around, but every time he came in to Mr. Tunderew’s office where no one else was around but me, Mr. Tunderew was all smiles. Twice I saw them together in the parking lot first thing in the morning as I was coming in to work, and I sensed something was going on between them, but I didn’t know at first, if that makes any sense.”
Oddly, it did.
“And when did you know for sure…if you ever did?”
“Well, I never saw them…doing anything, if that’s what you mean. And I didn’t put it all together until…well, as I was leaving the office with my things that day I was let go, I ran into Larry in the hall. We rode down to the lobby together in the elevator. I didn’t tell him I’d just been let go. Larry said he was just on his way to do some errands for ‘Tony,’ as he called him, though it was always ‘Mr. Tunderew’ in the office. I commented that he seemed particularly happy, and he took a check out of his shirt pocket and showed it to me. It was one of Mr. Tunderew’s checks—number 2501—in the amount of $375. He told me that ‘Tony’ had given it to him—a deposit on his new apartment.”
So she had seen and remembered the check number and the amount, had put two and two together, and come up with six.
“Is that when you decided to blackmail Tunderew?” I asked, casually.
Chapter 12
Her face went ashen, then flushed. “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she stammered, but she wasn’t a very good liar.
“That’s okay. As I said earlier, with Tunderew dead it doesn’t really matter much now. I was just curious.”
“He used me! And then he had me fired the very next day! And then that very same day he gives his boyfriend a check for $375! He might as well have slapped me in the face! I tried to put it all behind me, to forget he even existed. And then all of a sudden he’s a famous author, and it all came back to me! There has to be some justice in the world! People can’t just go around using people and then throwing them away!”
“Well, I think you can consider the debt paid now.”
We sat silently for a moment or two while she once again gathered herself together. Finally, she looked up at me. I took that as an opening to my next question.
“Oh, and I’m curious about one more thing. You said you saw Tunderew and Larry Fletcher in the parking lot. What kind of car do you drive?”
Her expression was blank. “I don’t. I’ve never driven. The bus stop is right by the parking lot, and I’d cut across to get to work.”
Ah, well, my mind sighed, scratch another murder suspect.
I’m sure we both would have felt very awkward if, after our conversation, I’d ask her to get back to work, though she volunteered to do so. I told her that she should just take the rest of the day—and the next day, since I’d more or less committed to two—off, and that I’d give her a glowing recommendation. She gave me her time sheet and I wrote in two days’ worth of hours, signed it, took my copy, and thanked her for coming. And that was it.
*
Okay. Case over. I was hired to deal with Tunderew’s blackmailer—though he was of course totally wrong about who the blackmailer was. I dealt with Tunderew’s blackmailer. That’s it. End of story.
Sigh.
If Tunderew hadn’t been such a homophobe, he might have at least told me about Judith Francini and why she might possibly be considered a suspect. Granted, she hadn’t signed a confession and had it notarized, but I was satisfied. Other than my retainer, I hadn’t been paid one cent, of course.
Partly satisfied.
That still left me with having to find out who had killed the bastard so I could know who had been responsible for Randy’s death. I knew now it almost certainly wasn’t Judith Francini—she didn’t have a car and didn’t drive. There was still Catherine Tunderew and the Bernadines, of course. But why did my mind keep going back to the Dinsmores? Probably because neither Catherine Tunderew nor the Bernadines had at least two unsolved murders and one unexplained disappearance already skulking around in the shadows. And I’d followed the ex-Mrs. Tunderew and the Bernadines about as far as I could at the moment. The Dinsmores were another story. There was still an awful lot I didn’t know.
The first thing I wanted to double check was whether Tunderew had indeed ever met with the Dinsmores during his trip to Dallas with Judith Francini, or if it was, as I suspected, just a ruse to find out more about Mike Barber’s murder and put another notch in his bedpost at the same time.
I picked up the phone and dialed New Eden. Of course they wouldn’t put me directly through to Jeffrey Dinsmore, but I left a message saying I had a question about “Mr. Barber.” I suspected that would get his attention.
Sure enough, about ten minutes later, just as I was getting ready to run downstairs to the diner—and I’d been doing just that, taking the stairs six flights up and down rather than the elevator, ever since Jonathan made the near-fatal mistake of teasing me about my developing “love handles”—the p
hone rang.
It was a very businesslike Jeffrey Dinsmore.
“Mr. Hardesty, I’m returning your call as a courtesy, since I am grateful to you for having brought this book matter to my attention. I have contacted our lawyers to look into it. If there is any truth to it, they have been instructed to take the strongest possible legal action to prevent its publication. However, I think this will have to be the end of our contacts. I’ve told you everything I can possibly tell you about…the incidents to which you referred…and I can’t see what more you might need from me.”
“I understand, Reverend, and it was never my intention to cause you any problems. But if you could just tell me whether you might remember having in fact met with Mr. Tunderew at the Dallas New Eden, while he was working for Craylaw and Collier.”
There wasn’t the slightest pause.
“I told you I have never met Mr. Tunderew and had never even heard of the man until his book made the best-seller list.”
Damn!
“This would have been on…” Damn again! what date did Judith Francini say? “…the twelfth of August of last year. A Saturday.”
“No,” he said emphatically. “That would have been impossible. August twelfth is my mother’s birthday, and the family gathers in Atlanta every year to celebrate. Will that be all?”
“Uh, yes, I believe so.” I knew full well that ten seconds after we hung up I’d probably have at least a dozen additional questions. “Thank you again for talking with me. And please be assured that everything we discussed earlier will go no further than the two of us.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
And with that, we exchanged good-byes and hung up.
*
So it was exactly what I’d suspected: the Dallas trip had just been Tunderew’s excuse to see what he could find out about Mike Barber’s murder from Judith Francini’s second cousin, and to take the opportunity to boff Judith at the same time.
But regardless of what was going on at New Eden, I really had the impression that Jeffrey Dinsmore was telling the truth about not knowing who Tunderew was, other than the author of Dirty Little Minds. And if he really didn’t know about No Door to Heaven, what motive would he have had to kill Tunderew?