The Dirt Peddler

by Dorien Grey

  And, of course, me being me, I had to try to pump Jake (Oh, now there’s a thought, my crotch said eagerly) for more information on New Eden, especially after he mentioned the reason he was late was because of a project his construction company was doing for them.

  “Still not much direct contact with the Dinsmores?” I asked as the waiter came to take away our salad plates. (Hey, I held out that long!)

  Jake wiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin and put it back in his lap before shaking his head.

  “Not much. I see them from time to time, of course, but I still deal mainly with Mel Hooper. He pretty much runs the place on a day-to-day basis. I hear they’re considering starting another New Eden in the San Francisco Bay Area. That’ll mean Mel will be going out there to manage it. But they haven’t started to train a replacement for him, yet, so I guess it’s still a way off.”

  “He a nice guy?” I asked.

  Jake nodded and took a sip of his water. “Nice enough, I guess. Not exactly overly friendly. Pretty businesslike, no-nonsense kind of guy. Not much joking around. All the residents really respect him, as they’d damned well better.”

  “You said he’s pretty protective of his sister,” I said.

  Jake raised his eyebrows and gave one very emphatic nod of his head.

  “Oh yeah! Of course he keeps a close eye on all the residents. There are more guys there than women, but he doesn’t allow anybody to get out of hand. No intramural screwing around on his watch. Separate dorms and no unauthorized intermingling.”

  “How do you think Mel would react if he found out Jeffrey was screwing around on his sister.”

  He nodded at the waiter, who just put his steak in front of him, then looked at me, surprised.

  “Is he? You mean you think the rumors aren’t just rumors? Interesting.”

  “Randy was having sex with him,” Jonathan volunteered, then looked at me quickly as if he’d said something he shouldn’t.

  “And I’m pretty sure Randy wasn’t the only one,” I said by way of reassuring Jonathan he hadn’t been out of line.

  “Well, well, well,” Jake said. “As I think I said last time we talked about this, I think old Jeffy boy had better make damned sure Mel doesn’t find out.”

  “Would you by any chance know if the Dinsmores are going to be around next week? I really need to talk to Mrs. Dinsmore without Jeffrey being around, and I’d like to meet Mel Hooper as well.”

  The waiter had put the last of the entrées on the table by this time, and Jake was picking up his steak knife as he said, “Jeff’s going to some retreat all next week, I understand. Leaving tomorrow night, as I recall. As far as I know, Mrs. Dinsmore won’t be going anywhere. And Mel never leaves the place.”

  I decided I’d better drop the whole New Eden subject before they all decided I should get a real life.

  *

  After dinner Jonathan suggested that we stop by either Glitter or Steamroller Junction. I knew he wanted to go dancing and I, again, felt really guilty for being such a total klutz about refusing to get out there and at least try to dance. But after having seen Jonathan dance—my gut ached just watching him, he was so good—I could never bring myself to do it. I’d mentioned it to Jared one night on the phone while Jonathan was in class, and he said he understood, though I’d seen him out there on the floor a couple of times and he definitely did all right for himself.

  Jared diplomatically came to my rescue by suggesting that since both Glitter and Steamroller Junction tended to be jammed and, with the wrong DJ, induced bleeding from the ear drums, we might compromise and go to Venture, which had just expanded into the building next door and put in a dance floor.

  “Hey,” he said, putting one large hand on Jonathan’s shoulder while lowering his voice about half an octave and flexing his considerable arsenal of muscles, “if your old man won’t do right by you, I will.”

  “And when Jared gets tired out, I can take over,” Jake said.

  Sexual fantasies, anyone?

  *

  It was a great night, and I managed to pretty much overlook my aching muscles. And when we got home, Lance put in an appearance and relieved a number of aches.

  Sunday we met Jared, Jake, Phil, and Tim for brunch and before I knew it, it was Monday morning. I hate it when it does that.

  After my coffee/paper/crossword puzzle ritual, I made out a formal report for the furniture store owner and enclosed my bill. I normally would have waited on sending the bill until the first of the month, but my bank account was beginning to look a little more anemic than usual, and even a small infusion of cash would be welcome.

  I realized—after I’d emptied the waste paper basket, dumped the contents of my top desk drawer onto the top of the desk to rummage through it, tested the thirty-two pens I’d found there and pitched the twenty-eight that refused to write after even the most furious scribbling, and was in the process of sharpening the two-inch stub of a pencil—that I just might be procrastinating on calling New Eden and trying to arrange an appointment with Barbara Dinsmore. She’d seen me with Randy the day we went to pick up his sneakers; she might well assume that I knew about her husband’s little dalliances with the male office help and wanted to exploit it. Well, I did want to know more about how she was dealing with that fact, of course, but again I was juggling two completely separate issues. The New Eden murders were one thing, Tunderew’s murder…well, maybe they weren’t quite that separate, but I was mainly concerned at the moment with how much the Reverend Mrs. Dinsmore might know about No Door to Heaven and its subject matter.

  Only one way to find out. I opened the now empty top drawer of my desk and scooped everything back into it, then slid it closed and reached for the phone.

  “New Eden,” the female voice answered. Whether it was the same female voice as the last time I’d called I couldn’t remember.

  “May I speak with Mrs. Dinsmore, please?” I asked, knowing full well that the answer would be no, I may not.

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “My name is Hardesty. Dick Hardesty,” I said, trying to sound as pleasantly casual as possible.

  There was the briefest of pauses, then, “And may I ask what this is regarding?”

  Both feet, Hardesty, I thought. “Randy Jacobs,” I said. “A former New Eden resident.”

  “One moment, please.”

  That caught me by surprise. I was sure she’d tell me Mrs. Dinsmore was not available but that she’d leave word that I’d called.

  I was even more surprised when there was a click of phones being transferred and then another female voice, “This is Barbara Dinsmore. What can I do for you, Mr. Hardesty?”

  Damn! I definitely wasn’t expecting to actually talk to her right away. Well, onward and upward.

  “Thank you for taking my call, Mrs. Dinsmore. We met once, some time ago…”

  “When you came to pick up Randy Jacobs’ sneakers. I remember.”

  “Then I assume you know that Randy is dead.”

  There was a very pregnant pause before, “No. No, I wasn’t aware of that. I’m sorry to hear it. How did he die?”

  Her voice remained calm, but I could sense…what?…surprise?…underneath.

  “He was in the car with Tony Tunderew when he died. I’m sure you heard of the accident.”

  “Yes, yes of course. He was that…author. I knew someone else had been killed in the accident, but I had no idea it was Randy Jacobs. I really don’t know what to say.”

  “Were you aware that New Eden was to be the subject of Mr. Tunderew’s next book?”

  “My husband told me he had heard a rumor that we were possibly the target of a muckraking book, and we agreed to have our lawyers look into it, but he did not mention Mr. Tunderew. Are you saying the rumor is true?”

  “I’m afraid so, and I was wondering if it would be possible for us to meet in person to discuss it.”

  There was no pause this time. “I don’t think that would be advisable w
ithout having my husband and our attorneys present.”

  “I understand.”

  From what she’d said I didn’t know if she had figured out that I was the one who’d told her husband, but if she wasn’t, I’d just as soon she didn’t know I’d already talked to him.

  I forged ahead. “But it’s been my experience that talking to one individual at a time is more productive, because frequently each person has a slightly different perspective and is aware of some small details the others are not. These tend to get lost in a group setting. And it’s easier to address certain subjects on a one-to-one basis.”

  “Exactly what is it you are investigating, Mr. Hardesty, and for whom are you working?” There was no mistaking the suspicion in her voice.

  “I’m not working for anyone, Mrs. Dinsmore. Randy Jacobs was a good friend of…a friend of mine…” I wanted to hold off the entire gay aspect of the case as long as possible, lest she go jumping to the wrong conclusion and think I was considering blackmail for her husband’s dalliance with Randy. “…and I’m looking into the cause of his death.”

  “Didn’t you just say he died in a car crash? Are you implying something more is involved?”

  “It’s all really very complicated, Mrs. Dinsmore, which is why I would really appreciate it if we could talk privately in person. I assure you I have no ulterior motives against you, your husband, New Eden, or the Eternal Light Foundation. I merely have some questions which really need answers.”

  Another pause, then, “I really don’t know what I can tell you, Mr. Hardesty, but…are you sure we are the targets of this new book?”

  “I’m quite sure.”

  She took another moment to think that one over.

  “I know of Mr. Tunderew only by reputation, and from what little I know I find him reprehensible. On what basis he might possibly have singled out us and our organization I cannot imagine.” Another pause, then, “I have a solid slate of engagements this afternoon, but if you’d care to come out around eleven this morning, we might talk for a few minutes.”

  “I’d really appreciate that, Mrs. Dinsmore. Thank you. I’ll see you at eleven.”

  *

  I was just getting ready to leave the office when the phone rang.

  One ring. Two rings. “Hardesty Investigations.”

  “Dick, Marty. I’ve got some news you’re probably not going to want to hear.”

  I was pretty sure he was right.

  “Such as?”

  “Remember that missing kid I told you about? Denny Rechter, the one who had been at the local New Eden?”

  I knew what was coming next.

  “Yeah?”

  “We found him. In a culvert off a dirt road just north of Pritchert Park.”

  Damn!

  Chapter 13

  It was exactly what I had thought he was going to say, but it still hit me harder than I might have expected.

  “How long had he been there?”

  “Hard to say, but they figure anywhere from eight to ten months.”

  “They can’t pinpoint it any closer than that?”

  “There’s an artesian spring just upstream of the culvert, and the water’s pretty cold. It could have slowed decomposition considerably. They found his billfold with some I.D. inside, but they’ll be comparing dental records just to make sure. Not much doubt, though. The odd thing is the body was within clear sight of a popular walking trail. I think whoever put him there wanted him to be found. Ironically, though, the trail was closed when a guy who bought a piece of property the trail passed through put up a barrier to keep people from using it.”

  I heard myself sigh.

  “Thanks, Marty. Keep me posted if you find out anything else, would you?”

  “Sure.”

  *

  I drove past New Eden’s main gate at ten forty-five—driving past because of course I was fifteen minutes early and it was less than a two-minute drive from the gate to the main house—and proceeded down the road, checking the place out. A white wooden fence apparently surrounded the entire property, and I noticed large tracts of neatly tended gardens of some sort or other, obviously vegetables, alternating with sections of endless rows of various flowers, some of which were in brilliant bloom. In the distance behind the flower beds were several large buildings that I assumed to be greenhouses. I knew New Eden supplied florists throughout the state, and that flowers were a large part of New Eden’s economic base. I came to a crossroad and noted that the white fence continued on the other side; it paralleled each side of the side road as far as I could see. Behind the fence on the other side of the road appeared to be pasture, and I could see cattle (I took a wild guess they were cows) standing under a clump of trees near a pond.

  I had no idea how much farther the white fencing went, but I was dutifully impressed with what I’d seen. I was driving pretty slowly, taking everything in, and not paying much attention to the road behind me. So I was a little startled when a large red pickup passed me, three men in the passenger compartment, one in the truck bed; the front three-quarters of the truck bed was stacked high with wooden crates marked “New Eden Farms.” As it pulled ahead of me, I noticed that while the tailgate was up, there was some sort of box-like platform extending out maybe two feet from the rear of the truck. It took me a minute to figure out what it might be for, then I realized that it was probably a work platform for the farm workers to stand on while filling the truck. A lot more sturdy than trying to stand on the tailgate, I’d imagine.

  I followed the pickup to the next crossroad, where it turned right onto a dirt road. I slowed as I approached the crossroad and made a U-turn, heading back toward the main gate.

  It was two minutes after eleven as I pulled up the long driveway and parked beside the house. I walked to the front door and rang the bell. A moment or two later, the door opened.

  “Mr. Hardesty,” Barbara Dinsmore said, extending her hand. “It’s nice to see you again.”

  “I do appreciate you seeing me.”

  We exchanged a very quick handshake.

  She stood back, holding the door open. “Please, come in. I thought we might talk in the study.”

  She led the way through the comfortable-looking living room, which was furnished tastefully but certainly not ostentatiously, to an equally comfortable-looking room at the far side of the house from the parking area. There was a really nice desk of a wood I couldn’t determine, flanked by two small floral-patterned armchairs facing one another in front of the desk. A large bookcase stood against one wall beside a smaller writing desk. There was a cross on the wall above the desk. Mrs. Dinsmore herself was wearing a nice-looking full-skirted dress with a very subtle floral design. Though it was still morning, she wore a small strand of black pearls and small black pearl earrings. Her understated makeup and hair were—from my decidedly non-expert point of view—flawless.

  She motioned me to one of the armchairs and moved to close an open door in the wall toward the rear of the house. Without trying to be obvious about looking, I noticed a young woman standing beside an open file cabinet in the next room, and assumed that must be the residence office. I waited until Mrs. Dinsmore came back to the chairs, and sat down when she did.

  “Now tell me what this is all about.”

  I leaned forward slightly in my chair.

  “You used the word ‘reprehensible’ in referring to Tony Tunderew,” I began, “and I’m afraid that is something of an understatement. I have reason to believe his death was no accident.”

  Reading her thoughts clearly in her face, I hastened to add (shading the truth more than a tad), “I have no reason to believe anyone at New Eden was in any way involved—he seemed to have a magic knack for collecting people who had every reason to wish him harm—but the fact that New Eden is the subject of his new book raises a number of questions that might help me narrow down who might have been responsible for his death.”

  I didn’t know if she bought that, but I wasn’t about to stop and
ask.

  “Had you ever met Mr. Tunderew?” I asked.

  She knit her brows and shook her head. “Never. I’m sure I’d remember if I had.”

  “He never tried to contact you directly?”

  Again the headshake. “Never.”

  “And you had absolutely no idea that he was writing an exposé of New Eden?”

  She visibly stiffened in her chair. “Absolutely none,” she said sharply, and there was frost on the edge of every word “…and I’m afraid I strongly resent your implication that there might be anything to ‘expose’ here!”

  “Well,” I said, knowing I probably shouldn’t, but unable to resist the temptation and wanting to see her reaction, “there is the matter of the murders.”

  She looked alternately stunned, puzzled, and angry. “What are…” she began, then stopped and took in a deep breath. “If you are referring to the tragic death of Michael Barber, you must know that it had nothing whatever to do directly with New Eden. My husband and I have prayed for Michael every single day since his death, and if there were anything at all we could have done to prevent it…”

  She looked truly sad, and I could tell her eyes were misted.

  But I couldn’t stop now.

  “Mike Barber, yes. But also Jim…James…Temple, and Denny Rechter.”

  She looked at me, uncomprehendingly.

  “Are you saying they are dead? Murdered?”

  I nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  She sat in silence for a moment, as if trying to make sense out of what she’d just been told.

  “But James Temple was from our Atlanta location…I remember him because he worked in the residence office there. If anything tragically happened to him, it surely had nothing to do with New Eden. He just left, as all our residents do eventually. There was nothing unusual about it. Surely if anything had happened to him, we’d have heard about it.”

  That was pretty much what her husband had said, and it was a logical assumption.

  “His body wasn’t discovered until fairly recently.”

  She looked at me, as if still not quite comprehending. I say “as if” because I really couldn’t tell if she was being sincere or faking it. I leaned toward sincerity, but had been fooled too many times in the past to buy it outright.