by Dorien Grey
“I should have brought some donuts,” he said with a grin, which I returned.
“So, you liked the book?”
“Yeah, it was great. Jonathan was telling me the story behind Morgan and his writing. Incredible! I can’t wait to read the rest of his books.”
He was quiet a moment, and I was aware he was watching me.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No, I was thinking about you and Jonathan and how lucky you are. I’d give anything for a relationship like yours.”
“Well, it isn’t all skittles and beer,” I said. “We have our problems like anybody else.”
“But you never cheat?”
Now, there was a strange question.
“Nope,” I said. “I can only speak for myself, but I really do believe in that old till-death-do-us-part thing, even though we aren’t allowed to be officially married. I’m pretty sure Jonathan feels the same way.”
“He does,” he said. “He told me. Would you and Jonathan get married, if you could?”
“Personally, I don’t think a sheet of paper makes very good glue. But legally, it has definite protections that are denied us, especially when it comes to Joshua.”
He sighed. “I envy you…and Jonathan.”
I decided not to pursue that particular line of conversation.
“So, I gather the whole Grant Jefferson thing has begun to die off for the chorus?” I asked.
He took a sip of his coffee.
“Are you serious?” he asked. “You think a bunch of queens are going to willingly stop chewing on as juicy a tidbit as a murder—and possibly a murderer—in their midst? Not likely. Right now, everyone’s distracted by concentrating on the concert, but once it’s over, we’ll all get back to speculating on who did it. How’s your investigation going, by the way? I didn’t want to mention it yesterday.”
“A couple of very positive leads,” I said, not wanting to go into it further.
“Someone from the chorus?”
I shrugged. “It wouldn’t be fair to say at this point.”
“I understand,” he said. “Sorry to have asked.”
“No problem.”
He drained his coffee and got up. “Well, I’ve got a couple of errands to run before I go to work, so I’d better get going. I just wanted to get the book back to you. I’ve already started on the one Jonathan gave me yesterday.”
I got up to walk him to the door. He gave me a hug before opening the door and leaving.
Why, Richard Marsten Hardesty, you old dog! a mind-voice said teasingly. I do believe you have an admirer.
I’d been out of the singles life so long that when an occasional cruise did come along I didn’t allow myself to pay much attention to it, other than to be flattered. Maybe I was losing my touch. I still had nothing but a gut-level feeling that Eric was interested in me; and I knew that, even if he was, the fact of his being friends with Jonathan would really put the brakes on. And if that didn’t, I would.
Still, it was always nice to know I still had it.
My reverie was interrupted by the phone.
“Hardesty Investigations,” I said, hoping it would be Marty returning my call.
“Dick, Marty. What’s going on?”
“I wonder if you could check out some prints for me,” I said.
“This about the Jefferson case, I assume?”
“You assume right. I suspect some friends are being scammed by none other than our elusive friend Clarence Farnsworth, a.k.a. Robert Smith and, maybe, Kenneth Johnson. I managed to get some prints from him.”
“Great! If it is Farnsworth we’ll pick him up. You still think he’s involved in Jefferson’s death?”
“Everything points in that direction,” I said. “But the picking him up bit is going to take a while.”
“Why’s that?”
“He left town yesterday, but he’ll be back next week to complete his latest scam.”
“Okay. I’m up to my eyebrows in paperwork and am going to be nailed to the desk all day. Do you want to bring them by? I can run them up to the lab as soon as I get them.”
“Sure,” I said. “Any chance you might be free for lunch?”
He sighed. “I wish! I brought lunch from home since I knew I wouldn’t be able to get out. A rain check?”
“Sure,” I said.
“You can leave the prints at the desk downstairs and ask them to let me know they’re here. I’ll get back to you as soon as I get the results.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Anything new on the case from your end?”
“Not really. One of the things I’m doing today is going over everything we have on it to see if maybe we missed something. Nothing so far.”
“Well, keep me posted if anything should come up.”
“You know I will. And same for you.”
“Yep. So, later, then.”
I hate being on a hamster wheel, running as fast as I can without getting anywhere, but the fact of the matter was that Farnsworth was the only real straw I had left to cling to as far as the chances for solving this case.
I knew there are far more unsolved murders out there than law enforcement would want us to believe, but I hated the idea that something I was working on might be one of them.
Okay, Hardesty, I thought, you’re the detective here. So, detect. You haven’t done anything on this case that Jonathan or anyone else couldn’t have done.
Well, I had to admit there was one small thing that had been niggling at me, but it was so farfetched I hadn’t allowed myself to give it any solid credence.
*
Wednesday morning, Marty called to say that the fingerprints I’d lifted from my car door handle did belong to Clarence Farnsworth. I suggested he contact the Glicks, after giving me time to call and alert them, to make arrangements to nab Farnsworth the instant they turned over the rest of the cash for their purchase.
All of which would put at least a temporary end to Farnsworth’s scamming, but do absolutely nothing about his involvement—if any—in Grant’s death.
As soon as I hung up from Marty, I dialed the Glicks. Johnnie-Mae answered.
“Glick residence.”
When I asked to speak to either Iris or Arnold, she told me they were not in, so I asked her to tell them to expect a call from Detective Gresham. I also remembered that I still hadn’t heard whether they’d checked to see if the piece they had previously purchased had shown up on any stolen-antiquities list, so also asked her to have them call me when they could.
I toyed with the idea of putting in a call to Porter Meade to satisfy my curiosity about Eric, but ruled it out on several logical grounds. First, if Eric had been a patient of his, Meade couldn’t tell me anything on the grounds of doctor-patient confidentiality. And it was hardly surprising if the trauma over the death of his family would have resulted in Eric’s having spent time in Meade’s clinic.
I realized that I had never really considered Eric as a possible suspect—at least no more so than several other people. I’ll admit he did have a motive in Grant’s perceived threat to the chorus, to which he had devoted so much of his life and energy. But I always had a hard time thinking of people I knew personally as being capable of murder, even though facts had proven otherwise in more than one past case.
Still, I’d have said Eric’s possible motive paled when compared to those like Booth’s or Stapleton’s or Barry Legget’s or even Jerry Granville’s. And if the chorus being threatened were considered a motive, Rothenberger would have every bit as strong a motive as Eric—probably stronger.
I was also, to be perfectly honest, a little disturbed by my motives in being so interested in Eric in the first place. There are some dark corners of my mind I prefer never going into, and I didn’t want this to be one of them.
No, I decided, I’d wait until I saw where the Farnsworth/Smith/Johnson scenario went.
Chapter 10
By Friday, I’d exchanged several calls wit
h both Marty and the Glicks. The Glicks had discovered, with his help, that the first purchase from Farnsworth/Johnson—the one they’d had authenticated—had been stolen from a private collection only days before they bought it. It had only made it onto the stolen-property lists in the past week. So, while Farnsworth/Johnson could be arrested on sight for selling stolen property, Marty wanted to strengthen the case against him by catching him making another sale.
The Glicks had called to say “Johnson” was due in the following Wednesday with their latest purchase, and they were to have him over for dinner. They had agreed to include Marty on the pretext of his being a prospective new client, and while I really wanted to be included, I knew my presence wasn’t necessary. Plus, it was Jonathan’s school night, and I couldn’t very well have dragged Joshua along.
The weekend finally arrived, and in honor of Jonathan’s debut and celebration of my birthday, the whole gang had arranged to get together for dinner at Napoleon’s on Saturday night; the chorus’s final rehearsal was Saturday afternoon. We’d gotten Craig to sit for Joshua, and his folks had agreed to him staying overnight and accompanying us to the performance Sunday afternoon. Craig himself intended to try out for the chorus as soon as he reached the required minimum age of 18, which was about a year away.
It was a great evening, though Mario had to leave right after dinner to go to work—being manager of a busy bar like Venture didn’t allow much evening free time. Since Bob owned Ramon’s, he could allow himself a bit more leeway, but we all drove out there for an after-dinner drink. Then, on our way home, Jonathan and I stopped at Griff’s to listen to a few piano sets from Guy Prentiss.
As I said, a great evening.
*
I’d hoped we’d be able to sleep in on Sunday, since Craig was there to watch over Joshua, but Jonathan was so excited about the concert he was like a tree full of owls, and we managed maybe a total of five hours’ sleep.
The concert was at three, and the chorus had to assemble at the Atheneum by one thirty, which made for an interesting bit of Sunday morning logistics. Jonathan was too nervous to sit through a church service but didn’t want Joshua to miss another Sunday, so since we had no qualms about Joshua remaining in Craig’s care a bit longer, I volunteered to drive them to the M.C.C. and pick them up just before noon.
The running back and forth all but blew my Sunday-morning-with-the-paper routine out of the water, but I am nothing if not noble in my sacrifices. When we got back to the apartment after church, Jonathan was on the phone talking to our friends Max and Chris in New York, who’d called to wish him well. As soon as he could, he excused himself and turned it over to me. I hadn’t talked with Chris and Max in more than a month, so there was a lot of catching up to do. The big news from their end was that Max’s company was definitely moving their offices to the 88th floor of one of the World Trade Center towers, and he was thrilled by it. “I’ll finally be able to look down on all the ‘little people,’” he joked.
We finally hung up with promises of their exploring the possibility of coming out for a visit around Christmas.
I’d intended for all of us to go out for brunch, but Jonathan was too nervous to eat and anxious to get to the hall early. When he emerged from the bedroom he was wearing the “right” black pants he’d finally managed to find and a long-sleeved buttoned sport shirt (“A pullover would mess up my hair,” he’d explained). He was carrying a dry-cleaner’s plastic bag over a hanger with his new white dress shirt, bright blue cummerbund and matching blue bow tie. Craig still had a huge crush on Jonathan, and it showed as he looked at him. Jonathan, ever the diplomat, pretended not to notice.
“We ready?” he asked, and we headed for the door.
*
After dropping Jonathan off at the Atheneum, where several other chorus members were already going down the alley to the performers’ entrance, many with bags similar to his slung over their shoulders, Joshua, Craig, and I found the closest available parking place and walked to a nearby family restaurant for lunch.
I’d only been alone with only Joshua and Craig before when I drove them to church, and it was an interesting set of dynamics. I realized, for one thing, that Craig was one of the few people in Joshua’s circle of people whose name he did not preface with “Uncle.” “Uncle Jonathan,” “Uncle Dick,” “Uncle Tim,” “Uncle Phil”—all our close friends were “Uncle” to Joshua. But Craig was “Craig,” and Joshua looked on him as a peer, a big brother whom he idolized. We, in turn, could never have found anyone better for Joshua than Craig. He had a younger brother and sister at home but treated Joshua as another sibling. That meant a lot to both of us.
I asked Craig about his boyfriend, Bill, and from his evasive answer, I got the definite impression there might be trouble in paradise. Bill was Craig’s first love, but they were both seventeen, and happily-ever-afters are not very common at that age. We talked instead—when Joshua wasn’t trying to distract one or both of us—about his having made the swim team at school and his plans to try out for track.
“I can swim,” Joshua volunteered happily. “Can I come swimming with you sometime?”
Craig grinned and tousled his hair. “Sure. We’ll go to Jessup Reservoir next summer.”
“Why can’t we go now?”
“Because the water’s too cold now.”
“But you go swimming there.”
“No, I swim at school, and they only let you swim there when you’re a student. You’ll be one in a couple of years.”
Joshua shrugged and picked up a sausage from his plate.
“Fork, Joshua,” I said, and he shot me a long-suffering look but put the sausage down and reached for his fork.
*
Atheneum Hall is on several lists of the finest music venues in the country, and it had earned the right to be. Every major orchestra had performed there at one time or another. It was an old grand dame of a place, in the tradition of Carnegie Hall.
We arrived at about two thirty, and it was apparent the place was going to be filled to capacity. Though the crowd was predominantly gay and lesbian, I was pleased to see that the straight community was well represented.
Our seats were in the loge, but we’d all agreed to meet in the lobby. Tim, Phil, Bob, and Mario were already there. I introduced Craig, who was obviously more than a little impressed by Phil.
“I’ve seen you in those brief and swimsuit ads,” he said admiringly. “You’re hot!”
Phil grinned.
A moment later, Jake and Jared walked up. If Craig had been impressed with Phil he was even more so with the two Js, who looked spectacular as always.
Looking around the crowd, I spotted a number of other people I knew, including Glen O’Banyon, who came over briefly to exchange a few words with everyone. Significantly, I did not see Crandall Booth.
Taking our seats, I started to put Joshua between Craig and me, but he would have none of it.
“I want to sit next to Craig and Uncle Jared!” he declared.
I recognized it as a small declaration of independence from my insisting that he stay at my side whenever Jonathan wasn’t with us. Rather than argue with him, I said, “Okay, but you’d better be a very good boy.”
He looked at me solemnly. “I’m always a very good boy.”
Right.
He quickly edged past Craig to the seat between Craig and Jared—a spot I’m sure Craig would have preferred for himself.
The stage was bare save for a two-tier riser, a podium front center for the director, and a lectern stage left. A grand piano—nice touch—was downstage right and a percussion set across from it, stage left. Two large floral displays were located to either side and slightly forward of the risers.
At exactly three o’clock, with every seat in the place taken, the house lights dimmed, the room gradually fell silent, and the chorus filed in from the wings.
A truly impressive bunch—all identically but simply dressed in black dress pants, white dress shirt with brig
ht blue bow tie, and matching blue cummerbund and all walking in step—though Jim Bowers, still not fully recovered from his hit-and-run, was using a cane. They stepped onto and moved across the risers. Jonathan was in the front row, fifth from the left, and he looked so beautiful my chest hurt. (Okay, okay, so it’s hokey verging on maudlin. I don’t give a damn—it’s what I felt.)
It took me a minute to realize he and three other members were holding long-stemmed red roses. I didn’t know what that was all about, but the spot of red against the black, white, and blue looked nice.
The pianist and a French horn player entered from stage right as the percussionist and a bass player came from stage left, followed by a sign-language interpreter who moved to the small lectern. When everyone was in place, Roger Rothenberger, wearing a tuxedo, entered to warm applause. He strode across the stage and stepped up onto the podium, turning to face the audience.
Using a small hand mike he’d picked up from the podium, he welcomed everyone and made a few introductory remarks about the chorus, its history, and its importance to not only the gay community but to the city’s diverse culture. Then he turned to the chorus, laid the mike back on the podium, and raised his hands. The first song was Jerome Kern’s “All the Things You Are,” one of my favorites. It took maybe all of ten seconds to confirm my earlier opinion that these guys were really, really good, and I was both proud of and happy for Jonathan’s being a part of it.
*
By the second song, an a capella version of “Maybe This Time” from Cabaret, they had the audience eating out of their hands. The first half of the program covered a wide range of songs and styles, each one received with what seemed like more enthusiasm than the one before. The patriotic medley, including “You’re a Grand Old Flag” and “God Bless America” gave me goosebumps, and the last song of the first half was “I Am What I Am,” with Jim Bowers doing the solo. When the song ended, the entire audience rose to its feet. The chorus filed out to a standing ovation that continued until the last man had left the stage.
“That was fantastic!” Craig said as we rose to go to the foyer. “Thanks so much for bringing me!”