by Dorien Grey
At about eleven, Marty Gresham had returned my call, saying the Carrington police had been unable to talk to Jan Houston since her phone was still out of order, she was still on vacation from work, and no one was home when they stopped by her apartment. They’d looked in through the windows to verify that everything seemed in order, indicating she apparently hadn’t moved out. Maybe I’d have a chance to talk to her if she was at the funeral.
I called Jonathan before I left the office and left a message telling him where I was going and that I might possibly be late getting home. I knew he’d have wanted to go too, but this was a spur-of-the-moment thing, and I hoped he’d understand.
*
As I said, I hate funerals. The intimations of mortality are far too blatant. I did not, however, approach the casket. I find viewing the dead—painted and primped manikins from which the human being they once were had long since departed—one of the more ghastly and repugnant of our social customs.
Just as I’d pulled into the parking lot beside the mortuary, I saw a car pull up at the entrance, and I watched as Beth emerged with her two daughters, but, I was greatly relieved to see, no Kelly. The car moved off around the building, and a few moments later a man I assumed to be Beth’s husband came from the direction the car had gone, and entered the mortuary. I waited outside, watching the arrivals enter, dreading going in myself. I knew no one, of course, but noted there were a disproportionate number of women among them, covering the full range of the lesbian spectrum from totally-unrecognizable-as-being-gay to a few stereotypical “butch” types.
Just as I was reluctantly getting out of the car, I saw Estelle Bronson coming up the walk, alone, wearing an attractive but simple dark grey dress with a matching shoulder bag, her hair pulled sharply back. She seemed both startled and relieved to see me, and we entered the mortuary together.
We went up to Beth and her family, who were standing far too close to the coffin to suit me, to express our condolences. I introduced Estelle, whose face was calm, but whose eyes were clearly misted. Kelly, we learned, was staying with a friend until after the funeral and burial. Beth thanked us for the flowers, and pointed out two very pretty arrangements, one from Jonathan, Joshua, and me and one from Happy Day. I wasn’t close enough to read the cards, so had no idea which was whose, but it didn’t matter.
We then excused ourselves and moved to seats in the back of the room.
The atmosphere was a Sargasso Sea of funereal calm, with only a tiny ripple now and then, as if a pebble had been dropped onto the surface. An unreal calm—heavy and almost overwhelming. I’d never been to a funeral that wasn’t.
I hadn’t wanted to ask Beth directly if Jan Houston might be there, but I carefully looked at each of the mourners to see if I could spot someone I thought might be her. I couldn’t.
*
Most of those from the mortuary joined the procession to the cemetery, and I questioned yet again why I had come. I’d learned absolutely nothing.
The grave site was near the foot of two tall, cylindrical evergreens standing closely side by side—I remember seeing a picture of that kind of tree in one of Jonathan’s landscaping books and always liked the name: Arborvitae pyramidalis. They reminded me of very large, green popsicles, and I couldn’t help but think of Kelly and Joshua, and a much happier Popsicle Tree.
As the crowd gathered around and under the canopy over the open grave, I stepped back to where I could keep an eye on just about everyone. Odd, but for someone who so hates funerals, I find a great sense of peace in cemeteries, and in reading the tombstones and epitaphs, and trying to visualize who the people were who lie beneath them.
While thusly distracted, I glanced past the crowd by the canopy to a tall tree about a quarter of a block on the other side, and noticed a figure standing alone, partly hidden by the tree. A woman.
I instinctively headed toward her, and when she saw me approaching, she started walking away. I walked faster, and slowly closed in on her. She wasn’t looking back at me, but walking purposefully toward a lone, battered old car on one of the side roads that meandered through the cemetery.
“Jan Houston!” I called when I got close enough, and the woman stopped short and turned.
“What?” she demanded.
“I need to talk to you,”
“Who the hell are you?”
I took a good look at her as I got closer. Medium height, just this side of stocky, with short greying hair and large hoop earrings, wearing slacks and a denim long-sleeved shirt.
When I got close enough I could see her eyes were red, but her expression was defiant and angry.
“My name is Dick Hardesty,” I said, “and Carlene lived in my building. I didn’t see you at the funeral.”
“Funeral?” she spat. “I wouldn’t be caught dead at that bitch’s funeral!”
“Then what are you doing here?” I asked calmly.
“I didn’t come here for her!” she said, her voice still tight with anger. “I came to see Kelly. He needs me now.”
“He’s with some friends of Beth’s family today,” I said.
“And he should be with me!” she said vehemently. “I’m the one who was there when he was born! I’m the one who protected him and looked after him from the first. And then she…” she gave a contemptuous heads-up nod toward the canopy…” takes him away from me without a word. I come home from work one night and he’s gone! He’s mine, too, and she took him just because she’s…”
His mother? I thought.
She abruptly stopped talking and glared at me. “And what the hell business is this of yours, anyway?”
“I’m a private investigator, and Carlene was very upset when she got that note in her mailbox. It was your note, wasn’t it?”
She looked away for just a moment, then brought her eyes back to mine. “Yes, I wrote her a note. She thought she was going to just take Kelly out of my life and I’d never find him again, but I did, and I just wanted her to know that she wasn’t going to get away with it.”
“But ‘You’re dead, bitch’? Threats don’t come much clearer than that!”
She shook her head. “That’s not what I meant! I meant she was dead to me.”
Nice try, I thought. “Well, it sounds as though you were angry enough to kill her.”
She glared at me. “Yes, I was! But I didn’t. I could never hurt Kelly like that, much as I hated her for what she did to me.”
“The police have been trying to contact you.”
She shrugged. “So?”
“So where were you the day Carlene was killed? I know you were on vacation from work this week, and your phone has been disconnected.”
She glared at me, not speaking for a full ten seconds.
“It’s none of your damned business where I was or when I’m on vacation or whether I pay my phone bills on time,” she said defiantly.
“The police will want to know.”
“Fine. Let them ask. You just keep out of my face!”
And with that, she turned around and strode off.
Well, that was fun, I thought. I stood there a moment, watching her, then walked back in the direction of the canopy just as the gathering was beginning to disperse.
I said my good-byes to Beth and her family, and Beth thanked me for the referral to Glen O’Banyon. I started for my car, having looked around for Estelle Bronson without seeing her, so thought she’d already left. But as I was walking away, I heard my name being called and turned to see Estelle hurrying up to me, opening her shoulder bag. She’d obviously been crying.
She handed me an envelope. “Here is the signed contract, and a check for your retainer.” She also withdrew a tissue, which she dabbed under her nose. “I was going to give it to Jonathan this afternoon if I got back in time, but since you’re here….”
I took it with thanks.
“Was that Jan you were talking to? I saw you go over to her.”
“Yes.”
“Did she tell you anythin
g?”
“Not really…not that I expected her to under the circumstances. She seems quite upset, which isn’t surprising. I may try to talk with her again, later.”
She nodded, then closed her bag.
“Oh, and I must ask you again to please not mention anything about our…arrangement…to Bonnie. She simply would not understand.”
“I won’t,” I promised.
I walked her to her car, then returned to my own and headed for home.
*
When I got home, only about half an hour later than normal, Jonathan was in the kitchen with Joshua, feeding the fish. Jonathan was holding Joshua in one arm with the can of fish food in his free hand. Joshua would hold out his hand and Jonathan would sprinkle a small amount into it and let Joshua drop it into the tank. Joshua, of course, was enthralled to watch the fish scrambling to the surface to eat the flakes, and mimicked the fish’s open-mouthed gulps. I hoped he wouldn’t be tempted to eat the flakes himself, but obviously Jonathan had that under control.
Still carrying Joshua, Jonathan set down the can of fish food and came over to give me a hug.
“Me, too!” Joshua said, leaning forward to put an arm around my neck and give me a squeeze.
“Thank you both,” I said as Jonathan lowered Joshua to the floor.
I didn’t say anything about the funeral—and of course Jonathan didn’t ask—until after we’d gotten Joshua to bed and read him a story. When he was asleep, we went into the living room.
Jonathan, was full of questions about the service, if I knew anyone there, and particularly about Kelly. He seemed relieved when I told him Kelly wasn’t there.
“I’m glad. I couldn’t imagine bringing a four-year-old to his mother’s funeral! I know some people do, but…I’m really glad Carlene’s sister didn’t.”
I told him about Estelle being there, which he’d guessed when she hadn’t been at Happy Day when he picked up Joshua, and about meeting Jan Houston. He asked about the flowers we’d sent and I told him they were perfect—which they all were, even though I didn’t tell him I did not know which specific arrangement was from us. He seemed pleased.
*
Friday morning I made a stop at the bank’s night-deposit box on the way to work to deposit Estelle Bronson’s check. When I got to the office I thought about calling Marty Gresham to let him know I’d run into Jan Houston at the funeral, but then thought better of it. The Carrington police would find her eventually.
I wasn’t quite sure what I thought about running into Carlene’s ex. She was clearly a lot more than unhappy, and as belligerent as she’d come across, I really could see her point of view. She’d helped to care for Kelly since the day he was born; to suddenly be cut off from him entirely…well, it would be rough. But it was hard to see much beyond the anger and get a better idea of just who this woman was. Trying to talk with her again would be a little tricky, since she’d made it perfectly clear that she and I weren’t about to become good friends.
I thought I might try getting in her good graces—although I really wasn’t sure if I might want to be there or not—by talking first to Beth to see if she would be amenable to letting Jan see Kelly from time to time, and if she agreed, approach Jan as an intermediary. But if Jan was involved in Carlene’s death, that probably wouldn’t be the sharpest of ideas.
The phone startled me out of the whirlpool of my thoughts.
“Hardesty Investigations,” I said, after practically knocking the receiver off the cradle while reaching for it.
“Mr. Hardesty, this is Bonnie Bronson. Could I speak with you about a very sensitive matter?”
Bonnie Bronson? This should be interesting.
“Of course.”
“I understand my sister has hired you to look into the death of Kelly DeNuncio’s mother.”
And just how did you come by that information? my mind asked.
“Estelle and I had a talk last night after she returned from Ms. DeNuncio’s funeral,” she continued, answering the question.
“And?”
A slight pause, then, “And I was wondering if you would be kind enough to just tear up Estelle’s check—we insist on reimbursing you for the time you have already invested, of course—and consider the contract voided?”
Not so fast, lady!
“Please don’t think I’m being rude, but may I ask why Estelle doesn’t ask me herself?”
There was a long, deep sigh.
“No, I don’t think you’re being rude at all, and this has nothing to do with your qualifications as a private investigator. But I’m afraid you…well, you don’t know my sister well enough to fully understand her. Estelle is a sweet, wonderful, and compassionate woman, but her compassion too often gets the best of her. Ms. DeNuncio’s death was a tragic accident, but I’m sure that’s all it was…an accident. I truly hate to see you waste your time”…and Estelle’s money, my mind added…” looking for something that isn’t there.”
It was my turn for a pause before saying, “I can certainly appreciate your position, but I must point out that the contract is between your sister and me, and she is the only one who can terminate it. When I agreed to look into Carlene’s death, it was with the understanding that if the time came that I was reasonably sure it was an accident, I would withdraw. I don’t like to waste either my time or my clients’ money on a case I believe is groundless.”
“As this one is.”
“Quite possibly, but it is obviously very important to your sister to be sure. That’s what I intend to find out.”
She sighed. “Very well,” she said, sounding totally unconvinced. “But I will not let it drag out forever—no offense intended.”
“None taken. But think of it this way—we entrust Joshua to your care, I’d appreciate your entrusting Estelle’s concerns to me.”
There was only the briefest of pauses before she said abruptly, “Well, I really must go. Good-bye.”
I couldn’t help but wonder just how tight a leash Bonnie Bronson had on her sister, and why? The fact that Estelle kept her budding relationships from her sister gave me the definite impression that Bonnie wasn’t too keen on the idea of Estelle having someone else in her life. I wondered just how far she might go to prevent it. And perhaps it was just my suspicious nature, but the fact that the two relationships Estelle had mentioned had ended with the death of the prospective partner struck me as being more than a little…well, unusual.
I decided to call Marty anyway, just to see if anything more had been found out about the stolen van and its driver. Just as I was reaching for the phone, it rang.
Busy day.
“Dick. Marty.” ESP lives, I thought. “I just thought I’d let you know the Carrington police talked to Jan Houston last night. She admits to writing that note, but denies it was meant to be a threat. And she claims she was at a friend’s cabin at Lake Verde, alone, the day Ms. DeNuncio died. Says she went up there Sunday and came back Wednesday, when she heard about the accident. She doesn’t have any witnesses, though.”
“Are they going to follow up on that at all?”
“Well, they called the cabin’s owner, who verified that she’d given the key to Ms. Houston Sunday afternoon, and it had been returned Wednesday night. The owner says she hardly ever goes up there herself, and Ms. Houston always mows the lawn and cleans up when she’s there.”
“So did she?”
“Did she what?”
“Did she mow the lawn?”
A rather long pause, then, “Jeez, I don’t know. Carrington’s got a pretty small police force, so I doubt if they have much time to send officers out of the county just to see if a lawn was mowed.”
“Well, if the lawn was mowed, Jan Houston has a stronger alibi. If it wasn’t….”
Another pause. “You’re right. But don’t forget, she wasn’t driving the van that killed Ms. DeNuncio.”
“Granted, it was a guy who ditched it, but it’s possible she could have stolen it and been driving it. D
id witnesses at the scene say it was a man driving?”
“Six witnesses, four stories. One said it was a man, one thought it was a man, and one thought it could have been a woman…or not. One claimed there were two people in the van. The other two saw Ms. DeNuncio being hit but were too shocked to notice the driver.”
“So could someone on our force go up to Lake Verde and check?”
“Jeez, Dick, I really don’t know. It’s kind of a long stretch, and unless we had something stronger to go on…”
“I understand. But do you think you could get me the address of the cabin? I can take a run up there myself.”
“Yeah, that I think I can do. We did run a check on her for any criminal record. She’s apparently clean, at least in Carrington and here. Where did you say they moved here from?”
“Cincinnati, I think. I saw her at the cemetery after the funeral, way off by herself, just watching.”
I gave him Beth’s phone number and last name, and asked him if anything had been found out about the guy who ditched the van.
“We got a description from some kids who were playing on the sidewalk when he ditched it: short, stocky, middle-aged white guy with a slight limp. Wearing overalls and a work shirt. The description doesn’t fit any of our ‘regulars.’ Lots of fingerprints in the van—way too many, as a matter of fact. It’s a rental stolen off a lot—one of those cheapy places where they don’t bother to do much more than run a vacuum through it and wash the windows between rentals. And most of the prints were overlapping, on areas like the steering wheel and door handles. It would take forever to sort them out…and all this assuming the guy has his prints on file and that he wasn’t wearing gloves.”
“If he hot-wired it to get it started, was there anything on the lower steering column or the hood?”
“He didn’t have to hot-wire it. It’s the kind of place they leave the key under the sun visor.”
“Hmm. So the van was stolen Sunday night. What would a guy wearing work clothes be doing driving it around in broad daylight on a Monday right after lunch if he wasn’t working?”
“Good question. We’re going to try to find that out. That’s what we do, you know.”