by Dorien Grey
The fact that Jonathan seldom swore underscored the intensity of his feelings. There had been a couple of previous occasions when Jonathan and I didn’t agree on how to handle Joshua’s behavior, and I usually deferred to Jonathan, since Joshua was his blood relation. But as time went on and it began to sink in that Joshua was going to be a permanent part of both our lives, I’d been a little less hesitant about putting my own opinions forward. I still tried to do it diplomatically.
I reached across the table and took Jonathan’s hand.
“And he’ll learn. We just have to strike a balance between overreacting and underreacting. What did the Bronsons say? Were they upset?”
“Well, they certainly weren’t happy about it, but Bonnie said she would talk with the boy’s mother and try to explain what happened. I’m just worried that if it happens again, they might try to throw Joshua out. Then what would we do?”
I smiled…I hoped reassuringly. “I don’t think that’s likely to happen. The Bronsons have had a lot more experience dealing with squabbling kids than we have.”
I was surprised to have a sudden thought that I hoped Bonnie Bronson was not involved in Carlene’s death, because if she were, Happy Day might have to close. A pretty odd thought, and a pretty big sea change from the old nobody-to-worry-about-but-me Dick Hardesty.
When Jonathan didn’t say anything, I continued. “So what do you want to do about this?”
He took another swig of his Coke. “What do you suggest?”
I was pleased that he was acknowledging that it was something we both were part of.
“I suppose we should start out with a talk with Joshua.”
Jonathan nodded. “And an apology to the other boy,” he added.
“Definitely.”
And another crisis resolved—at least for the moment.
*
After dinner we took the opportunity of a communal dishwashing/drying to talk with Joshua about how big boys were expected to behave when challenged, and I gained new respect for the art of parenting.
Later, I dug out and called Jan Houston’s number, hoping she’d be home. Again, I had no idea when I picked up the phone exactly what I was going to say if she was there, but I’d become fairly good at winging it over the years.
The phone rang three times when I heard it being picked up. “Hello?”
“Jan, this is Dick Hardesty. I…”
She cut me off before I could finish the sentence.
“What do you want now? Why can’t you just leave me the hell alone?”
“Because I’m still trying to find out why Carlene was killed.”
“How many times do I have to tell you I don’t know anything at all about it?” she said, a little wearily, I thought.
“Because like it or not, you’re a central figure in the whole thing.”
Silence.
“Tell me, when you lived in Louisville, did you ever know a man named Eddie Styles?”
“Eddie Styles? Where did you hear that name?”
“Someone I know in Louisville was mentioning it.”
“So why ask me if I know him? Do you have any idea how many people live in Louisville?”
“A lot, I’m sure. But you do know him, don’t you?” Actually, I had no idea whether she did or not. If she did it was a pretty small world, but I didn’t really have anything to lose.
So imagine my surprise when, after yet another pause, she said, “Yes, I know—knew—him. I haven’t seen or talked to him since I was a kid. What does he have to do with anything?”
I reminded myself to go out and buy a fistful of lottery tickets!
“Do you know what he does for a living?”
“How should I know? I said I haven’t seen or talked to him since I was a kid.”
Time to drop the bombshell.
“Then you didn’t know he was driving the van that killed Carlene?”
Utter silence. I waited for a full thirty seconds, then said, “Hello? You still there?”
“I…Yes, I’m here. What are you saying? What are you trying to tell me? It can’t be the same Eddie Styles! That’s impossible. I…”
“Can I ask how you know…knew…him?”
“He’s my godfather.”
CHAPTER 14
What do they call it? Deus ex machina? Something from so far out of left field you’re left shaking your head wondering where in the hell that came from!
How did I ever associate Eddie Styles and Jan Houston in the first place? Because they were both from Kentucky? So were several million other people. Both from Louisville? Okay, that narrows it down to only about…what?…950,000?
Yeah, but while I’ve never really been quite sure how or why my mind comes up with the things it does, more often than not it turns out to have a reason. It seems to be pretty good at putting tiny pieces of a puzzle together, even if I’m not sure of the connection at the time.
And Louisville was a definite link between Carlene and Jan and Roy. So maybe the Deus wasn’t totally ex machina.
That Jan Houston did know Eddie Styles of course could be seen as practically an admission that she was behind Carlene’s death. But if she was, why would she admit to even knowing who Eddie Styles was? She didn’t have to, and I’d have had a heck of a time trying to find it out on my own. But maybe she thought I knew more than I did, and was admitting to knowing him to throw me off track. And maybe the Easter Bunny lays colored eggs.
Before I’d hung up on my call to Jan Houston, she had said again that she had never had much contact with her godfather and hadn’t seen or heard from him in years, had no idea how to reach him, where he lived or what he did for a living, or even that he was still alive. She didn’t even know why he had been named as her godfather. Obviously, he’d been a friend of her parents…maybe through Jan’s father having been involved in gambling.
And the revelation of her knowing Eddie Styles had so disconcerted me I hadn’t even mentioned the D’Angelos.
And there was something else…another piece to the puzzle, relating to the D’Angelos…come on, mind, give it up!…Roy’s dad?…auto repair shops and…?…bookies! Carlene said Roy’s dad was a bookie! So was Jan’s dad! A link there? Eddie Styles could have known them both? Even in a city the size of Louisville, it’s pretty likely that most of the shady characters know one another.
Put two and two together, Hardesty, a mind-voice urged.
Jan and Roy are brother and sister? I asked myself incredulously.
Uh, no, my mind responded. I don’t think you have to go quite that far. Nobody’s even so much as suggested that Jan had a brother.
But she could! I thought.
Yes, she could. And the Easter Bunny really might lay colored eggs. But “could” and “does” are two different words. Don’t try too hard to make them interchangeable.
Granted—a racetrack town like Louisville was bound to have more than one bookie. Well, Jan at least knew Roy, somehow, and actively disliked him. There had to be a reason.
Okay, so there was a more-than-possible chance that Eddie Styles was some sort of link between Jan’s family and Roy’s…which meant that Roy might well know Eddie Styles too, and that if Jan Houston didn’t hire Eddie to kill Carlene, maybe Roy D’Angelo did!
Roy had denied knowing Eddie when I’d asked him about it, but I’d doubted his answer when he gave it, and I doubted it even more now. Same with Angelina.
So what to do? Well, the bull-in-the-china-shop approach might work. One thing I’ve learned is that if you have some sort of title (like “private investigator”) and sound like you know what you’re talking about, most people tend to accept that you do. And with people from families as dysfunctional as Roy D’Angelo’s seemed to be, that might be a definite advantage. Considering the apparent strain between his mother and him and his mother and his aunt, he probably couldn’t really be sure how much I might have learned from talking with them all.
I’d call him in the morning.
*
I suddenly was aware that Joshua was bouncing Bunny up and down on my lap, obviously trying to get my attention.
“Come on!” Joshua said impatiently. “It’s time to read a story!”
I was surprised to see him standing there in his pajamas, hair still damp from his bath, his face freshly scrubbed to that fantastic little-kid shine. I looked up at Jonathan and he just returned the look with a grin and a slow shake of his head.
“You’ve been away.”
I realized he was right. I hate it when I do that.
When we got Joshua into bed, he announced that tonight he was going to read to us! When I asked him which of his books he was going to read, he pulled The Popsicle Tree out from under his pillow. I could definitely see a bit of collusion going on here; Jonathan sat there with a barely repressed smile.
We all sat propped up with pillows against the headboard, Bunny on Jonathan’s lap. With great fanfare, Joshua opened the book and began to read. Considering the number of times he’d had the book read to him, it wasn’t surprising he knew most of it by heart, and he did a very convincing job of it, getting off track only occasionally as something in one of the pictures would catch his eye and he would stop to point at it and make some sort of stream-of-consciousness observation about it. But then Jonathan would cue him with a few words from whatever page we were on, and Joshua picked it right up.
It was sort of an improvisational rendition, not word for word, of course, and there were numerous chunks of the story out of order, but it was all there, and I was delighted that he so loved books at such an early age. And Joshua, of course, was very proud of himself, as well he should have been.
When he’d finished, Jonathan and I each gave him a big hug and told him what a smart boy he was.
“Now you read one,” Joshua said.
Knowing he wouldn’t go to sleep until we did, Jonathan got off the bed to get The Littlest Tractor. Joshua was out like a light after ten pages, and we got up and left the room. After we’d turned out the lights in the living room and kitchen and gone into our bedroom, Jonathan slipped his arm around my waist, his face in a huge mischievous grin, and said, “Hey, Farmer Jones, feel like plowing the south forty?”
As a matter of fact, I did.
*
At the office in the morning, after my coffee/paper/crossword puzzle ritual, I thought of Roy D’Angelo. On the grounds that I really had very little to lose, I looked up his Saint Matthews phone number I’d written on an index card and dialed, not expecting him to be home. He wasn’t, nor was his girlfriend. But I left a message on his machine to have him call me, collect—to save him the excuse of “I ain’t gonna spend my money to call anybody long distance,” and I was hoping he’d be curious enough to return the call to find out what I knew.
The phone ringing pulled me out of my reverie.
It was my insurance agent with some definitely not-good news. He’d just heard from the owner of the garage where I’d taken the car, and apparently the damage was a lot more extensive than was first thought—the frame had been bent, and the rear axle cracked. Plus it would need a lot of body work to get out the dents, then would need a new paint job, and…
“We’re willing to consider it totaled,” he said. “Considering the age of the car, you’d be just as far ahead to use the money to put a down payment on another one.”
Great. Just great! I thought, looking out the window for an approaching plague of locusts.
Well, at least it took my mind off the case for a while.
But not for that long. The phone rang again about ten minutes after the insurance agent called.
Well, I thought with a flash of hope, maybe it’s a paying client.
Wrong again.
“Mr. Hardesty, this is Mildred Collins, and I do think we should talk.”
*
Well, surprise, surprise! When I’d given her my phone number, it was more or less an afterthought, and I never seriously thought I’d hear from her. But…
“Of course. When would be convenient for you?”
“Any time at all.” Then, as if sensing my unspoken question, she added, “Angelina was unexpectedly called back to Louisville. She left this morning.”
“Would you like to join me for lunch? We really didn’t have much of a chance to talk the last time.”
She gave a quiet laugh. “That would be nice. I really don’t get out much. And why don’t we meet at the same place? I’d never been there before, but the popover was delicious—what little of it I was able to eat before Angelina rushed us off.”
“That’s fine. About twelve thirty?”
“I’ll see you there,” she said, and hung up.
I didn’t muse this time. Musing is a quiet, almost lazy process. My mind was going much too fast for that.
Okay, so what’s going on here? my mind wanted to know. So did I. Obviously she had a reason—I hesitated to call it a “motive”—but I didn’t have a clue as to what it might be. From what little I’d seen and subsequently conjectured about Angelina D’Angelo and her sister, it just might be some sort of payback time for Mildred Collins—though payback for exactly what, other than Angelina’s obvious dominance over her, I again had no idea. And why had Angelina suddenly up and taken off for Louisville? Was that the sort of thing she did all the time? Well, once again, I’d find out.
*
I was just finishing my first cup of coffee at the restaurant when I saw Mildred Collins walk in. I waved to catch her attention, and she came right over and took the chair opposite me.
“Thank you for coming,” I said, and she smiled.
“It’s my pleasure, really. As I told you, I don’t usually have the opportunity to get out nearly as much as I’d like. And now I’ll be able to see my daughter again.”
I somehow suspected that was more than a non-sequitur.
“I’m sorry? I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
She smiled again. “My daughter will not come near me when Angelina is visiting,” she said, picking up the menu the waitress had left by her plate.
“That’s too bad.” I hoped she’d shed a little more light on the subject.
She nodded, studying the menu and not looking up. “Most of my friends are the same way, and I now have very few friends left, I’m sorry to say. Angelina is something of a dark cloud at a picnic.”
The waitress came with coffee for Mildred and a refill for me. “Are you ready to order?” she asked, as Mildred put down her menu.
“It must be difficult for you,” I said when we were alone. “I’m curious as to why you don’t have a talk with your sister, if she is a problem for you.”
She added sugar and cream to her coffee before speaking. “Because,” she said with a small shrug, “she is my sister, and without me, she really would have no one. I couldn’t abandon her.”
“I admire you for that,” I said, honestly.
She smiled again. “It’s not an application for sainthood. It’s merely the way things are.”
“Well, I’m really glad you agreed to talk with me, but to be honest, I’m a bit curious as to why you did.”
“There are several reasons, I suppose,” she said. “For one, I sensed a certain empathy in you, and that you would be willing to listen to an old woman ramble on without passing judgment. I don’t really have anyone with whom I can discuss certain things, and sometimes an empathetic stranger can provide an outlet.”
The arrival of the waitress with our food paused the conversation.
Squeezing a slice of lemon over her cod, she resumed talking.
“Please don’t misunderstand me, Mr. Hardesty. I do love my sister. Really. But we couldn’t be more different. Angelina always sees the glass as being half empty, and I see it as being half full. I’m early to bed and early to rise, Angelina’s a night person, staying up until two or three a.m., then sleeping until ten or later.”
She sighed. “She is in many ways a very difficult woman to be around for long periods of
time. Many of the things she does, and the way she does them, are, I know, rude, thoughtless, spiteful. But I long ago recognized that they are not conscious choices. That’s simply the way Angelina is. I can understand her actions without excusing them.”
We each took several bites of food before she picked up where she’d left off.
“Being the oldest, Angelina was the apple of our father’s eye. She is very much like him in many ways, which may be the reason he favored her so. She could do no wrong, so she never learned otherwise. They both had wills of iron, and both, once they decided upon something, let nothing stand in the way until they achieved it. I always found it fascinating that she and our father never fought. She was smart enough to know that she would not win. As I told you, Roy shares many of her traits, but he never acquiesced to her as she did to our father, and as a result they have never gotten along.
“Ever since we were children, Angelina has operated on the principle that what is hers is hers, and what is mine is hers. I don’t think she’s ever given a moment’s thought to it—it’s just the way it is and has always been. After my husband died, and my daughter was grown, I gathered together enough fortitude to try to construct my own life. I left Louisville and moved here.” She sighed. “But I should have realized that just moving away wouldn’t make any difference. Angelina spends several months a year here—she refers to it as her ‘summer home,’ though she comes and goes throughout the year, often with little or no advance notification.”
“I was wondering,” I said, after taking another forkful of casserole, “if there might be something wrong at home that she would leave so suddenly. I gather you weren’t expecting it?”
She dabbed the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “No, I wasn’t expecting it, but that’s hardly unusual behavior for Angelina. She had a phone call last night, and right afterwards she called the airport. I have no idea who called. Angelina doesn’t feel it necessary to confide such things to me.”
We ate in silence for a minute or two while I sorted through my thoughts.
“I’m still very curious about why Roy might take such a sudden interest in a son he apparently never even knew he had, and where he might have gotten the money to hire a top lawyer to press his custody suit.”