by Dorien Grey
“I don’t know how much more reassurance we could give him than we already do,” Jonathan said, entwining his fingers in mine.
“He’s jealous of Eric, I think,” I said. “He’s used to our friends, but Eric is your friend and he feels left out.”
“That’s nonsense!”
“Yeah, but try explaining nonsense to a five-year-old. It will take him a while to get used to it, but he will.”
“I suppose,” he conceded.
We talked for a while about the evening, then watched some TV and went to bed.
As Jonathan leaned across me to turn off the light, he said, “And as if this Joshua thing wasn’t bad enough, now I have to start watching my back.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Eric thinks you’re hot. He told me when you were busy with Joshua. I’d better watch out, or he’ll snatch you away in a heartbeat.”
I reached up to pull him to me for a bear hug.
“I don’t think you need to lose too much sleep over that one,” I said. Still, it was flattering to hear.
Chapter 2
The next week passed quickly. Joshua returned to his old self, though I was well aware there was nothing to set him off, and Tuesday night after chorus rehearsal Jonathan verified the Sunday-afternoon gathering at Crandall Booth’s estate.
One feature of Booth’s get-togethers was a brief performance of a few of the numbers the chorus was working on. Booth insisted on it, ostensibly so the members’ partners could feel a little closer to what their other halves were doing; but it was also a subtle way for him to wield a bit of power by expecting a command performance. I understood Rothenberger wasn’t too wild about that aspect, but went along with it out of political necessity.
The “case” I’d been working on finally came to an end, and I had a couple other little assignments to fill my time, none of which were particularly difficult or interesting.
Since we were to be at the Booth estate by two on Sunday and had been told he always served a light buffet, we had a larger-than-usual breakfast before Jonathan and Joshua went to church then ate a tide-us-over lunch when they returned and we left the apartment around one fifteen.
Booth lived, not surprisingly, in Briarwood, the city’s wealthiest subdivision, his property backing onto the Birchwood Country Club’s world-class golf course. Since most Briarwood residents also belonged to the country club, they could get around the ban on street parking by arranging with the club to use the parking lot—well, one specific section of their lot, on the edge farthest away from the clubhouse—for large private parties, and for the club to provide bus shuttle service to the party-giver’s home.
We arrived as a bus was pulling up to the designated pick-up point, and there were probably eight other guys waiting, including two with a little girl around Joshua’s age. Jonathan waved to the ones he knew, and we hurried to catch the bus before it left.
Booth, I was interested to realize, lived on the same street as my former clients Arnold and Iris Glick—having been to their home numerous times, I had a good idea of how the other half lived. Jonathan had been to Briarwood on landscaping projects with the nursery for which he worked but hadn’t had much of a chance to see the interiors of any of the homes. Suffice it to say that Versailles would not have been too much out of place in Briarwood.
The bus dropped us off in front of a Southern Colonial gem that would have made Tara from Gone with the Wind look like a sharecropper’s shack, all gleaming colonnades and manicured lawns and flowerbeds. We followed the crowd down the drive that ran beside the house to the gated backyard. Like the Glicks’ home, there was a huge pool and a large pool house. Because winter was on its way, the pool was covered with a heavy tarp, but the day was comfortable and chairs were arranged around the end closest to the cabana.
It was a little hard to tell how many people were there when we arrived—I’d judge around thirty-five or so. I gathered attendance by every chorus member was not mandatory, though I’m sure most went if only to experience a taste of life in Valhalla. I had no way of knowing who was a member of the chorus and who was a partner. Eric was nowhere to be seen, though I caught a glimpse of Rothenberger at one of the buffet tables talking with a man I was sure I knew until I realized that, while I didn’t know him, he was the spitting image of a fifty-year-old Orson Welles.
I suspected this might be our host, Crandall Booth.
I noted that a table immediately inside the cabana and closest to the pool held two large coffee carafes and ice-filled tubs of canned and bottled soda. No alcohol, which was probably just as well.
Jonathan was busy greeting people he knew and introducing me and Joshua and meeting members’ partners—all rather chaotic in a genteel sort of way. I managed to eventually meet nearly everyone, with the exception of a strikingly handsome blond. Jonathan made no effort to either greet or introduce him, and I deduced that this must be the notorious Grant Jefferson.
Joshua was a little overwhelmed; he wasn’t used to being surrounded by so many adults, and kept very close to Jonathan and me. The couple with the little girl—Ralph and Peter, if I remembered right from our brief introduction on the bus—came over with…Brooke…and we talked for a bit. Brooke was clutching a plastic cup of cola, obviously sharing Joshua’s confusion, and the two largely ignored one another.
Joshua tugged my elbow.
“I’m thirsty,” he said and I excused myself and led him through the crowd to the drink table.
An hour or so passed in a blur of pleasant-enough, if often truncated, conversations and introductions, including one to Roger Rothenberger, who impressed me as a really nice guy. He went out of his way to make a fuss over Joshua, which of course pleased the boy. A short while later, I observed him and Booth outside by the pool in what appeared to be a rather animated conversation.
Eric showed up some time after we did, but with so much coming and going it was hard to keep everyone straight…as it were. Interspersed with the conversations and general milling around, Jonathan, Joshua, and I made a couple of trips to the beverage and buffet tables, Joshua insisting on sampling everything to the point where we had to tell him to slow down or he’d be sick.
Jonathan had earlier introduced me to a chorus member named Tony, who in turn introduced his non-member partner—Jerry, if my memory served. It seemed that every time I looked at Jerry, he seemed to be glaring holes through the blond I assumed to be Grant Jefferson, and I called that to Jonathan’s attention, asking what was going on.
“I’m not sure,” Jonathan said, “but probably Grant was hitting on Tony. He gets a kick out of doing that.”
At about three fifteen, Rothenberger began herding all the chorus members to the back of the poolhouse, where I’d earlier noticed a piano and three-step tier of risers set up on a raised platform. By ones and twos, the chorus members split off from the rest of us and moved toward and then onto the risers. Jonathan excused himself and went to join the others. Finally, the crowd was divided into two distinct groups, about forty on the risers and maybe twenty or so clustered in the center of the room. Crandall Booth, who had been standing by the risers talking with various chorus members, finally moved back toward the rest of us as Rothenberger went to the front of the dais and turned to address us.
“On behalf of the entire chorus, I’d like to thank Mr. Booth for his hospitality, and by way of showing our gratitude, we’d like to perform two of the numbers we’re working on for our next concert. Please bear with us—there are still a few small lumps in the gravy, and we don’t have quite a full complement today, but we hope you enjoy it.”
A very handsome young man sat down at the piano, and Rothenberger turned to the chorus. As he raised his arms, I heard him say, “And now, my angels…”
I’d kept my eyes on Jonathan every minute, one hand on Joshua’s shoulder to forestall his deciding to wander off, until I heard a very soft “I…am…what I am…” in a beautiful bass voice and my attention shifted to the so
urce—a short, heavy-set guy in the front row to whom I’d been introduced earlier as Jim Bowers. As the song called for, his voice picked up confidence, and as he stepped off the riser onto the platform, the piano and rest of the chorus joined in smoothly. The tempo and power picked up in the second section and built into and through the full-force and defiant final last notes. I had a lump in my throat and a light feeling in my chest, and I could sense my reactions were shared by most of the guys in the room.
Bowers stepped back up on the riser, and there was a full five seconds of silence before a thunderclap of applause and cheers. Twenty-some people can produce a surprisingly loud ovation. Those chorus members standing closest to Bowers turned toward him in acknowledgment and joined in the applause. Then, on Rothenberger’s cue, they all took a bow.
After a moment, when everyone had settled down, Rothenberger turned back to the chorus and raised his arms again for “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” I must say, the man had managed to pick the most powerful, dramatic rendition of the song he could find.
I couldn’t take my eyes off Jonathan. I stared at him so intently that everything around him became blurry, and the only thing clear and sharp was his face. He wasn’t looking at me—or at anything other than Rothenberger. His face was a mix of total concentration and utter joy.
I’d never realized until that moment exactly how much he loved singing.
I watched his mouth move, but I couldn’t pick his voice out from the others, which I took as an indication of how vocally well-blended the group was.
When the applause had died and the chorus taken their bow, they filed off the risers and joined the rest of us. I picked Joshua up so we could have a group hug.
“That was wonderful, babe!” I said and meant it. “You were terrific. I’m so proud of you!”
He gave me a warm smile then put his nose about two inches in front of Joshua’s.
“Could you hear me singing?” he asked, and the boy nodded vigorously.
“Well, I’m glad,” Jonathan said.
We stayed a little longer, until the crowd began to thin. Eric joined us, and we headed for the gate and the driveway to catch the bus. Crandall Booth was standing by the gate, shaking hands with everyone as they left. Off to his left, looking somewhat bored, was his “nephew” Grant.
Jonathan, Eric, and I shook Booth’s hand in turn and thanked him for his hospitality, and he reached down and tousled Joshua’s hair.
“I’m glad you could come,” he said.
*
The next couple of weeks went fairly smoothly for me, but I gathered it grew increasingly rocky for the chorus. On returning home from the first rehearsal after the get-together at Booth’s, Jonathan told me that Jim Bowers, the guy who’d done such a great job on the “I Am What I Am” solo, hadn’t shown up for rehearsal—apparently the first rehearsal he’d ever missed. In his absence, Rothenberger decided simply not to practice that particular number, but a few members—by odd coincidence, the same guys who were in Grant Jefferson’s little clique—insisted they needed the practice and suggested that Grant do it.
Jefferson was half an hour late himself, and he had made no secret of his wanting the solo. Everyone was convinced that Crandall Booth had been strongly lobbying Rothenberger to that end. I wondered if that might have been the topic of the animated poolside conversation between Booth and Rothenberger at the get-together.
At any rate, Rothenberger relented, and they practiced the number with Grant taking Jim Bowers’ part.
“And how was he?” I asked.
Jonathan shrugged. “Well, other than Jim’s being a bass and Grant a high baritone, it was okay. Grant has a nice voice, but he just…well, sang it. He didn’t have any of the real feeling that Jim puts into it. It wasn’t the same song, somehow.”
*
That Wednesday evening, shortly after Jonathan had left for class and while Joshua and I were finishing up the dishes, the phone rang.
“Hi, Dick. Is Jonathan home?”
I recognized the voice.
“Sorry, Eric, he’s at class. He should be home around nine thirty. Do you want him to call you?”
“Uh, no, I won’t be home. But can you tell him Jim is in the hospital? Mercy Memorial, Room seven thirty-four.”
“Jim? Bowers? The guy who does the solo in ‘I Am What I Am?’ Jonathan said he’d missed rehearsal last night. What happened?”
“He got hit by a car—apparently on his way to rehearsal! A hit-and-run. I saw it on the news this morning, and when they mentioned he’d been taken to Mercy Memorial, I called right away.”
I hadn’t seen the morning news, and we normally watched only the national news at night. “I’m really sorry to hear that,” I said. “How’s he doing?”
“They wouldn’t tell me much at first, but I called again when I got home from work, and apparently, he’s still unconscious.”
“I’ll be sure to tell Jonathan,” I said. “And thanks for calling.”
*
Jonathan spent a lot of time on the phone over the next couple of nights, talking with Eric and other friends from the chorus about Jim Bowers’ condition and its ramifications for the chorus. Normally, one member’s absence wouldn’t be such a pivotal factor, but this particular absence involved a serious and growing rift within the group over Grant Jefferson’s—and, by natural extension, Crandall Booth’s—influence over it.
Rothenberger kept totally out of it and said nothing, but it was clear he was unhappy with everything that was going on, and I, for one, certainly couldn’t blame him.
Jim had regained consciousness but was still in the intensive care unit. I was a bit surprised to learn that Crandall Booth had insisted on being notified and on visiting him as soon as he regained consciousness, which was very nice of him. The police had had no luck in tracking down who was responsible for the hit-and-run. From all reports, Jim had no recollection of the accident and was unable to give a description of the car.
*
The following Tuesday, Jonathan came home from chorus practice shaking his head.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” he said before we’d even broken our welcome-home hug.
“Trouble among the angels?” I asked, leading him to the couch.
He sighed. “Yeah, I’m afraid so. And Grant is definitely Lucifer.”
“So, what happened?” I asked, picking up the remote to turn off the TV.
“Big brouhaha,” he said, leaning back. “Everything was going along fine until near the end, when Grant asked if we were going to practice ‘I Am What I Am’ and Roger said ‘Not tonight.’
“Well, that did it. Grant started complaining about how he needed the practice. Now, I haven’t been with the chorus very long, but even I know you don’t do that. It’s the director who says which songs will be rehearsed and which won’t. He made a concession last week in letting Grant sing it, but he wasn’t about to start letting the members take over. And we never go through the entire program at any one practice anyway.
“When Roger told Grant he was sure Jim will be out of the hospital in plenty of time before the concert, Grant looked like someone had slapped him. He looked around at a couple of his cronies, and they all chimed in, insisting that we did need to practice that particular song. Roger was obviously furious, but he merely stared at Grant and repeated, ‘Not tonight,’ and went on with the rehearsal.”
“I surely don’t envy Rothenberger his job,” I said.
“Yeah,” Jonathan agreed, reaching to take my hand. “But that’s not the best—or make that the worst—part. Sal Lennox, one of the tenors, told Eric he’s been dating a mechanic at Mr. Booth’s Porsche dealership, and they had a date for after rehearsal the night of Jim’s accident but the guy didn’t show up. He called later to explain he’d been called into work to do an emergency repair on a Porsche. Mr. Booth said it was for an out-of-town client who had gotten into a front-end fender-bender while visiting the city and he had to have it the next d
ay in order to return home.
“But I caught up with Sal after rehearsal and asked him to find out what color the car was—he was on his way over to his boyfriend’s, anyway.”
I looked at him with mild surprise and admiration. “The color?”
He turned to me and nodded. “Grant drives a baby-blue Porsche, and you know what I think? I think Grant was the one who hit Jim, and I don’t think it was an accident!”
“Wow!” I said. “Quinlan and Hardesty, Private Investigators! I like that!”
He grinned and squeezed my hand. “No, thanks. I’ll stick to my plants and leave the detective business to you. But that doesn’t mean I’m not curious.”
“I think I might like to talk to the mechanic. Can you get his phone number from Sal?”
“Sure, I can try. You’re going to make me a detective whether I want to be or not, aren’t you?”
*
We had just finished a rousing, thoroughly enjoyable game from the Private Investigator’s Guidebook—Lesson #12, Body Search—and I was drifting off to sleep when the phone rang.
“I’ll get it,” Jonathan said, hopping out of bed and racing for the phone.
Though he was speaking softly so as not to disturb Joshua, I picked up most of the conversation.
“Oh, hi, Sal. No, we’re still up…Yeah…Ah-ha! Now, that is interesting! …Yeah, I will. And thanks!”
He came back into the bedroom grinning like a Cheshire cat.
“Baby blue,” he said.
*
Well, that certainly got my juices flowing. I only wish I hadn’t found out about it just before going to sleep—I was awake most of the night. Jonathan had forgotten to ask for the mechanic’s phone number, but that could wait.
Could Grant Jefferson had deliberately run down Jim Bowers? I found it extremely hard to imagine that anybody would go that far over a song, no matter how good a showcase it might be. But weighing the little I’d heard about Grant, and comparing the quick glimpses I’d gotten of him against other egomaniacs I’d run across in the past, I couldn’t dismiss the idea.
