The Angel Singers

by Dorien Grey

  *

  It wasn’t until after Joshua was safely Story-Timed and asleep that I had a chance to talk to Jonathan to find out if there was anything he might not have already told me about the chorus.

  “I thought I told you everything that was going on,” he said.

  “Well, yeah, you have, but you haven’t really said too much about what you think about it all, or about the guys. Especially anything that relates to Grant Jefferson.”

  He shrugged. “Ah, yeah. Well, I really like most of the guys, even those who sided with Grant. Grant could be really kind of sweet, if he wanted to be—like, if he wanted something. The guys in his inner circle tended to come and go. Somebody would be his best buddy for a while then the next week Grant would totally ignore him.

  “Most of what I know is secondhand, since I have no idea how he was between rehearsals or if he hung around with anybody in particular when we weren’t rehearsing. I’m pretty sure he was having sex with some of the guys, and he was very good with come-ons.”

  “Speaking from personal experience?” I asked with a grin.

  He returned the grin. “I don’t kiss and tell,” he said, and I reached over and grabbed his leg in a vice grip that made him jerk. “Okay!” he protested. “Okay! No kissing, but he did come on to me once or twice. But my strength is the strength of ten because my heart is pure.”

  I rolled my eyes at the ceiling and released my grip.

  “So, Mr. Pureheart,” I said, “anybody you haven’t mentioned have a particular grudge against him?”

  He shook his head. “He wouldn’t win many popularity contests, but I’m pretty sure there were a couple of the guys’ partners who’d be mad enough, like Jerry was, to at least try to beat him up.”

  “Yeah, well, I can see a lot of guys being pissed at him, but enough to kill him?”

  “Hell hath no fury like a lover scorned,” he intoned.

  I stared at him. “My, we’re a little fount of aphorisms tonight, aren’t we?”

  “Aren’t aphorisms those little green bugs that get on my pepper plants?” he asked, then quickly added, “Oh, no, those are aphids.”

  I could see we weren’t going to get much further into this particular conversation, so suggested we go to bed.

  “We can play a game of The Aphid and the Pepper Plant,” I said. “I get to be the aphid.”

  He grinned, getting up from the couch.

  “Deal,” he said.

  *

  Jonathan had given me Roger Rothenberger’s home phone number and told me that, as far as he knew, what with directing the chorus and the MCC’s choir, Roger didn’t have a regular day job.

  When I got to the office Friday morning I went through my usual morning coffee/newspaper/crossword puzzle ritual before taking out the slip of paper with Rothenberger’s number and dialing. The phone was picked up after the second ring.

  “Rothenberger here.”

  “Mr. Rothenberger, this is Dick Hardesty. We met at Crandall Booth’s last get-together. Glen O’Banyon tells me he’s spoken to you about me.”

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Hardesty—may I call you Dick? A certain degree of formality is appropriate in certain situations, but I don’t think this is one of them.”

  I laughed. “I agree.”

  “Good, and please call me Roger. I assume you have agreed to look into Grant’s death?”

  “Yes, and I was wondering when we might get together to discuss it.”

  “I’m at your disposal,” he said. “I’ve already been interviewed by the police.”

  “I’d have assumed so,” I said. “But my job isn’t to duplicate what the police are doing so much as to supplement it, to see if I can find things they might have missed.”

  “Well, I wish you luck,” he said.

  “Would you have any time today?”

  “I have a meeting at the M.C.C. at three,” he said, “but I’m free until then. Would one o’clock be all right?”

  “One is fine.”

  He gave me his address, which I jotted down on the same piece of paper with his phone number. We exchanged a few more words then hung up.

  About eleven, I called down to the diner off the lobby of my building for a bowl of chili and a grilled cheese sandwich, saying I’d be down in ten minutes to pick it up. I never went into that diner without expecting to see Eudora and Evolla, the identical twin sister waitresses who had finally retired a couple of years earlier after having worked there since Taft was in office. I still took delight in remembering deliberately ordering soup or chili just to hear them belt out to the cook “BOW-EL.”

  I missed them.

  *

  Rothenberger lived on the ninth floor of an older apartment complex. His apartment was quite small, and I’m sure quite comfortable for him, though I was inexplicably reminded of Poe’s “The Raven.” No heavy drapes, but the furniture tended toward the heavy side—overstuffed chairs and couch, solid dark wood end tables and bookcase, brass lamps with dark shades—all of which were a tad too large for the room. The walls were lined with personal photos of various musical groups, most of them including him, and a few nice pieces of individually lit framed art.

  His building was taller than its neighbors and halfway up a hill, with the result that he had a nice view of the city.

  He offered me a seat and asked if I’d like a cup of coffee, which I declined with thanks as I sat down in one of the large, surprisingly comfortable armchairs.

  “So,” he said, taking the other armchair, “what is the procedure?”

  I wasn’t quite sure what he meant, but said, “Well, let’s start with what the police asked you and what you told them.”

  Resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, he leaned forward, hands cupped, fingertips touching to form what I always call “the ministerial arch.”

  “I suppose their questions were routine,” he began. “Did I have any idea who might have killed him or why? Did he have any enemies among the chorus members? Had he given any indication that something was wrong? Did he seem nervous or worried? That sort of thing.

  “I told them I had no idea as to who his killer might be, that within the chorus bickering, arguments, and rivalries are a way of life. I did not think it necessary to go too deeply into that issue since, while I know a number of the members disliked Grant intensely, there was no point in detailing every grievance against him. And I simply cannot believe that any of them could have led to murder. If I did I certainly would not have hesitated to say so, but I could see no value in pointing fingers left and right. I have an obligation to protect the chorus as much as I can.”

  “I understand,” I said. “And what did you think of him?”

  He raised an eyebrow and sat back in his chair, his hands grasping the front of the arms. “The truth? I thought he was an arrogant opportunist who would not hesitate to set his own mother on fire if he needed to warm his hands.”

  “That must have been awkward for you, him being Crandall Booth’s nephew and all,” I said, to get his reaction.

  He gave a quick bark of laughter. “Oh, my, Dick! You are a card. I can see why Jonathan is so enamored of you. Crandall wasn’t fooling anybody, and I have no idea why he even felt it necessary to try. But he has enough money, and the power to go with it, that if he said the moon was made of green cheese no one would contradict him.”

  “I gather you and he are not the best of friends.”

  He looked at me with a wry smile. “I think that would be a fair, if understated, assessment.”

  “Any particular reason for the lack of rapport?”

  “Crandall, as you know, is the chorus’ chief financial backer—not, I am sure, out of his love of music. He is the type of man who would buy an original copy of a work by Mozart just to say he had it, even though he wouldn’t recognize it if you played it for him. He uses his money as a means to control.

  “When I was approached by the Chicago Gay Men’s Chorus, which is directed by a friend of mine, to bring
our group to Chicago for a joint concert, I took the idea to the board, and immediately, Crandall offered to finance the trip.”

  “Wow,” I said, “that was certainly generous of him. I remember how excited Jonathan was when he found out about it.”

  “Indeed, it was, and regardless of his motives, I truly am grateful for everything he has done for the chorus. I believe he was instrumental in our getting Atheneum Hall for the concert—the editor of the Journal is a friend of his, and he has even arranged to have the concert covered by the paper’s entertainment editor. I only wish his motives were more altruistic.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that I’m sure he intended the event to be a showcase for Grant. He very unsubtly suggested, when he mentioned that the Journal would be covering the concert, that it would be a good idea to give Grant a solo. I pointed out to him that this is, after all, a chorus, not a showcase for any one singer, and that the only number that has any significant solo component is ‘I Am What I Am,’ that I felt it was best sung by a bass and that Jim Bowers had the part.

  “That might have silenced him, but it certainly didn’t silence Grant—especially after Jim’s accident. I might have had to give in to him despite my personal antipathy for Grant, who admittedly had a very good voice. But his death ruled that out, and I’m confident Jim will be well enough by the time of the concert to be able to perform.”

  I found it hard to imagine that he couldn’t see the four-lane highway between Point A and Point B and realize, as Jonathan had suggested, that Grant was very probably responsible for Jim’s accident.

  “I’ve been curious as to exactly what the relationship was between Grant and Crandall… Well, let me rephrase that, since I think any relatively intelligent primate could figure that out easily enough. What I meant was, how they got along out of bed.”

  “I really don’t think it’s my place to say.”

  “I disagree,” I said. “It’s important that I find out as much as I possibly can about the people involved. Every bit of information is like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle…” I realized as I said it how often I used that analogy, but true is true. “Some of the pieces may not fit, but a lot of them very well might, and one of them may be the key to the whole mystery.”

  Rothenberger sighed. “I’d known Crandall as a member of the chorus’ board and been a guest at his home many times as well as seeing him regularly at all the chorus functions. Over the space of the five years since the chorus was formed, he has had a number of young men in his company—one supposed son of a college friend staying with him while he attended school, another the supposed son of an East Coast business associate and, lately, his dear nephew Grant. I really don’t know why he bothers with this charade, but he does.

  “Anyway, I sensed in Grant a harder edge than most of his predecessors, and I was sure Crandall would not be able to dismiss him quite so easily as he had the others.

  “Grant was also the first of Crandall’s charges to have an interest in singing, and when Crandall informed me he wanted Grant to be in the chorus—it was not put in the form of a request—I simply told him that Grant would have to audition like anyone else. Crandall was obviously less than pleased, but wisely chose not to make an issue of it. I did agree to have Grant audition here rather than before a regular rehearsal as is the normal procedure.

  “When Grant arrived, I must say I was favorably impressed. He could be quite charming when it suited his purposes, and I was a bit surprised to find that he could actually sing! A very pleasant high baritone, which meant he could sing either tenor or baritone parts. So, while we really didn’t need either another baritone or another tenor at the moment, given Crandall’s dark cloud on the chorus’ horizon I didn’t want to alienate him. Besides, it never hurts to have a few more singers than the chorus really needs—spares, as it were.

  “And sure enough, two weeks later one of our tenors had a job transfer out of state. I was going to put Grant in the tenor two section, but then Jonathan came along and we ended up with both.”

  He paused, as if to give me a chance to say something, but I passed and he continued.

  “Crandall never misses an opportunity to try to undermine my authority. His insistence on Grant’s accompanying him on his frequent weekend gambling jaunts to Las Vegas, despite knowing full well the importance I place on Saturday sectional rehearsals, was merely another way of goading me.

  “And it didn’t take long after he joined before Grant began to show his own true colors—grandstanding, playing one member off against another, building his own little clique, making very unsubtle passes before, after, and sometimes during rehearsals. He especially seemed to target members he knew had partners. If he didn’t like a song, he would openly complain, or simply stand there and not sing it. He seemed to think that being ‘related’ to Crandall gave him special privileges, and when I made it clear to him that it did not, I started getting phone calls from Crandall.

  “One of the more interesting involved the ridiculous accusation that I was being vindictive against Grant because he had rebuffed me after I’d made several passes at him. Whether that’s what Grant had told him or he was making it up, I have no way of knowing. I find it difficult to imagine Crandall didn’t know full well what Grant was up to.”

  He shook his head, sighed and looked at me with a small smile. “Do I strike you as the kind of man who would be so stupid as to make passes at members of my own chorus?” He didn’t wait for a reply before saying, “And meanwhile, Grant’s little games were creating real hostility among some of the other members. While any group has its share of such problems, they had never approached this degree of disruption before.

  “And for it to all happen now, while we’re preparing for probably the most important concert we’ve ever given, goes far beyond inconvenient. It’s disruptive, and the chorus inevitably suffers.”

  “So,” I said when he came to another pause, “if you had to pick anyone from the chorus who might have harbored a particularly strong grudge against Grant, who do you think it might be?”

  He thought a minute, then said, “I’m really not comfortable even remotely implicating anyone in something this serious.”

  “We’re talking purely hypothetically here,” I said. “What name or names popped into your head when I asked the question?”

  He gave me a small smile, “Other than my own?” he asked.

  I grinned. “Please.”

  “It’s really hard to say what might be going on in someone else’s head, but going only on actions, the most obvious would be Jerry Granville, Tony Breen’s former partner. I understand he’s noted for having a bad temper, and I really was quite concerned when he showed up at rehearsal. While part of me would have rather enjoyed seeing someone beat Grant senseless, I simply could not have allowed that to happen on my watch.

  “Fortunately, Eric and some others stepped in to prevent a fight and I had to ask Jerry to leave. We certainly neither wanted nor needed a rather nasty scene.”

  “Understood,” I said. “Anyone else that you can think of?”

  He shook his head. “Not really. As I say, one never knows what someone else is thinking. There was one other incident, however, that disturbed me.

  “I mentioned that Grant took pleasure in playing little games and sometimes they could verge on the cruel. One of our members, Barry Legget—like several other members, he also sings with the M.C.C. choir—is almost painfully shy when he is not singing. Maybe because of that, he’s one of the members in whom I took special interest and have tried to help along. He had an almost unbelievably painful childhood spent in foster care after his parents abandoned him. He even spent some time in a juvenile correctional facility.

  “He has been with us about two years now and has been making real progress. I think he’s come to look on his fellow singers almost as the family he never had. And then along came Grant, who decided it would be fun to play cat-and-mouse with Barry, teasing him, enticing him, leading
him on. I wouldn’t have known anything about it if it had not been for Eric, in whom Barry confided.

  “It seems that Grant had been leading Barry on for nearly a month. Eric had noticed it, as had several of the other members. Then Grant asked him on a date. Barry was ecstatic but said nothing to anyone, and it’s good that he didn’t because Grant, not surprisingly, never showed up.

  “He then approached Barry with some sort of excuse as to why he hadn’t called to cancel and proceeded to set up another date. For the second time, he never showed up and he never called.

  “At the next rehearsal, one of the members of Grant’s little clique teased him about it, which means that Grant had to have shared his little joke with his inner circle and probably had a good laugh over it. Eric knew something was wrong and asked Barry about it. It was only then that Barry told him. And when Eric told me, I was furious. It was only with a good deal of effort that Eric and I were able to convince Barry not to quit the chorus.”

  “Eric seems like a really nice guy and really committed to the chorus,” I observed.

  Rothenberger shook his head slowly. “You have no idea. I truly consider Eric to be the cornerstone of the entire organization. I’ve known him since he was a child, and it in fact was he who was instrumental in encouraging me to form the group. I really think it is almost as much a part of his life as it is of mine. I think he, like Barry, sees the chorus as his surrogate family. And Eric keeps me posted on what’s going on with the members and things of which I might not otherwise be aware.”

  “When was this incident with Barry?” I asked.

  “A week or two before Grant was killed, actually.” He suddenly looked startled and said, “But that is purely coincidence, I’m sure. Barry is incapable of doing such a thing!”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I said, not at all sure, “but I was wondering if I could get the phone numbers and addresses of everyone in the chorus, in case I might need to contact any of them for any reason.”

  “Of course,” he said.

  *

  On my way back to the office I remembered that Jonathan had mentioned Barry a couple of times as one of the chorus members he really liked and I had probably met him at Booth’s get-together, though I couldn’t remember. Jonathan hadn’t said anything about the incident between Barry and Grant, though, and I assumed he didn’t know about it.