by Dorien Grey
“Well, we told him where and that we’d interviewed the guy he was visiting. I’m sure Booth could fill in the blanks,” Dan said.
“And his reaction?”
“He repeated that he didn’t know anything about Jefferson’s personal life.”
When I’d talked with Booth, I’d found his protestations that Grant was pure as the driven snow somewhat hard to swallow. Now, realizing that he knew perfectly well when he talked to me where Grant had died and what he’d been doing there, I found his remarks flat-out suspect.
“So, I gather that at the moment, Booth’s top on your list,” I said.
“At the moment,” Marty replied. “We’re looking as closely as we can into his past, and we understand Jefferson was something less than an applicant for sainthood. Which is why we’re here talking to you. What’s your take on all this? What do you know that we don’t?”
I told them everything I knew, including the details of Jim Bowers’ accident, Booth’s having visited Bowers at the hospital, the “coincidence” of Booth’s mechanic being called in at night for repairs to a baby-blue Porsche and the mechanic’s subsequent suspicious move to Tulsa.
I also gave them a recap of my conversations with the various chorus members and Rothenberger, including Booth’s story about the mysterious Robert Smith.
“Now, it strikes me that, if Booth really did think Smith might be involved, he would have made a point of telling you about him,” I said. “Even if he were completely innocent and not thinking clearly when you first interviewed him, I’d surely think he’d have called you later to mention the guy.”
Marty and Dan looked at one another, then at me and shook their heads in unison.
“Not yet, anyway,” Dan said.
“Well,” I told them, “my first reaction was that he might be making it up on the spot to get me off his back. If he does contact you about it, I might take it a bit more seriously. I did get the name and phone number for the guy in Atlanta who handed Grant off to him—his name’s Bernie Niles, and I get the idea that the hand-off wasn’t exactly voluntarily.
“Booth claims Smith was trying to run a scam on Niles, and that Grant ratted him out and Smith went to jail because of it. If that’s true, it could have made the guy mad enough to want to kill him, especially if Booth was right in calling Smith a psychopath. And if by chance Smith did track Grant here, the only way he could have done so would be through Niles. I’ve got a call in to Niles, but he hasn’t returned it yet.”
“Tell you what,” Carpenter said, “why don’t you give us the number? I’ve got a buddy on the Atlanta force who owes me a favor. I’ll ask him to check with Niles and find out anything he can about this Smith character.”
“I appreciate that, Dan,” I said. “But I’ve found that gays are more willing to talk to another gay than to the police. Let me see what I can find out about Smith from him. But if you could check Smith’s criminal history, we can combine our notes.”
They didn’t look as though they were quite convinced.
“Look,” I said, “if this is all a wild goose chase, I’ll have saved you the time and trouble to do it yourselves. If I turn up anything of interest, you can take it from there.”
The two detectives exchanged glances, then Carpenter said, “Okay. It’s not like we’re exactly looking for extra work.”
“You know, we really should put you on the payroll,” Marty said with a grin.
“I appreciate the thought,” I said, “and no disrespect, but I think I prefer things the way they are. We’ve got a nice thing going here, and in my line of work I don’t think it would be a big plus to be associated too closely with the police. But I’ve got it on my list of things I want to be when I grow up—right after ‘fireman.’”
“Well,” Dan said, getting up from his chair, “we’d better get going. I wish Jefferson’s was the only case we were working on, but it’s not. We’ll be in touch.”
Chapter 6
I made a pot of fresh coffee and sat at my desk, cup held in both hands, staring at my partial reflection on the unruffled black surface. I guess I was trying to figure out exactly where I stood on this case and, more importantly, where it was headed.
All the arrows still pointed at Crandall Booth, and I was perfectly aware that in a detective novel the one thing you could be sure of is that the guy all the clues point to didn’t do it. But this wasn’t a detective novel, and like they say, if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, chances are pretty good it’s a duck.
Of the textbook motives for murder—jealousy, anger, greed and, control—I could readily identify Booth with all of them. I would imagine with him, control was primary, with jealousy and anger close behind. That the greed was most likely Grant’s didn’t make it any less a motive for Booth.
Their both being controllers indicated theirs was not exactly a match made in heaven. Not only was Grant apparently doing whatever he damned well felt like doing, he was doing it on Booth’s money and using Booth’s car. Even I could see he was doing a pretty good job of punching holes in Booth’s rock-walled ego.
I don’t know why Booth hadn’t kicked Grant out on his ass, or passed him off to another rich guy looking for a pretty trophy boyfriend. Maybe he’d tried, and Grant had something on him that severely limited his options.
I also wouldn’t be surprised if Booth’s siding so strongly with Grant in chorus matters might have less to do with supporting him than as a way to undercut Roger Rothenberger. Grant obviously saw his chorus-lead-singer credits as a stepping stone to bigger and better things in New York or Los Angeles or Chicago or anywhere but here. I personally thought that was a little naive, since I couldn’t see how having a solo in a chorus would be that big a deal, but what did I know?
But if Grant had deliberately tried to run over Jim Bowers—and I had no doubt but that he had—to get it, that was a pretty strong indication of its importance to him. The fact that the Porsche had gone into Booth’s shop the same night Jim was run down told me Booth knew exactly what was going on.
Despite Booth’s protestations of caring deeply for Grant, it was clear the kid had definitely become a real problem for him, and the sooner he got him whatever it was he wanted, the sooner Grant could be out of his hair.
Yeah, but why kill him? It was pretty obvious Grant wasn’t planning to be around all that much longer. Surely, Booth could have waited it out.
Except that Rothenberger’s not going along with the plan to provide a springboard to bounce Grant to fame and fortune—but most importantly to Booth, out of town—was more than an inconvenience.
Still, I couldn’t really believe that if Booth had wanted Grant dead he wouldn’t have found a way to do it that didn’t involve blowing up one of his own very expensive luxury cars.
I definitely wanted to have a talk with Charles Stapleton to see exactly why he blamed Grant for his father’s death. I hadn’t asked Booth for Stapleton’s phone number, though I should have. I decided to look in the phone book first. Fortunately, I found it.
“Hello?” a woman’s voice said after the fourth ring.
“Is Mr. Stapleton in?”
“No, he’s at work. Can I have him call you?”
“Yes, if you would, please.” I gave her my work and home numbers.
“Can I tell him what this is about?”
I was afraid she was going to ask that. I always hate going into long explanations and try to avoid them whenever possible.
“I’m a private investigator looking into a case that only peripherally involves Mr. Stapleton’s late father, and I have a few questions Mr. Stapleton might be able to answer for me.”
Her voice was tinged with suspicion when she said, “Very well. I’ll give him your message.”
I thanked her and hung up. Whether she would give him the message and whether he would bother to return my call I had no way of knowing. Sometimes, being a private investigator isn’t much fun.
*
In the few m
inutes between finishing dinner and Jonathan’s leaving for chorus practice, I tried calling Jerry Granville.
“Hello?”
“Jerry Granville?”
“No, he’s not here. I don’t know if he’ll be back tonight or not.”
I left both my home and work numbers and asked to have Jerry call me.
“Okay,” he said and hung up.
Half an hour later, Joshua and I were “reading” the latest issue of Life—one of his favorite magazines because of the pictures—when the phone rang. Hoping it was either Granville or Stapleton, I opted to answer with, “Dick Hardesty.”
“Yes, this is Charles Stapleton. My wife told me you’d called. This is about Crandall Booth and his fruit boyfriend, isn’t it? You’re working for him now?”
Well, we’re off to a good start.
“If you’re referring to the death of Grant Jefferson, the answer is yes, but no, I am not working for Crandall Booth.” That was only a partial lie, since I was technically working for the board, not Booth. “When I talked to him, he mentioned your anger against the victim, and I was curious as to what that was all about.”
“Victim?” he snarled. “My father was the victim! That little fairy killed him!”
“How do you come by that conclusion?” I kept my voice calm.
“He knew Dad had a bad heart!” he said, his voice still showing his anger. “But he never let up. He was insubordinate, totally incompetent, and would run to his boyfriend Booth with lie after lie. My father spent fifteen years trying to keep Booth afloat, and this is how he’s repaid? By being called into Booth’s office to answer spurious charges and complaints?
“I told Dad he should quit then and there, that no job was worth what he was being put through. But he was too proud to quit, and now he’s dead.”
“I’m truly sorry for your loss,” I said and meant it, “but a bomb under a car seat is quite a different matter than a heart attack, undeniably unfortunate as that was. So, you have no idea who might have killed Grant Jefferson?”
“I wish I did know,” Stapleton said. “I’d shake his hand and offer to buy him a drink. Several.”
“You’ve not talked to the police, I gather?”
There was only a split-second pause. “Of course not! Why should I have?”
“May I ask what type of work you do?”
“I’m in construction, why?” Then there was a very significant pause before: “Oh, no, you don’t! You’re not going to blame this on me! If I’d killed that bastard I’d have strangled him with my bare hands, just to watch the expression on his face.”
“May I ask where you were the night of the murder?” I immediately pictured myself as a character in an old black-and-white B-movie.
“And how would that be any of your business?” he asked. “You think I need an alibi? Why in the hell would I need one? I told you I didn’t do it!”
Well, this certainly is a fun conversation, I thought.
“Sorry,” I said, “but I’m sure the police would want to know.”
“You’re going to sic the police on me?” he asked, sounding incredulous.
“Look at it this way,” I said. “I don’t know if the police know of your visit to Booth and Jefferson…yet. But since it’s only natural they will be looking at Booth very closely as a possible suspect, it’s pretty likely he’ll get around to mentioning your visit, if for no other reason than to point the finger away from himself. So, if you don’t have a damned good alibi for where you were the night Grant Jefferson was killed…” I didn’t think I had to finish the sentence.
There was a long, put-upon sigh, then, “I can’t even remember exactly what the date was. I sure as hell didn’t think I’d need an alibi for it.”
“It was Monday, the twentieth,” I volunteered. “Right after your dad died.”
Another pause. “I remember, because my wife plays bridge every Monday and she didn’t want to go, but I talked her into it. I stayed at work and didn’t get home until around ten.”
“And you were at work the whole time?”
“Yeah, except for running out to grab a sandwich around six.”
“Do you remember if anyone saw you? Anyone who might have seen you coming or going?”
“No. My office is in a construction trailer at the work site, and everyone goes home at five. But hell, if I’d thought I was going to need an alibi I’d have stood on the roof waving flares to let people know I was there.”
I could appreciate that nobody expects to be asked for an alibi for those times when they’re alone, but still, his claiming to have gone out for a sandwich around the time Grant had met a guy at the supermarket was interesting.
“Where did you go for your sandwich?”
“The SuperRite about two blocks away. They’ve got a deli. What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Just curious,” I lied. “Did you by any chance go by Central Imports that day?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I had to pick up some of my dad’s things from his office. Why?”
“As I said, just curious.” I was still lying. Deciding I had more than enough to think about for the moment, I said, “Well, my main reason for calling was to find out what Grant had done to upset you so strongly. I think you’ve cleared that up pretty well. Thanks for your time, and I hope I don’t have to bother you again.” That last comment was specifically to leave the door slightly ajar in case I did have to get back to him for some reason. “And again, my condolences on the loss of your dad.”
We exchanged good-byes and hung up.
While I really could empathize with his anger, I’d definitely mention it to Marty. I’d also check to verify if Grant might, indeed, have picked his last trick up at that particular store. If it was, that could well be another big scoop out of the hole Stapleton was digging for himself. He might well have been following Grant all along and only used the fact of the proximity of the supermarket to his work as a bit of serendipity, compounded by Grant’s picking up a trick there.
*
As soon as I got to the office Wednesday morning, I put in a call to Marty, who not surprisingly wasn’t in. So, I spent the next hour or so sitting at my desk staring at my coffee cup, mulling over the case in general and my previous night’s conversation with Stapleton.
The coincidences of his going out to a supermarket at about the time Grant was picking up his trick at one and of having been at Central Imports the same day the bomb was most likely planted, his admitted anger at Grant, his being in construction and undoubtedly having access to explosive materials—all could be pretty damning. But that he’d made no effort to deny or cover up anything could indicate that he was innocent; either that, or guilty and pretty shrewd about it. He’d know that if the cops checked out his alibi the facts would come out anyway. Better to not increase suspicion by lying about anything. It was, after all, all circumstantial.
Though I hoped I might hear from Jerry Granville, he didn’t call. Nor did Bernie Niles. I put in another call to Niles and left another message, stressing that it was important I talk to him and that he could call collect. That was a little ploy I sometimes used on long distance calls—the implication the person being called might not be able to afford to call back was usually responded to defensively and almost guaranteed they would call…and not collect.
The day passed as days do, and I was getting ready to leave the office for home when Marty called. I gave him a detailed account of my conversation with Stapleton, including the string of maybe/maybe not coincidences relating to Grant’s last day on earth.
“Which supermarket does Grant’s trick work for, and what time was the pickup?” I asked.
“He works for the SuperRite on Elmdale, and it was a little before the kid got off work at six,” Marty said. “Why?”
“Stapleton says he went to a SuperRite for his sandwich…at about six o’clock,” I reported.
“Well, well,” Marty replied. “The coincidences keep piling up, don’t they?
The kid lives within half a mile of the store, and there are a couple of construction sites within three blocks of it. We’ll definitely want to have a talk with him.”
“And Booth didn’t mention Stapleton’s visit to his house?” I asked.
“No. We’ll be talking with him later today, and we’ll see if he brings it up. Interesting, though, if he doesn’t. I’d think that if he was guilty of Jefferson’s murder, he’d be pointing fingers in every direction to take the heat off himself.”
“Two great minds with but a single thought,” I said, remembering I’d said exactly the same thing to Stapleton. “Any clues yet from the bomb fragments?”
“I’m afraid not. As I told you, there were no fingerprints, not even a partial. We fingerprinted the car’s door handles, found Jefferson’s and Booth’s, that’s it. Since it was Booth’s car, I’d have been surprised if they weren’t on it.”
“Point. And nothing else?”
“Nope. As we told you, the bomb components are all available in practically any hardware store. We’re trying to trace the pipe, duct tape and wire to their manufacturers, but given the fact we only have bits and pieces, that isn’t going to be easy. Even if we could track every sales receipt from every hardware store in town, this guy was probably smart enough not to buy everything at the same time or from the same place.
“Same thing is true of the explosive—no halfway sharp chemistry student would have a problem putting it together. We still have some other areas to look into, but right now we seem to be spinning our wheels.
“Oh,” he added, “and I was able to check out your friend Barry Legget. He spent three months in juvvie for assault when he was fourteen.”
“Any details?”
“Apparently, he attacked a school bully who’d been giving him a really hard time. He fractured the kid’s skull with a rock.”
I found that bit of information both interesting and, frankly, surprising. Barry would be the last person I’d think of as being the violent type. But I learned long ago that what you see isn’t always what you get.
Marty’s voice brought me back to the present. “I assume you think he might be involved?”
