by Dorien Grey
When Jonathan and Joshua went off to church, leaving me to my newspaper, I was able to enjoy probably a full ten minutes of complete relaxation before my mind started throwing in random thoughts like tossing dirty socks into the laundry hamper. I’d noticed how the amount of dirty clothes in our actual hamper had seemed to multiply like rabbits since Joshua had been in the house. Thinking how quiet it was without Joshua led me to wondering how Kelly was doing, which dragged in Jan Houston and Carlene and Estelle and Bonnie Bronson, Roy D’Angelo and the guy who was seen abandoning the van that had killed Carlene, and…
Aw, come on, Hardesty! It’s Sunday, fer chrissake!
*
By the time we got to Mario and Bob’s, I’d pretty much wrestled my work-thoughts back into their cages and was able to enjoy the rest of the day. We introduced Joshua to Bob and Mario, and they introduced all of us—but especially Joshua—to the two most recent additions to their household, Butch and Pancake, two young kittens someone had left in a box in the alley behind Venture, the bar Mario manages. That pretty much took care of entertaining Joshua for the time we were there. I was at first a little concerned he might unintentionally hurt them, but he’d been raised around small animals and was very careful with them.
“Where did you get their names?” Jonathan asked as we sat in the back yard watching Bob putter with the grill.
Mario grinned. “Well, when I first went to pick them up out of the box, one of them hissed at me and swatted me with both paws. I named him Butch on the spot, though it turns out he’s a she. Pancake’s a boy, and Bob named him the morning after I brought them home. He was trying to fix breakfast and Pancake somehow got on the counter and knocked over a canister of flour. Scared the shit out of the poor thing—he shot halfway across the room in one bound, and then left a trail of flour cat-paw prints up the stairs and into our bedroom, where we found him hiding under the bed.”
I could read Jonathan’s mind as he watched Joshua lying on the grass on his stomach, playing with the kittens.
“Don’t even think about it!”
“What?” he asked with open-eyed innocence, but his grin gave him away.
*
Okay. Monday. New day, new week. Now what do I do? Which trail of breadcrumbs to try to follow first? It would have been one thing had Carlene been shot, or stabbed, or, well…obviously murdered. But I still didn’t know for sure that Carlene’s death was not an accident. Neither did the police, of course, which is why it was largely up to me to find out.
I wished I knew how to get in touch with Roy D’Angelo, or even his mother. They might be able to point me in some sort of direction. The more I thought of Jan Houston, the less likely I was to consider her a number-one suspect, despite having caught her in the lie about where she was the day Carlene was killed.
My gut still told me there was some sort of connection between Carlene’s death and that of Frank Santorini, about whom there was no question that he’d been murdered. Bonnie Bronson’s name kept weaving its way in and out of my “look into it” list of things to do. But for the moment, I decided to concentrate on Roy D’Angelo and, by extension, his mother.
After I’d had my coffee, read the paper, and done the crossword puzzle, I called Beth Erickson, Carlene’s sister. I didn’t know if she had a day job, but if she wasn’t home, perhaps she had a machine.
The phone was answered on the second ring by a very young voice I recognized immediately. “Who’s this?” the voice demanded.
“Hi, Kelly, it’s Dick.” I doubted very much that he had the slightest idea who I was, but at least he had a name. “Is your Aunt Beth home?”
Just then I heard a voice in the background saying, “Kelly, you’re not supposed to answer the phone, remember?”
“But I know how!”
“I know you do, dear, but we’ll talk about it later.” Then the sound of the phone changing hands and then a very tentative, “Hello?”
“Beth, hi. This is Dick Hardesty. I’m sorry to bother you, but I had a few questions you might help me with.”
“About Carlene? I really appreciate your taking so much interest in us, Dick, but I have to admit I’m a bit puzzled as to why.”
I realized then that she had no idea Carlene’s death may not have been a simple hit-and-run or that I had been hired to investigate the possibility.
“Well, this may sound a little strange, but as a private investigator I have a rather suspicious nature. And when I heard about Roy D’Angelo trying to get custody of Kelly within days of Carlene’s death…. Please understand I’m not saying there’s necessarily any connection between the two events, and I’m certainly not trying to drum up business, but I’d just feel better if I could rule out the possibility, however remote. While I didn’t know Carlene well, she was a neighbor and Jonathan and I cared about her and Kelly.”
“That’s very kind of you, but Mr. O’Banyon’s office has agreed to handle it for us, and we have every confidence in him.” There was a pause. “What was it you wanted to ask me?”
“I was wondering if you might have Roy D’Angelo’s address or phone number?”
There was a slight pause, then, “No, I’m afraid not. It may be on the legal papers, but I sent them to Mr. O’Banyon’s office the minute I got them.”
“But as far as you know, he’s still living in the Louisville area?”
Another pause. “As far as I know. But he didn’t live in Louisville proper, I don’t think. Saint Matthews comes to mind. I remember Carlene telling me he was living in a house his mother owned there. Why do you…” There was a sudden pause, then. “I know they haven’t found the driver of the van yet, but surely you’re not implying it wasn’t an accident or that Roy might have….”
Not wanting to get her rushing off in directions she really didn’t need to go, I interrupted her. “As I said,” I…uh…said, “there is really nothing other than the probably coincidental timing of Carlene’s death and Roy showing up that might lead me to think that Roy was involved in any way, but for my own peace of mind, I’d like to follow through on it.”
“Well, again, I do appreciate your concern, and thank you for everything you’ve done.”
“And thank you for your help. Please tell Kelly that Joshua, Jonathan, and I said hello.”
“I will. Good-bye for now, then.”
*
It had been about five years since Carlene had moved from the Louisville area, and I had absolutely no idea if Roy D’Angelo was still even in Kentucky, let alone still living in his mother’s house in Saint Matthews, but I thought I’d give it a try. I called long-distance information first for Louisville—no Roy D’Angelo listed—and then for Saint Matthews, where I lucked out. I wrote the number down, thanked the operator, and hung up. Not expecting that he’d be home—if, indeed, I even had the right Roy D’Angelo—I dialed the number. Carlene had told me he was a stock-car racer, but whether he was still doing it or, if so, if that was a full-time job or not I hadn’t a clue.
The phone was answered after three rings, by a woman’s “Hello?”
“Is Roy D’Angelo in?”
“No, he’s at the shop.”
I didn’t ask what kind of shop it might be, so I just said, “Do you know what time he’ll be home?”
“When he gets here, I expect,” she said with mild disinterest. “Who’s calling?”
I gave her my name, phone number, and where I was calling from.
“This about his kid?”
I did not want to go into more detail.
“Indirectly. Would you like to have him call me, or should I call back and try to catch him later?”
“I’ll give him your number.”
I thanked her and hung up.
*
I was just getting ready to leave the office for the day when the phone rang.
“Hardesty Investigations.”
“Hardesty what?” the male voice demanded. The sound of a car engine revving up in the background nearly drowne
d him out.
“Hardesty Investigations,” I repeated, instantly irked. God, I wish I’d been blessed with patience rather than devastating good looks!
Uh huh, one of my mind-voices said.
“Some guy named Dick Hardesty called my house this morning and wanted me to call him. That’s you?”
“That’s me.”
“So what’s this all about? Are you working for the woman who’s got my kid?” More loud engine noises. Either he kept a hot rod in his living room, or he was calling from a garage. I waited until it was quiet enough to make myself heard, then said, “No, I’m not.”
“Then what do you want? And what does it have to do with my kid?”
Mr. Personality, I thought. He and Jan Houston would make a great couple if she weren’t gay.
“I’m looking into Carlene’s death.”
“What the hell for? It was an accident. Who are you working for?”
“Who I’m working for doesn’t matter. Why does. My client suspects the ‘accident’ wasn’t, in fact, an accident, and I’m trying to find out if that suspicion might have basis in fact.”
“That’s no skin off my nose one way or the other. If it wasn’t an accident, it was probably one of her dyke girlfriends.”
His voice was suddenly drowned out by the roar of the revving engine, which was muffled when Roy apparently put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and yelled, “Turn the fuckin’ thing off a minute, will ya?”
There was abrupt silence, then, “So what do you want from me?”
Good question, I thought, but forged ahead anyway. “I was wondering when and how you first learned you had a son, and when you decided to file for custody.”
“Not that it’s any of your damned business, but Angelina told me. She read it in the paper.”
“Angelina?” I asked, thoroughly confused. “…and she read what in the paper?”
“Angelina’s my mother, and she read about Carlene getting killed and that she had a kid.”
He calls his mother Angelina? I thought. Angelina D’Angelo? Now there’s a name for you!
“So what made you decide to file for custody?”
“He’s my kid, and I didn’t even know he existed! She’s dead, so now he’s mine.”
He made it sound as though Kelly was a used car.
“I’m sorry, but I’d gotten the impression that you didn’t want kids.”
“Who told you that?” he demanded, then continued without waiting for an answer. “He’s mine, and I want him.”
“Are you still driving stock cars?”
“Yeah, so what’s that got to do with anything?”
“Just curious. We have a track here: Elmsley Raceway. Are you familiar with it?”
“Yeah, it’s on the circuit. So what?”
“Nothing. Have you raced here recently?”
There was a pause, then the click of the receiver being hung up.
I guess Jonathan isn’t the only one who could use a little work on his subtlety.
*
I must say, having Joshua around certainly helped take my mind off work. When I got home, Jonathan and Joshua had apparently just gotten in. Jonathan was in the kitchen unpacking a bag of groceries, and Joshua was busily transporting everything from his toy box in his bedroom, where we’d moved it, back into the living room. I went to the kitchen to exchange hugs with Jonathan and to fix my Manhattan. Upon reentering the living room, I had to put down my drink immediately to give Joshua his hug, too. I noticed he had a Band-Aid on one index finger.
“What did you do to your finger?”
The question set him off on a long story of his injury, which had a beginning, a middle, and an end, though not necessarily in that order, and there was something in there about Indians. I gathered it had been a paper cut, but the kid had a great future as an adventure writer.
During dinner, he ratcheted up his usual every-three-minutes question about when his mom and dad were coming home to every two minutes, and I began to realize that I was really going to miss him. And any illusions I might have had about Joshua’s visit toning down Jonathan’s enthusiasm about having a kid had gone out the window about two days after Joshua arrived. Jonathan had been having a ball playing “uncle,” and he was a natural at it. But I knew that the minute Joshua was gone, he’d probably start dropping Jonathan-subtle hints about our finding some way to get a kid of our own. And while Joshua had been a lot easier to have around than I’d imagined, I still was a long, long way from taking that next step.
*
Tuesday morning, my morning office ritual was interrupted by frequent mental replays of my conversation with Roy D’Angelo. I knew I was trying to tell me something and I finally zeroed in on it—Elmsley Raceway. The fact that he’d hung up on me when I asked if he’d raced there recently pretty clearly told me that yes, he had. And I wanted to know just how recently that was—though I could hazard a pretty good guess.
The raceway held stock-car races every Friday and Saturday night, and while I wasn’t much of a racing fan myself, I did remember frequently seeing ads in the paper. Out of curiosity I checked to see if there might be an ad in the paper I’d just been reading. There wasn’t, but then I seemed to recall the ads usually ran Wednesday through Saturday. I didn’t remember, though, if they ever said anything about who was racing.
I could run down to the library and look through past editions, but thought I’d try just calling the track first. I looked up the number and dialed. After thirteen rings, I hung up. It was unlikely that anyone was there. Elmsley Raceway was located in Vernon, one of the city’s less affluent suburbs, and I’d been to the track once. Not exactly the Indianapolis 500, so I assumed they probably didn’t have someone there full time. Still, I waited about half an hour and called again. Nothing.
So the library it was.
*
I like libraries. They remind me in an odd way of cemeteries—very calm, very peaceful—and I am almost palpably aware of being surrounded by the spirits and words of people long since gone, but who have much to tell those who will listen.
I checked out the papers for Wednesday through Saturday of the week leading to the Monday of Carlene’s death. Sure enough, in the sports section, which I seldom even look at, there was a quarter page ad for Elmsley Raceway’s weekend races. At the bottom of the ad were two rows of small pictures of participating drivers in or standing by their cars, with their names—undoubtedly to encourage their fans to come out and root for them. And in the bottom row, third picture from the right was one Roy D’Angelo, holding a racing helmet, standing beside a car door with a large 38 painted on it. I had to squint to try to see what he looked like, but couldn’t tell much, just that he seemed to be relatively short in relation to the car, had medium-long hair, and wasn’t a bad-looking guy, in a definitely Bubba sort of way.
Well, I didn’t think I’d be able to recognize him on the street just from that photo, but I had a better idea of what he looked like than I’d had before. And it confirmed the fact that he had been in town at least through Sunday of that week. Carlene had been killed on Monday.
Gentlemen, start your engines.
CHAPTER 7
With Roy D’Angelo now firmly planted in the Suspects column, it occurred to me that I really should make an effort to either rule Jan Houston out entirely or consider her and D’Angelo equal possibilities. In an ideal world, it’s always better to have just one suspect to concentrate on, but I’ve seldom had that luxury.
So…get in touch with Beth and see if she’d be willing to let Jan see Kelly on some sort of scheduled basis. I really could understand Jan’s position, and I couldn’t imagine how I might react under similar circumstances. Problem there was that if Jan had indeed had something to do with Carlene’s death, would it be fair to Kelly to let her back into his life?
This was Tuesday, and Samuel and Sheryl would be picking Joshua up at the end of the week. Maybe Jonathan and I could take a drive up to Carrington on
Sunday and see if I might arrange to talk with Jan Houston. I knew Jonathan would probably be pretty down about having Joshua gone, so a little distraction might be in order. And maybe we could stop by and see Jared if he was there. I made a note to call Jared when I got home.
*
When I returned to the office, I tried the number for Elmsley Raceway again—obviously they weren’t open on weekdays, but I’ve never been one to take “no” for an answer. To my surprise, the phone was answered on the first ring.
“Elmsley Raceway.” Definitely a male.
“Hi. I’m glad I found someone in.”
“Just doing some paperwork. We aren’t officially open. What can I do for you?”
Yeah, what? I hadn’t actually expected anyone to be there.
“Ah, I was wondering how far in advance you know who’ll be racing on a certain date.”
There was a slight pause, then, “Depends. Mostly the circuit guys set it up a month in advance. Locals can sign in right up to race night. Why? You a racer?”
“No, but I’m a big fan of Roy D’Angelo. I missed him when he was here a couple of weeks ago, and wondered if you might know when he’ll be here again.”
Another pause. “Hold a second, let me look. He travels around with about four other drivers, and they’re pretty consistent.” There was the sound of ruffling paper, then, “Looks like he’s signed up for the tenth—two weeks from this coming Friday.”
“Great! Thanks, I appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
Well, the trip to the library hadn’t been a total waste. At least now I had a rough idea of what he looked like, and knew his car was #38. Maybe Jonathan and I could go out for a night at the races, and I could arrange to talk to D’Angelo afterwards.
*
When I got home, Jonathan and Joshua were in the kitchen, and Joshua was helping to set the table. We were using the Melmac dishes, so Joshua was in charge of not only the silverware but also the plates, which he took particular pains to place in exactly the right position as he saw it. Apparently he had been practicing counting at day care, and as Jonathan handed him each piece of silverware, Joshua would count it aloud. When the table was set, he wandered over to the fish tank and began counting the fish. He did very well up to 8 or so, but then things got a little tricky.
