by Dorien Grey
“I will give you one more week, and then I will seek legal counsel on my sister’s behalf.”
Wow, lady! What the hell is your problem?
“I understand,” I said, though of course I didn’t. “Again, I will consider the matter closed the moment your sister tells me to. And it goes without saying I sincerely hope that your displeasure with me won’t be reflected on Joshua in any way.”
“Of course not! He has nothing to do with this and we would never be so petty as to involve him in a personal disagreement between us.”
“I very much appreciate that.”
“As long as we understand one another. Good-bye.”
And she hung up.
Oh, great!
*
We’d rather quickly settled into an at-home routine—Jonathan and Joshua usually got home shortly before I did, and Jonathan would have my evening Manhattan ready. We’d have our group hug, and I’d play with Joshua while Jonathan fixed dinner. Then more playtime for Joshua while Jonathan tried to study for his Wednesday night class. Joshua’s bath time was around eight o’clock, then bed and story time. One of the things Jonathan had brought back from Wisconsin was an 8x10 framed photo of Samuel, Sheryl, and Joshua as a baby, and every night Joshua would say his prayers and kiss the picture, which we kept on the end table bedside his bed.
Okay, okay…I know a lot of single gay guys’ eyes start glazing over with boredom at the very idea of such an overdose of Leave It to Beaver domesticity, and before I met Jonathan, I was certainly one of them. But I had met Jonathan, and Joshua was now in our lives, and that’s the way it was. And while, to be honest, I sometimes wished I was still out there cruising the bars and picking up tricks, when I weighed that period against now, now always won.
As to Joshua, he still hadn’t fully adjusted to the fact that his parents weren’t coming back for him, and he talked about them often, always in the present tense. Every now and then when he’d get angry with us, he’d start crying and calling for his mother or his dad (interestingly, which one he called on seemed to depend on the cause of his anger), and he had occasional nightmares about someone coming and carrying him or his folks away, but all in all he was making as good an adjustment as we could have hoped for.
*
Around seven thirty, I looked up Jan Houston’s number and dialed it, hoping it hadn’t been disconnected again. It hadn’t, and was answered on the fourth ring.
“Hello?”
“Jan, this is Dick Hardesty. I don’t mean to bother you, but I was wondering if you’d called Beth Erickson about Kelly.”
The usual hostility was absent from her voice when she said, “Yes, I did, and I owe you. I got to spend some time with him this past Sunday, and next weekend he’s coming to my company picnic with me.”
“That’s great!” I really was glad for her.
“Of course Beth doesn’t completely trust me yet, and I can’t say I blame her, really. But Kelly was almost as glad to see me as I was to see him. He kept asking me where…his other mommy…was. That nearly broke my heart.”
“I can well imagine.” I was thinking of Joshua’s asking about his mom and dad. “You do know that Roy D’Angelo is trying to get custody of Kelly, don’t you?”
The anger immediately returned to her voice. “Yes, I knew. But no way in hell that bastard’s going to get Kelly! Beth’s family has hired the best lawyer in the state!”
So, I thought but did not say, apparently has Roy.
Well, I’d sort of pried the door open. Now to step in.
“I remember you saying you knew Roy, and I gather you’re not overly fond of him. I was wondering about exactly how you know him, and why you dislike him so. Without him, there wouldn’t be any Kelly.”
The anger was still there when she said, “Like I said, I owe you. But that doesn’t mean I want you prying around in my private life. So just drop it.”
“Well, I’m afraid that once I really want to know something, I usually manage to find out somehow. Maybe from Roy.”
“Not if you know what’s good for you.”
Why, Jan, one of my mind-voices asked with mock surprise, was that some sort of threat? Not a very bright move from someone who still hadn’t totally dropped off my suspects list.
“Jan, I’m not out to cause you grief, believe me. But I am out to find out who killed Carlene and why, and if that involves prying into places I probably shouldn’t, I’m sorry.”
“Well you damned well should be! I had nothing to do with Car…her…death, and my life sure as hell has nothing to do with it—and it’s none of your damned business. Now if you’re through, I’ve got things to do.”
“Sure. I…” But she’d hung up, leaving me to ponder the fact that even now Jan Houston could not or would not say her ex-lover’s name.
Why do people insist on making things so hard for themselves? If she’d just come up with some sort of even remotely plausible story and not acted like an exposed nerve end, I might have just accepted it and moved on. But I was hooked now, and determined to find out what the hell she was covering up—whether it had anything to do with the case or not.
*
We’d gotten a notice in our mailbox from the building’s owner telling us that the city would start repaving the alley that same day, which would mean the entrance to the garage would be blocked and that we’d have to park on the street until at least Thursday. To add to the fun, on my way to work I discovered they’d begun major roadwork on the main route between home and my office. The detour added between ten and fifteen minutes to my driving time, depending on whether, as usually happened, I got held up by a commuter train that crossed the detour route and was one of the reasons I would not normally go that way. And the detour also involved going over a series of steep San Franciscosteep hills known as “The Hump.” I kind of enjoyed it, actually…rather like being on my own little roller coaster…but it was a real challenge for people without automatic transmissions.
*
As I sat waiting for the train to pass—I suspected the engineer just sat there, down the line, waiting for me—I continued, as I’d done since I left the apartment, thinking about Carlene DeNuncio and the entire case-that-might-not-be-a-case. I’d been pretty successful in getting about everybody involved mad at me: Roy D’Angelo, his mother, Jan Houston, and now Bonnie Bronson.
Well, if I wanted everyone to love me, I sure as hell picked the wrong profession.
Once at the office, the day passed fairly quickly with paperwork and reports and minor routine chores.
Around one thirty the phone rang.
“Hardesty Investigations.”
“Mr. Hardesty, this is Estelle Bronson.”
Ah, here comes the ax, I thought.
“Yes, Miss Bronson. What can I do for you?”
I was afraid I knew.
“I’m sorry to bother you at work, but Joshua isn’t feeling well, and we were wondering if you could come and pick him up? I tried calling Mr. Quinlan, but couldn’t reach him.”
“Of course!” I was more than a little surprised by how concerned I was. “I’ll be over shortly. Do you think I should call a doctor?”
I’d never dealt with a sick kid before.
“Oh, no, I’m sure that won’t be necessary. There’s some sort of twenty-four-hour bug going around, and I’m afraid Joshua isn’t the first of our children to get it. But we do feel he’d be better off at home.”
“Thank you. I’ll be over as soon as I can get there.”
I made a quick call to Evergreens to leave a message for Jonathan telling him what was going on and telling him not to worry, and then left the office.
*
Estelle met me at the door, and took me immediately into the “nap room” to the left of the entry. Joshua was curled up, asleep, on one of the mats, a thin blanket over him. I knelt down beside him, removed the blanket, and picked him up. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see me.
“I don’t feel good. I wan
t my mommy!”
The poor kid really looked unwell, and I felt bad for him. My mom always used to say she could tell when I wasn’t feeling well by looking in my eyes. I could tell the same thing by looking into Joshua’s.
“That’s okay, Joshua. We’ll get you home now.”
Bonnie Bronson appeared in the doorway of the main playroom, where the other kids were doing various kid things involving a minimum of noise.
“Miss Bronson,” I said by way of acknowledgment, and she merely nodded, then looked pointedly from Estelle to me. Estelle merely lowered her head, then led me to the door.
“I’m sure he’ll be better tomorrow,” she said as she opened the door for me.
“Thank you.” I carried Joshua to the car. Looking back toward the house as I was opening the driver’s side door after depositing Joshua in the back seat, I saw the two sisters standing behind the screen door, watching. Well, Estelle was watching me. Bonnie was watching Estelle.
*
I don’t know how real parents do it, but I’m very glad we skipped the diaper-changing stage. A vomiting four-year-old is plenty bad enough! Poor Joshua threw up twice on the way home, and once when we got inside—luckily I had enough advance warning to get him to the toilet bowl in time.
As I was cleaning him up, I reflected on my earlier thoughts about single life as opposed to family domesticity, and the single life didn’t look so bad.
I managed to get him into his pajamas and into bed. He wanted me to read to him, and I got about three pages into The Littlest Tractor before he fell asleep. I had to clean the car, but I didn’t dare leave him alone. But the minute Jonathan walked in the door, after a brief hug, I grabbed a roll of paper towels and the spray cleaner, and was out the door.
Though I’d had to park on the street (as had Jonathan, though I couldn’t spot his car anywhere), I’d arrived home in time to find a spot fairly close to the apartment. God knows how far away Jonathan had to park.
*
By morning, Joshua seemed to be pretty much back to normal, though when I took his temperature he still had something of a fever, so Jonathan called work to say he wouldn’t be in. (“It’s been pretty slow this week,” he reassured me, “and we finished that big job yesterday.”) Then he called Happy Day to tell them he’d be keeping Joshua home for the day.
I left for work a few minutes early, hoping I could avoid the commuter train this time. Everything was fine until I reached the top of the steep hill leading down to the railroad crossing at the very bottom. There was a fair amount of traffic ahead of me and I saw the damned crossing lights start flashing as the gates started coming down. Damn it!
I started applying the brakes to slow down, and the pedal went all the way to the floor!
Shit! I started pumping the brakes and nothing happened, except that I continued to pick up speed. I tried shifting down, which didn’t do much, then pulled the emergency brake. Nothing! I was rapidly coming up on the car in front of me. Thank God no cars were coming up the hill, so I swung over into the other lane, missing the car in front by just feet.
Great! Now what? I was going faster and faster down a steep hill, headed straight for a railroad crossing with an approaching train! Shit! I shut off the engine and tried to jam the gears into reverse! Nothing but a loud screeching, grinding sound. I glanced at the speedometer: 45 and rising. I could cut across the street and go up over the curb, but there was nothing to slow me down except houses and trees, neither of which seemed like a wise option.
Then I saw the small cemetery paralleling the railroad tracks and surrounded with a hedgerow fence. With luck, the hedge would slow me down without totally destroying the car; but if it didn’t slow me down enough, I’d go right onto the tracks and into the side of the train!
Laying the heel of my hand on the horn…what the hell good is that supposed to do? my mind-voices wanted to know, rightfully… Let the train know you’re coming? I pulled the wheel to the left, watched the cars of the passing train coming closer and closer, bounced roughly over the curb, and into the hedgerow. I heard the loud hissing and scraping of the branches on the car, then a large, solid thunk as the front end hit something very solid, stopping the car. I was ten feet from the end of the hedgerow and twenty feet from the railroad tracks, where the last car of the train was just passing.
Thank you, God!
*
Somebody gave me a ride about four blocks to the nearest phone, where I called for a wrecker and for Jonathan to come get me. I was just thankful that he and Joshua hadn’t been in the car with me.
After making the calls, I walked back to my car, where two patrol cars were waiting. I explained what had happened, and that I’d called for a wrecker. Seemingly reassured that I wasn’t either drunk or on drugs, one of the cops still wanted to give me a ticket for reckless driving and/or for operating a motor vehicle in an unsafe manner. Apparently he’d already met his ticket quota for the month, since I managed to talk him out of it.
About fifteen minutes later, the tow truck arrived and, after both cops directed traffic while the wrecker backed up to my car, the ticket-prone cop got in his squad car and drove off. Just as the truck hooked up to the car, Jonathan pulled up on the other side of the street, with Joshua and Bunny staring out the back window at the scene. Seeing no cars coming, Jonathan made a U-turn…not the wisest of moves, Jonathan, I thought…and pulled up behind the squad car.
“My ride,” I explained lamely to the cop, and he just nodded.
Whew!
I hurried over to the car and got in.
“Are you okay?” Jonathan asked, as he’d already asked on the phone, and I again assured him I was. His face reflected his concern.
“Why is your car in the bushes?” Joshua asked.
The wrecker was now winching the much-the-worse-for-wear car out of the tangle of flattened and broken hedgerow. The front end had sustained quite a bit of damage, and the paint was badly scraped, but it looked reparable. At least I hoped it was.
When the car was totally winched to the wrecker, the cop again directed traffic while it pulled out into the street. Jonathan pulled around the squad car and followed it as I waved a thanks to the cop.
“You’re sure you’re all right?” Jonathan asked for the third time.
“I’m sure,” I said, aware that Joshua and Bunny were trying to climb through the space between the front bucket seats to get up front with us.
“Leave Bunny back there,” I told him, and he did, then climbed up onto my lap.
“And how are you feeling, Joshua?” I asked, putting my arms around his waist both as potential protection from a sudden stop and to keep his inevitable squirming to a minimum.
He looked at me, his face taking on a wide-eyed look of utmost solemnity, and said, “I’ve been very, very sick!” nodding his head slowly up and down in confirmation.
“But you’re better now,” I said, and Joshua looked to Jonathan, who grinned and nodded.
“Yes,” Joshua said, reassured, “I’m better now.”
We followed the tow truck to the garage, and the owner told me he’d get to it as soon as he could. I gave him my home and office numbers, and the number of my insurance man, and asked him to call me as soon as he knew anything—especially about what might have caused the brakes to fail. I knew I’d had them checked as part of my last tune-up.
I was tempted to just not bother going in to work, but I had to finish up a research assignment for one of my lawyer clients, so had Jonathan drive me to work. I told him I’d catch the bus home.
It was nearly nine thirty by the time I got to the office, and the light on my answering machine was blinking. I walked over and pressed Play.
“Mr. Hardesty, this is Estelle Bronson. I’ve been giving a great deal of thought to the matter, and since you’ve come up with nothing to indicate Carlene’s death was anything but an accident, I think we should consider the issue closed. Please send me a bill for your services, and thank you very much for indu
lging me.”
No “Good-bye.” No “Give me a call if you have any questions.” Nothing. But I got the definite impression that while Estelle was saying the words, Bonnie had put them in her mouth and was probably standing right behind her when she said them.
Great! So here I was with no client and a wrecked car, all in the space of two hours. Estelle had perhaps been technically correct in my not having come up with any solid evidence that Carlene’s death was not an accident, but I’d bet my bottom dollar that it wasn’t.
Well, it was her nickel, and I couldn’t afford the time or money to pursue the case any further on my own…especially now that Joshua had entered the picture. I always hated to leave a case dangling, but I had no choice.
I left the office and went to the Hall of Records to do the research I needed.
*
Rather than go directly home from the Hall of Records, I stopped by the office to drop off the materials I’d collected and to make a few notes to myself for typing up a report in the morning. Once again, the light on my answering machine was blinking.
There were two messages, the first from the garage where my car had been taken. Well, they didn’t waste much time, obviously.
“Mr. Hardesty, call Otto at Otto’s Auto Repair right away, please.”
The second was from Jonathan.
“Dick, it’s Jonathan.” I never understood why he always felt it necessary to tell me who he was—I was pretty sure I could recognize his voice by this time. “The guy at the garage wants you to call him right away.”
So I did.
I asked for Otto and there was a long pause.
“Hello?”
“Otto, this is Dick Hardesty returning your call. What did you find out?”
“Uh, yeah, Mr. Hardesty.” He sounded a little hesitant. “This might be a strange question, but do you have any enemies?”
That one struck me as peculiar, to say the least. “Yeah, I’m sure I’ve got a couple. Why?” I didn’t have an immediate idea of what he was getting at, but I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to like it.
