The Popsicle Tree

by Dorien Grey

  *

  I left the office in time to pick up Jonathan at work and make it to Happy Day at the regular pick-up time. Jonathan went in to get Joshua while I waited in the car. Since it was Jonathan’s school night, we had established something of a ritual of eating out to save time, and as was becoming “usual,” we went to one of the six hundred or so Cap’n Rooney’s Fish Shack franchises in town so Joshua could watch the fish in the gigantic tanks while eating with his fingers—two of his favorite pastimes. Jonathan was having a test that night, and had brought his textbook to work so he could study during his lunch hour. He brought it into the restaurant with us to do a little more last-minute cramming. Joshua was too fascinated with watching the fish to ask Jonathan to read it to him, so with both of them visually occupied, I spent my waiting time checking out the manager behind the counter. Jonathan glanced up from his book and caught me staring. He kicked my leg under the table, grinned, and went back to his book. He knew me well enough by now to know that for me, looking at hot guys was just part of who I am, and not a threat. Still, he wanted to give me a gentle reminder to keep it that way.

  Joshua managed during dinner to drop a full, open cup of tartar sauce into his lap, but fortunately his napkin, which I’d just retrieved from the floor for the third or fourth time, was on his lap at the moment and caught most of it.

  While Jonathan was in class, Joshua and I returned to the apartment for a rousing game of “horsey” with me in the title role, of course. We also “read” the latest issue of Time—which is to say, held lengthy question/answer/commentary on the pictures, got out his coloring book, and spent some time retrieving crayons from under the sofa so he could get the colors of the cow—purple and orange—just right, and watched a little television, with Joshua carefully explaining what was going on to Bunny.

  I’d just gotten him out of his bath and into his pajamas when Jonathan returned from class. Then it was story time, some quality alone time for Jonathan and me, a little more TV, and then bed.

  Remember hitting the bars and cruising and picking up tricks and not getting home until the next morning? one of my mind-voices asked, nostalgically. God, you’ve turned into your father!

  Yeah, I admitted reluctantly, then realized that being my father wasn’t such a bad thing to be.

  *

  I arrived at Sandler’s a little after noon and got a booth. I ordered coffee and shifted my mind into neutral—I’d been thinking of the case far too much and forced myself to give it a rest, at least until Mark and Marty got there.

  I’d just started my second cup of coffee when I saw Mark Richman come in, alone. He saw me and came over, taking a seat, then reaching across the table to shake hands.

  “Officer Gresham will be here in a minute.”

  The waiter came over with a full pot of coffee and filled Richman’s cup, and we small-talked for a few minutes.

  “How’s the family?” We knew each other well enough by this time to know something of each other’s personal lives. We’d even had a few beers together, and when he was not in uniform or on police business, I called him by his first name, Mark. But on occasions like this, it was always “Lieutenant.”

  He smiled. “Great. And Craig finally came out to us.”

  Craig was Mark’s eldest son, probably around sixteen, who Mark had long suspected was gay.

  “Good for him! How did it go?”

  “Not bad. I know it wasn’t easy for him. His mother’s always talking about having grandkids and he was afraid he was disappointing us. He knows better. Our other two can give us the grandkids. We just want Craig to be happy being who he is.”

  We could use a lot more parents like the Richmans.

  “It sounds like he’s well on his way.”

  He grinned. “He is. I’m really proud of him. He’s already trying to pick up odd jobs to save money for college.”

  “Great! Does he do babysitting, by any chance?”

  Richman cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. “As a matter of fact, he does—so if you ever need one, I’m sure Craig would be happy to do it. And I think it would be good for him to have some adult gay role models.”

  “We do our best.” I glanced up to see Marty approaching the table. As he pulled out a chair, he nodded to Mark with a crisp, “Lieutenant,” then shook my hand. He still looked pretty damned hot despite the added weight.

  He must have read my mind because he patted his belly and said, “I know. How come us straight guys go to seed once we get married, and you gay guys don’t?”

  His grammatical incorrectness aside, I just grinned at him, and we all three picked up our menus.

  A minute or so later, the waiter came over with coffee for Marty and a top-off for me, and asked if we were ready to order. We were.

  After the waiter left, Mark poured more sugar into his coffee, set his spoon on the side of his saucer, then looked up at me.

  “Okay, so let’s hear it.”

  *

  I told them everything I knew, including the very strange family dynamics between Roy, Jan, Angelina, and Mildred Collins, and the links that bound them all, one way or the other, to Eddie Styles. I mentioned Frank Santorini’s death and that I felt he might have been murdered to be sure no one could fill in the third side of the triangle…who had hired him to trail Carlene. Perhaps, when Carlene was killed, Santorini had made his own connection and might even have tried a little blackmail to keep quiet. If so, it was definitely a wrong move on his part.

  The waiter returned with our meals, and I continued talking as we ate.

  That Eddie Styles had killed Carlene was a given; that he had killed Santorini was a pretty solid bet. But I still didn’t know exactly who hired Eddie Styles, and realized I might never be able to find out—or at least to prove it—until Styles was caught.

  The police were doing their best to find him, and probably could step in at this point and start their own investigation. But Angelina and Roy were in Louisville and might be very reluctant to return if they knew the police wanted to question them. And knowing the police were aware of the links between Eddie Styles and the others might well drive him even deeper into hiding.

  “So who do you think is the most likely candidate?” Marty asked.

  “My money at the moment is split between Angelina D’Angelo and her son Roy. Roy wants Angelina’s money, one way or the other. Whether Mrs. D’Angelo really sees Kelly as a second chance for the kind of son she wants is a little iffy to me, especially at her age. But I can’t see Roy having any use for Kelly at all except as a way to get into his mother’s bank account and will.”

  “What about Jan Houston and Mrs. D’Angelo’s sister?” Mark…Lieutenant Richman…said.

  I shook my head. “A remote possibility. Jan could have had Carlene killed out of anger—Styles is her godfather and might have done it as a favor. But it’s hard to imagine where she would have gotten the money to hire Santorini. And furious at Carlene as she was, she’s not stupid. She had to have known she didn’t have a chance of getting custody of Kelly with Carlene’s sister in the picture. And she truly hates Roy, half-brother or not. I just can’t see her doing anything to help him get Kelly.

  “As for Mildred Collins, I can’t see any real motivation. She might have been upset about Carlene breaking up with Jan, but like Jan, she had to have known that Carlene’s sister would be the one to get Kelly.”

  I sat back and took a long sip of coffee before continuing.

  “Roy said he had asked his mother for some photos of Kelly, and that she had hired a private investigator—Santorini, obviously—to get them. So if she hired Santorini, it would figure that she’s the one who killed him, or had Styles do it. But given the relationship between Roy and his mother, it’s a stretch to imagine him asking her for anything, or, if he did ask, her being willing to do it. But where Roy could have come up with the money to hire Styles is another question.

  “Again, I have no idea what the bonds between all these people rea
lly are, and whether Styles might be the kind of guy to kill as a favor. Possible, I suppose, but I tend to doubt it.”

  When the waiter came to pick up our plates and ask if we wanted dessert, Lieutenant Richman checked his watch, then ordered a piece of lemon meringue pie. Marty patted his belly again and declined, and opted, as I did, for just some more coffee.

  When the waiter had left, the Lieutenant said, “A very sound story. Unfortunately, not one word of it would stand up in court. So while I agree that one of your suspects probably had Miss DeNuncio—and probably Frank Santorini—killed, the only way we’re going to be able to prove which one is to catch Eddie Styles, or get a confession, which doesn’t strike me as very likely to happen.”

  He was right.

  “Or try to trick the guilty one into tipping his or her hand,” I said, as the waiter returned with the Lieutenant’s pie and more coffee all around.

  Marty shook his head. “I wouldn’t recommend that. Whoever it is has already tried to kill you once—you keep on poking a hornet’s nest with a stick, you’re bound to get stung. And you might not be as lucky next time.”

  Mark/Lieutenant Richman/the Lieutenant…choose one…was in the process of chewing a mouthful of his pie, but gestured with his fork until he’d finished. “He’s right. You’re asking for trouble if you don’t back off.”

  I shrugged. “Too late for that, I’m afraid. I already told Roy D’Angelo I was planning to go to the police with what I knew. And even if I were to send everyone a telegram saying, ‘You can relax now, I’m off the case,’ it probably wouldn’t do any good. They all know you’re after Eddie Styles, and that I know about their ties to him.”

  “Well,” Richman said, “even if the department stepped in right now, I really don’t know what we could do with no solid evidence. Plus the fact that we’d be trying to work in two jurisdictions, here and Louisville. At least with Styles the search is already nationwide. We’ll just have to step up our efforts to find him. In the meantime, I’d watch my back very carefully if I were you. Just be sure you keep us posted on everything you do, okay? We’ll do whatever we can from our end. But no heroics! In fact, I’d strongly suggest you keep Officer Gresham posted on anything and everything that happens.”

  I grinned. “I’m not big on heroics. And I appreciate you being there. But believe me, I’ll be careful; I’ve got more than just myself to worry about now.”

  I was pretty pleased that, since I’d worked so closely with the police on a number of cases, now they seemed willing to give me a lot of leeway. They could have officially taken over the case and ordered me to drop it—though Richman, at least, knew that wouldn’t work. But they could have made things pretty difficult for me. I realized that their leaving it in my hands was partly an indication of appreciation for my past help, and partly an awareness of saving considerable amounts of time and taxpayers’ dollars in not having the police do basically the same things I was doing for free.

  “I’ve got a feeling everything’s coming to a head pretty soon.”

  Lieutenant Richman placed his fork on his now-empty plate and moved it aside.

  “Just be careful. And remember, we’re here.”

  CHAPTER 16

  When I didn’t think about it, I was okay, but when I did, I had to work to keep it under control: the idea that somebody seriously might want me dead wasn’t a pleasant one. I’d already laid myself open to another try when I’d mentioned to Roy that I was going to the police. Looking back on it, I thought again what a dumb move that had been. All he’d had to do was make a phone call, and if Eddie Styles was still in town—which was probably unlikely—I might not have lived long enough to make it to the police at all. But the fact that that hadn’t happened—thank God!—didn’t necessarily let Roy off the hook. Chances were good that Eddie Styles wasn’t in town…which wasn’t to say he couldn’t be here in a matter of hours, no matter where he might be. And I hadn’t specified to Roy exactly when I might be going to the police.

  But regardless who was behind all this, I didn’t have much doubt that another attempt might well be made on my life. So I had a choice: I could sit by and wait to see if anything happened in the next day or so, which would indicate that Roy was indeed the one. Then, if nothing happened, I could try baiting Jan. Then Angelina. But that was rather like playing a very long and drawn-out game of Russian Roulette. I didn’t think I could take the waiting.

  Nah, my mind advised, just get it over with.

  My first call was to Mildred Collins, to get Angelina D’Angelo’s Louisville phone number. When I got her on the line, I asked her if she had any idea as to when Angelina might be coming back.

  “No idea at all,” she said. “Often I don’t know until I get a call from the airport telling me to come pick her up. And if for some reason I’m not home, she just catches a cab and comes over. She has her own key.”

  I somehow got the feeling it had not been given voluntarily.

  She gave me Angelina’s number, then said, “Are you close to finding what you are looking for, Mr. Hardesty?”

  “I think I am, yes,” I said.

  There was a slight pause, then, “So you do think Angelina or Roy might somehow be involved in all this?” she asked.

  “I’m still not positive,” I said, mostly lying, but I realized with frustration, with some truth.

  “Well, I’m sure you’re wrong,” she said, but with a rather notable lack of conviction.

  “I hope so,” I said, totally untruthfully this time. “But that’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  I thanked her for her time and we hung up.

  *

  I didn’t even replace the phone on the cradle before dialing the number she had just given me. I didn’t want to hesitate on the off chance that she would also immediately try to call Angelina to tell her of our conversation, and that I considered Angelina and/or Roy a suspect.

  The phone rang four times without an answering machine picking up, and I was just moving the phone away from my ear when I heard, “Hello?” I wondered for an instant if I had mistakenly called Mildred Collins back, then remembered the similarity of the sisters’ voices.

  “Yes, Mrs. D’Angelo…this is Dick Hardesty calling. Your sister, Mrs. Collins, gave me your number.”

  “Why would she (hech-hem) do that?”

  “Probably because I asked her,” I said, not being able to resist. “I’m sorry to bother you at home, but…”

  “Well, you are bothering me,” she interrupted. “I’m a busy woman, and I (hech-hem) don’t have the time to waste on a bunch of foolishness.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t think you would consider looking into someone’s death as foolishness.”

  Damn it, Hardesty I thought, don’t antagonize her! She’ll hang up on you,

  “(hech-hem) You know what I meant,” she said, just a shade less belligerently. “Just what is it you want?”

  “I’m concerned that Roy might somehow be involved in Carlene DeNuncio’s death,” I said.

  She snorted derisively. “That’s utter nonsense! He doesn’t have the (hech-hem) backbone to be a murderer.”

  “That may be true,” I said, “but I really would like to know more about his relationship with Carlene, and why Jan Houston hates him so.”

  I threw Jan’s name in there to see if I’d get any kind of response. There was none. Instead, “I’m coming back there tomorrow,” she announced. “If you (hech-hem) insist, I suppose I could find a few minutes to talk to you then.”

  “I’d very much appreciate that, Mrs. D’Angelo,” I said.

  We hung up and I paused to reflect on just why she might be coming back to town so soon, since she’d just returned to Louisville and her sister apparently had no idea when she’d be back. Based on the fact that from what Mildred Collins had said of her sister, this kind of behavior was apparently not all that unusual, I didn’t want to put too much emphasis on a possibly sinister link between my call and her return.
But I certainly couldn’t rule it out.

  *

  Since I was on a roll in setting myself up as a moving target, I was tempted to call Jan Houston at work, but managed to talk myself out of it. Calling her at home after dinner would be better, and I could force myself to wait.

  It was getting close to going-home time, and I had the urge to make a quick swing over to Cramer Motors to see what might be available when my insurance check came through, but then I thought that Jonathan would probably want to be along, so I shelved the idea, putting it on my mental calendar for Saturday.

  I was just getting ready to leave when Jonathan called, saying he could get a ride home from Kyle and save me the time of driving the extra distance to pick him up. I told him I’d pick up Joshua and meet him at home.

  I arrived at Happy Day about ten minutes early (surprise!), and was sitting in the car in front of the building when I saw Estelle Bronson step out onto the porch and motion for me to come in. A little surprised, I did.

  “It’s nice to see you, Dick,” she said, using my first name for what I think was the first time.

  “I just happened to be by the door when I saw you sitting there. The other parents will be here in a few minutes, but I wanted to see if you might have heard anything at all about Carlene’s death…even though I know you’re not working on the case any longer, and I’m truly sorry about that, but…”

  “It’s good to see you, too,” I said. “And I’m still working on the case…on my own,” I hastened to add.

  She seemed impressed. “Why, that’s very kind of you, but…I mean…can you afford to do that?”

  “Well, let’s just say it’s gotten personal,” I said. She looked puzzled but didn’t follow up on it.

  “So have you found out anything at all?” she asked.

  “Yes, I think I have, and I think I’m very close to knowing who was behind Carlene’s death, and why.”

  “That’s wonderful!” she said. “I…”

  At that moment a very nice-looking guy, who I recognized from an earlier visit as the father of Happy Day’s youngest charge, appeared at the door. Estelle let him in, then excused herself to go see about getting the children ready to go home.