by Dorien Grey
“Not at all,” I lied, wondering how he could be so sure, “but we can talk about that when I see you. Okay?”
“Okay,” he said and hung up.
There was no listing for Mike Sibalitch, but Gene Harriman, the second victim, was in the book. I dialed, let the phone ring four times, and was just about to hang up when I heard the phone being picked up on the other end. A few second’s pause was followed by a very sleepy-sounding:
“Yeah?”
“Mike Sibalitch?”
Another long pause, then an equally sleepy “Yeah.”
“I’m sorry if I woke you. My name is Dick Hardesty. I’m a private investigator, and I’d like to talk to you about Gene Harriman.”
“What about Gene?”
“To be honest with you, Mr. Sibalitch, I’m not quite sure. I’m working on a case, and I think Mr. Harriman might possibly be connected.”
From the pauses that loomed between my statements and his response, I got the feeling I was talking with someone on the other side of the moon, and that there was a built-in time delay.
Finally, there was a reply.
“Look, Mr. Hardesty, I work nights, and I’m in no condition to talk right now. I’d be very willing to talk to you about Gene but, frankly, right now I’m too zonked to even know my own name. Could you call back this afternoon about five? I should be pretty much together by then.”
“Sure,” I said. “Again I’m sorry to have disturbed your sleep. I’ll give you a call la—”
There was a click on the other end, then a dial tone. I took the hint and hung up.
None of the Bells listed in the book had the address Tim had given me for Arthur Granger, and there was no Martin Bell listed, either. But there was an “M. Bell,” and I decided to take a chance on it.
A woman’s voice answered.
“Bell residence.”
If a woman answers, hang up, I thought. But since I had her on the line…
“Good morning,” I said. “Is Martin Bell in?”
“No, sir, he’d be at work. I’m his housekeeper.”
Phew! Lucked out!
“Is there some way I might reach Mr. Bell at work?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Mr. Bell’ll be at the gallery.”
I waited for more information, and when it was not forthcoming, I felt it necessary to fill in the lull in the conversation.
“Which gallery is that, again?”
“Why, Bell, Book and Candle!” She sounded genuinely surprised that I had to be told—almost as though I’d asked her in which direction the sun rose.
I fumbled for the pencil and pad I try to keep by the phone but that I usually wander off with and couldn’t find them. I doubted I could forget anything as campily predictable as “Bell, Book & Candle.” I wouldn’t be particularly surprised to find out there was a Mr. Book and a Mr. Candle there, too. Maybe I was just getting jaded.
“Well, thank you very much,” I said in what I hoped was a pleasant-enough tone. It doesn’t pay to alienate housekeepers. “Have a good day.”
I hung up and took a big swig of coffee, which was by now not even lukewarm. I got up, dumped it into the sink, and poured another cup from the pot.
Neither Cletus Barker nor Bill Elers were listed in the directory. I’d have to find some other way of contacting Bill Elers. Arnold Klein was listed, but there was no answer.
Finding Bell, Book & Candle’s number was no problem, and the phone was answered on the first ring.
“Bell, Book and Candle.” The voice was smooth, professional, and controlled—definitely not the kind of voice one would associate with hysterics.
“May I speak to Martin Bell?”
“This is he. How may I serve you?”
“Mr. Bell, my name is Dick Hardesty, and I was hoping you might spare me a couple of minutes to talk about Arthur Granger.”
“Are you with the police, Mr. Hardesty?” The voice had just a trace less smoothness, but the control showed more.
“No, sir. I’m a private investigator, and Mr. Granger may have some connection to a case I’m working on.”
“Arthur? I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Hardesty, but I cannot imagine Arthur having anything to do with anything that might involve a private investigator.” Still more control, heavily laced with suspicion.
“It would really be easier to talk in person, Mr. Bell,” I said. “Would you have some time today to see me?”
There was a slight pause, then: “Yes, I suppose. Today should be a light day. You may come by any time.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I should be there within the hour.”
“Until then.” And he hung up.
An hour would give me just about enough time. I finished my coffee, rinsed out the cup, got dressed, and left.
*
The housekeeper had referred to it as a gallery, although it sounded more like a head shop for gay warlocks. I was therefore mildly surprised and impressed to find that Bell, Book, & Candle was a rather nice little art gallery just off the stretch of Brookhaven known as “Decorators’ Row.”
Bell, or whomever owned the place, had made maximum use of a minimum of space without giving the impression of clutter. Heavy on modern paintings, but with a good mixture of sketches, etchings, and small sculpture.
When I first walked in, noting the neatly lettered “To the Trade” sign on the door indicating the shop did not cater to the common masses but only to decorators, I thought the place was empty. But as I stepped over to admire a small ebony figurine that turned out to be a faun’s head, I heard a pleasant “May I help you?”
Standing no more than five feet from me—I had no idea where he’d come from—was a tall, slender man with once-red hair, and enormous jowls that gave him the look of a friendly beagle.
“Mr. Bell?” I asked, hoping my shock at having him suddenly appear from nowhere didn’t show. I extended my hand. “Dick Hardesty.”
We shook hands, and Bell gave a fleeting little smile, in which both ends of his mouth raised upward and disappeared into his jowls.
“Shall we go into my office?” he said, gesturing with a palm-up sweep of his hand to a small alcove neatly hidden from the rest of the gallery but with a view of the front door. So, that’s where he’d come from!
Sitting behind a small but obviously very expensive antique desk, he motioned me to one of three small chairs of the same wood as the desk. Leaning forward, his elbows on the edge of the desk, his hands folded as if in prayer, he stared at me for a full ten seconds before speaking.
“I’m really not sure why you’re here, Mr. Hardesty, or how I can help you—or even if I should be talking with you at all. As I mentioned to you on the phone, I have no idea how Arthur could have anything to do with whatever it is you are engaged in. Arthur’s private life is not a matter for public airing.”
“I know Mr. Granger was gay, if that’s what’s worrying you,” I said. “My client is gay, I’m gay—it’s all strictly a family affair. It’s just that I think there might have been some link between the case and Mr. Granger. What it is, I haven’t any idea; that’s what I’d like to find out. I’d very much appreciate any help you can give me. And I promise I’m not out to cause any trouble for you, for Mr. Granger, or for anyone else.”
Running the tip of his tongue quickly over the inner rim of his lower lip, Bell pushed away from the edge of his desk to settle back in his chair.
“What is it you’d like to know?”
I allowed myself to relax a little, too, being careful as I crossed my legs not to kick the desk in the process.
“I don’t know what your relationship was with Mr. Granger—” I began.
“Friends,” he interrupted, again giving me that fleeting smile. “Friends.”
“…or how close your friendship may have been. But would you know if Mr. Granger knew a man named Bobby McDermott?”
Bell pursed his lips and looked up at the ceiling for a moment.
“No,” he said finally, “I’m not aware tha
t Arthur knew anyone by that name. At least, I never met him or heard Arthur mention his name.”
“How about Clete Barker? Gene Harriman? Arnold Klein? Alan Rogers?”
Bell looked at me strangely.
“Why, that’s peculiar,” he said. “The police also asked me if Arthur knew an Alan Rogers or a Gene Harriman. I told them no. They didn’t mention the other two, though.”
That, I thought, wasn’t surprising—Granger was the third victim; Barker and Klein were still alive when the police talked to Bell. Apparently, they hadn’t thought it worth checking with him again.
“Do you know if Mr. Granger knew Clete Barker or Arnold Klein, then?”
Bell hadn’t taken his eyes off me.
“I don’t believe so. Perhaps you could tell me why you and the police are asking about the same people?”
A good question. I hoped I could come up with a good answer.
“It’s rather complicated,” I said, “and my client has asked me not to go into detail, but the police are apparently investigating a related case involving some of the same individuals.”
Bell stiffened.
“Are you implying that Arthur was involved in some sort of illegal activity?”
“Not at all,” I hastened to reassure him. “I have no indication whatever that Mr. Granger did anything illegal. I’m merely trying to establish any sort of link among the four men I’ve mentioned, and believe Mr. Granger might have been aware of what that link may be.”
Bell relaxed again, and I thought it best to change the subject.
“Do you happen to know the cause of Mr. Granger’s death?”
Bell’s eyes were still riveted to mine, and I could see water gathering in the folds of his lower lids. When he blinked, a tear began to move down one of the crevices in his face. He didn’t even appear to notice it at first.
“Arthur was only forty years old, but heart problems ran in his family,” he said. “His father died at thirty-eight, his grandfather at fifty.”
“And that’s what the police told you…a heart attack?”
“The police told me nothing,” he said with a sigh.
Taking a deep breath, Bell sat up straight and made an almost unconscious swiping gesture along his mouth line with one index finger, catching the tear just before it reached his chin.
“Did they mention the possibility of suicide?”
Bell stiffened as though I’d slapped him.
“They asked if he might have had a reason to take his own life, yes, but I told them that was ridiculous. Arthur was a devout Catholic; the very idea of suicide would be inconceivable to him.”
“I’m sorry if I upset you,” I said sincerely. “You didn’t see the death certificate, I assume?”
He struggled to maintain his composure.
“Are you telling me the police believe Arthur committed suicide? How could they—how dare they—assume such a thing? I told them about his heart condition.”
“If it is any consolation, I don’t believe Mr. Granger committed suicide.”
Bell leaned forward in his chair.
“Then what are you saying? Why are you asking about these other people? Why would the police ask me about them if they thought Arthur killed himself?”
I’d gotten myself on very shaky ground and was looking desperately for a way to avoid creating any more problems.
“Please don’t leap to any conclusions, Mr. Bell,” I said, hoping I sounded reassuring. “It’s just that we both know the police are sometimes less than thorough when it comes to investigating the deaths of gay men. I’m simply trying to determine if Mr. Granger had any association with the men I’ve mentioned to you. Resolving that issue may lead to more concrete facts.”
Bell did not look completely convinced.
“Perhaps you could tell me a little more about Mr. Granger,” I suggested, hoping to divert him from the path his questions were inevitably taking him.
It seemed to work. Bell took a few deep breaths and sat back in his chair.
“We were very good friends, Arthur and I,” he began. “We were…more than friends…once, for a short time very long ago, but we always remained close.”
He reached to open a small oriental box on one corner of his desk. He took out a thin brown cigarillo and offered me one with a nod and a raised eyebrow. I shook my head no, and he closed the box then reached into his pocket for a gold lighter. He took a long, slow drag, exhaling the smoke in a thin straight line. I had to force myself not to lean forward and inhale it.
“Arthur was, as far as most people were concerned, not particularly likable. He used crudity and crassness as a wall against the world. But for whatever reason, he was one of the highlights of my life,” he continued, one hand in his lap, the other holding the cigarillo an inch or so from his lips. “He was from Ohio—but I suppose you know that—and had a rotten childhood. As a result, he could never keep away from the truck-driver types.
“How we ever got together, I’ll never know. But we did. It was just that we were too different…or perhaps too much alike.” He smiled and reached into a desk drawer for an ashtray.
“If Arthur had one fault, it was his fascination with ultra-butch types without a brain in their heads. I tried to warn him, God knows. I’d beg him to stop going to those S-and-M places, but he’d just laugh. He said he felt safer there than he did walking down the street. It was all just a game, he’d say.”
He took another long drag on the cigarillo, then stubbed it out in the ashtray, half-smoked. He let the smoke from his last drag out slowly, so that it curled up from the entire width of his mouth, as though his tongue were on fire.
“Arthur was responsible for my getting this shop, actually,” he said, looking into the ashtray. “About six years ago, my parents died, and I went back to Missouri to clear up their affairs. My father had a small business there, and I remained in Missouri for nearly three years. Arthur and I kept in close contact, of course.
“Then, about three years ago, he went through some sort of trauma—he never would discuss it with me—and pleaded with me to come back here. Which I did. I sold my father’s business and bought this shop. I’m very glad I did, really.”
“You didn’t live together, though?”
“Only for the shortest of times, shortly after we first met, but our lifestyles were really just too different, and it never would have worked out. We got along much better by not living together.
“He carried my name in his wallet on one of those ‘In case of emergency, call…’ cards. I carried his. And one bright Tuesday morning, I got a call from the police with the request that I come to the morgue.”
Again, I could see his eyes water, and he turned his head away quickly to wipe at them with a thumb and index finger, as if trying to pinch them off at the source.
Finally, he took another deep breath and turned to me again, trying to smile and failing.
“I’d never seen a dead body before—my parents died in a plane crash at sea, and their bodies were never recovered—let alone been to a morgue. Dreadful, dreadful place. I certainly wouldn’t recommend it as a Sunday outing with the wife and kiddies.”
He gave me a quick, very weak smile.
“I pride myself on being a man of considerable composure, but I’m afraid I behaved rather badly. From the attitude of the police when they contacted me, I assumed the worst—that he’d been murdered by one of those cretins he was so pathetically attracted to, and I was angry with him for being so stupid. Silly, but I didn’t even consider it being his heart at first. I’m afraid I said some things I shouldn’t have.
“Then they showed me the body—his face, anyway—and there was not a mark on him. He was very pale, of course, and his lips were a very strange shade of blue. I suppose that’s how all corpses must look. I knew then it had been his heart, but unfortunately, things said cannot be unsaid.
“There was a very nice young man there who took me into his office after I’d made the identificati
on and gave me some coffee. He was very kind. Then some other men asked me some questions, then thanked me for coming down and told me I could go home. Which I did.”
“Do you remember exactly what they asked you?”
“Whether Arthur had been on drugs—I assured them he was not. Then they asked if he might have had any knowledge of poisons or any reason to take his own life, and I told them, as I told you, that was ridiculous.” He paused, momentarily pensive. “And then they asked about those other men. I had no idea why they would even mention them. It was a heart attack, after all.”
I was relieved to realize he so obviously wanted to believe his heart attack theory that the can of worms I’d nearly opened earlier had been set aside. I didn’t see any reason to contradict him.
“Did the police say who had found his body?”
Bell nodded. “The paperboy, apparently. He’d come to collect and found the front door open just a bit and had looked in and seen Arthur—”
“The front door was open?” I interrupted then cursed myself mentally for having done so. But having jumped in, I figured I might as well finish it. “Was that something he did very often—leave his door ajar?”
Bell looked both surprised and thoughtful.
“No. No, it isn’t. Not at all. I mentioned that fact, but the police didn’t seem to think it significant.”
Sirens were wailing somewhere in the back of my head, but they were too far away to guess what they were trying to tell me.
“Did you have a chance to go through his things?”
He nodded.
“Was anything at all missing?”
Bell shook his head.
“No. I took the responsibility of disposing of all his things after the funeral. The furniture and larger articles were sold at auction, the rest sent off to his family in Ohio. I knew everything Arthur had, and it was all there.” Suddenly, his brows came together, and his face took on a blank look. “Except…”
I’ve never taken pauses well.
“Except?” I prodded.
Bell was obviously concentrating, his eyes focused on a spot somewhere in space.
“Photos. There were some photos missing from his photo album. It was in the living room, which I thought a bit strange, and as I was packing it away, I couldn’t resist looking through it—for old times’ sake, as it were—and there were three or four photos missing.”
