The Dirt Peddler (28 page)

Reverend Jeffrey Dinsmore will be honored by the Christian Men's Leadership Association on the 27th of this month at a ceremony following the annual week-long C.M.L.A. retreat in Holy Hill, Arkansas. Reverend Dinsmore, a leader of the Eternal Light Foundation and the founder of New Eden Farms, will receive the Good Works for Glory Humanitarian Award for his tireless devotion to…

Interesting. That meant that Jeffrey would probably be out of town the next week, and since it was a Christian Men's retreat, it was unlikely that the Reverend Mrs. Dinsmore would be going with him. All I had to do now was figure out a way to get to see her in person. And after that, maybe her brother? Though definitely not at the same time. It was unlikely that either of them would know any more than Jeffrey knew, but it would help verify that his protestations of knowing nothing about the book were legitimate. And if they were…well, I'd think about that when the time came.

But,
my mind said, ignoring my decision to let it rest,
if Dinsmore
didn't
know or suspect that he and New Eden were the subject of Tunderew's new book, he wouldn't have had any reason to kill him.
In that case, I'd not only be back to square one, but facing two totally separate cases: the New Eden murders, and Tunderew's—and again by extension, Randy's—murder. Also in that case, the New Eden murders were totally and completely none of my business. That's what the police are for. I sure as hell can't afford—literally—to get involved in every murder, suspicious death, and disappearance in the world. I'm good, but I'm not
that
good! If Dinsmore wasn't involved in Tunderew's murder, I'd just have to let the whole New Eden thing drop and get on with my life.

Uh huh.

*

Our first delivery on Friday morning was a dining room set that King Arthur might have fancied—a huge solid oak table with four leaves and eight gigantic chairs, an eight-foot-high hutch and a nine-foot-long credenza. The house was in the Briarwood area, not far from the Birchwood Country Club. Fred asked the boss to give us another helper, but was told no one else was available and we'd have to manage ourselves.

The house was brand new, one of four side-by-side mansions in various stages of construction. Each one of them would have been beautiful if set in the middle of two or three acres of lawn, but all four of them were crammed nearly cheek-to-jowl on what appeared to be the equivalent of two city lots. Landscapers were busily working on the minuscule front lawn and, huge as the houses were, there couldn't have been more than eight feet between them.

The customer turned out to be one of those piss-elegant snobs I always want to punch out just on general principles. Tall, thin, with a habit of sucking in his cheeks and pursing his lips when anything displeased him—which apparently nearly everything did. He did deign to open both the double entrance doors, and watched us like hawks, advising us pointedly to wipe our feet carefully before entering.

He also, I noticed, took a particular interest in Fred, who was wearing a form-fitting tee shirt.

The dining room was larger than most people's living rooms, but by the time we'd brought all the pieces of the dining room set in, the challenge of where to put everything was obvious. We had set everything in its logical place as we brought it in, but of course that did not suit the customer. He began to direct us to move this piece here, to turn the table crossways, to try the hutch over there. Fred pointed out to the customer that the delivery of the furniture was free, but that we were on a very tight schedule and didn't really have the time to…

“Well, I'll
pay
you, of course,” the customer huffed. He exchanged a long look with Fred and then actually smiled, his eyes moving slowly and deliberately over Fred's impressive torso.

“Cash,” he added.

We spent the next forty-five minutes courting a hernia moving things here, then there, then over there, then…

When we were finally through, the customer handed each of us a $50 bill, being sure he pressed Fred's slowly into his hand. As we left and were headed down the walk, the customer called Fred over for a few words I could not overhear. But I didn't think I really had to.

Back in the truck, I handed Fred my $50 and said, “Here, you can give this to the boss.”

He looked at me and laughed.

“Are you nuts? We worked our butts off for that money. It's ours.”

“But we're forty-five minutes behind schedule,” I said. “The boss…”

“We had a flat tire,” Fred said.

Good-bye, Fred.

*

Though I ached in muscles I didn't know I had, and there was again no time when I got home to call on Lance's expert services, we managed to make it to Napoleon by seven forty. Surprisingly, Jared was already there, sitting at the small bar in what had been the living room of a private home before it converted to a restaurant. We exchanged greetings and hugs, then ordered our drinks and moved over to a small circle of chairs in front of the fireplace.

“I thought you and Jake would be coming in together,” I said when we sat down.

Jared took a sip from his drink and shook his head. “He called just before I left Carrington to say he'd be running late. I told him I'd just meet him here.”

“So, uh, how's it going with you two?” I asked, once again striding boldly into It's-None-of-Your-Damned-Business-Hardesty territory.

“Really great. I've never had a…‘steady?'…before. I don't usually see a guy more than a couple of times.” He suddenly glanced up at me. “I mean…” his eyes went to Jonathan, who just gave him a knowing smile “…well, you know.”

While we'd never directly talked about it, I knew that Jonathan was well aware that Jared and I had been…uh, sexually active…for quite a while before I met Jonathan, so we all knew what he meant. Jared and I were always friends first and sex partners on the side. No emotional involvement beyond that. That's why I was curious about his relationship with Jake, which seemed to go quite a way beyond where I'd ever known him to go.

“I'm glad you're with Jake,” Jonathan volunteered. “Everybody should have a lover.”

Jared smiled at him.

“Well, I'm not sure about the ‘lover' part. Neither Jake nor I is exactly what you'd call the monogamous type. Besides, he's got his business down here, and I'm up in Carrington, and, well, like I say, we both like playing the field a little too much. When we're together, we're together. And we make a great team when it comes to picking up three- and four-ways.”

He noticed Jonathan's look of incomprehension and reached out and put one large hand on Jonathan's shoulder. “But who knows? Maybe some day,” he said, grinning.

“But you do really like him, right?” Jonathan asked.

Jared looked at Jonathan and smiled again. “Yeah, I really like him.”

Apparently satisfied, Jonathan looked at me, then sat back in his chair.

“Good.”

*

Jake didn't arrive until about ten after eight.

“Sorry, guys,” he said as we exchanged greetings. I noticed that as usual, while we all stood up and Jonathan and I exchanged hugs with Jake, Jared and he went into some sort of clinch that looked a little more like a strangle hold than a hug. The hug was there in the eyes, though.

“Do you want to order a drink first?” Jared suggested.

“Is our table ready?” Jake asked.

“Yeah, but we can wait a bit.”

Jake shook his head. “Nah, I'll order at the table.”

We moved into the dining room, Jake and Jared leading the way, and I noticed again what a great pair they made, physically. Same Tom of Finland build, same height; Jared as dark as Jake was light. I felt Jonathan's elbow poke me in the ribs. Startled, I glanced at him to see him grinning at me.

“Don't drool,” he said.

Dinner was, as always, great. Napoleon's was definitely at the top of our favorite restaurants.

And, of course, me being me, I had to try to pump Jake (
Oh, now there's a thought,
my crotch said eagerly) for more information on New Eden, especially after he mentioned the reason he was late was because of a project his construction company was doing for them.

“Still not much direct contact with the Dinsmores?” I asked as the waiter came to take away our salad plates. (Hey, I held out that long!)

Jake wiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin and put it back in his lap before shaking his head.

“Not much. I see them from time to time, of course, but I still deal mainly with Mel Hooper. He pretty much runs the place on a day-to-day basis. I hear they're considering starting another New Eden in the San Francisco Bay Area. That'll mean Mel will be going out there to manage it. But they haven't started to train a replacement for him, yet, so I guess it's still a way off.”

“He a nice guy?” I asked.

Jake nodded and took a sip of his water. “Nice enough, I guess. Not exactly overly friendly. Pretty businesslike, no-nonsense kind of guy. Not much joking around. All the residents really respect him, as they'd damned well better.”

“You said he's pretty protective of his sister,” I said.

Jake raised his eyebrows and gave one very emphatic nod of his head.

“
Oh
yeah! Of course he keeps a close eye on all the residents. There are more guys there than women, but he doesn't allow anybody to get out of hand. No intramural screwing around on
his
watch. Separate dorms and
no
unauthorized intermingling.”

“How do you think Mel would react if he found out Jeffrey was screwing around on his sister.”

He nodded at the waiter, who just put his steak in front of him, then looked at me, surprised.

“Is he? You mean you think the rumors aren't just rumors? Interesting.”

“Randy was having sex with him,” Jonathan volunteered, then looked at me quickly as if he'd said something he shouldn't.

“And I'm pretty sure Randy wasn't the only one,” I said by way of reassuring Jonathan he hadn't been out of line.

“Well, well, well,” Jake said. “As I think I said last time we talked about this, I think old Jeffy boy had better make damned sure Mel doesn't find out.”

“Would you by any chance know if the Dinsmores are going to be around next week? I really need to talk to Mrs. Dinsmore without Jeffrey being around, and I'd like to meet Mel Hooper as well.”

The waiter had put the last of the entrées on the table by this time, and Jake was picking up his steak knife as he said, “Jeff's going to some retreat all next week, I understand. Leaving tomorrow night, as I recall. As far as I know, Mrs. Dinsmore won't be going anywhere. And Mel never leaves the place.”

I decided I'd better drop the whole New Eden subject before they all decided I should get a real life.

*

After dinner Jonathan suggested that we stop by either Glitter or Steamroller Junction. I knew he wanted to go dancing and I, again, felt really guilty for being such a total klutz about refusing to get out there and at least
try
to dance. But after having seen Jonathan dance—my gut ached just watching him, he was so good—I could never bring myself to do it. I'd mentioned it to Jared one night on the phone while Jonathan was in class, and he said he understood, though I'd seen him out there on the floor a couple of times and he definitely did all right for himself.

Jared diplomatically came to my rescue by suggesting that since both Glitter and Steamroller Junction tended to be jammed and, with the wrong DJ, induced bleeding from the ear drums, we might compromise and go to Venture, which had just expanded into the building next door and put in a dance floor.

“Hey,” he said, putting one large hand on Jonathan's shoulder while lowering his voice about half an octave and flexing his considerable arsenal of muscles, “if your old man won't do right by you, I will.”

“And when Jared gets tired out, I can take over,” Jake said.

Sexual fantasies, anyone?

*

It was a great night, and I managed to pretty much overlook my aching muscles. And when we got home, Lance put in an appearance and relieved a number of aches.

Sunday we met Jared, Jake, Phil, and Tim for brunch and before I knew it, it was Monday morning. I hate it when it does that.

After my coffee/paper/crossword puzzle ritual, I made out a formal report for the furniture store owner and enclosed my bill. I normally would have waited on sending the bill until the first of the month, but my bank account was beginning to look a little more anemic than usual, and even a small infusion of cash would be welcome.

I realized—after I'd emptied the waste paper basket, dumped the contents of my top desk drawer onto the top of the desk to rummage through it, tested the thirty-two pens I'd found there and pitched the twenty-eight that refused to write after even the most furious scribbling, and was in the process of sharpening the two-inch stub of a pencil—that I just might be procrastinating on calling New Eden and trying to arrange an appointment with Barbara Dinsmore. She'd seen me with Randy the day we went to pick up his sneakers; she might well assume that I knew about her husband's little dalliances with the male office help and wanted to exploit it. Well, I did want to know more about how she was dealing with that fact, of course, but again I was juggling two completely separate issues. The New Eden murders were one thing, Tunderew's murder…well, maybe they weren't quite that separate, but I was mainly concerned at the moment with how much the Reverend Mrs. Dinsmore might know about
No Door to Heaven
and its subject matter.

Only one way to find out. I opened the now empty top drawer of my desk and scooped everything back into it, then slid it closed and reached for the phone.

“New Eden,” the female voice answered. Whether it was the same female voice as the last time I'd called I couldn't remember.