The Angel Singers (29 page)

Ties with the mob? Where in hell do these things come from? Not every heavy gambler or bookie or loan shark has links to La Cosa Nostra!

He took a bite of his sandwich and without looking up said, “It doesn’t make Crandall less of a prick, though, for what he did to the chorus.”

“I’m happy that things are getting back to where they should be, for your sake and for Jonathan’s. I know how much you have invested in the chorus. Jonathan really admires you for it.”

He smiled. “Yeah, well, I’d trade with him in a second.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, immediately wishing I hadn’t, since my gut knew exactly what he meant.

“I’ve got the chorus. Jonathan’s got you.”

Oooooo-kay
, one of my mind-voices said.
What he means is that Jonathan has somebody in his life and he doesn’t.

It was drowned out by a chorus of other voices, led by my ego, saying,
Bullshit! He didn’t say “somebody,” he said “you”!

God, I really was uncomfortable with the idea that Eric was coming on to me. Monogamy wasn’t easy for me. If Jonathan wasn’t in my life I probably would have jumped at the chance to spend a little horizontal time with Eric, but Jonathan
was
in my life and Eric knew it, and part of me was mildly irritated at him for testing me like this.

I don’t remember much of what else we talked about as we finished lunch, but when Eric got up to leave, I stood up and reached for my wallet.

“What do I owe for lunch?” I asked, but he waved me down.

“I’ll take it out in trade,” he said with a grin.

In your dreams, kid
, I thought, but I managed to smile and say, “No, I’m serious. You got lunch the last time.”

“So, you can get it next time,” he said.

Next time. I heaved a mental sigh.

It looked for a moment as though he was going to walk around the desk and hug me but apparently thought better of it.

“You got a wastebasket?” he asked, indicating the now-empty Styrofoam boxes, napkins, empty soda can, and milk carton.

“I can get it, thanks,” I said, and he shrugged.

“Okay,” he said. “See you later, then.” At the door, he paused with his hand on the knob and turned his head back toward me. “Oh, and tell Jonathan I said ‘hi.’”

I recognize an afterthought when I hear one. I stood staring at the door as it closed behind him.

Chapter 14

Eric’s visit had put me in a bad mood. My partner’s friend was hitting on me, and if that fact ever got through to Jonathan, it might well jeopardize their friendship. I was firmly stuck between a rock and a hard place. I was the only one who knew what was going on—well, other than Eric. I simply had not wanted to believe he would knowingly risk hurting Jonathan, and I’d given him the benefit of the doubt ever since I first suspected a come-on.

But the doubt had been all but exhausted. True, he had never made an overt physical pass, or come right out and asked me to go to bed with him, but I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck.

I couldn’t bring myself to talk seriously to Jonathan about it—bless his trusting heart, he simply didn’t pick up on it. Well, the next time Eric showed up unannounced, I’d tell him I was on my way out the door. I liked him and didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but there comes a point…

I forced myself to get back to putting the finishing touches on my report to the chorus board, and reading it over only deepened my sense of frustration. I’d spent a hell of a lot of time and effort—and the board’s money—based on the assumption that Grant Jefferson had been murdered by someone from the chorus. Then Crandall Booth’s murder, followed by the revelation of his gambling debts and financial crises, and the logical probability that Grant’s murder had been a warning to Booth, ruled out any chorus connection and left me in mid-air. I couldn’t help but feel that everything I’d done from the moment I took the case had been one gigantic wild goose chase. I hate wild goose chases. I hate being hired to solve a case and not being able to solve it.

So, that was it. I was done. Turn in my report, get my check—not without more than a little sense of guilt—and go home. It reminded me for the several-hundredth time that being a private investigator isn’t as glamorous as it’s cracked up to be. We all like to take pride in our work and to end each day with the knowledge that we’ve accomplished something. Usually I can do that. Not this time.

Grant and Booth’s murderer—and I really had little doubt they were the same person—would, with luck, still be caught eventually. Just not by me.

I was typing the final draft of my report when the phone rang.

“Dick, Marty. We finally may have a lead on the Jefferson bomb. Not sure what good it will do us, but our labs found that three of the components were sufficiently different from the generic that we were able to trace them to one manufacturer who, we learned, makes them specifically for Home ‘n’ Yard stores. That narrows it down from over a hundred hardware stores in the area to the seven Home ‘n’ Yards. Still a real outside chance, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Well, I wish you luck,” I said. I didn’t mention that I was closing up shop on my end of the case.

We talked for a few more minutes then hung up.

I wondered why Home ‘n’ Yard rung a bell until I remembered that was where Eric worked. Small world.

Do you suppose…?
a mind-voice asked.

No, I do not
, I mentally replied.
I’m not about to pin a murder rap on someone just because he’s hitting on me.

*

I was on my way home, thinking about nothing in particular. I was stopped at a red light when a mind-voice repeated a question that kept coming up, unbidden.
Come on, admit it, Eric could have done it.

Eric again! What in the hell was wrong with me? Enough about Eric! Drop it!

He could have done it
, the voice persisted.

A horn blast from the car behind me alerted me that the light was green, and I drove on.

Could
Eric have done it—killed both Grant and Booth? Of course he could! So could just about everybody else I’d even remotely considered and anybody who shopped at Home ‘n’ Yard. I’m supposed to be a detective, fer chrissakes! But I simply couldn’t see him as a killer. It was almost like considering
Jonathan
as a suspect. Eric was Jonathan’s friend. Ergo…

Great logic, Sherlock!

I was more than a little irritated with myself over this whole Eric thing. Was this considering him as a suspect merely a way to divert myself from the possibility that I might be interested in him sexually? I’d already admitted I could have been under different circumstances or in a different, no-Jonathan time. But now? It was totally out of the question. And even if I might be attracted to Eric, in some remote corner of my mind, I sure as hell wasn’t about to do anything about it. No, I was just having a typical case of “what if?” fantasy.

*

Since typically the early part of every evening revolved around Joshua, Jonathan and I seldom talked about our day until after he was safely tucked away for the night.

“Eric stopped by for lunch today,” I said during a commercial break on one of our favorite shows.

Jonathan gave me a rather strange look. “Really? You seem to be seeing him more often than I do. I hope he didn’t interrupt anything.”

“I was doing a report for Glen and the chorus board. I wasn’t expecting him, but when he came in with lunch he’d picked up at the diner downstairs, I could hardly say no.”

Jonathan pursed his lips but said nothing. The program resumed, and it wasn’t until the next commercial break that he said, “Do you still want me to talk to Eric?”

“About what? Stopping by, you mean? Apparently, he makes a lot of trips to the Home ‘n’ Yard down the street for his work. It would be nice if he could let me know he’s coming, though.” I caught the look on his face. “What? You look pensive.”

He sighed. “I don’t know, it’s just that…” There was a long pause.

“What?” I encouraged.

He gave a small sigh. “Just that he’s always mentioning you and asking me stuff about you. I’m sure he’s only teasing, but…”

“Stuff like what?” The program had resumed, but I didn’t want to wait until the next commercial.

“I don’t know. A lot of sex stuff. You know.”

I didn’t know, but I could guess. “And you tell him?” I asked.

He blushed. “Some of it,” he said. “Not all.” Another pause before, “It’s kind of embarrassing. Maybe I should talk to him. I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but now that I think it over, I do think maybe he’s pushing it a little. I’m sure he doesn’t mean anything by it, but…”

Ah, dear Jonathan!

I let it drop, and we went back to our program,

*

My Tuesday morning crossword puzzle would have to include a six-letter word for “unlawful killing” and my mind immediately came up with two words:
murder
and
Eric
.

Damn it!

I realized that, somewhere deep in the corners of my mind, I’d been niggling with the possibility of Eric’s being a suspect long before my drive home the night before. I owed it to myself to at least consider it openly.

Why had I refused to seriously consider him until now? Lord knows he had as much or more motive than anyone else in the chorus. He blamed both Grant and Booth for trying to destroy something that was a very big part of his life. Why hadn’t I followed up on that? A private investigator can’t pick and choose who he wants to consider a suspect. All true. But Eric? Murder? I couldn’t buy it.

Then, before I could start down the path leading to Eric’s being the killer, I remembered that he had a perfect alibi for the time of Grant’s death—Jonathan. Eric’s car had broken down, and Jonathan had picked him up to take him to chorus practice. And if he couldn’t have killed Grant, chances were infinitesimal that he’d killed Booth.

I heaved a mental sigh of relief and got back to my crossword.

*

Having finished my report, I made a copy for each board member, attached my bill to the original and put everything in a large mailing envelope addressed generically to the Board of Directors, Gay Men’s Chorus. I then called Evergreen to see if Jonathan might be free for lunch—he was—and left the office.

That free-fall period between the end of one case and the start of the next is always strange. On the one hand, there’s the feeling of liberation, and on the other there’s the mild panic of wondering how long it will be before the next case comes along.

It was Bob Allen who had suggested I become a private investigator, and at one of our recent get-togethers at his and Mario’s place he had suggested that when I got tired of being a P.I., I should consider becoming a mystery writer, using some of my cases as the foundation. I’d never thought of it, but I was pretty sure it was a lot easier to say, “Hey, I think I’ll write a book,” than to actually sit down and write one.

Still, it was a thought, and one that briefly flashed through my mind as I faced the uncertainty of unemployment once again.

I picked Jonathan up at noon, intending to drop my report off at Glen’s office on the way back to my own. We went to a little place not far from Evergreen that served a great olive burger. They layered a hamburger patty with a mound of chopped green olives, then put a large slice of cheese over the olives and popped it under the broiler to melt enough to keep the olives from falling off. Downright brilliant, I thought.

“I think maybe I’ll have a talk with Eric tonight,” Jonathan said, sipping his chocolate malt.

I was a little surprised to think he was still thinking about our conversation of the night before.

“And what are you going to tell him?”

“I don’t know—that I know he likes to tease you, but that you might think he’s serious and try to put the make on him.”

I stared at him. “Oh, now there’s a plan!”

He grinned. “I thought so,” he said. “But seriously, I’ll just tell him that you take things too literally sometimes, and that you might get worried for no reason and might think you’re causing a problem with our friendship—mine and Eric’s, not yours and mine.”

“Well…”

“So, I’ll ask him out for coffee after the rehearsal and get it out of the way. I’m sure it never occurred to him that you might take him seriously.”

“You really don’t have to do all this,” I said. “It’s not that big a deal. I can handle it.”

“I know, but you’re busy and can’t have people dropping in without calling first. I know I’d appreciate someone telling me if I was getting a little out of line on something. So, I might be a little late getting home.”

I nodded, and we finished our lunch.

After taking him back to work, I delivered my report to Glen’s office and left it with the receptionist, then puttered around a bit before going back to the office, trying to put off the inevitable realization that I was without a case to work on. Not a good feeling.

Luckily, there was a call waiting from a prospective client who identified himself only as Mel, which I answered immediately. If I’d hoped for something exciting, this definitely wasn’t it. The guy wanted me to find out if his lover was cheating on him. I normally considered taking cheating-lovers cases pretty close to the bottom of the barrel, but they normally could be resolved relatively quickly, so I agreed to meet with the guy to discuss it, setting up an appointment for the next day.