The Angel Singers (32 page)

*

To my considerable dismay, I found my thoughts continually returning to Eric. They’d come, I’d push them aside, and they’d immediately pop back up. Why did Eric’s having seen Porter Meade
before
the death of his family bother me so? I gradually realized it was the implication he’d had serious emotional problems before his parents and brother died. From what Roger Rothenberger had said of Eric’s dysfunctional family life, I could certainly understand why his folks might have sent him for help, though they didn’t seem like the kind of people who would have done so without strong reason.

And why did I have the urge to call Porter Meade? He wouldn’t tell me a thing, and what possible business of mine was it, anyway? Eric had mental problems. Who didn’t?

Niggle, niggle, niggle! I hate niggles!

*

I called Porter Meade. Well, I put in a call to the Porter Meade Clinic, left my name and number, and said I’d appreciate it if Doctor Meade could call me. And no, there was nothing anyone else could do for me, and no, this was not a personal call, and no, I preferred to explain the reason for my call directly to Doctor Meade, thank you.

I honestly didn’t really expect him to return my call; he was undoubtedly a very busy man, but I had to try.

To my surprise, the phone rang less than fifteen minutes later.

“Hardesty Investigations,” I said with as much enthusiasm as if I hadn’t said it 14,000 times before.

“This is Porter Meade returning your call,” the very professional but familiar voice said. “We met at the Glicks’ not too long ago.”

“I’m flattered that you remember,” I said, “and I appreciate your calling.”

“So, what can I do for you, Dick?”

“I’m working on a case…” So, I lied. I wasn’t working on anything since I’d turned in my bill to the chorus’s board. “…involving one of your former patients, Eric Speers. This goes back quite a few years.”

There was a slight pause, then, “Well, I’m sure you realize, Dick, that I cannot discuss any patient, past or present, with you.”

“I understand,” I said, though I would have vastly preferred he had said,
Sure, Dick, what would you like to know?
“But Eric told me he had seen you, though he didn’t mention if it was as an outpatient or whether he spent time in the clinic.”

“I wish I could help you, but I’m afraid I can’t give you that information.”

“It was worth a try,” I said, then added, “You did know his family was killed in an explosion shortly after he saw you?” He’d be pretty isolated if he didn’t.

There was a very long pause into which I read several chapters.

“Yes, I was aware of that. Truly tragic. Unfortunately, I never saw him after the…accident. I would have liked to volunteer my services, but I’m sure you understand…”

The…accident? Talk about a significant pause!

“I do,” I said. “As I said, I was sure you wouldn’t be able to provide any information, but I had to try. I very much appreciate your talking with me.”

“My pleasure,” he said. “Perhaps we may meet at the Glicks’ again sometime.”

“I’d like that,” I said. “And please give my regards to Hunter.”

“I will,” he replied, “and you to Jonathan. He’s a charming young man.”

“Thank you.”

We exchanged good-byes and hung up.

I didn’t like where my mind was taking me. Although I’d already gone over all the circumstantial evidence that might have made Eric a suspect I still couldn’t accept it, and it was negated by his having an alibi for the time of Grant’s death. And if he hadn’t killed Grant he couldn’t have killed Booth.

*

As Jonathan was ready to head off for one of his last evening classes before he got his degree, he said, “I was wondering if we could have Eric over for dinner this weekend.”

“Sure,” I said. “Any special reason?”

“Do we need one?”

He had a point.

“Uh, no.”

“Why don’t you call and ask him while I’m at class?” he said. “I don’t want him to think he’s only my friend.”

Ah, Jonathan!
I thought, but said nothing.

After Joshua and I had done the dishes, and while he was occupied with one of his projects, I, a bit reluctantly, called Eric to invite him over for dinner Sunday night. I chose Sunday because Monday was a workday for all of us and, thus, the visit would probably wrap up fairly early. While I hate to admit it, I can be devious when the situation requires.

He readily accepted and said he’d be here at six thirty. I fervently hoped, as I hung up, that he had not read anything into my being the one extending the invitation.

*

A long, slow rest of the week. No word from Marty, and I didn’t feel justified in bothering him. When and if he had anything to tell me, I knew he would.

As for work, there was none, so I spent Thursday and Friday afternoon making the rounds of the bars—something I’d really not done since I met Jonathan. It wasn’t to cruise but to touch base with the bar owners, from whom I still got case leads and referrals. I could have done it by phone, but figured the personal touch was important.

I hit five bars Thursday and six Friday, having a drink—mostly tonic with lime—in each one and making sure to tip the bartender well, along with giving them my business card. Luck was with me, and most of the owners were in, so I considered it a pretty productive venture.

I was sharply reminded as I walked into some of my old stomping grounds of how I’d changed from those trick-happy days, and realized that, while I looked back on them with a bit of nostalgia, I would never go back to them. It’s always something of a shock to realize the person you are is not the same person you were.

Saturday was a cookie-cutter day with all the usual cookie-cutter chores. Since Jonathan needed gas, we took his car. One of our stops was at a stationery and art supply house to get some things for Joshua: tracing paper, more crayons—he went through crayons so fast I suspected sometimes he must be eating them—and a large pad of drawing paper. While there, I also got a ream of paper for my copier, which I kept separate lest Joshua consider it his. When we got in the car, I stuck it under the passenger’s seat and promptly forgot it.

*

We’d decided on doing a pot roast for Sunday, since it could be easily made in the crock pot we always intended to use far more frequently than we actually did. Sunday morning, a tide-me-over breakfast finished—we planned to go to brunch later—and crock pot turned on, Jonathan and Joshua left for church and I washed the dishes, then settled in to read the paper until they returned.

Eric arrived promptly at six thirty with a six-pack of imported beer for me and him and a bottle of sparkling apple cider for Jonathan.

“And you, too, Joshua,” he added, “since you’re getting to be such a big boy!”

Joshua’s usual antipathy melted with the acknowledgment of his almost-grown-up status, and any qualms I might have had also vanished.

Eric was in top form, laughing and joking. He and Jonathan talked about the upcoming concert, and Eric told him how glad he was that Rothenberger had given him the solo.

“You’ll be fantastic!” he told Jonathan, who was obviously delighted by his friend’s praise.

“Did you drive over or take the bus?” I asked, figuring that if he’d taken the bus we could give him a ride home later.

“I drove,” he said.

“Ah, the car’s working okay now?”

“Yep. It’s getting up there, but it’s running fine for the moment. I’ve been saving up for a new one, but I plan to keep this one until it gives up the ghost altogether.”

I started to ask him why he had ever gotten such a big car in the first place, then thought that he might have inherited it after his family died and was glad I didn’t ask.

Dinner went very well, with a lot of laughing. Jonathan was even more animated than usual, and I was truly happy he had found a real friend in Eric. I felt guilty for ever having even considered Eric might be a suspect in two murders.

At about eight forty-five, as I was getting ready to take Joshua into the bathroom to get him ready for bed, Eric said he had better be getting home.

“I don’t like to be out too late on Sunday—Monday is always a bear if I don’t get ready for it with as much sleep as I can get.”

He gave each of us a hug as we walked with him to the door.

“See ya,” he said with a big smile and left.

We got Joshua safely bedded for the evening and returned to the living room to watch a little TV before going to bed ourselves.

“That was really nice,” Jonathan said. “I was worried that Eric might be unhappy because Mr. Rothenberger gave me the solo, but I’m so glad he wasn’t.”

I put my arm around his shoulder. “You worry too much.”

After the ten o’clock news, we turned off the TV to get ready for bed.

“I’ll get the lights,” I said.

When I got to the one nearest the window, I glanced down into the street and saw a white 1968 Dodge driving past the building.

Well, Eric isn’t the only one in town with a white ’68 Dodge, I thought.

I’d taken three steps toward the bedroom when the hair on my neck and arms rose.

Or maybe he is!

My body walked into the bedroom and got undressed while my mind was shooting off fireworks in all directions.

“You okay?” Jonathan asked as I climbed into bed.

“Sure,” I said, and quickly turned off the light.

He moved over to me as usual, putting his head on my shoulder and draping an arm across my chest. I turned my head to kiss him on the forehead.

And suddenly, from amidst all the fireworks, a question emerged. From where I don’t know, but it was a good one.

“Babe,” I said. “Remember the night Grant was killed and you went over to give Eric a ride to rehearsal?”

“Yeah?”

I could feel his eyes on me. I didn’t look at him.

“You picked him up at his house, right?”

“No, I picked him up near the garage where he’d taken his car.”

“Did you see his car?”

“Yeah. It was parked right in front of the garage, but the garage was closed. He said he was going to take it in the next morning.”

“Do you remember where that was?”

“Some place on Coolege—Coolege and Adams. Why?”

Grant’s car blew up in the fifteen—I was sure it was fifteen—hundred block of East Monroe. Adams parallels East Monroe two blocks north. Coolege is sixteen hundred north and crosses both East Monroe and Adams, which means Coolege was the next cross-street from the explosion. So, Jonathan picked Eric up within five blocks of where Grant died!
Jeezus!

The fireworks in my mind had faded, and in their place was a growing block of ice.

“Did you give Eric a ride home after practice?” I asked.

“No. I offered to, but he said he didn’t want to keep me from getting home and that he could catch a bus. You didn’t answer me, what’s this all about?”

“Nothing, babe. Nothing. Let’s go to sleep.”

Neither of us said anything more, and a few minutes later I could tell from his breathing he was asleep. Normally, listening to the rhythm of his breathing helps me get to sleep, too. Not this time.

God, how can I be so dense? How could I possibly not have figured this out before?
I tried to relax and let my mind go where it wanted. And, like a bloodhound following a trail, it did.

There was a Home ‘n’ Yard not far from Central Imports; Eric could easily have rigged most of the bomb during the day. Why he hadn’t completed it I had no idea. So, he had followed Grant from work. He couldn’t risk finishing up the bomb in the supermarket parking lot, but when Grant came out with his trick, Eric knew he’d have a shot while they were busy.

So, he followed them to the trick’s house. He waited until they’d gone inside then finished the hookup. He had no way of knowing how long it would be before Grant came out, but Eric probably assumed he intended to make it to chorus practice, which meant the time frame for which he might need an alibi was tight.

Being with someone else at the time of a crime is the best possible alibi and probably why he opted for the car-trouble scenario. He must have known about that particular garage, which probably had hours posted, so he knew it would be closed. He likely called Jonathan to come get him before he drove there to allow himself sufficient time.

So, his alibi was pretty solid. He gambled there would be too many potential suspects for anyone to concentrate too heavily on him, or look too closely into the time frame. He was with Jonathan. Period.

I don’t know how closely the police had looked into his alibi, but obviously, he’d gotten away with it.

Why had I been so stubborn on insisting that if he hadn’t killed Grant then he hadn’t killed Booth? I suppose I thought I was protecting Jonathan by not calling attention to Eric even when it might have been warranted. I hadn’t urged Marty to look more closely into the details of Eric’s past or his working at Home ‘n’ Yard, where he had access to everything he needed for the bomb. With so many possible suspects to look into, the police’s concentration was diluted. I knew they hadn’t given up, and that they might well get around to looking more closely at Eric, but I owed it to Marty to tell him everything I knew and suspected.