The Dirt Peddler (25 page)

“Of course. I understand your son is out of the office. I do have a couple other minor questions for him, since he dealt more directly with Mr. Tunderew than you did. Will he be back later today?”

“I'll transfer you back to the receptionist. She can help you on that.”

“Thank you again for your help,” I said and heard a click on the other end of the line. A moment later the receptionist came on the line.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, I was wondering if Peter Bernadine would be in later today, and if so, if I could talk with him for a few minutes.”

A brief pause and the sound of pages turning. “He has a three o'clock appointment today in his office, so he should be back shortly. Would you like him to call you?”

“If he would.”

I toyed with the idea of suggesting I just drop by the office, but didn't want to run all the way over there and then find him not available. If he didn't return my call today, I could always use an office drop-in as Plan B for tomorrow.

I gave her my number and hung up.

*

I'd been sitting at my desk doodling: names with arrows pointing at other names and lots of question marks and exclamation points and underlines and squiggles, and all, in the end, totally pointless and totally confusing. I did notice, though, that the case was definitely going off in two directions. There was way too much stuff relating to New Eden and the Dinsmores that didn't have anything at all to do with Randy's death. Unless the Dinsmores were responsible for Tunderew's accident, which would tie it all back together. Sort of.

Damn!

Luckily, the phone rang before my frustration level could mount much higher.

One ring. Two rings. “Hardesty Investigations.”

“Peter Bernadine here.” His voice was all business.

“Mr. Bernadine. Thanks for returning my call. I had a few more questions I wonder if you could answer for me.”

“Such as?”

“I was curious about the reasons for your taking out an insurance policy on Mr. Tunderew. I understand it is not unheard of, but I'd assume the premiums would be rather steep, and at a time when Bernadine Press was pressed for cash…”

“Strictly to protect our interests. I had very sound reasons for doing so, and I'm afraid they are not for public disclosure.”

I took a wild stab. “Might one of them have had anything to do with Mr. Tunderew's drug usage?” That one got him, I could tell. There was a long pause followed by an almost-equally-long sigh. “That was one of the considerations, yes.”

I tried another long shot. “You had personal knowledge of his…problem?”

“I did.”

“May I ask how?”

“I knew almost from the publication date of
Dirty Little Minds.
The book's success really went to his head—in more ways than one. He'd made a lot of money on
Dirty Little Minds
, but he'd gone through it almost as fast as he made it, and I'm pretty sure a lot of it went up his nose. He kept asking for advances on his royalties, which is strictly a no-no in the business, but we wanted that second book, even though we were fully aware that he might be tempted to try to dump us and go with a bigger house for a huge advance. So we insisted there be an insurance policy, which we would take out for purposes of control, so if something were to happen to him before the book was released, we could at least cover the advances. He wasn't happy, but he went along. And he kept asking for advances until we learned of his suit to break the contract. So we cut him off. I understand he began running a tab with his dealer, which is
definitely
not a good idea. The insurance policy was our hedge against the worst-case scenario which, unfortunately, came to pass.”

I'd sensed a strong undercurrent of…something…beneath everything he'd said.

“And how do you think his drug problem affected
No Door to Heave
n?” I asked, deliberately using the book's title to make him think I knew more than I did. “Mrs. Tunderew turned it over to you, I know.” Actually, I didn't know, but it was a pretty safe guess. I couldn't imagine she would have just kept it locked in a safe deposit box.

There was a very, very long pause. “Yes, she did,” he said finally.

“And? Is it what you'd expected?”

Another very long pause, then. “Let's just say the insurance policy was a very good idea. The book is dreck.”

“Dreck?” I echoed, surprised to find myself truly surprised.

“Dreck. Salvable dreck, with luck. Most of the details are there, and I'm sure we'll be able to make something of it in the hands of a good ghost writer. It will be a huge success. As it stands, you can almost see the progress of his drug use from one chapter to the next.”

I decided that since I was on a roll, I should push right on. “I assume the Dinsmores and New Eden are sufficiently well disguised to avoid slander charges.”

There was a significantly long pause, then a very controlled and rather icy, “As our legal department pointed out with
Dirty Little Minds
, just because people may see similarities between fictional characters and certain prominent real-life figures does not mean they are the same. And like
Dirty Little Minds
,
No Door to Heaven
is purely a work of fiction.”

“Of course.”

*

Well, that pretty much settled the issue (if there ever was one) of who
No Door to Heaven
might be about. But was it just me, or were things starting to spin off in too many directions, here? I mean, what the hell was I trying to do? Trying to find out why Randy died, basically. But that had led me, however unwittingly or unwillingly, to the whole New Eden mess, which might or might not be directly related to what I was trying to discover.

I realized that somewhere along the line, I'd totally lost track of the starting point for this whole mess: the blackmail. I still didn't know for sure who the blackmailer was, and it was still a not-remote possibility that he, she, or they and Tunderew's murderer were one and the same. Thinking back, the one potential blackmail suspect I'd been made aware of but never contacted was…that temp from Craylaw and Collier…Judy?…
Judith
Francini. She was a loose end I figured I'd better tie up just for my own satisfaction if nothing else.

I pulled out the phone book and turned to the yellow pages for “Employment Agencies: Temporary.” Fletcher had said she'd worked for Manpower, so I found their number and dialed.

I explained that I had some office work that needed to be done, and that one of their temps, a Judith Francini, had been highly recommended, and wondered if she might be available for a one- or two-day assignment. (Actually, on looking around the office, I'd realized I could, in fact, use a little help in getting things in some semblance of order.)

I was put on hold for a moment, then the secretary/receptionist/whatever-she-was came back on the line.

“Well, as a matter of fact Miss Francini is just completing an assignment today. I'll contact her to see if she might be available and get back to you. I assume you would like her to start tomorrow?”

“That would be fine, if she can.”

She asked me for the standard information—my company name, address, phone number, type of work I needed done, hours to be worked, if I'd used their services before, who had recommended them to me (I told them a friend at Craylaw and Collier), etc.—then explained their fee.

I thanked her, said I would wait for her call
.

Within twenty minutes, Manpower called back to confirm that Miss Francini would be available and would be at my office at eight thirty sharp.

And with that, I decided to call it a day.

*

I think I've mentioned before the little mantra I have to force myself to recite from time to time: “I work to live, I do not live to work.”

I kept repeating it all the way home. I determined to totally shut out any thoughts whatsoever of Tony T. Tunderew or New Eden or the three dead and one missing hustlers/New Eden residents, or of Randy and how he died. The latter was a bit more difficult, since what remained of Randy was on the floor in one corner of our guest bedroom, but I would do my very best.

So Monday night was a warmly comfortable “together” night, where I just concentrated on how lucky I was to have Jonathan in my life. As a matter of fact, right after we'd finished dinner and put the dishes in the sink, I stopped Jonathan from turning on the water and instead took him by the hand and led him—a bit puzzled but willing—into the bedroom.

I've observed over the years that there are—at least for me—two kinds of sex: lust sex and love sex. Most of my life had concentrated on the former; even with Jonathan, while it was always a combination of the two, usually the lust was the major component (that's what made our little “games” such fun). But this time the emphasis was definitely on the love, and I did my very best to let Jonathan know without the use of words how I felt about him (if he didn't know already).

We were lying there in the dark after the lust had finally overtaken the foreplay, as it inevitably does, considering who would get up to turn out the lights in the rest of the apartment, when the phone rang. I was very grateful it had not rung half an hour earlier.

Jonathan scooted out of bed and went to answer it. I couldn't make out what he was saying until he called out, “It's Jared. He's coming to town this weekend and wants to know if we want to get together with him and Jake for dinner Friday.”

“Sure. You didn't have anything else lined up, did you?”

“Huh-uh,” he said, then returned to his conversation with Jared.

A few minutes later he returned to bed.

“Eight o'clock at Napoleon. It'll be nice to see Jake again.”

Yeah,
I thought as Jonathan plumped his pillow and settled in beside me.
Maybe I can find out a little more about what's going on at New Eden.

Well, so much for mantras.

*

I arrived at the office a little before eight, so I could figure out exactly what Judith Francini might be able to do to help create order where there was none. I knew where things were, for the most part, but I realized I could benefit from a little more organization. My main purpose in having her come in, of course, was to find out what I could about her relationship, if any, with Tunderew, but as long as she was here…
.

At exactly eight thirty, there was a gentle tap at the door, which then opened before I could say anything, and in walked my temp for the day. Judith Francini was a short, thin brunette with medium length hair, which she kept tied back. Simply but neatly dressed, her outfit was clearly designed to allow her to fit into practically any office in the city. She was rather pretty and was noticeably…ah…what used to be known in Teddy Roosevelt's time as “buxom.” (I've always found it interesting how straight men's fascination seems to focus frequently above the waist, while gay men's points below.)

After our introductions, I showed her where she could put her large shoulder bag—on the floor beside the couch. I'd moved the typewriter stand and a folding chair over by the file cabinets to give her some room to work. When I'd first opened the office, I'd bought myself a Rolodex but had never gotten around to actually using it. So I had gone through the top drawer of my desk and filled a large manila envelope with the business cards and various scraps of paper on which I had scrawled client and contact telephone numbers over the years. I decided to let typing up Rolodex cards be her first project.

I really wasn't used to having other people around the office other than the occasional client, so it was just a bit awkward finding something to do that wouldn't give her the impression that I didn't do anything. I let her get about half an hour into the project before breaking the silence.

“I understand you've done work for Craylaw and Collier.”

She stopped in mid keystroke and turned her head quickly to look at me.

“Yes.” I could clearly hear the suspicion in her voice, though she tried to hide it. “I've had a couple of assignments there.”

At that point, the phone rang.

“Would you like me to get it?” she asked, starting to get up.

“No, that's fine. I can get it.” I had no idea who it might be, but knew anyone who called regularly would be a bit startled to have a woman answering my phone.

“Hardesty Investigations.”

It was a woman from Manpower calling to ask if Miss Francini had arrived and if she was working out to my satisfaction. I assured her everything was fine, and we hung up.

“You worked for Tony Tunderew, I understand,” I said, picking up where the call had interrupted our exchange—it wasn't exactly a conversation.

Her eyes narrowed and her face reflected a mixture of suspicion and a touch of anger.

“That's correct,” she said, and deliberately resumed her typing, though I could tell I had struck a nerve.

“I was wondering…” I started to say when she pushed back her chair and stood up.

“I'm afraid I should leave,” she said sharply. “I should have realized when they told me a private investigator had specifically requested me…” She turned and crossed the room to the sofa to pick up her shoulder bag.

I held up my hand to stop her. “Please, Miss Francini. This isn't any sort of trap. It's not my intention to cause you any difficulty or problem at all. I just really need some information.”

She stopped and turned toward me again. I could see she was still angry.

“He hired you, didn't he?” It was more of a statement and a demand than a question.

“Yes, he did,” I admitted. “But he did not hire me to investigate you specifically, and in any event now that he's dead, the entire matter is moot. Please, sit down. And if it will help, I can tell you that I quit on him, and that I considered him a totally obnoxious excuse for a human being.”