The Popsicle Tree (13 page)

When I got home, only about half an hour later than normal, Jonathan was in the kitchen with Joshua, feeding the fish. Jonathan was holding Joshua in one arm with the can of fish food in his free hand. Joshua would hold out his hand and Jonathan would sprinkle a small amount into it and let Joshua drop it into the tank. Joshua, of course, was enthralled to watch the fish scrambling to the surface to eat the flakes, and mimicked the fish's open-mouthed gulps. I hoped he wouldn't be tempted to eat the flakes himself, but obviously Jonathan had that under control.

Still carrying Joshua, Jonathan set down the can of fish food and came over to give me a hug.

“Me, too!” Joshua said, leaning forward to put an arm around my neck and give me a squeeze.

“Thank you both,” I said as Jonathan lowered Joshua to the floor.

I didn't say anything about the funeral—and of course Jonathan didn't ask—until after we'd gotten Joshua to bed and read him a story. When he was asleep, we went into the living room.

Jonathan, was full of questions about the service, if I knew anyone there, and particularly about Kelly. He seemed relieved when I told him Kelly wasn't there.

“I'm glad. I couldn't imagine bringing a four-year-old to his mother's funeral! I know some people do, but…I'm really glad Carlene's sister didn't.”

I told him about Estelle being there, which he'd guessed when she hadn't been at Happy Day when he picked up Joshua, and about meeting Jan Houston. He asked about the flowers we'd sent and I told him they were perfect—which they all were, even though I didn't tell him I did not know which specific arrangement was from us. He seemed pleased.

*

Friday morning I made a stop at the bank's night-deposit box on the way to work to deposit Estelle Bronson's check. When I got to the office I thought about calling Marty Gresham to let him know I'd run into Jan Houston at the funeral, but then thought better of it. The Carrington police would find her eventually.

I wasn't quite sure what I thought about running into Carlene's ex. She was clearly a lot more than unhappy, and as belligerent as she'd come across, I really could see her point of view. She'd helped to care for Kelly since the day he was born; to suddenly be cut off from him entirely…well, it would be rough. But it was hard to see much beyond the anger and get a better idea of just who this woman was. Trying to talk with her again would be a little tricky, since she'd made it perfectly clear that she and I weren't about to become good friends.

I thought I might try getting in her good graces—although I really wasn't sure if I might want to be there or not—by talking first to Beth to see if she would be amenable to letting Jan see Kelly from time to time, and if she agreed, approach Jan as an intermediary. But if Jan was involved in Carlene's death, that probably wouldn't be the sharpest of ideas.

The phone startled me out of the whirlpool of my thoughts.

“Hardesty Investigations,” I said, after practically knocking the receiver off the cradle while reaching for it.

“Mr. Hardesty, this is Bonnie Bronson. Could I speak with you about a very sensitive matter?”

Bonnie
Bronson?
This should be interesting
.

“Of course.”

“I understand my sister has hired you to look into the death of Kelly DeNuncio's mother.”

And just how did you come by that information?
my mind asked.

“Estelle and I had a talk last night after she returned from Ms. DeNuncio's funeral,” she continued, answering the question.

“And?”

A slight pause, then, “And I was wondering if you would be kind enough to just tear up Estelle's check—we insist on reimbursing you for the time you have already invested, of course—and consider the contract voided?”

Not so fast, lady!

“Please don't think I'm being rude, but may I ask why Estelle doesn't ask me herself?”

There was a long, deep sigh.

“No, I don't think you're being rude at all, and this has nothing to do with your qualifications as a private investigator. But I'm afraid you…well, you don't know my sister well enough to fully understand her. Estelle is a sweet, wonderful, and compassionate woman, but her compassion too often gets the best of her. Ms. DeNuncio's death was a tragic accident, but I'm sure that's all it was…an accident. I truly hate to see you waste your time”…
and Estelle's money
, my mind added…” looking for something that isn't there.”

It was my turn for a pause before saying, “I can certainly appreciate your position, but I must point out that the contract is between your sister and me, and she is the only one who can terminate it. When I agreed to look into Carlene's death, it was with the understanding that if the time came that I was reasonably sure it was an accident, I would withdraw. I don't like to waste either my time or my clients' money on a case I believe is groundless.”

“As this one is.”

“Quite possibly, but it is obviously very important to your sister to be sure. That's what I intend to find out.”

She sighed. “Very well,” she said, sounding totally unconvinced. “But I will not let it drag out forever—no offense intended.”

“None taken. But think of it this way—we entrust Joshua to your care, I'd appreciate your entrusting Estelle's concerns to me.”

There was only the briefest of pauses before she said abruptly, “Well, I really must go. Good-bye.”

I couldn't help but wonder just how tight a leash Bonnie Bronson had on her sister, and why? The fact that Estelle kept her budding relationships from her sister gave me the definite impression that Bonnie wasn't too keen on the idea of Estelle having someone else in her life. I wondered just how far she might go to prevent it. And perhaps it was just my suspicious nature, but the fact that the two relationships Estelle had mentioned had ended with the death of the prospective partner struck me as being more than a little…well, unusual.

I decided to call Marty anyway, just to see if anything more had been found out about the stolen van and its driver. Just as I was reaching for the phone, it rang.

Busy day.

“Dick. Marty.”
ESP lives
, I thought. “I just thought I'd let you know the Carrington police talked to Jan Houston last night. She admits to writing that note, but denies it was meant to be a threat. And she claims she was at a friend's cabin at Lake Verde, alone, the day Ms. DeNuncio died. Says she went up there Sunday and came back Wednesday, when she heard about the accident. She doesn't have any witnesses, though.”

“Are they going to follow up on that at all?”

“Well, they called the cabin's owner, who verified that she'd given the key to Ms. Houston Sunday afternoon, and it had been returned Wednesday night. The owner says she hardly ever goes up there herself, and Ms. Houston always mows the lawn and cleans up when she's there.”

“So did she?”

“Did she what?”

“Did she mow the lawn?”

A rather long pause, then, “Jeez, I don't know. Carrington's got a pretty small police force, so I doubt if they have much time to send officers out of the county just to see if a lawn was mowed.”

“Well, if the lawn
was
mowed, Jan Houston has a stronger alibi. If it wasn't….”

Another pause. “You're right. But don't forget, she wasn't driving the van that killed Ms. DeNuncio.”

“Granted, it was a guy who ditched it, but it's possible she could have stolen it and been driving it. Did witnesses at the scene say it was a man driving?”

“Six witnesses, four stories. One
said
it was a man, one
thought
it was a man, and one thought it
could
have been a woman…or not. One claimed there were two people in the van. The other two saw Ms. DeNuncio being hit but were too shocked to notice the driver.”

“So could someone on our force go up to Lake Verde and check?”

“Jeez, Dick, I really don't know. It's kind of a long stretch, and unless we had something stronger to go on…”

“I understand. But do you think you could get me the address of the cabin? I can take a run up there myself.”

“Yeah, that I think I can do. We did run a check on her for any criminal record. She's apparently clean, at least in Carrington and here. Where did you say they moved here from?”

“Cincinnati, I think. I saw her at the cemetery after the funeral, way off by herself, just watching.”

I gave him Beth's phone number and last name, and asked him if anything had been found out about the guy who ditched the van.

“We got a description from some kids who were playing on the sidewalk when he ditched it: short, stocky, middle-aged white guy with a slight limp. Wearing overalls and a work shirt. The description doesn't fit any of our ‘regulars.' Lots of fingerprints in the van—way too many, as a matter of fact. It's a rental stolen off a lot—one of those cheapy places where they don't bother to do much more than run a vacuum through it and wash the windows between rentals. And most of the prints were overlapping, on areas like the steering wheel and door handles. It would take forever to sort them out…and all this assuming the guy has his prints on file and that he wasn't wearing gloves.”

“If he hot-wired it to get it started, was there anything on the lower steering column or the hood?”

“He didn't have to hot-wire it. It's the kind of place they leave the key under the sun visor.”

“Hmm. So the van was stolen Sunday night. What would a guy wearing work clothes be doing driving it around in broad daylight on a Monday right after lunch if he wasn't working?”

“Good question. We're going to try to find that out. That's what we do, you know.”

I laughed and we talked for a minute or so more, then hung up, with the usual promises to keep each other informed.

*

About two thirty that afternoon, Marty called back to give me the address of the cabin on Lake Verde—too late to drive up there and make it back in time to go to Tim and Phil's for dinner. I thought we might drive up there on Saturday and take a look—maybe even let Joshua go swimming. That was something Jonathan and I had never done yet. Maybe have a picnic.

Won't that be sweet?
one of my mind-voices said sarcastically.
A family outing! Just like the straight folks.

I told it to knock it off.

I planned to leave work a little early so I could stop by my favorite bakery, about two blocks from work. I'd told Tim we'd bring dessert, and had ordered one of the bakery's specialties, a Devil's Food whipped cream cake that Tim, Phil, and I loved. (To say that Jonathan loved it too would be slightly redundant, since there was very little other than fresh lox that he didn't love.)

Just as I was getting ready to leave, the phone rang, and I was surprised to hear Glen O'Banyon's voice.

“Glen, hi! To what do I owe the honor?”

“Are you by any chance investigating the death of a Carlene DeNuncio?” He obviously wanted to get right to the point.

“As a matter of fact, I am.” I assumed he was calling after having talked to Beth Erickson.

“Just what do you know of this child custody case involving Kelly DeNuncio?”

“I gather Beth Erickson called you.”

“She did.”

“Well, as to what I know, it's really not much. Just that after Kelly's mother, Carlene, was killed in a hit-and-run, all of a sudden his biological father shows up to announce that he wants Kelly. Very odd timing, if you ask me, especially considering Carlene had thought he didn't even know Kelly existed—and even if he did, he'd never shown any interest in him at all. Anyway, Beth asked me if I knew of an attorney who might help them, and I gave her your name. I hope you don't mind.”

“Not at all. I explained that child custody cases aren't my specialty, but I've set up an appointment for her with one of my associates here in the office. She's coming in shortly, I believe.”

“That's really nice of you, Glen.” And it certainly was, considering that he was one of the busiest and best lawyers in the city.

“But here's where it gets interesting.”

“How so?” I asked with my usual inability to just keep quiet until he was ready to continue.

“I know quite a few attorneys in Louisville, and I asked Mrs. Erickson the name of the attorney who'd filed the custody papers. It turns out to be Kelsey Bowman, probably the best criminal defense lawyer in Kentucky. What in hell
he
's doing handling a child custody case is beyond me, but I'd say Roy D'Angelo must have pretty deep pockets.”

Deep pockets? From what very little I knew about Roy D'Angelo, I somehow doubted that he had the kind of money a high-class attorney would demand.

But maybe his mother would.

CHAPTER 6