The Popsicle Tree (25 page)

“How can I reach her?” I asked, before he got away.

“If she's still here, she's staying with her sister.” And he walked toward the door.

“And what's her sister's name?” I called after him.

“Mildred Collins,” he said over his shoulder. And then he was gone.

*

On the way home, I went over my not-totally-rewarding visit with Roy D'Angelo. He obviously wasn't the brightest button in the jar, and his personality certainly left a lot to be desired, but I still had the distinct impression that there was a lot more going on than he was telling me.

I admit I was a little surprised that he was willing to tell me how to get in touch with his mother; it was pretty clear that mother and son were something less than close. Maybe he'd given the information so casually because he knew his mother would be pissed at having someone question her about sore spots in her life. But I still wondered where/how Roy was coming up with the money for the custody suit. Again, I had no idea how much such a lawsuit might cost, but I was sure it was more than he had in his pennies jar.

Well, I would like to talk to his mother just to see what I could learn.

*

I checked the phone book at work first thing Monday morning for a Mildred Collins. There was more than a full page of Collins in the book, but no Mildred. Three M. Collins, though…two here in town and one in Karnak, one of the more upscale suburbs. I took a chance and decided to try the one in Karnak first. I always liked Egyptian city names—Karnak, Memphis, Thebes, Luxor—and besides, I'd gotten the impression that Angelina D'Angelo was rather well off, financially. Maybe her sister was, too.

I picked up the phone and dialed.

It was answered on the second ring, “(
hech-hem
) Hello?” I gathered from the sound of her voice that it was an older woman, and from the volume that she must be a little hard of hearing.

“Excuse me, but I'm looking for a Mildred Collins. Could you tell me if…”

“Just a minute. I'll get her.”

“Is thi…” I started to ask, but she was gone.

A moment later, “Hello?” It seemed to be the same voice.

“Mildred Collins?” I was more than a little confused.

“Yes.” There was a faint hint of suspicion in her voice.

“I'm sorry to bother you Mrs. Collins,” I said, assuming she was a Mrs., “but I'm trying to locate an Angelina D'Angelo.”

“Well you were just talking to her.” The suspicion was now tinged with mild exasperation. “What's this about?”

I heard a voice in the background…I assumed the first woman to whom I'd talked…asking: “Who is it, Mildred?”

“I have no idea,” Mildred said, followed by a question obviously directed to me. “Who is this?”

“My name is Dick Hardesty, ma'am, and…”

“It's somebody named Dick Hardesty,” she said, obviously not to me.

“I don't know anybody named Hardesty,” the away-from-phone voice said. “What does he want?”

Jeezus, lady, just get on the phone and I'll tell you myself!

“Could I speak with Mrs. D'Angelo directly?” I said, hoping I sounded a lot more polite than I felt. “It's in regards to her son, Roy.”

“It's about Roy,” the message-relayer said.

“What's he done now?” the off-phone voice said, obviously exasperated. “Oh, here, give me the phone!”

Finally!

There was a series of muffled sounds as the phone changed hands.

“(
hech-hem
) What about Roy?”

Start from scratch, Hardesty,
a mind-voice advised calmly.
And be nice!

“Mrs. D'Angelo, my name is Dick Hardesty and I'm a private investigator. I'm working on a case on which Roy may have information…” I was lying through my teeth, but hoped she didn't know it.

“Well then, you take that up with Roy,” she interrupted. “I don't want to get involved. (
hech-hem
).”

“I've spoken with Roy,” I hastened to add, wondering if I'd caught her in the middle of eating something, “and there are a couple of questions I have that you might be able to help me with. It was Roy who told me how to get in touch with you.”

“I'm sure he did. (
hech-hem
) He has been nothing but a thorn in my side since the day he was born. And after everything I did for him!”

I thought that's what mothers are for…to do things for their children
, I mused. She made it sound as though it was a chore.

“Could we possibly talk in person? I promise I won't take up too much of your time.”

There was a moment's silence, then, “Well, I don't know. I'm having my hair done this afternoon (
hech-hem
) in the city. I suppose I could meet you afterwards.”

“That would be fine,” I said, thinking that “
hech-hem
” throat-clearing thing could get very old very fast and wondering if she were even aware of it. “Thank you. Where would you like to meet?”

“Andre does my hair when I'm here. Do you know of him?”

Uh, yeah, as a matter of fact, I did. I'd tricked with him a couple of times back in my single days, but he was a little too much in love with himself for my taste. He was now one of the city's top hairdressers with an exclusive shop on Brookhaven, on the edge of Decorator's Row.

“Yes. There's a coffee shop right next door, as I recall. I could meet you there. At what time?”

“(
hech-hem
) We should be through around three. My sister will be with me. We'll see you there, then.”

We exchanged good-byes and hung up. Neither of us had asked how we'd recognize the other, but I figured two late-middle-aged women with fresh hairdos wouldn't be too hard to spot.

I found it very interesting, however, that she did not ask exactly what I wanted to discuss about Roy. I suspected she knew it was either about Kelly or Carlene's death and didn't want to give away anything, even by asking. Obviously she knew Carlene was dead, and I'd not be surprised that the money for the lawyer had come from her, despite her apparent distance from her son. I also suspected she wanted to know what I knew.

*

Looking for a parking space, I passed both the coffee shop and Salon Andre before I found a spot. As I approached Andre's, coming back toward the coffee shop, two ladies emerged from Salon Andre and turned toward the coffee shop. Though I was behind them and really couldn't see their faces, one was tall and very thin, wearing a black dress and what looked like a cone of white cotton candy on her head. The other was slightly shorter and considerably heavier, with a brown dress and greying brown hair in a much less dramatic style. My money was on the cotton candy being Angelina D'Angelo.

I caught up with them just as they entered the coffee shop and approached the Please Wait to Be Seated lectern.

“Mrs. D'Angelo. Mrs. Collins?” I said, and they turned to look at me. I upped my bet. The more heavyset one had a pleasant face and smiled, if a little shyly. The cotton candy lady's thin face had a look of perpetual displeasure and she merely raised a sculpted eyebrow in acknowledgment. If she'd been wearing heavy green makeup and a pointed black hat, she could have been Margaret Hamilton's understudy as Wicked Witch of the West. When I extended my hand, each of them took it somewhat hesitantly. Neither introduced herself.

The waitress came up, picked up three menus, and led us to a table at the back of the shop. She said she'd give us a minute, and left.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet me.” Cotton candy merely nodded, and I had a hard time taking my eyes off that fascinating confection. A light behind her haloed clearly through the fluffed hair that was so white it had that hint of blue you see inside of a snow cave on a very bright day. I wondered how she could possibly sleep with it. And for someone with so fanciful a hairdo, her face gave the impression of someone who had spent a lifetime registering disapproval.

Fishing a pack of cigarettes out of her purse, she lit one—not offering one to either her sister or me, or asking if anyone minded if she smoked.

“(
hech-hem
) About Roy,” she said, exhaling a long, thin plume of smoke. Her tone clearly indicated she had no interest in wasting time.

“Yes…,” I began, but the waitress' return cut me off. The ladies each ordered tea and a popover, and I opted for coffee and a piece of banana cream pie.

When she left, I continued, “I was a friend of Carlene DeNuncio and I have reason to believe that her death was not an accident.”

Mildred Collins' eyes widened and she looked quickly to her sister, who showed no reaction at all.

“And what might this have to do with Roy?”

“Well, the police know who was driving the van that killed her and are devoting all their efforts to finding him. However, I have reason to believe that someone else arranged the ‘accident.' Rightly or wrongly, as the father of Carlene's son, Roy would be considered a logical suspect. So before I take my suspicions to the police, I'd like to be able to rule Roy out, if at all possible. And as his mother, you know him better than anyone. I was hoping you could give me some insight into his character and background.”

She took another long drag of her cigarette, exhaled, and then shrugged, noncommittally.

I pressed ahead. “I understand it was you who told Roy of Kelly, and of Carlene's death. I was wondering how you could be so sure Kelly was Roy's child?”

She looked at me with a slightly raised eyebrow.

“I know Roy,” she said, as though that were a definitive explanation. “I know Roy had been (
hech-hem
) seeing her about five years ago, and that he tossed her aside as he has tossed women aside all his life. I know she became (
hech-hem
) a…lesbian…shortly after.”

And how might you know that?
I wondered, at the same time mildly irked both by the throat-clearing and by the phrase “she became a lesbian,” as though it were a casual, spur-of-the-moment decision on Carlene's part.

I had to ask.

“And how did you find that out?”

She exchanged a quick glance with her sister, who up until this point had simply sat silently with the detached air of a cat on a windowsill. I couldn't decide if it was disinterest or total deference to her sister. Her only movement was her left thumb and index finger idly turning a bracelet on her right wrist.

“I have my ways,” Mrs. D'Angelo said, cryptically.

The waitress brought our order and asked if there would be anything else. When we said “No,” she put the check beside my cup and left.

I suddenly wondered if Mrs. D'Angelo hadn't known about Kelly all along! How? She didn't strike me as the kind of person who would be above hiring a private investigator to check up on her son's girlfriends, but why would she have kept tabs on Carlene after Roy moved on to his next conquest? There's no way she could have known Carlene was pregnant. And if she knew about Kelly all this time, why didn't she tell Roy before?

And if she would hire a private investigator to keep tabs on Carlene, could Frank Santorini…?

Slow down, there, Hardesty
, my mind cautioned. And it was right. I do have a tendency to run off into the woods without my bag of breadcrumbs and end up getting lost.

“Did Roy mention that we'd talked briefly on Sunday?”

She took a sip of her tea before answering. “No, I (
hech-hem
) wasn't even aware he was in town. He has a busy life. I have a busy life. Our schedules don't often coincide.”

I read between the lines on that one fairly easily.

“What do you think of Roy's attempts to gain custody of Kelly?” I hoped she wasn't going to try to act like she didn't know about it, and she didn't.

“I think it's the first time in his life he has taken responsibility for his actions. (
hech-hem
) Perhaps there is hope for him yet.”

I wondered how her sister could possibly listen to the endless throat-clearing without going absolutely crazy. I finished a bite of my pie before saying, “Well, no offense to Roy or his current girlfriend, but do you really think it fair to take Kelly from his aunt and her family?”

Her facial expression reflected her disdain. “What I think has nothing to do with it. The boy is Roy's. He belongs with Roy.”

“Do you know a man named Eddie Styles, by any chance?”

I saw her sister shoot her a quick sideways glance, but her face maintained its impassivity.

“No. (
hech-hem
) Why?”

“Just curious.” I had a feeling I'd found out just about everything I was going to, and Mildred Collins' total silence since we'd sat down was getting to me.

“That's a very nice bracelet,” I said, in an attempt to have her say
something
.