He nodded. “The chorus board of directors. We met last night to discuss the possible ramifications of Grant’s death on the organization. Crandall is opposed to the idea of bringing a private investigator in, but since the police have already interviewed him and he will obviously be a focal point of their investigation, the other members and I overruled him.”
“Was he able to tell them anything?”
“He answered their specific questions, but he’s too astute to go beyond or elaborate on his responses. They undoubtedly will want to talk with him again.” He leaned forward in his chair and looked me squarely in the eye. “This is not to go beyond this room, but I’m seriously concerned not so much that the investigation’s focus will quite likely be on Crandall as that it may have some justification.”
“How so?”
“I suspect there may have been some serious problems regarding his relationship with Grant Jefferson.”
“I got the impression from when we talked last that you didn’t know Jefferson all that well.”
He nodded. “You’re right, I didn’t. But Crandall never wanders far from type.”
“Any specifics?”
“Not really. Mostly impressions. I’ve known Crandall for years. I would categorize him more as a close acquaintance than a friend. He comes from wealth and has made several fortunes on his own, and he’s always operated on the not totally unjustified principle that money is power.
“Unfortunately, he occasionally carries this principle over into his personal life. Grant Jefferson was not the first young man he has taken under his wing. Usually, they drop out of his life as quickly as they enter it. I may be a bit jaded, but I’ve often found that what can be bought can be paid to go away.
“Crandall, as I’ve said, loves to be in control, and as far as I can tell it has always been he who ended the liaisons. But I get the impression Jefferson had an agenda of his own, though I have no idea of what it might have been.
“I would truly hate to think Crandall actually did have anything to do with Grant’s death, if for no other reason than that I can’t imagine his blowing up one of his own cars—and especially a car as expensive as a Porsche.
“I’m telling you all this to encourage you to consider all options—not that I had any doubt that you would.
“My main concern, other than to see Jefferson’s killer brought to justice, is to keep the chorus as far out of this mess as possible. It’s an asset the gay community can’t afford to have jeopardized.”
“I understand and agree.”
“So,” he said, sitting back in his chair, “you’ll take it on?”
“Sure,” I said, actually relieved to have another real case to sink my teeth into. “I assume I’ll have Booth’s full cooperation?”
He raised an eyebrow and gave a slight shrug. “I certainly hope so. If he was
not
responsible for Jefferson’s death, he knows it’s in his own best interests in the long run, and if there is one thing Crandall is not, it’s stupid.” He grinned, then added, “I’ve also spoken with Roger, telling him to expect to hear from you.”
Glancing at his watch, he then said, “Ah, time to get back to court,” and got quickly to his feet, picking his suit coat off the back of his chair with both hands and swinging it over his shoulders to put it on in one smooth motion that reminded me of a matador swooping his cape at a charging bull.
I quickly rose as well.
“You can mail me the contract or drop it off,” he said as we walked to the door.
We’d worked together so often that contracts were a mere formality, but one understood to also be a legal necessity.
We left the office together and rode the elevator to the parking garage, where we shook hands and agreed to talk soon, then went our separate ways.
*
I made a mental list, on my way back to the office, of the people I wanted to talk to and wrote it down the minute I got to my desk. The mechanic, Roger Rothenberger, and Eric Speers were at the top…and Jonathan, of course. He hadn’t been with the chorus all that long, but he’d joined only shortly after Grant Jefferson had, and he didn’t miss much. He was also quite good at reading people. I’d hold off on Crandall Booth until I’d had a chance to talk to the other three. When I did see him, I wanted to have as much knowledge of what, exactly, was going on within the chorus as possible.
That evening at dinner I suggested to Jonathan that we have Eric over again and told him my purpose. Joshua gave me a sharp look at the mention of the name Eric but then went back to playing with his mashed potatoes, which he seemed to enjoy pushing into a different shape after every bite.
Later, while Jonathan studied for his horticulture class and Joshua built an odd-looking structure out of his Lincoln Logs, I asked Jonathan for Sal Lennox’s number and called.
“Hello?”
“Sal?”
“Yeah?”
“Sal, this is Dick Hardesty, Jonathan Quinlan’s other half. I tried to get in touch with that mechanic friend of yours, but—”
“Paul, you mean? Sorry, I can’t help you. I haven’t talked to him since Grant was killed. Last time I tried him the line was still open. He just didn’t answer, and he hasn’t called me. I think I get the message.”
Now, that was an interesting bit of news.
I asked if he might have Paul’s address and he gave it to me. I wrote it down and put it in my billfold. I thanked him for his time, wished him well, and hung up.
*
It wasn’t until after Joshua was safely Story-Timed and asleep that I had a chance to talk to Jonathan to find out if there was anything he might not have already told me about the chorus.
“I thought I told you everything that was going on,” he said.
“Well, yeah, you have, but you haven’t really said too much about what you
think
about it all, or about the guys. Especially anything that relates to Grant Jefferson.”
He shrugged. “Ah, yeah. Well, I really like most of the guys, even those who sided with Grant. Grant could be really kind of sweet, if he wanted to be—like, if he wanted something. The guys in his inner circle tended to come and go. Somebody would be his best buddy for a while then the next week Grant would totally ignore him.
“Most of what I know is secondhand, since I have no idea how he was between rehearsals or if he hung around with anybody in particular when we weren’t rehearsing. I’m pretty sure he was having sex with some of the guys, and he was very good with come-ons.”
“Speaking from personal experience?” I asked with a grin.
He returned the grin. “I don’t kiss and tell,” he said, and I reached over and grabbed his leg in a vice grip that made him jerk. “Okay!” he protested. “Okay! No kissing, but he did come on to me once or twice. But my strength is the strength of ten because my heart is pure.”
I rolled my eyes at the ceiling and released my grip.
“So, Mr. Pureheart,” I said, “anybody you haven’t mentioned have a particular grudge against him?”
He shook his head. “He wouldn’t win many popularity contests, but I’m pretty sure there were a couple of the guys’ partners who’d be mad enough, like Jerry was, to at least try to beat him up.”
“Yeah, well, I can see a lot of guys being pissed at him, but enough to kill him?”
“Hell hath no fury like a lover scorned,” he intoned.
I stared at him. “My, we’re a little fount of aphorisms tonight, aren’t we?”
“Aren’t aphorisms those little green bugs that get on my pepper plants?” he asked, then quickly added, “Oh, no, those are aphids.”
I could see we weren’t going to get much further into this particular conversation, so suggested we go to bed.
“We can play a game of The Aphid and the Pepper Plant,” I said. “I get to be the aphid.”
He grinned, getting up from the couch.
“Deal,” he said.
*
Jonathan had given me Roger Rothenberger’s home phone number and told me that, as far as he knew, what with directing the chorus and the MCC’s choir, Roger didn’t have a regular day job.
When I got to the office Friday morning I went through my usual morning coffee/newspaper/crossword puzzle ritual before taking out the slip of paper with Rothenberger’s number and dialing. The phone was picked up after the second ring.
“Rothenberger here.”
“Mr. Rothenberger, this is Dick Hardesty. We met at Crandall Booth’s last get-together. Glen O’Banyon tells me he’s spoken to you about me.”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Hardesty—may I call you Dick? A certain degree of formality is appropriate in certain situations, but I don’t think this is one of them.”
I laughed. “I agree.”
“Good, and please call me Roger. I assume you have agreed to look into Grant’s death?”
“Yes, and I was wondering when we might get together to discuss it.”
“I’m at your disposal,” he said. “I’ve already been interviewed by the police.”
“I’d have assumed so,” I said. “But my job isn’t to duplicate what the police are doing so much as to supplement it, to see if I can find things they might have missed.”
“Well, I wish you luck,” he said.
“Would you have any time today?”
“I have a meeting at the M.C.C. at three,” he said, “but I’m free until then. Would one o’clock be all right?”
“One is fine.”
He gave me his address, which I jotted down on the same piece of paper with his phone number. We exchanged a few more words then hung up.
About eleven, I called down to the diner off the lobby of my building for a bowl of chili and a grilled cheese sandwich, saying I’d be down in ten minutes to pick it up. I never went into that diner without expecting to see Eudora and Evolla, the identical twin sister waitresses who had finally retired a couple of years earlier after having worked there since Taft was in office. I still took delight in remembering deliberately ordering soup or chili just to hear them belt out to the cook “BOW-EL.”
I missed them.
*
Rothenberger lived on the ninth floor of an older apartment complex. His apartment was quite small, and I’m sure quite comfortable for him, though I was inexplicably reminded of Poe’s “The Raven.” No heavy drapes, but the furniture tended toward the heavy side—overstuffed chairs and couch, solid dark wood end tables and bookcase, brass lamps with dark shades—all of which were a tad too large for the room. The walls were lined with personal photos of various musical groups, most of them including him, and a few nice pieces of individually lit framed art.
His building was taller than its neighbors and halfway up a hill, with the result that he had a nice view of the city.
He offered me a seat and asked if I’d like a cup of coffee, which I declined with thanks as I sat down in one of the large, surprisingly comfortable armchairs.
“So,” he said, taking the other armchair, “what is the procedure?”
I wasn’t quite sure what he meant, but said, “Well, let’s start with what the police asked you and what you told them.”
Resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, he leaned forward, hands cupped, fingertips touching to form what I always call “the ministerial arch.”
“I suppose their questions were routine,” he began. “Did I have any idea who might have killed him or why? Did he have any enemies among the chorus members? Had he given any indication that something was wrong? Did he seem nervous or worried? That sort of thing.
“I told them I had no idea as to who his killer might be, that within the chorus bickering, arguments, and rivalries are a way of life. I did not think it necessary to go too deeply into that issue since, while I know a number of the members disliked Grant intensely, there was no point in detailing every grievance against him. And I simply cannot believe that any of them could have led to murder. If I did I certainly would not have hesitated to say so, but I could see no value in pointing fingers left and right. I have an obligation to protect the chorus as much as I can.”
“I understand,” I said. “And what did
you
think of him?”
He raised an eyebrow and sat back in his chair, his hands grasping the front of the arms. “The truth? I thought he was an arrogant opportunist who would not hesitate to set his own mother on fire if he needed to warm his hands.”
“That must have been awkward for you, him being Crandall Booth’s nephew and all,” I said, to get his reaction.
He gave a quick bark of laughter. “Oh, my, Dick! You are a card. I can see why Jonathan is so enamored of you. Crandall wasn’t fooling anybody, and I have no idea why he even felt it necessary to try. But he has enough money, and the power to go with it, that if he said the moon was made of green cheese no one would contradict him.”
“I gather you and he are not the best of friends.”
He looked at me with a wry smile. “I think that would be a fair, if understated, assessment.”
“Any particular reason for the lack of rapport?”
“Crandall, as you know, is the chorus’ chief financial backer—not, I am sure, out of his love of music. He is the type of man who would buy an original copy of a work by Mozart just to say he had it, even though he wouldn’t recognize it if you played it for him. He uses his money as a means to control.
“When I was approached by the Chicago Gay Men’s Chorus, which is directed by a friend of mine, to bring our group to Chicago for a joint concert, I took the idea to the board, and immediately, Crandall offered to finance the trip.”