probably refer her to someone who did. I also asked for her phone number, just in case I needed it.
She thanked me and we said our good-byes.
I immediately dialed Glen O’Banyon’s number and asked the receptionist if he was in. He was in court, so I asked to speak to Donna, his private secretary, and gave her a brief background of the situation. She said she would pass the information on as soon as she could.
*
Again, I couldn’t help but return to the fact that Carlene had been dead less than four days and suddenly Roy D’Angelo crawls out of the woodwork to seek custody of a son Carlene didn’t think he knew he had. If Frank Santorini’s death may have been coincidental to Carlene’s, I’d bet my bottom dollar that this was no coincidence at all.
The phone rang again.
“Hardesty Investigations.”
“Hi, Dick, it’s Jonathan…”
Well, of course it’s Jonathan , I thought. Does he think I don’t recognize his voice after all this time?
“Hi, Babe. What’s up?”
“I hate to ask, but could I have your credit card number? I want to order flowers for Carlene’s funeral. My boss knows a florist in Carrington and he says they do really nice work, so I’m going to call them, but I’ll have to have a credit card to do it.”
“Sure.” I reached for my wallet, read him the number, and he repeated it after he’d written it down.
“I’m going to have them put all three of our names on the card because I know Joshua liked her too.”
“That’s a very nice idea,” I said, and it was. I wondered if I would have thought of it.
“Thanks for the number. I’ll call them right now. See you tonight.”
When I hung up from Jonathan, my mind went back yet again to the very suspicious timing of Roy D’Angelo’s demand for custody of his son. I was very curious as to how he knew not only that Kelly was with Beth, but also where she lived. In any event, the timing could not have been worse, and it clearly underscored the fact that the guy was a world-class jerk.
I truly, deeply hate funerals, but I was suddenly tempted to take a ride up to Carrington. I could wait outside the mortuary to see who came in, then maybe drive out to the cemetery to see who showed up there. I wondered if Jan Houston would be there—not that I’d know her if I saw her—and I especially wondered whether Estelle Bronson would show up. I was pretty sure she would, probably on the pretext of representing Happy Day. The one person I was certain wouldn’t be there was Roy D’Angelo.
Looking at my watch, I saw it was just past ten thirty. The funeral was at two. I could make it.
You’ll have to go home and change first if you’re going, my mind-voice in charge of social etiquette—very seldom heard from, I might add—said.
But I’m not going to actually go to the funeral itself, I countered.
Ah, I see, it replied. So you’re going to drive two hours round-trip to see who shows up at the funeral of a woman you knew personally—albeit briefly—and liked and risk being seen by her sister, whom you’ve met, and Estelle Bronson, whom you also know, and you don’t have the guts to go in to the funeral to pay your respects? You’re a strange bird, Hardesty.
*
Okay, okay . So I left the office at eleven thirty and went home and got into a suit and I went to the funeral.
At about eleven, Marty Gresham had returned my call, saying the Carrington police had been unable to talk to Jan Houston since her phone was still out of order, she was still on vacation from work, and no one was home when they stopped by her apartment. They’d looked in through the windows to verify that everything seemed in order, indicating she apparently hadn’t moved out. Maybe I’d have a chance to talk to her if she was at the funeral.
I called Jonathan before I left the office and left a message telling him where I was going and that I might possibly be late getting home. I knew he’d have wanted to go too, but this was a
She thanked me and we said our good-byes.
I immediately dialed Glen O’Banyon’s number and asked the receptionist if he was in. He was in court, so I asked to speak to Donna, his private secretary, and gave her a brief background of the situation. She said she would pass the information on as soon as she could.
*
Again, I couldn’t help but return to the fact that Carlene had been dead less than four days and suddenly Roy D’Angelo crawls out of the woodwork to seek custody of a son Carlene didn’t think he knew he had. If Frank Santorini’s death may have been coincidental to Carlene’s, I’d bet my bottom dollar that this was no coincidence at all.
The phone rang again.
“Hardesty Investigations.”
“Hi, Dick, it’s Jonathan…”
Well, of course it’s Jonathan , I thought. Does he think I don’t recognize his voice after all this time?
“Hi, Babe. What’s up?”
“I hate to ask, but could I have your credit card number? I want to order flowers for Carlene’s funeral. My boss knows a florist in Carrington and he says they do really nice work, so I’m going to call them, but I’ll have to have a credit card to do it.”
“Sure.” I reached for my wallet, read him the number, and he repeated it after he’d written it down.
“I’m going to have them put all three of our names on the card because I know Joshua liked her too.”
“That’s a very nice idea,” I said, and it was. I wondered if I would have thought of it.
“Thanks for the number. I’ll call them right now. See you tonight.”
When I hung up from Jonathan, my mind went back yet again to the very suspicious timing of Roy D’Angelo’s demand for custody of his son. I was very curious as to how he knew not only that Kelly was with Beth, but also where she lived. In any event, the timing could not have been worse, and it clearly underscored the fact that the guy was a world-class jerk.
I truly, deeply hate funerals, but I was suddenly tempted to take a ride up to Carrington. I could wait outside the mortuary to see who came in, then maybe drive out to the cemetery to see who showed up there. I wondered if Jan Houston would be there—not that I’d know her if I saw her—and I especially wondered whether Estelle Bronson would show up. I was pretty sure she would, probably on the pretext of representing Happy Day. The one person I was certain wouldn’t be there was Roy D’Angelo.
Looking at my watch, I saw it was just past ten thirty. The funeral was at two. I could make it.
You’ll have to go home and change first if you’re going, my mind-voice in charge of social etiquette—very seldom heard from, I might add—said.
But I’m not going to actually go to the funeral itself, I countered.
Ah, I see, it replied. So you’re going to drive two hours round-trip to see who shows up at the funeral of a woman you knew personally—albeit briefly—and liked and risk being seen by her sister, whom you’ve met, and Estelle Bronson, whom you also know, and you don’t have the guts to go in to the funeral to pay your respects? You’re a strange bird, Hardesty.
*
Okay, okay . So I left the office at eleven thirty and went home and got into a suit and I went to the funeral.
At about eleven, Marty Gresham had returned my call, saying the Carrington police had been unable to talk to Jan Houston since her phone was still out of order, she was still on vacation from work, and no one was home when they stopped by her apartment. They’d looked in through the windows to verify that everything seemed in order, indicating she apparently hadn’t moved out. Maybe I’d have a chance to talk to her if she was at the funeral.
I called Jonathan before I left the office and left a message telling him where I was going and that I might possibly be late getting home. I knew he’d have wanted to go too, but this was a
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