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
“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