The Serpent's Tongue

By Dorien Grey

When Dick Hardesty is hired to look into threats against former priest Dan Stabile, possibly from someone whose confession Dan heard while still in the priesthood, it’s just another case. Then, on a stormy Sunday, on a rain-slick road, Dan is killed, Dick’s partner Jonathan is severely injured, and suddenly, it’s personal. Was the accident really an accident...or murder? Dick learns Dan’s secret could involve a child murderer, and now it seems the man is stalking their son Joshua and tormenting Jonathan. The objectivity so vital to Dick’s role as a private investigator goes out the window as he pursues one lead after another, and it begins to look like Dan wasn’t the target after all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Untreed Reads
• Release date: Dec 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781611878844

Book preview

Author

The Serpent’s Tongue

By Dorien Grey

Copyright 2016 by Gary Brown, Executor of Roger Margason/Dorien Grey Estate

Cover Copyright 2016 by Untreed Reads Publishing

Cover Design by Ginny Glass

The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

Previously published in print, 2014.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Also by Dorien Grey and Untreed Reads Publishing

A World Ago: A Navy Man’s Letters Home (1954–1956)

Short Circuits: A Life in Blogs (Volume 1)

The Butcher’s Son

The Ninth Man

The Bar Watcher

The Hired Man

The Good Cop

The Bottle Ghosts

The Dirt Peddlers

The Role Players

The Popsicle Tree

The Paper Mirror

The Dream Ender

The Angel Singers

The Secret Keeper

The Peripheral Son

www.untreedreads.com

The Serpent’s Tongue

A Dick Hardesty Mystery

Dorien Grey

To those who realize the value of what they have while they have it

Acknowledgments

With sincere thanks to those whose personal knowledge have added flesh to the bones of this book:

Amanda Gordon-Young, who can speak of the effects of traumatic brain injury with the authority of one who has experienced it

Tom Fearn, whom I can rely on, as a former chief of police, for knowledge of police procedures

Father George Charbonneau, for guidance through the labyrinth of the rituals of the Catholic church

…and to my best friend Gary Brown, for always being a lighthouse in stormy seas.

The least questioned assumptions are often the most questionable

—Paul Broca

Human nature is a source of endless fascination. It is a balance of good and evil, happiness and sorrow, and it is to our credit that we place the good over the bad; we accept the good things that happen in our lives as our due—often, unfortunately, without truly appreciating them—and are frustrated and saddened by the bad. We somehow expect life to be simple and easy when, sadly, it is seldom either.

Since our many gifts do not include telepathy, we rely on words in one form or another to communicate to others the myriad aspects of human nature. Not always an easy task, as everyone who has ever been misunderstood or misinterpreted can verify.

Some people are far better at the use of words than others, but most of us use them responsibly to the best of our ability. However, there are those who use words as tools to manipulate and deceive, and others still whose mental shortcomings or physical limitations prevent them from sorting words into coherent expression of their thoughts. While it is sometimes difficult to tell to which group they belong, those who speak to deceive and those who speak out of the inability to make sense are both often said to speak with The Serpent’s Tongue.

—Dick Hardesty

Chapter 1

Jonathan was not happy.

Sugar Yums? Four hundred different kinds of cereals in the cereal aisle, and you pick Sugar Yums?

I didn’t pick them. Joshua did.

"Oh, now there’s a surprise."

I told him no, but he said he’d asked you if he could get them and you said he could, I said lamely.

Half right. He asked, and I said no.

And I’d know that how?

"Sugar Yums? Come on! You know he plays you like a fiddle. Every time you take him to the store without me, he cons you into getting something you know he shouldn’t have."

Well, it’s just a box of cereal, I said, hoping a casual approach might work. I knew it wouldn’t, of course, and that I was only digging myself deeper into a hole.

Jonathan looked at me intently, rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, and shook his head.

Although only six, Joshua was already an expert at playing Jonathan and me against one another when he wanted something. We’d both been raising him since the death of his parents—Jonathan’s brother and sister-in-law—two years before, but because he was Jonathan’s biological nephew I tended to acquiesce when there was a disagreement over minor child-rearing issues. As Joshua got older, there seemed to be more of them.

I wouldn’t say it was putting a strain on our relationship, but it kept the waters more stirred up than either of us would have liked.

Our lives had done a 180-degree turn since Joshua entered it, and we were facing serious issues we’d never even considered before. For one thing, what would happen to Joshua if anything happened to either Jonathan or me? Jonathan was his legal guardian, but I had no legal rights when it came to him.

We had begun talking seriously of adoption, but even though a new millennium was less than fifteen years away, gay rights had not extended to allowing adoption by same-sex partners. In fact, only recently had single gays been allowed to adopt…and even then, not in all states.

Fortunately, ours was one of the more enlightened ones, and I planned to talk to Glen O’Banyon, a lawyer friend for whom I work on numerous occasions, to see what options we had.

Other than that, things were going really well for Jonathan and me. I’d had a steady stream of clients, and his freelance landscaping business was progressing to where he was looking forward to the time he could leave his regular job at Evergreen Nursery and go out on his own. At this point, he was reluctant to give up the health insurance benefits Evergreen offered its employees, which he had been able to expand to cover Joshua.

We had also, for a time, been seriously considering moving from our apartment. Two new families and a single gay man had moved in within weeks of each other. The gay man, Paul Tweed, had a flower shop, so he and Jonathan quickly became friends. Of the two straight families, one had a thirteen-year-old son, Denny, who had a severe case of Tourette’s syndrome that provided yet another teaching experience for us and a valuable learning experience in tolerance and understanding for Joshua.

There was a problem, however, with the Wrennas, who’d moved into the apartment just above ours. They were in their late fifties or early sixties and proved to be religious fanatics of the worst possible kind.

Shortly after they moved in, Mrs. Wrenna came out of our building just as I arrived home from work. She stopped me and handed me a clipboard on which was a petition, asking me to sign it.

What’s this? I asked, noting that the only two signatures were those of her and her husband.

It’s to the landlord, demanding he evict the blasphemers.

I’d thought at first she was joking.

"The who?"

The blasphemers—the ones with the demon child.

What in the hell was this woman talking about?

She gave me a squint-eyed, conspiratorial look, nodding slowly.

They are in league with Satan, she said solemnly.

"They what?

The boy, she said. He speaks with the serpent’s tongue!

I am seldom at a loss for words, but I certainly was this time. I just stood there, staring at her in disbelief, then handed the clipboard back, turned away without saying anything more, and continued into the building.

Several times thereafter we found religious pamphlets slipped under our door condemning the abomination of homosexuality. Jonathan wanted to go upstairs and confront them, but I managed to talk him out of it on the grounds that nothing we could say would do any good.

I did, however, call our landlord to tell him what was going on. He had received two other complaints and said he had already served them with an eviction notice. In the meantime, we did our best to avoid them, and did not speak the few times our paths crossed.

Then, one day, they were gone, and a young married couple moved into the apartment.

Ah, but I digress—hardly a first.

We had been putting money in the bank on a fairly regular basis; and once we felt we weren’t going to be moving anytime soon, we began planning a Christmas-break vacation to visit my ex Chris and his partner Max in New York.

Jonathan was still active in the Gay Men’s Chorus, which took up every Tuesday evening, leaving me to ride herd on Joshua. The boy was a handful even when we were both there, but I really couldn’t begrudge Jonathan time for something he loved so.

We managed to see our circle of close friends—Tim Jackson and Phil Stark, Bob Allen and Mario Esteban, Jared Martinson and Jake Jacobson, and Cory Costas and Nick Evans—on a somewhat regular basis. We’d try to have dinner either as a group or as couples about once a month. As a matter of fact, the Friday after the Sugar Yums incident, we were to have dinner with Nick and Cory.

When they’d called to suggest it, we at first declined, since we’d already booked Craig Richmond, our regular babysitter and Joshua’s pal, for Saturday night for one of our just-Jonathan-and-me date nights. Craig was at the age where he had an increasingly active social life of his own, and it was getting harder for us to mesh our schedules with his, so I didn’t want to call him and ask him to switch nights.

No problem, Cory said, we’ll go to Dirk’s, and Joshua can come along.

Dirk’s is a nice little family restaurant popular with the deaf because the owner’s son is deaf, and both waitresses—one of them the owner’s wife—signed. We’d been there once before, since Cory was the sign interpreter at the Metropolitan Community Church—the MCC—and Nick was deaf.

*

Cory and Nick were already there when we arrived and had gotten a table. Joshua ran over to sign Hi as soon as he saw them. They got up for an exchange of hugs.

As always, Joshua was fascinated by watching them sign, and I was in something akin to awe over how effortlessly Cory translated Nick’s rapid signing for us, and interpreted our speech for Nick as we talked. Every now and then either Cory or Nick would directly address something to Joshua, carefully fingerspelling or using the signs they had already taught him. The patience the deaf exhibit with hearing people willing to learn sign is nothing short of amazing.

We thanked them yet again for recommending the Potters, an elderly deaf couple who lived across the street from Joshua’s school, to us. Their own grandchildren having moved away, they were more than willing to look after Joshua after school every day until one of us could pick him up. Joshua adored them and they him; they were surrogate grandparents for him, and he became quite proficient in sign thanks to them.

*

I’d left the car on the street when we returned from dinner, since we’d be using it first thing the next morning to do our weekly chores. As I was opening the door to get in, I noticed a sealed envelope under the windshield wiper. Jonathan gave me a questioning look. I sighed but said nothing. As always, the only word on the envelope was Dick. Getting into the car, I set it on the seat between my leg and the door.

Well? Jonathan asked, Aren’t you going to open it?

I didn’t have to open it; I knew what was in it. This was the fourth time someone had left me a card under the wiper. I’d never had a secret admirer before…that I know of. Kind of flattering, in a third-grader-secret-note kind of way.

When I’d gotten the first one, I had assumed Jonathan put it there, but the writing on the envelopes definitely wasn’t his. It looked as though it came out of a calligraphy textbook.

Reluctantly, I opened this latest one to find exactly what I’d expected—a card similar to the others: You are very special; and in place of a signature, there was a heart with an arrow through it.

Jonathan was staring at me, head cocked. I handed him the envelope and card. He read it and grinned.

Awww, that’s sweet. Do you know who sent it?

I told him I suspected it was a cute teenager whose family had recently moved into the building across the street. I’d seen him watching me several times, and it got so that I’d smile and wave. It seemed to embarrass the hell out of him, although he would give a small wave and a really shy smile in return. He never made any move to approach me, though, which was just as well.

When we returned home later, I again parked on the street, and as we got out, saw the teenager just leaving his building. He looked at us then quickly away.

Is that him? Jonathan asked, and I nodded. He’s got a crush on you! he added as we were climbing the stairs to our apartment.

Worried?

Uh, I don’t think so. Should I be?

"Yeah. You be worried about him, and I’ll be worried about Craig having a crush on you."

He must like butch guys.

Craig?

He laughed. No, the kid across the street.

You think I’m butch?

We’d opened the door and were headed for the kitchen with the groceries.

Of course I do! You’re my knight in shining armor. You have been since the day I met you, and you know it.

I hoped I wasn’t blushing when I said, Well, you know I don’t like labels. But if it comes to that, I sure as hell don’t think of you as fem.

Good. Neither do I. But I don’t have to be fem for you to be butch.

What’s ‘butch’? Joshua asked, demonstrating his uncanny ability to not miss a thing.

Uncle Dick, Jonathan said.

Oh. Can I have a cookie?

*

Craig came over around five thirty, Jonathan fixed dinner for him and Joshua, and we left for our own dinner at our favorite restaurant, Napoleon’s, just before seven. After dinner we went to a movie then drove out to Ramon’s, our friend Bob Allen’s bar, to socialize a bit and for me to have a nightcap.

When we got home around eleven thirty, Craig was watching television. As usual when he looked after Joshua, he was spending the night and would go with Jonathan and Joshua to the MCC in the morning. His dad, Mark, a police lieutenant with whom I’d worked on several cases, and his mother Sandra were totally supportive of their son’s being gay and considered Jonathan and me positive role models for him.

A nice thing about Craig staying over, although it put something of a damper on our after-the-bedroom-door-closes activities, was that it was he to whom Joshua ran when he first woke up on Sunday morning rather than banging on our door demanding to know when breakfast would be ready.

Whenever Craig was around the boy all but ignored us, giving us a chance to relax more than we normally would have been able to.

Breakfast over, the Three Musketeers got ready to head off to church, leaving me to do the dishes and read the paper. They took my car to church, since it had more passenger room than Jonathan’s pickup.

I’d agreed to meet them for brunch at the Cove, a gay-friendly family restaurant not too far from the MCC, and I arrived early to get a table. I noticed three deaf teenagers in animated conversation at a table near the door, casually ignoring the occasional stares in their direction, especially by a few children whose parents would quickly attempt to dissuade them.

When Jonathan, Joshua, and Craig came in, Joshua immediately noticed the three boys and ran over to their table.

Hi! I’m Joshua.

The teens all grinned and in unison signed, Hi, Joshua.

One signed, Are you deaf?

Joshua signed No just as Craig came over to the table to retrieve him.

Sorry, he said.

No problem, one of the boys said aloud then signed, Nice to meet you, Joshua, just before Craig led Joshua back to join us. I knew Jonathan had sent Craig to get him, since the boys at the table were all cute and about Craig’s age. Jonathan has a streak of matchmaker in him.

So, how was church? I asked when they were looking at their menus.

Great, Jonathan said, setting his aside. Dan Stabile was there helping Reverend Mason. I talked to him at Chorus, but I didn’t know he’d been a priest for nine years—the last three at St. Agnes. He didn’t say so, but I imagine his getting together with Byron might be the reason he left the church.

I noticed as we had our brunch that Craig and one of the deaf boys kept looking at one another and smiling. Joshua was less than happy whenever Craig’s full attention was not on him.

"I can sign," he said at one point.

And maybe you can teach Craig, Jonathan, who had also been aware of Craig’s cruising, suggested.

Sure! Craig said, grinning as he tousled Joshua’s hair, his eyes on his prospective new friend.

*

As I sat in my office Monday morning doing the crossword puzzle in the morning paper, the phone rang.

Hardesty Investigations.

Mr. Hardesty, this is Donna Winters. Mr. O’Banyon apologizes for the short notice but wondered if you might be free to meet with him today at two o’clock.

Of course, Donna. I’ll see you then.

As I pondered the reason for the call, my mind wandered to my recent spate of cases. They’d all been of the standard bread-and-butter variety that form the basis of any private investigator’s business. I hadn’t worked on a homicide in months. Not that I was complaining, but given my penchant for stumbling into cases in which someone ended up dead, it was a little unusual.

As a result, I’d also not talked to my contacts at the police department—Lieutenant Mark Richman, Craig’s dad, and Detective Marty Gresham—in ages. We’d worked together so often I considered them almost friends, and I made a mental note to call Marty to see about getting together for lunch some day, as we’d done frequently in the past.

*

I arrived at Glen’s office at five till two and announced myself to the receptionist, a well-dressed woman in her fifties I’d not seen before. She picked up a phone, said, Mr. Hardesty for Mr. O’Banyon, then hung up, smiling.

If you’ll have a seat, Mr. O’Banyon will be with you in just a moment.

I was about to sit down when I saw Donna coming down the hall to the receptionist’s right. We reached the glass door at the same time, and she opened it for me.

So nice to see you, Mr. Hardesty, she said as she led me to Glen’s office.

You, too, Donna, I said. How’s your daughter?

She’s fine. It’s nice of you to ask.

Rapping on one of Glen’s double doors, she opened it.

Mr. Hardesty’s here, she said, stepping aside to let me enter then closing it behind me.

Glen looked up from the stack of papers in front of him then stood as I walked over for the customary handshake.

Good to see you, Dick. Have a seat. He gestured me to one of the two comfortable leather chairs in front of his desk. Sorry for the short notice but I’ve just gotten a case I think I can use your help on.

He didn’t wait for me to say anything before continuing.

"You may have seen the report of the jogger killed by a hit-and-run in Prichert Park late Friday afternoon. No witnesses, but a bicyclist who heard a loud bang and came upon the body almost immediately after seeing a car speed away. He thought it was dark blue but couldn’t be sure because the light was fading.

"A license plate was found in the street near the body. The police traced it to my client, Hugo Greenspan, who claimed he hadn’t driven his car in several days. However, the car was in his locked garage with the front plate missing and a dent in the bumper and hood.

They impounded the car and arrested him for manslaughter. He managed to reach me from jail, and I was able to get him out on bail—not, as you know, easy to do on a Friday night. The preliminary hearing is Wednesday. Can you see what you can find out that might help him?

Sure.

Great! I’ll have Donna call him to set up a meeting. I’ll leave the details of when and where up to you. He picked up the phone and pressed a button. and said, Donna, Mr. Hardesty wants to set up a meeting with Mr. Greenspan. Can you help him? He’ll be right out.

I got up for another across-the-desk handshake and walked to the door, which Donna opened just as I reached it. Closing it behind me, she returned to her desk.

When would you like to meet? she asked before picking up the phone.

As soon as possible, at his home.

*

Greenspan had agreed to leave work early and meet me at his home at three thirty. I arrived, as usual, a couple minutes early. His house was in a formerly suburban post-WWII subdivision of well-kept, basically similar homes. All had originally been built with attached garages, but a few, Greenspan’s included, had been remodeled to make it another room in the house.

I drove around the block to verify there was an alley at the rear. There was only one garage on his side, so I assumed it was his. Most of the yards on either side of the alley were fenced, making it difficult to see into.

I found a place to park not too far from the house. As I approached the door, I noticed a man hurrying up the sidewalk toward me.

Mr. Hardesty? he called as I was about to ring the bell. Coming up to me reaching into his pocket for his keys, he said, Sorry, the bus was twenty minutes late.

Opening the door, he led me into the house, which gave the impression of being what I always liked to refer to as comfortably lived-in. A large painting on one wall caught my attention—Greenspan with a nice-looking guy about the same age.

Curtis, he said as if reading my mind. He died three years ago.

I’m sorry, I said.

He gave me a small smile.

Me, too, he replied. Please, have a seat.

After we’d both sat down, he said, Mr. O’Banyon said he’d be contacting you, and that I should help you in any way I can. What can I do for you?

Let’s start by you telling me exactly what happened on your end. Glen sketched out the general situation but didn’t go into the details.

Greenspan nodded.

"The police came to my door at around seven o’clock Friday night with an arrest warrant for a fatal hit-and-run accident at around four thirty that afternoon. I explained that was impossible, that I hadn’t used my car in three days. I take the bus to and from work, and I’d left work early on Friday, around three thirty, for a dental appointment then took the bus home.

"They claimed my front license plate was found at the scene and wanted to see my car. My garage is always locked, but