The warmth vanished again and his face stiffened. He ran a hand over the front of his white shirt and fingered his red tie. “Not well,” he said. “Is that who you want to talk about?”
I nodded. “Did you ever socialize with Mr. Cortese and Danes?”
Rich shook his head. “Danes was one of Joe’s music pals. Me, I go in more for the ponies, so I never saw Danes with Joe.”
“But they were close?”
“Close enough, I guess. Joe loved music and he knew a lot about it- I mean theory and history and everything- and I guess Danes does too. I guess they liked the same kinds of things. And Joe felt… bad for him.”
“Why bad?”
“He thought Danes was a sad guy- that he was lonely and his life was… crappy.” Rich shook his head and smiled a little, remembering something. “Joe knew about people.”
“Was he right about Danes’s life?”
“Probably. From the little I’ve seen, I can believe he’s lonely. The guy’s such a prick, nobody with sense would want anything to do with him. But what the hell do I know?”
“I guess Mr. Cortese didn’t mind him.”
Rich laughed some more. “Joe was a special case. He always did good works- more so after Margie passed away- and Danes was one of them. And probably the guy wasn’t such a prick around Joe. Joe had that effect.”
“So was Danes Cortese’s friend or his project?”
“They were friends. Joe felt bad for the guy, but he genuinely liked him too. They had a good time at concerts and such. It was something Joe and Margie used to do, and I think he liked having somebody else to talk to about it.” Rich thought of something and smiled ruefully. “Besides, you don’t leave that kind of property to a casual acquaintance.”
I had another question, but it vanished from my head like breath on a cold day. “What property?” I asked softly.
“The house, up in Lenox.”
“Cortese left Danes property? In his will?”
Rich beetled his brows and looked at me like I was slow, which maybe I was. “Up in Lenox,” he repeated.
“And Danes has taken possession of it?”
“About two months ago.”
Two months ago- eight weeks, more or less. My heart was pounding, and I felt a vein throbbing in my neck.
“What the hell is this about, March?” Rich asked.
“I’ve been trying to locate Danes,” I said slowly, “for his ex-wife. I didn’t know about any property in Lenox, though. It didn’t show up in any of the online searches.”
Rich shrugged. “Transferred too recently, maybe? Or maybe they’re slow in updating their computer records up there, who knows? I never trust those Internet things anyway. Give me a walking, talking county clerk any day.”
“When’s the last time you saw Danes?”
“When we did the filing and made the transfer- about two months ago, up in Lenox.”
“Have you talked to him since?”
“He called me a few days later, asking if I knew who Joe had used for landscaping. I told him I’d check my files and call him back.”
“You have a phone number for him up there?”
“He didn’t have a phone hooked up. He told me to call his home number and leave a message, which I did. Why, you thinking he’s up there still?” I nodded. Rich nodded back. “Could be. He had luggage with him when I saw him. He could’ve been planning to stay for a while. You try calling him, leaving a message?”
“Yes.” Two months ago… eight weeks. “Tell me about the property,” I said, and Rich did.
It was a 110-year-old Victorian farmhouse and an even older barn, on twenty acres that bordered October Mountain State Forest. Cortese had given it a name- Calliope Farms- and for the past ten years he’d spent much of every summer up there. And he had left all of itfurniture and record collection included- to Gregory Danes. Rich gave me the address.
I wrote it down and thought some more. “That’s a pretty hefty bequest to make to a friend,” I said eventually.
Rich shrugged. “It was a small piece of a hefty estate. And other people besides Danes got some nice stuff. Me, I got a Chagall. Anyway, after Margie, what else did Joe have in his life? He had his friends, his charities… and Paulie. Joe left something for everybody.”
I was quiet again. Rich steepled his fingers and watched my face. “You said the estate went through probate quickly. Does that mean no one contested anything?” Rich nodded. “Not even Paul?”
Rich looked at me for a while. “Paulie was taken care of in the will,” he told me finally. “He won’t ever have to worry about keeping body and soul together.”
“Does that mean he didn’t contest anything?”
He sighed. “Not in any… organized way. He had every opportunityI made sure of that- but Paulie… He complained a little, and he had some… theories, but ultimately he didn’t contest it. And like I said, the will was clean, and he was well taken care of.”
“What kind of theories did he have?”
“Paul gets ideas about things sometimes. For a while he thought that Danes had done him out of the place in Lenox. But it was crazy, and there was nothing to it.”
“Where’s Paul now?”
“I don’t know. The apartment went to him, and so did the house on Sanibel, and I know he’s shown up both places from time to time, but he doesn’t stay at either one. Right now, if I had to guess, I’d say he’s living in his car.”
“What’s the matter with him, Mr. Rich?”
Rich shook his head and looked out the window. “He was diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic, a long time ago,” he said finally.
“Is he on meds?”
“Sometimes. And they work for him- when he takes them. He’s had some real good stretches, where he’s held a job and paid the rent and everything. And then he goes off and has some bad stretches.”
“How bad?”
“He gets fired; he gets evicted; he drops out of sight for months at a time and winds up in a shelter or on the street.” Talking about Paul seemed to make Rich tired. He twisted his hands together on the desk.
“Does he need to be institutionalized?”
Rich made a resigned shrug. “I don’t know. Joe and I talked about it. I think maybe it’s headed that way.” He sighed some more and shook his head. “What does any of this have to do with Danes?”
“Does he ever get violent, Mr. Rich?” Rich looked down at his desk for a moment and then looked up at me. His eyes were worn and old and worried under his white brows. He nodded his head very slowly.
31
I was packing when Jane showed up at my door. She was still dressed for work in a navy suit, and her face was thin and tired-looking. She had an opened bag of barbecue potato chips in her hand. She tipped the bag toward me.
“Want one?” she asked.
“No, thanks,” I said. She followed me back to the bedroom and leaned against the wall. She put a potato chip in her mouth and looked at my overnight bag, open on the floor.
“I got your message,” she said. “I appreciate your letting me know.” I nodded and put a pair of boxers in the
