by Robert Boucheron
The home of Stephen and Beverly Nash was a brick ranch house in rolling country. Louisa Jones parked in the gravel drive that led to the carport. The yard and flowerbeds were raked. As buds swelled on the maple trees, and the green tips of bulbs peeped from the soil, the place looked ready for spring to burst. She followed a brick path to the front, pressed the doorbell, and waited on the brick stoop. A trim, middle-aged woman wearing an apron came to the door.
“Mrs. Nash? I am Louisa Abernethy Jones from the Vindicator. May I come in?”
“Stephen, the lady from the newspaper is here.”
An equally trim man of the same vintage, wearing slippers and a cardigan sweater, shuffled into the living room. He shook hands with Louisa and showed her to an armchair decked with a doily and an embroidered pillow. On the wall hung a wedding photograph, in which Mrs. Nash wore a white dress and Mr. Nash wore a naval uniform. The fireplace mantel was crowded with photographs in tiny easel frames, porcelain figurines, and a shelf clock in the shape of a bell. Side tables bore a cargo of lamps, coasters, and bowls. Everything was as neat as a pin. Mr. and Mrs. Nash sat in matching recliner chairs and politely faced their visitor.
“We read about the shooting in Hapsburg,” Mr. Nash said.
“What a dreadful thing for you all to suffer,” Mrs. Nash said.
“A tragedy,” Mr. Nash said.
“And it happened on a Sunday,” Mrs. Nash said.
“As you know,” Louisa said, “your son sang in the choir that Ralph Willis directed. He was also present at the house in the afternoon. He helped plant some bushes.”
“That’s Gary,” Mrs. Nash said. “Always ready to lend a helping hand.”
“That’s the way we raised our children,” Mr. Nash said, “all four of them.”
“Gary is the baby,” Mrs. Nash said.
“You should stop calling him a baby,” Mr. Nash said. “He’s twenty-four years old, for Christ’s sake.”
“Please refrain from using profanity in the house,” Mrs. Nash said. “You know I don’t like it. And Mrs. Jones may take offense.”
“Was Gary a friend of Ralph Willis?”
“He mentioned him,” Mr. Nash said.
“Gary phoned or came home once a week,” Mrs. Nash said. “He was very good about staying in touch and keeping us abreast. He was flattered when Mr. Willis asked him to sing at the Christmas concert.”
“Did you go to hear it?”
“Too far for us to attend,” Mr. Nash said.
“St. Giles is an Episcopal church,” Louisa said. “Did that bother you?”
“You mean the fact that he jumped ship?” Mr. Nash said.
“That’s one way to put it,” Louisa said.
“We raised our children Southern Baptist,” Mrs. Nash said, “the church we attend.”
“What they do after they leave home is up to them,” Mr. Nash said.
“Gary works as a nurse at the regional hospital, is that correct?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Nash said. “He completed all the requirements to be a registered nurse, the four-year degree and the license examination. He’s been at the hospital for over a year.”
“Two years,” Mr. Nash said.
“You know,” Mrs. Nash said, “when Gary was a little boy, he brought home injured birds and animals and nursed them back to health. The poor little things would quiver and shake. They were terrified and in pain. He fed them and kept them warm, and in a few days, they recovered enough to go back to the wild.”
“Except for that squirrel,” Mr. Nash said. “It jumped out of the cardboard box, and we chased it all over the house. It was faking.”
“We thought Gary might become a veterinarian,” Mrs. Nash said. “On career day at the high school, he announced he wanted to be a nurse. It might have been a documentary he saw on television on the healing arts.”
“Why not a doctor?” Louisa asked.
“He wasn’t that good of a student,” Mr. Nash said. “Four years of college and then four years of medical school is a slog. Then who knows how many years of residency. Hell, he barely made it through high school.”
“Watch your language, please,” Mrs. Nash said. “Gary set a realistic goal and he achieved it. Better not to aim too high and miss. We’re proud of Gary, as we are of all our children.”
“He’s also a talented singer?”
“He was always musical,” Mrs. Nash said. “Even as a toddler, he crooned. He imitated what he heard on records and the radio. He made up little songs.”
“When the kids were young, you sang all the time,” Mr. Nash said. “Nursery rhymes and nonsense. He picked it up from you.”
“I suppose,” Mrs. Nash said. “Now there’s no one to sing to. Gary sang in the church youth choir and in school. He wasn’t good at reading music, though.”
“He wasn’t good at reading period,” Mr. Nash said. “According to his teachers.”
“When he mentioned Ralph Willis and possible friendship, did that concern you?”
“Do you mean an older man and a younger man?” Mrs. Nash said.
“Gary is gay,” Mr. Nash said.
“We knew from an early age,” Mrs. Nash said. “Almost before he did. Do you disapprove, Mrs. Jones?”
“My only concern is getting the facts.”
“In a way,” Mrs. Nash said, “we were glad that he found someone. It was a relief.”
“Do you think Gary saw Ralph as a financial source?”
“A sugar daddy?” Mr. Nash said. “Gary has a good job. If anything, he earns more as a nurse than Willis did.”
“Gary disappeared shortly after the shooting. Do you have any idea why, or where he went?”
Husband and wife exchanged glances. Mr. Nash nodded.
“Mr. Willis and Gary had scheduled a vacation,” Mrs. Nash said. “It was supposed to be last week in Philadelphia. Gary had lunch with us on Sunday. He normally works Sunday night at the hospital, the graveyard shift, but he was able to get a last-minute substitute. He could start his vacation a day early. He drove back to Hapsburg to help Mr. Willis plant the bushes. They were going to leave by train on Monday. They had tickets and a hotel reservation.”
“We got a panicky phone call Monday night,” Mr. Nash said. “Something had happened to Willis, and he couldn’t go. Gary was going by himself. He phoned again a few days later from the hotel. By then, we had seen the newspaper story. Gary wanted to let us know he was okay. We didn’t discuss the shooting.”
“Have you seen your son since then?” Louisa asked.
“Briefly,” Mrs. Nash said. “He said he found a place to stay near the hospital. He was tired of commuting from Hapsburg.”
“Is there a way for me to contact him?”
“He’ll be at the apartment tomorrow morning to pack,” Mrs. Nash said. “A mover will be there for the furniture.”
“We would appreciate it if you keep this information quiet,” Mr. Nash said. “In other words, the police don’t need to know.”
“I promise to protect your son’s privacy.” Louisa stood. “I have a drive ahead of me, so I ought to go. It was a pleasure to meet both of you.”
“One more thing,” Mr. Nash said. “Gary never handled a gun. None of our kids did.”
“I oppose violence and weapons of all kinds,” Mrs. Nash said, “including toys. Killing people is not a game. Even pretending.”
*
Early on Tuesday morning, Louisa drove to the Sylvan Apartments. A moving van was parked in the street, and a ramp extended from the open back. A big man squeezed backward through the front door of the building, followed by a sofa and another man. They skittered down the walk and up the ramp, into the dark void of the van.
As the van resounded with thumps and scrapes, Louisa walked briskly into the building and up the stair. The door to Apartment 2B was propped open. She knocked and entered.
“Mr. Nash? It’s Louisa Jones from the newspaper.”
A slender young man emerged from the kitchen. Dressed in a gray sweatshirt and jeans dyed indigo and stiff with newness, he looked like Stephen and Beverly Nash, thirty years younger. Unsmiling, he stopped in his tracks, holding a dinner plate and a sheet of newsprint.
“What do you want?”
“Your parents said I would find you here,” she said. “May I talk to you?”
“I’m packing.” Mr. Nash wrapped the plate and set it in a cardboard box, which was half-filled with crumpled newsprint. The kitchen cabinet doors were all open. There were plenty of dishes and glasses, pot and pans, utensils and gadgets to pack. He was not about to slow down for an inquisitive middle-aged woman in a long skirt and orthopedic shoes.
“I’ve been interviewing people who knew Ralph Willis for an article on his life.”
Nash wrapped another plate and deposited it in the box.
“Do you sing in the choir of St. Giles Episcopal Church?”
“Not any more. I’m leaving town.”
“I spoke to the rector of St. Giles and Bobbie Sue Metzger. They say that Willis invited you to join the choir last year after hearing you sing.”
“Ralph and I met socially. He found out that I sang. When he heard that my range is tenor, he was interested. Tenors are always in demand.”
“Do basses outnumber tenors?”
“By genetic distribution, like blue eyes? I don’t know. Maybe it’s cultural.”
“Did Ralph want to improve the balance in the St. Giles choir?”
“That’s what he said. He made me an attractive offer, some solo work and free voice lessons. He was more likeable than Bobbie Sue Metzger.”
“You didn’t like Mrs. Metzger?”
“She has an edge. Have you met her?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Did you know she’s also a volunteer firefighter? She trained in search and rescue.”
“Does the training include firearms?”
“She carries a handgun for protection at night and when she has to go somewhere alone. She showed me.”
“When was that?”
“We met once at church to rehearse a part I was singing.”
“Did you leave First Baptist after that?”
“Yes. Little did I know what I was stepping into.”
“The feud between the churches?”
“Right. When I moved here a year ago, Hapsburg looked like a sleepy, idyllic place, a fairy-tale village frozen in time.”
“Is that why you chose to live here?”
“I grew up in the valley, went to nursing school, and got a job at the regional hospital. I found this apartment near the college, and I liked the neighborhood. I started to learn my way around. First Baptist was a natural, given my upbringing. Then I discovered Sunday nights at the café and a few people like Ralph.”
“Gay people?”
“Queer, homo, whatever you want to call us.”
“I interviewed Miss Lilac Arugg yesterday. Rural Virginia may be conservative, but there are alternatives.”
Nash paused to look at Louisa. Maybe she was trustworthy. He brushed the hair from his forehead and stopped scowling.
“Hapsburg turned out to be not so sleepy after all,” he said.
“A hotbed of intrigue?”
“You would know, writing for the newspaper.”
“I’m still learning my way around. Did you and Ralph become friends?”
“If you mean lovers, we never got that far. Do you think all gay men have sex at the drop of a hat?”
“Sorry to be obtuse.”
“There’s casual sex and true love forever, just like the real world.”
“Did Ralph tell you about a long-term relationship?”
“He didn’t volunteer the information, but it leaked. Later, the long-term ex turned out to be Captain Ryder.”
“When did you find out?”
“A few days ago, along with the rest of the world.”
“But you were cautious.”
“From my work, I’m well aware of sexually transmitted disease. For health reasons, I kept things out of the bedroom.”
“Were you interested?”
“I made it clear I was looking for commitment. For Ralph, that was a game changer. After years of carrying on a secret affair with a married man, he realized he did not have to play second fiddle. Starting in January, he said he was going to break it off.”
“In mid-February, he did. Ryder gave me his version. Did you ever meet him?”
“I had no desire to. I wasn’t about to step into another pile of cowpat.”
“A neighbor named Wolfram says he saw you and Ralph in the yard on Sunday afternoon. You were planting bushes.”
“It was a gardening date. At church that morning, he asked for help. It sounded innocent enough. Fresh air, exercise, and green plants. High culture and horticulture, we do it all.”
“You planned to travel together for a few days.”
“Ralph told me he had sent his boyfriend packing. It was a clean break, no messy details. We both had vacation time coming up. He thought a few days in Philadelphia would be a way to test the waters. An out-of-town try-out, in theater-speak.”
“After the planting, did you stay at Ralph’s house?”
“No sleepover. As a reward for agricultural labor, Ralph invited me to stay for supper. Eating alone gets old, and we both enjoyed the company. Also, he liked to cook. He refused to let me help wash dishes, and I left.”
“What did you do after that?”
“Work. The hospital rotates nurses through shifts. That Sunday, I was assigned the graveyard shift. It started at eight PM and ran to eight AM on Monday. I came home and slept a few hours. We were supposed to leave Monday evening. I saw the newspaper with the headline that Ralph was killed. It was upsetting. I packed and left.”
“Have the police questioned you?”
“Not yet. They left phone messages at the apartment and the hospital. Ryder last week, and then a detective named Blake. I’m in no hurry to fall into their clutches.”
“Where did you go?”
“I took the train to Philadelphia. Ralph had already bought the tickets and made the hotel reservation. Why let them go to waste? I thought the time away might be beneficial.”
“Was it?”
“I went through the motions, saw the tourist sights, went to the art museum. I felt numb, unable to appreciate anything. By the end of the week, though, I was sure about one thing.”
“What was that?”
“If that’s how this town treats people like Ralph, I want out.”
*
Throughout the conversation, Nash methodically wrapped and packed dishes. Now the cardboard box was full. He folded the top flaps, sealed them with tape, and moved on to another box for glassware.
“The death of someone close to you is always difficult,” Louisa said, “no matter the cause. But what you just told me does not match what others say.”
Nash paused in his work.
“You were scheduled for the Sunday night shift, but the hospital made a last-minute change. Instead, you went to the drag show at the Catharsis Café. There, you talked to J. D. Ryder. Why did you lie just now?”
“That’s why.”
“Because it was Ryder?”
“He was trying to disguise himself, but I’m sure it was him.”
“Let’s back up, Mr. Nash. Why were you there?”
“Why not? I had the evening off, and I’d never seen a drag show. I asked Ralph if he wanted to go, but he said he was tired after a full day of work. His plan was to get a good night’s sleep and clean the house on Monday morning. He said to have fun, and we would meet up for the jaunt to Philly.”
“So, you went to the café by yourself. Did you meet Ryder by chance?”
“This heavy guy wearing sunglasses and a ball cap started to chat. The setting is informal. People move around and talk between songs. I wondered if this dude was looking for a pickup. I didn’t want to get up and leave, so I tried to stay neutral. But he seemed to know who I was. He said we had a mutual friend.”
“Was he referring to Ralph?”
“Had to be. Then things got hairy. Ryder said that if I knew what was good for me, I would stay away. Keep out of something that’s none of my business.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“He was one scary dude. At the same time, I wondered why a police chief would be hanging out at a gay bar. Was it a sting operation? Did Ryder want payback for being dumped? Come to think of it, did he have anything to do with Ralph’s death?”
“Those are some of the questions I’m trying to answer. You showed up unexpectedly. Ryder could have been afraid of blackmail. He knew who you were. Did he expect you to recognize him?”
“Maybe that was the point. He didn’t want the bar crowd to know, but he wanted me to feel some heat. My boy’s night out was turning into a nightmare.”
“What did you do?”
“I said I had no idea what he was talking about. Isn’t that what you say when a thug threatens you? It was about nine o’clock, and the show wasn’t over. But I was.”
“Where did you go?”
“Here, to the apartment. I had had a drink at the show. Once I got home, I went to bed.”
“You weren’t worried?”
“There was nothing I could do about it, and I was tired. I made some noise coming in the street door, which rousted Mrs. Yoder downstairs. She opened her door to complain. She complains a lot.”
“Can Mrs. Yoder verify that you were here Sunday night after nine?”
“Look, Mrs. Jones, if you’re trying to establish an alibi, that would be it. Anyway, why would I want to hurt Ralph? If anything, I wanted the opposite.”
“The evidence backs you up, Mr. Nash. Still, your sudden disappearance after the murder looks bad. If we understand anything about Ryder, he has mixed motives. Jealousy is possible, along with a desire to protect his status. Sooner or later, you will have to answer to Blake, the detective. You might want to have a lawyer present.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
“Meanwhile, I have one more question. In the dryer in the basement is a pair of plaid shorts. To whom do they belong?”
“Not Ralph, that’s for sure. Probably Patrick. He was around. I think he stayed at Ralph’s house for a few days.”
“That’s what Patrick says. Did Ralph mention a disagreement?”
“He said the scales had fallen from his eyes. Whatever that means.”
“Disillusionment with his brother. What about the neighbor?”
“The day we planted the bushes the neighbor walked by wearing plaid shorts. After he left, Ralph went on a mock tirade. If I ever saw him committing a fashion felony like that, I should shoot him. It would be a mercy killing.”
“Eric Wolfram was the neighbor?”
“Right. He gave Ralph some gardening advice.”
“What was that?”
“He said that hydrangea blossoms can be pink or blue, depending on the pH of the soil. For blue, add acid, for pink, add alkali.”
“What did you do?”
“Ralph sent me to the garden shed for a bag of plant food, the type that increases acidity. He sprinkled it around the new bushes.”
“What did you do with the bag?”
“I put it back in the shed.”
The movers appeared in the kitchen. One of them needed Nash’s attention.
“We loaded all the furniture on the truck and some of the boxes. Nick here can help you pack the last of the boxes, while I tie things down.”
Louisa gathered her notes.
“Thank you for your patience,” she said, “and good luck with your move.”
“I hope you find what you’re looking for.”