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incentive for his silence?
    If the baby-blue Porsche was the one Grant drove, having it go into Booth’s own shop for unspecified repairs the same night as the accident would pretty much guarantee the cops wouldn’t be able to prove anything, even if they knew about it. Unless an eyewitness to the accident showed up, which was rather unlikely after more than a week, the accident looked like a shoo-in for the unsolved files.
    I could have called my detective friend Marty Gresham at police headquarters, but Marty was a homicide detective and Jim was, fortunately, still very much alive. Still, it rankled to think that if Grant was responsible he might get off scot-free.
    Well , a mind-voice said, you can think about that tomorrow.
    Yeah, thanks, Scarlett , I thought. If I ever get to sleep tonight .
    I must have, because the next thing I remember is light coming through the blinds and the sound of Joshua shrieking with laughter in the living room, announcing that he and Jonathan were having another of their tickling contests, which Jonathan always won, hands down.
    *
    On the drive to the office, I decided to hold off on any calls to the police and do a little freelance checking around on my own, including talking to Booth’s mechanic, before rushing in and making premature accusations based on my tendency to see plots and subterfuges where none exist. If I found out anything more concrete…
    So, the day and the rest of the week settled into routine. Jonathan wasn’t able to reach Sal until Thursday, and when I tried calling I got a message saying it was “no longer in service.”
    I did have occasion to get a small assignment from Glen O’Banyon, which gave me the opportunity to stop by his office and talk with him for a few minutes. I brought up the subject of the chorus as subtly as possible, telling him we’d gone to one of Booth’s get-togethers and met his nephew Grant.
    Glen gave me a raised eyebrow and small smile.
    “Ah, yes, his ‘nephew.’ Crandall has a very large family, it appears. This is the first one who sings, however. Roger Rothenberger is not overly happy with…Grant, is it?”
    I nodded.
    “Well, I’m sure Grant will be on his way as soon as he has accomplished whatever it was he set out to accomplish.”
    Though I didn’t say anything, I realized Jefferson’s goal might well be to add his being a soloist with the chorus to his résumé. However, I couldn’t resist mentioning the conflict revolving around the “I Am What I Am” solo and that the guy who was set to do it had been involved in a near-fatal accident.
    Another raised eyebrow, but no smile this time.
    “And you’re suggesting…?”
    I quickly raised a hand in not-overly-convincing protest.
    “No, no. I’m suggesting nothing. Strange things do happen. But I’d hate to see the chorus torn apart over all this.” I was tempted to mention the Porsche and Jim Bowers’ faulty memory but figured I’d said enough for the moment.
    “Well,” Glen said, “I know Crandall does like to throw his weight around and I know he and Roger have had their run-ins. But Roger isn’t hesitant in standing up to him. And despite the chorus’ being seriously inconvenienced without Crandall’s financial support, the board won’t let him go too far. I really hadn’t been aware that the ‘nephew’ was being such a disruption. I’ll keep my eyes and ears a little more open until this all blows over. The last thing any of us wants is for the chorus to suffer, or to risk losing Roger—he’s the heart and soul of it all.”
    “Aren’t games fun?” I asked.
    Glen shrugged and grinned.
    I left shortly thereafter, feeling a little better about things. I knew part of my concern was for Jonathan. I didn’t want anything to stand in the way of his enjoying every minute of his time with the chorus.
    *
    Jonathan spoke with Eric and a few other chorus members several times during the week and over the weekend, and the usual quietly bubbling