The Secret Keeper

by Dorien Grey

  The conversation was interrupted by Joshua’s nearly knocking the bucket of chicken over in search of a drumstick.

  “About half an hour before we got off work,” Jonathan said, ladling out scoops of mashed potatoes and cole slaw onto Joshua’s plate, “I had to go out front to bring in a couple shrubs we’re going to be delivering tomorrow. I noticed a black Mercedes just up the block. You don’t see many Mercedes in that neighborhood. It had tinted windows, and the driver’s window was rolled down. I’m sure I saw someone sitting in the driver’s seat, but I couldn’t be sure.

  “Anyway, as I was pulling out of the lot, I noticed that the Mercedes was still there. And then, about two blocks from work, I looked into my mirror and saw the same black Mercedes several cars behind me.

  “I turned on Froberg, like I always do, and sure enough, the Mercedes did, too. Why would anyone be following me? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Coincidence, probably,” I said. I was lying.

  “I don’t think so. Just to be sure I was right, when I was the last car through the green light at Kling and I saw he was stuck there until the light turned again, I took a quick left onto Kling and then, as soon as I couldn’t see his car, I turned into the alley right behind the row of stores. I watched in the mirror and sure enough, he’d turned left on Kling, too. I saw him drive past the alley, but I don’t think he saw me. And then I came on home, and didn’t see him again.”

  I was impressed, but didn’t want to add fuel to his concern.

  “Well, like I say, probably just a coincidence,” I said, not believing it.

  He looked at me with a slightly raised eyebrow. “Do you suppose it was that guy who called me, and he’s really mad at me for not showing up?”

  “I doubt it,” I said. Damn, I hated lying.

  I had little doubt it was whoever had made the call that had lured him out onto a deserted road on the edge of town, and I was sure the guy wasn’t concerned about Jonathan’s not having shown up. I was rapidly becoming convinced Jonathan had shown up exactly as he was supposed to—but that whoever it was had just missed the chance to kill him.

  I was suddenly very interested in having a look at Jonathan’s windshield.

  “You know, if your windshield is broken maybe you should take my car to practice tonight and to work tomorrow. I can take your truck in to get the windshield fixed. We might as well get it taken care of right away.”

  “Would you mind? It isn’t a very big hole, but it goes all the way through, and there are a bunch of cracks around it. They’ll only get worse.”

  “Consider it done,” I said, and we finished our dinner.

  *

  As soon as Jonathan left for practice and Joshua and I had cleaned up from dinner, I said, “Let’s go take a walk downstairs for a minute. I want to take a look at Uncle Jonathan’s truck.”

  Joshua, who never passed up an opportunity to go somewhere—anywhere—waited impatiently by the front door while I rummaged through our top dresser drawer to find Jonathan’s spare set of keys.

  Since Jonathan always backed the truck in, the minute I unlocked and opened the door to the garage and switched on the light, I saw the hole, almost directly in the center of the windshield, just to the left of the driver’s seat as seen from the front. I moved up for a better look. Though it was warm in the garage, I felt a definite chill.

  “Where are we going?” Joshua asked.

  “Nowhere,” I said. “I just want to look for something.” Wanting to keep him from getting into any mischief or wandering into the alley while I was about it, I said, “Tell you what—why don’t you sit in the driver’s seat while I look.”

  “Can I drive?” he asked excitedly.

  “You can pretend-drive,” I said, “but don’t touch any of the buttons, okay?”

  “Okay,” he said, unconvincingly.

  I let him in the driver’s side and moved around to the passenger door, stepping partly into the truck to check for what I was afraid I was going to find. And I found it—a small round hole in the upholstery about a foot to the right of the driver and in line with but slightly lower than the hole in the windshield.

  Luckily, the truck had a split seat, so I was able to pull the passenger’s side forward without disturbing Joshua. He couldn’t reach the brake or clutch pedals, or anything on the dashboard, without leaning far forward, which of course he tried to do until my loud “Ahem!” stopped him in mid-motion. He returned to moving the steering wheel rapidly back and forth and making “brrrmmmmmmm” sounds.

  Returning my attention to the issue at hand, I saw a dent in the back wall of the cab and, searching the floor, spotted a flattened blob of metal—obviously, a bullet.

  Leaving it where it was, I put the seat back, got out of the truck, closed the door and went back to the driver’s door.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  “But we just got here!” Joshua observed plaintively. Reluctantly, he turned to get out of the truck, and I lifted him down to the floor.

  “You’re a good driver,” I said, tousling his head, and he beamed.

  We then left the garage, closing and locking the door behind us.

  When we returned to the apartment, Joshua ran off to his room, and I went right to the phone to call Marty Gresham’s number at police headquarters. I knew he wouldn’t be in, but left a message for him to call me the minute he arrived in the morning.

  *

  I had just come out of Joshua’s room after Story Time when Jonathan came home.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Practice ran a little longer than normal. And we ran through my solo tonight!”

  “Great,” I said. “How did it go?”

  The forthcoming concert was to feature a selection of songs from Disney movies, and Jonathan had been given a solo on “A Dream Is a Wish Your Heart Makes,” from Cinderella. I’d found it odd that, excited as he was, he didn’t practice it at home. In fact, he almost never sang at home. I’d asked him why, and he said, “I know it sounds funny, but, well, I don’t have any trouble singing around other people, but I’d get embarrassed singing around you.”

  “Embarrassed? Why in the world would you be embarrassed?”

  He’d shaken his head. “I don’t know. I just would be. And besides, I don’t want you to get tired of hearing the song. I want it to be special when you hear it at the concert.”

  I’d learned Jonathan had his own rules of logic, and not to question them. So I hadn’t.

  “Whatever you say, Babe,” I’d said, laying my hand on his leg.

  We sat on the couch and switched on the TV to catch one of Jonathan’s favorite P.I. shows, Riptide, which I always viewed with a certain bemusement for the ease with which the cases were solved. Jonathan was convinced the characters played by Perry King and Joe Penny were romantically involved. I didn’t quite understand how he reached that conclusion, but it was an interesting thought and probably another example of Jonathan-logic, so I didn’t argue with him.

  During a commercial break, I broached the subject I’d been thinking about since Joshua and I left the garage.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking. Maybe now’s a good time to make a trip back to Wisconsin to see your dad and your sisters.”

  We’d talked several times about his desire to take Joshua back to visit family. He hadn’t been back since he came to us, and while he spoke to his grandfather and/or aunts every month or so, Jonathan didn’t want them to become just voices on the phone.

  “You deserve a little time off,” I said. “You said the other day that work was a little slow at Evergreen. Your boss would probably be willing to have you take some time off. You’ve got some vacation time coming, and now would be a perfect time to go, while you don’t have any freelance jobs.”

  He was quiet for a few moments, thinking. “It would be nice to go back home for a while,” he said at last. “I’d like you to meet my family.”

  I smiled. “I’d like that, but I think I
’d better stay around and hold down the fort. Besides, this is a family thing.”

  “You’re family,” he said.

  “I appreciate that,” I said, “but this will be your first trip home with Joshua, and I’d just be a distraction. I’ll go with you next time.”

  “But it won’t be a vacation without you,” he objected.

  “You’ll have another week coming,” I said. “We can all go somewhere together then.”

  “Well, I don’t know. I just don’t like going anywhere without you.”

  “I know, and I’ll miss you, too. But I definitely think you should go.”

  The program resumed, and we went back to watching.

  At the next commercial, he said, “Yeah, I suppose now would be a good time to go home. When do you think we should go?”

  “The sooner the better,” I said. “How about this Thursday?”

  He looked at me suspiciously. “The day after tomorrow? Are you serious? No way I couldn’t leave that soon! I have to clear it with my boss, see if Dad will be able to pick us up, pack, let the gang know. All sorts of stuff. Maybe Saturday, that way I won’t miss more work than I have to.” He turned to face me full-on. “Something else is going on here. Tell me.”

  He deserved the truth. My trying to protect him with evasions and half-truths hadn’t worked, and he was right to resent my trying.

  So, I told him.

  “Look,” I said, trying to appear as casual about it as I could, “if—and that’s a big if—you’re right about Clarence Bement’s not having committed suicide, that means somebody killed him. And if whoever did it knows you and Mr. Bement talked a lot, it’s not impossible he may think Mr. Bement told you something he shouldn’t have.”

  “But he didn’t!”

  “You and I may know that, but the guy who called you to come out to a deserted stretch of road doesn’t.”

  “So, it wasn’t a stone that broke my windshield.” It was more a statement than a question.

  I shook my head. “Afraid not.”

  “And if I hadn’t swerved to avoid that pothole…”

  I reached over to take his hand, entwining our fingers.

  “But you did,” I said, “and that’s what matters.” I squeezed his hand. “Look, we can’t be sure about any of this. The window could have been an accident and your being followed a coincidence.”

  “But you don’t think so.”

  “Hey, I’m a private investigator. I see bad guys lurking behind every tree whether they’re there or not. But just to be safe, I want to look into it further, and I’ll be able to do that a lot easier if I don’t have to worry about you and Joshua while I’m doing it.”

  “You’re doing it again.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Trying to protect me. I do appreciate it, but I really can take care of myself.”

  “I know you can, Babe, and that’s not the issue. It’s not even a question of just you and me. We have Joshua to think about now, too. Just in case there is a real problem here, we can’t let him be involved. I can’t help but worry about you and try to protect you—that’s what I’m here for. So humor me. Look on it as my being selfish—by protecting you, I’m protecting myself. You’d do the same for me.”

  He smiled. “Of course I would. But I’d try not to be so obvious about it.”

  *

  We watched the late news in relative silence, and I could see, glancing over at him frequently, that he was thinking about everything that had been going on. I was very impressed that he seemed to take the possibility someone might have deliberately taken a shot at him and then followed him as calmly as he was.

  As the news ended, he looked at me and said, “You’re right. We really should go. I’ll check with my boss tomorrow then call Dad to see if it’s okay with him and if he can pick us up in Rhinelander. I’ll have to miss chorus practice next week—I’ve never missed a practice before.”

  “I’m sure they’ll understand.”

  He was silent a moment, then said, “I’m glad you suggested this trip, but I’m really going to miss you.” Picking up the remote to turn off the TV, he stood up. “Want me to show you how much?”

  Oh, yeah! I thought, but said nothing and merely got up from the couch, took his extended hand and let him lead me toward the bedroom.

  *

  Assuming for the moment that I wasn’t being paranoid in thinking that the shooting and Jonathan’s being followed were related and did have something to do with Clarence Bement’s death, the most logical explanation for it was that somebody for some reason thought Jonathan knew something he shouldn’t. What that might be, I had no idea, and doubted if Jonathan did, either.

  From what he’d said, only two other people had seen him with Bement—the housekeeper and Bement’s grandson. Since I couldn’t imagine the housekeeper luring him out to an isolated road or driving a Mercedes, plus the fact that it was a man who had called him, on the surface at least, that narrowed the field down quite a bit.

  From what I’d gathered, Bement had a pretty dysfunctional family, and the lure of money is always a strong motive for murder. Then again, that raised the question of how anyone else in the family could even have known about Jonathan.

  Jonathan had told me Bement said something about his housekeeper spying on him. If he was being serious, that might open the door a bit wider. I made a note to definitely have a talk with the housekeeper, and also with the grandson, Mel…Fowler.

  If it was not the grandson, there was the possibility that whoever took a shot at Jonathan might not even know exactly what he looked like. Since he drove a rather easily identifiable pickup truck with “Evergreen” on the doors and tailgate, and it had been parked frequently at Bement’s home, it wouldn’t be necessary to know what the driver looked like to target it.

  At least, that’s what I hoped. It was a weak theory, but it was also another reason I wanted Jonathan to take my car to work the next day.

  *

  “I think you should take Joshua to Happy Day and pick him up until we leave,” Jonathan said as we dressed in the morning. “I don’t want him with me.”

  I understood and shared his concern. “I can do that,” I said, “but assuming whoever it is doesn’t know what you look like, it’s your truck he’d be watching for so it’s best that we keep Joshua away from it. You’ll be driving my car, which he won’t recognize, so I’m sure you’ll be okay.”

  He thought a minute, then said, “I suppose.”

  I was tempted to follow him to work, but if I was right about the shooter only recognizing the truck, it wouldn’t be the brightest move to follow Jonathan around in it. Instead, I left the house when they did and arrived at work a few minutes early. Though I knew Marty wouldn’t be at work yet and would call me as soon as he could, I left another message for him.

  I didn’t want to tie up the phone by calling the airline for reservations until I heard from Marty, so began my customary coffee/newspaper/crossword puzzle ritual more as a matter of habit than with any real interest.

  At eight thirty, just as I was only halfheartedly paying attention to the crossword puzzle and struggling to find a three-letter word for “unworldly and vague” (fey), the phone rang.

  “Hardesty Investigations,” I said on picking it up, though I hoped it was Marty. It was.

  “What’s up?” he asked. “Two calls—it must be important.”

  “It is,” I replied, and quickly told him what had happened. “I know it could just be a freak accident,” I said, “but I wouldn’t be calling you if I didn’t think there was some validity to Jonathan’s belief.”

  “I understand. Where’s the truck now?”

  “In the parking lot right across from my office. I had Jonathan take my car today.”

  “Better safe than sorry,” Marty said. “I’ll send somebody over to take a look at it.”

  “You want me to meet them at the truck?”

  “That won’t be necessary. Just give me a desc
ription and the plate number.”

  “I don’t have the plate number, but you can’t miss it. It’s got ‘Evergreen Nursery’ on the doors and tailgate, and I’ll run down and unlock it and tell the lot attendant.” I then reiterated my belief that Jonathan might be right about Bement’s death.

  “One thing at a time,” he said. “For now, we’ll have to handle it as a routine police report, since we don’t know that it has any relation to Clarence Bement’s death. They’ll want to talk to Jonathan to find out exactly what happened. He works at Evergreen? The one out on Hollister? Do you have their phone number handy?”

  I gave it to him. “They’d better call first. Sometimes he works in the yard and sometimes he goes out on jobs with a crew.”

  “Will do,” he said. “And I’ll be sure to pass the report on to Howie Garland and Dave Angell—they’re the team looking into Bement’s death. You want to catch lunch? Dan’s got a dentist appointment, and you and I can talk a little more about all this.”

  “That’d be great,” I said. “My treat. Sandler’s okay? You name the time.”

  “Sandler’s is fine. Say twelve fifteen?”

  I called Evergreen to make sure Jonathan would be there and to give him a heads-up.

  Leaving the office, I went downstairs and across the street to the parking lot to unlock the truck and alert the attendant that the police would be showing up at some point. I left my office phone number with him in case the investigating officers might need something, then returned to my office.

  I called the airlines for reservations. American had a nine a.m. flight to Chicago Saturday morning, with a connecting commuter flight to Rhinelander, getting them there at three fifteen. I scheduled a return flight for the following Friday, getting them back here at two forty-five p.m.

  If I’d had my druthers, I’d have left the return date open and kept them away until I was absolutely positive what was going on. But Jonathan had pointed out, rightly, that he could only take so much time off from work, and that Joshua shouldn’t miss more time away from school—it might only be kindergarten but it was important—than was absolutely necessary. I reluctantly agreed.