The Secret Keeper

by Dorien Grey

  I agreed. I did not mention that perhaps he had.

  We talked for another half-hour or so, sliding by mutual consent from the subject of her husband’s and Clarence’s deaths to more general subjects. She asked about my family, and I showed her a photo of the three of us, and a separate one of Joshua.

  “They’re charming!” she said, which of course pleased me even if she was just being polite.

  She, I learned, had been an English war bride, having met Eli Prescott while he was stationed in England during WWII. They had two daughters, both of whom had married and moved away but with whom she exchanged frequent visits. She was considering the possibility, she said, of perhaps selling her home and moving closer to one of them.

  All in all, a pleasant and informative meeting. I found it interesting that Mrs. Prescott apparently made no connection between the burglary of her home and the missing will. Then I realized there was no reason why she would have, if she had been unaware of the will or its possible link to Bement’s death. I was willing to bet the will had been in Eli Prescott’s briefcase, and that it had been taken. I was also very curious about what lay behind the reference to Prescott’s having been disturbed following a phone call from Clarence.

  *

  I spent the rest of the day trying to shuffle in the information Mrs. Prescott had given me with what I knew about the case so far. I’d found it interesting to learn that two of Bement’s grandchildren were gay, and especially that his granddaughter was deaf.

  I wondered if Cory and Nick might know her, and thought again how odd it was that, until we’d met them, I’d barely been aware of anyone deaf. Of course, that was sort of understandable, since the deaf look and act like everyone else in a crowd.

  But pulling myself back to the issue at hand, I was in something of a dilemma. While I was increasingly convinced Bement had not killed himself, the police—at least, according to what I had gathered from Marty—were apparently willing to accept that he had.

  So, on the one hand, I didn’t want to keep anything from them, but on the other hand, I wasn’t about to tap them on the shoulders, say “Uh…” and tell them how to conduct their business. I figured the best thing to do was just go on with my own investigation, and if the police decided to jump in at a later point, so be it.

  From what Mel had said, I agreed that his mother sounded at least like a pretty likely suspect and a good place to start the investigation. Then, considering his observations on the rest of his family, I doubted I’d have any shortage of prospective suspects.

  Of course, the basic question of why anyone would want to kill a multimillionaire had a rather obvious answer. But one who was ninety years old? Why wouldn’t the killer have saved the time, energy and prospect of spending the rest of his/her life in jail by just waiting for nature to take its course? It couldn’t have been much longer—a few more years at most.

  But since the killer wasn’t willing or able to wait, it might make it easier to figure out who did it. Being desperate for money tends to be like dropping a stone into a calm pool—it leaves ripples that can be followed back to their source. If anyone was so much in need of money right away, there should be evidence of it. So, checking into the financial affairs of all concerned would be in order. Not easy to do, but…

  *

  I had realized even before Mel walked out the door that this case was going to be very different from most of my past adventures, and I was looking forward to it. I would have continued looking for whoever had tried to kill Jonathan—and yes, I still had no doubt that shooting was not an accident—whether I’d talked to Mel or not, but it was nice to have someone help pay the bills.

  Mel had given me a lot of material to dig through, but I wanted to call Marty first to see if he knew anything more from the last time we’d talked.

  In any murder investigation, there’s a natural amount of overlap with the police, as there would be in this one if they ever got around to looking at Bement’s death as a murder. But when most of the people involved in the case are gay, I have a definite advantage—thanks to the residual effects of the historical antagonism between the police and the gay community, gays naturally tend to be more willing to open up to one of their own than to somebody with a badge.

  Here, however, there were more potential straight suspects than gays. This put a dent in any “home court/just us chickens” advantages I might normally have had if everyone involved were gay.

  In a way, I was rather glad the police weren’t more involved at this point. Whenever I was working on an active police case, talking to people the police had most often already talked to, I couldn’t help but feel like the guy with a broom and a shovel walking behind the elephants in a circus parade.

  Okay, so where to start? Normally, I’d probably go with Mel’s mother. But the housekeeper had been the last known person to see Bement alive, and just from what little Mel had said about her, she sounded like a good first contact.

  I found it hard to imagine a housekeeper—or a schizophrenic mother—perched on a bridge with a gun. And unless the housekeeper figured prominently in Bement’s will, I couldn’t see how she’d have much of a motive to kill him. That, plus she’d be out of a job.

  Still, I put her at the top of my tentative list, even before Mel’s mom, on the grounds that, as Bement’s housekeeper, she was in a unique position to know more about his daily life and people coming and going than most of the others.

  I then realized that I had not asked Mel’s mom’s name.

  Dumb, Hardesty, dumb.

  Chapter 4

  Seeing no point in wasting time, I left the office fifteen minutes later, stopped by the bank to deposit Mel’s check, and drove out to Briarwood to see Esmirelda Taft. I remembered the address—2222 Tuxford Terrace—only because Jonathan had asked me to deposit his last check from Bement the week before, and I liked the alliteration of the address. I’d also noticed Bement’s signature was so shaky as to be all but illegible and could concede the possibility that, if he had taken his own life, he might have missed with the first shot.

  I’d thought only briefly about trying to call first, dismissing it on the grounds it would be too easy for Ms. Taft to hang up on me. She could still slam the door in my face, but at least I would have a chance to take a look around the property to see if anything might stand out that could facilitate a murderer’s gaining entry.

  I found it easily enough. Set far back from the street behind a six-foot red brick wall spanning the front of the property, it was a beautiful Georgian-style gem whose elegant simplicity stood out from the overly ornate Versailles-wannabe ostentation of its neighbors.

  The wall was broken only by wrought iron gates on either side of the property, marking the ends of the semicircular drive, but the one on the left also led to a driveway running past the house to a three-car garage in the same colonial style. Simple tall chimneys flanked the symmetrically balanced house, while white-framed multi-pane windows and a solid white, quietly elegant double-door entrance framed by classically simple scrollwork spoke clearly of both wealth and dignity.

  Both of the iron gates were, fortunately, open, and I turned into the one that led to the curved drive in front of the house then branched off to the garage.

  The main drive was wide enough for another car to squeeze by if necessary, so I parked across from the front door. Seeing no bell when I got to the door, I used the lion’s-head brass knocker to announce my arrival.

  The narrow antique poured-glass sidelight windows looked onto a large, very simple hardwood-floored vestibule. I waited a moment then knocked again, not sure whether it couldn’t be heard within the depths of the house or no one was there to hear it.

  Just as I was about to turn and leave, I caught a glimpse of the gray-clad form of a woman crossing the foyer toward the door. A moment later, the right half opened about a quarter of the way to reveal an ordinary-looking woman in her sixties, with gray hair, no makeup, and wearing sensible shoes and a gray dress that
for some reason made me wonder if she might be a Mennonite.

  “Yes?” she asked, her face expressionless.

  “Ms. Taft?” I asked—Mel hadn’t mentioned her marital status. “Mel Fowler suggested I come by and talk with you.”

  She eyed me suspiciously. “About what?”

  Her hand still remained on the inner knob; she was obviously prepared to close the door at any moment.

  “I’m a private investigator, and Mr. Fowler has hired me to look into a few things surrounding his grandfather’s death.”

  Her expression had not changed since she opened the door. “I told the police everything I know,” she said flatly. “I suggest you talk to them.”

  “Mr. Fowler seemed to think—”

  “I am not employed by Mr. Fowler, so what he thinks is of no concern to me. Good day.”

  And with that, she shut the door, and I watched through the narrow sidelight as she disappeared from view without looking back.

  That went well, I thought. What a delightful woman. And, I’d wager, definitely a Miss.

  At the risk of having the police sicced on me for trespassing, I hurried down the driveway along the side of the house to the back yard. It was exactly as Jonathan had described it. Several fruit trees, a large garden now rapidly going to seed, a high cedar fence running the full length of the property on the side paralleling the driveway and three-car garage, a tall, full hedge across the back behind the large greenhouse, and the hedge Jonathan had just planted for the neighbors on the far side. A low red brick wall extended from the house to surround a large flagstone patio with an umbrella table in the center. Several chairs lined the wall beside the sliding glass patio doors leading into the house, and on the opposite side of the patio was another, regular door.

  The patio doors would be the easiest for an intruder to access, and with the gaps in the newly planted hedge on the one side, getting into the yard wouldn’t be that much of a problem, assuming he or she didn’t simply come down the drive.

  I returned to the car as quickly as I could and drove off, pretty sure I saw a gray-clad figure watching from an upstairs window. And as I pulled onto the street, I recalled her saying she was “not employed by Mr. Fowler” and wondered exactly who, with Bement dead, she was employed by.

  *

  Thursday evening, after verifying with Jonathan as soon as he got home that there had been no unusual telephone calls or any sightings of the black Mercedes, I asked if Clarence had ever mentioned anything to him about his having made a new will. He looked at me a little strangely.

  “No. Why would he do that?”

  He had a good point.

  After dinner, while I kept Joshua busy “reading” a magazine, Jonathan called Roger Rothenberger to tell him he was going to have to miss the next practice. We spent most of the remainder of the evening on the phone, calling the rest of the gang to let them know of the impending trip. We caught Bob and Mario just before they headed off to work at their respective bars, and they said they’d just talked to Tim and Phil, who had already told them about it. (Ah, the joys of the grapevine.) They invited me to join them for brunch Sunday, to which I readily agreed.

  After Jonathan finished telling Cory, I asked to talk with him, and inquired if they, by any chance, knew Anna Bement. He said they did, which I couldn’t say surprised me, and that they could put me in touch with her whenever I wanted.

  Coincidentally, as soon as I’d hung up, Tim and Phil called asking me to join them for dinner at Napoleon’s Saturday night—to keep me off the streets, as Tim put it—and Jake made a similar invitation later when I talked briefly with him. I told him of Tim and Phil’s invitation and suggested we make it a group thing. I felt a little like a traffic cop at a busy intersection by that time but reflected again on how nice it is to have friends.

  *

  Friday morning at the office, even though I was impatient to get moving, I forced myself to go through my rituals before calling Oak Terrace. I wasn’t quite sure of the protocol, or of just how much independence the, uh, residents had, but when I reached the switchboard and asked to speak to Mrs. Fowler, I was told she was in a meeting, which is a nice general euphemism covering a multitude of possible real reasons.

  I asked if there were specific hours for visitors and was in turn asked if I were a family member. When I said “a friend of the family,” I was informed visitors were welcome between one and four p.m.

  With time to kill, and the shot at Jonathan still very much in my mind, I decided to drive out to Woods Road. It was a nice day, cool, and the trees were turning. I took my time getting there.

  Woods Road is paved for less than half a mile after it crosses the main road, and then it turns to gravel. It runs for probably five miles before ending at County Line Road. Jonathan was right—there wasn’t a single house on the entire stretch.

  The railroad bridge Pardue had mentioned was about four miles in. I drove under it, glancing in my rearview mirror as I passed, and, returning my attention to the road, saw the bullet-riddled stop sign ahead. I had no idea why they’d put a sign there, since it marked a cross road that was little more than a dirt path. Still, I drove past it to the first place where I could turn around then headed back.

  About fifty feet from the stop sign, I saw the pothole Jonathan had swerved to avoid—though I’d imagine at the speed he must have been going, already preparing to stop for the sign, it had been more a jog than a swerve—and pulled off the road beside it. It was only about 300 feet from the bridge, the rusty iron side rails of which could easily hide someone. Looking back at the stop sign, it was clear to me that anyone aiming for that would be firing at a considerably lower angle than if they were aiming at the windshield of an approaching truck.

  Using the car as reference, I walked to the bridge and climbed the embankment to the tracks. From the trestle, I could see that the dirt road marked by the stop sign passed through a patch of trees on the other side of Woods Roads and moved considerably closer to the tracks. Someone could easily have parked a car in the trees and come up onto the bridge to lie in wait.

  Whoever it was had probably waited until Jonathan passed in order to be sure it was the right truck—there was no “Evergreen” identification on the front. What’s more, while Jonathan could have turned left on County Line Road when he’d reached it and wended his way back to town from there, it would have been a considerably longer drive that way. So, it was logical for him to just turn around and head back the way he’d come.

  I slowly crossed the trestle on the side facing the stop sign, looking for shell casings. I found at least a dozen, of several different calibers, and had no idea how long they’d been there. Still, I picked them all up with a Kleenex and put them in my pocket. If the police could tell the caliber of gun that had made the hole, having both the casing and the bullet might be worthwhile. There was even the far outside chance there might be a fingerprint on the casing. Unlikely, but possible.

  That the police would come looking for them on their own was extremely remote. Considering their regular workload, I was pretty sure that, as far as they were concerned, this was still just a minor incident not worth the effort.

  I returned to my car and drove back to town, wondering if what little I’d learned had been worth going in the first place.

  It did give me a chance to think, though. Despite my certainty it had been a deliberate attack, I couldn’t in all fairness discount the possibility it could just as easily have been some idiot doing target practice; or that the shooter was trying to send Jonathan a message—though, a message about what? And what might they expect him to do about it if it were received.

  No, I came back to the conclusion that whoever had fired the shot was serious and intended to kill him. The question of why remained.

  I found it hard to believe whatever it might be had anything to do with Clarence Bement’s new will. Still, if Clarence had told Jonathan anything at all someone didn’t want to chance his repeating, or merely as
sumed Jonathan knew something he shouldn’t, that might be a solid motive. But it implied whatever it was had to be pretty important, and if that were the case, Jonathan might have picked up on it.

  That the mystery caller had not called back was mildly bothersome. How had he (or she—I still couldn’t figure out the voice’s gender) gotten our number? Jonathan may well have given it to Clarence, and that could link the call or the caller to Bement’s house. It was also possible the caller didn’t know Jonathan had a partner. In that case, he/she might have hesitated to call again in a variation of the old “if a man answers, hang up” joke.

  On the way back to town, I stopped for gas and decided to call Oak Terrace again, not wanting to just drop in. I wasn’t sure what my next move would be if Mel’s mother refused to see me, but took a chance. This time, the switchboard put me through, and after three rings the phone was answered with a pleasant “Hello.”

  “Mrs. Fowler, my name is Dick Hardesty, and your son Mel suggested I call you.”

  “Yes, I spoke with Mel right after he’d left your office yesterday. Apparently, he wanted to reassure me he wasn’t pointing a finger at me. Exactly what is it you expect I might tell you, Mr. Hardesty?”

  I breathed a small sigh of relief. So far, so good. “Right now I’m mainly concerned with learning everything I can about your late father and the circumstances leading up to his death. I was wondering if I could stop by for a few minutes this afternoon?”

  “I think that could be arranged,” she said pleasantly. “I’m afraid my social calendar is not exactly filled at the moment. Mel tells me you’re quite handsome, and I always have time in my life for handsome men. If you’d care to come by about one, we could talk for a bit before my next session with the brain pickers.”

  I thanked her, expressed my condolences on the loss of her father, told her I’d see her at one o’clock, and hung up.