The Secret Keeper

by Dorien Grey

  “And you didn’t consider that grounds for dismissal?”

  “I certainly did, but my wife was a very compassionate woman. She pointed out that Esmirelda was an excellent housekeeper who could have made considerably more money with any number of other families. She said Esmirelda had sworn it would never happen again. My wife promised to keep a careful watch on her, so I agreed to keep her on. It was only after my wife’s death I learned she had subsequently given Esmirelda a raise in the equivalent amount of what she’d been taking so she could continue giving money to her brother’s family. Shortly thereafter, my father’s housekeeper quit, and I decided he needed Esmirelda more than we did.”

  So, you got rid of her, I thought. Problem over. At least for you. Clever.

  “And did you mention this to your father?”

  “I saw no need. It was a closed issue.”

  “Did your wife or you ever learn why her brother was sent to prison?”

  He shook his head. “Not specifically. Some relatively minor offense, I assume. My wife saw no point in pressing her.”

  A most interesting story, and I wondered how much actual truth there was in it. I wondered, too, if Esmirelda might have pulled the same routine with Clarence Bement, and whether he might not have been so “compassionate” if he’d found out about it.

  But even if she had been padding the bill, and Clarence had known about it—and I couldn’t envision a multimillionaire looking through grocery store receipts—I could hardly see being caught at padding a grocery bill as motive for murder. On the other hand, if he had threatened to fire her because of it…

  I filed it all away in my “to be considered” file, and was thinking of a way to pull the conversation back to the main topic when he saved me the trouble.

  “As for my sons, which I assume will be the subject of your next question, my father made a pathetic attempt to buy their affection on the assumption his money could make up for the damage his earlier scandalous behavior had done the family. Then, after encouraging them to come to him if they needed anything, he suddenly cut them off.”

  “And how did they react to that?”

  Shaking his head, he said, “They were not happy, of course. He’d led them on and led them on only to drop them. None of them, I readily admit, is without flaw, and there’s always been a healthy rivalry among them.”

  Healthy rivalry? An interesting way to put it.

  “But frankly,” he continued without missing a beat, “I find even the most remote implication that either I or any of my sons could possibly be involved in any way in my father’s death to be insulting.”

  “I was not implying you were.” Directly, one of my mind-voices amended. “But as I told you on the phone, Mel is convinced your father would never have committed suicide, and my job is to see if there might possibly be any real justification for his belief. If there is none, he won’t pursue the matter further.”

  His look told me he wasn’t buying it.

  “Does anyone in your family drive a black Mercedes with tinted windows?” I asked, deciding to switch the subject, and suddenly remembering Jonathan’s description of the car that had followed him when he left work the day after the shooting incident.

  He looked at me a bit strangely, then said, “That’s a rather odd question. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious,” I lied, then compounded it. “I drove by your father’s house the other day and saw a black Mercedes in the drive.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Well, our entire family is partial to black Mercedes. I have one, but I’ve not been to the house in some time. Stuart has one, too, but I can’t imagine what he would have been doing there. Alan had one but wrecked it. George doesn’t drive. It was probably Esmirelda.”

  “Esmirelda Taft has a black Mercedes with tinted windows?” Why hadn’t I asked her when I first went over to Bement’s home—or checked out the garage?

  Maybe it’s time you switched careers, a mind-voice—the one in charge of sarcasm—said. Flower arranging would be nice.

  He smiled. “No, she’s not paid that well. My father has—had—one, though he hadn’t driven in several years. She has her own car—an old junker—but she keeps it in the garage and uses the Mercedes for shopping and errands.”

  I quickly filed the information away for later consideration and moved on.

  “I understand Eli Prescott was to be your father’s executor, but that you and your sister assumed duties as alternates when Prescott was killed.” I deliberately chose the word killed rather than died to see if there might be any reaction. There was none.

  He nodded, taking another sip of his martini. “Yes, though I’ve been doing most of the work.”

  I wondered, since the will had not yet been read, what “work” there might be at this point. I also noted his glass was almost empty, and was quite sure that, when it was, he would find reason to end the discussion and leave.

  “Do you know anything about the whereabouts of the new will your father made out shortly before Eli Prescott’s death?”

  He turned his head only slightly in my direction. “Nothing at all. I wasn’t even aware there was one until the lawyers called to ask if I knew where it was. Apparently, there was only one copy, and it was never signed so, therefore, is not enforceable.”

  “Do you know any details of the new will?” Mel’s mom had already told me the lawyer wouldn’t tell her.

  “No, and it really doesn’t matter, since it is not valid.”

  “What if a signed copy of the new will were to show up?”

  He gave me a sidelong glance. “Then we would just have to see. But I’m not holding my breath.”

  I wondered what might lie beneath that statement.

  “One more question,” I said. “Do you or any of your sons own a twenty-two rifle?”

  “For hunting, you mean?”

  “Hunting or any other reason.”

  “No. Guns of any kind have only one purpose—to kill, as my late father’s death can attest. Neither I nor any of my sons possess or have ever possessed a gun.”

  He drained his martini and picked up his change from the bar—leaving a one dollar tip. “Now I must be going. I trust we will not be meeting again.”

  I wouldn’t bet on that, I thought.

  Turning away from me as he got up from his stool, he left.

  *

  Regarding Richard’s response to my question about having a .22 rifle, I really couldn’t picture him or his sons as outdoorsmen. I rather doubted they had ever seen a wild animal, let alone hunted one. Still, .22s were relatively easy to acquire and so ubiquitous as to be difficult to trace.

  But that Richard, Stuart, and Clarence all had a black Mercedes—and Esmirelda had access to Clarence’s—was most interesting. And if Richard’s family was as cozy with Esmirelda Taft as I suspected they were, either Alan or George could have borrowed Clarence’s, perhaps in an attempt to set up Richard and/or Stuart.

  Back to Esmirelda—Jeezus, Hardesty! Enough with the mental ping-pong! One thing at a time! a mind-voice demanded—might she have been engaged in some other form of larceny in the belief she wouldn’t be caught? Nor could I just skip over the fact she had a brother who might or might not still be in prison, whom I wanted to know more about.

  A lot to consider.

  It was nearly time to go home, but rather than just pick up my car and go, I returned to my office, curious as to whether either Alan or Stuart might have returned my call. They hadn’t. I did make a note to try them again from home if I had time, and also to try to reach George, since I’d not been able to leave a message for him.

  From what Mel had said about his sister Patricia’s being pretty reclusive and not liking to drive, I assumed any meeting with her would have to be in Carrington. So, if I could arrange a meeting, it would mean an hour’s drive up and an hour’s drive back at a time when there was so little time to spare. I probably should have tried to call her Sunday when I got home from Bob and Mario’s. O
h, well.

  I wondered idly if, since both she and Jared worked at the college, Jared might know her. I wasn’t sure how often he made it to the library where she worked, but Marymount wasn’t all that big a school, so there was a possibility.

  *

  Monday evening, I had my evening Manhattan, watched the news, and popped a frozen dinner into the oven before deciding it was time to call Patricia Fowler. The phone was answered on the second ring by a tentative “Hello?” Odd how much suspicion and insecurity can be telegraphed in one short word.

  “Miss Fowler, this is Dick Hardesty. I assume your brother told you I’d be calling.”

  “Yes, he did. But I’m not sure why you’d want to talk to me.”

  “As he probably told you, he’s asked me to look into the circumstances surrounding your grandfather’s death. I was wondering if we might meet for a bit to discuss some questions I have.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know anything you might find of any interest.”

  “Mel’s told me you and he were close to your grandfather, and so you’re in a unique position to help me learn as much about him as I can.”

  “Well, I don’t know. I’m really very busy, and…” And you don’t like having people in your home and you aren’t comfortable in public places, one of my mind-voices said.

  “I realize how busy you must be,” I said, “but I have to come up to Carrington tomorrow on other business…” Again, the gentle lie. “…and was wondering if we might have lunch.”

  “No.” She said it as though I’d just jumped out from behind a tree and yelled “Boo!” She quickly amended her reaction by saying, “I…I bring my lunch from home.”

  “Ah, we have something in common. I always take my lunch to work, too.”

  You’ll burn in hell, you know! an unidentified mind-voice said sanctimoniously. I ignored it and thought quickly back on the few times I had been on the Marymount campus. I seemed to remember a small park adjacent to the library.

  “I can bring my lunch when I come up tomorrow. Perhaps we might meet in the park next to the library and talk while we’re eating?”

  There was a long pause, then: “Well, I…”

  “Mel said you and he knew your grandfather better than anyone,” I repeated. “I just want to get a better picture of who he was and what might have led to his death. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind your talking to me.”

  Another long pause, and finally a hesitant, “Very well. I take my lunch at eleven forty-five. There are a couple of park benches near the rear entrance to the library. I usually eat there.”

  “That will be fine,” I said, praying it wouldn’t decide to rain. “I’ll see you there at eleven forty-five. And thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my dinner is waiting.”

  “Of course. Until tomorrow, then,” I said.

  As I hung up, I thought of my rotten timing—I probably should have arranged to meet her after work; then I could maybe have gotten together with Jared for dinner while I was up there. Well, too late now. But I did give him a call, just to see how things were going.

  When I explained I’d be at Marymount but wouldn’t have a chance to see him, he said, “What time’s your meeting?” When I told him eleven forty-five, he said, “Well, if you want to come up a little early, I don’t have a class tomorrow between ten and eleven, so maybe you could come by my office sometime after ten, and we could at least have coffee.”

  “Good idea. Tell me how to find you, and I’ll see you then.”

  I jotted down the directions to his office, we talked for another minute or two, then hung up.

  It was going to be a very busy day.

  Chapter 5

  Just as I was getting ready for bed, Jonathan called.

  “Sorry I didn’t call earlier. We went to my sister Sarah’s for dinner.”

  “That’s okay, Babe. I don’t expect you to call every night.” Not a lie, but not exactly the truth, either. “How’s Joshua doing?”

  “Better, but he won’t let me out of his sight—he wanted me to stay with him until he went to sleep again. It’s really strange, but none of my family talks about Samuel and Sheryl, at least not when Joshua is around, and I don’t know whether that’s good or bad. On the one hand, I think they’re trying to protect him, but on the other hand, I’m afraid Joshua might get the idea they’ve forgotten them, or just don’t care. I think I’ll have a talk with him, maybe tomorrow, and try to explain.”

  “I trust your judgement,” I said. “And again, I wish I could help somehow.”

  “Well, next time we come to Wisconsin, you’re just going to have to come with us.” There was a slight pause, then, “So, have you found out anything about Mr. Bement?”

  I realized I hadn’t specifically told him Mel had hired me, and didn’t know if Mel had mentioned it on the plane, so on the chance he didn’t know, I told him, and about my brief encounter with Esmirelda Taft.

  “Right now, I’m concentrating on trying to talk with all of Mel’s relatives. I’ve spoken with his mom and his uncle, and I’m meeting his sister tomorrow up in Carrington.”

  “Are you going to see Jared?”

  “Yeah, I’m having coffee with him.”

  “Give him my regards,” he said, and I assured him I would.

  We hung up shortly thereafter, and I went to bed.

  *

  I considered sleeping in on Tuesday morning—with no Joshua around to act as an alarm clock, it would have been nice—and thought about not even going in to the office, but habit and a guilty conscience got the best of me, and I woke up at my regular time.

  I did take the time to dig out the Igloo cooler we used for picnics. Luckily, we always had a supply of sliced cheese and lunch meat on hand, and there was a loaf of bread in the freezer. So, I made a sandwich, took an apple and a can of pop out of the refrigerator, then tore a couple sheets of paper towel off the roll to use for napkins.

  Getting to the office only a little later than normal, I just had time to check for messages, have a quick cup of coffee and skim through the newspaper; the crossword puzzle would have to wait. I headed for Carrington shortly after nine.

  Clouds were forming over the city as I left, and I hoped rain wouldn’t toss a monkey wrench into my meeting with Patricia Fowler. But as I headed into the hills north of the city the sun came out, and by the time I reached Carrington, there were only a few clusters of cumulus clouds, like small herds of albino elephants lumbering slowly southward.

  While I had hoped to just relax and enjoy the drive, I found myself making mental notes, including a list of things I wanted to ask the various members of Bement’s family I’d yet to contact. As Mel had indicated, they appeared to be divided quite sharply between his side and his uncle Richard’s side. Mel’s side certainly had more than its share of quirks, but greed did not appear to be one of them; whereas, it seemed to be the only thing Richard Bement’s three sons had in common. I hoped they weren’t all carbon copies of their father.

  Basically, though, it wasn’t so much a matter of specific information I wanted from any one of them so much as to size them up. Sometimes what people don’t say is as revealing as what they do. I’ve become pretty good, over the years, at spotting a lie at forty paces.

  I was most curious to hear how they described their relationship with Clarence Bement, and how they would react to the suggestion he might not have committed suicide. Since Richard and his kids were not exactly the von Trapp family, I wondered if they might start pointing the finger at one another, and what their stated reasons might be.

  Ninety-nine percent of this type of fishing expedition netted nothing but seaweed and old tires, but there was always that one percent, and that was the one that mattered.

  Arriving at the Marymount campus, I parked in a lot near the administration building, which faced the library across the quad. I left the Igloo in my trunk, figuring I’d have plenty of time to come back and get it before meeting P
atricia Fowler. I asked a passing student where to find the Liberal Arts building, then made my way across campus toward it, glad I’d brought a light jacket.

  Being on a college campus, adrift in a river of students, sent waves of nostalgia for my own college days washing over me. I still considered my college years among the happiest of my life. No major worries, no major problems—but then again, no Jonathan or Joshua, so I closed off that line of thinking and concentrated on finding Jared’s building.

  His office was on the top floor, and I rapped on the door bearing a small brass plate that said “J. Martinson.”

  “Come in,” Jared called, and I did as instructed.

  When I’d first met Jared, he was delivering beer to my favorite gay bar, on hiatus from his post-graduate studies. Six-foot-two or -three of solid muscle with an occasional liking for the leather scene, he was every gay boy’s fantasy. Look up the words “butch,” “hot,” or “wow!” in any gay dictionary, and you’ll find a photo of Jared.

  So, seeing him in his work setting was something of a shocker—long-sleeved white shirt with tie, every inch the professor of Russian literature, surrounded by walls of enough books to stock a small library.

  “Good timing,” he said, smiling as I entered. “I was getting ready to start without you.” He reached into a side drawer of his desk to extract two Styrofoam cups and a large thermos. “They won’t let us have coffee makers in our offices anymore,” he explained as he opened the stopper on the thermos and filled our cups. “Not since one of the German teachers’ machines overheated and set fire to his office.”

  “That sucks,” I said.

  He grinned. “So does the German teacher.”

  I always enjoyed one-on-one time with Jared—no double entendre intended—and with so much going on in both our lives, we seldom had the chance. So, it was great just to sit and relax and talk about nothing in particular. I think we each found a small haven in avoiding talk of those things that played too large a part in our lives—Jake’s HIV status, the case I was working on. It wasn’t that either of us was uninterested in the other’s concerns, just that we facilitated each other’s avoidance of the more pressing aspects of our realities.