by Dorien Grey
Jared had to leave for class shortly before eleven but told me I was welcome to stay until my appointment with Patricia. I didn’t want him to have to leave his office unlocked, so told him I’d enjoy wandering around campus for a while and left when he did.
Marymount was experiencing a growth boom, with construction of a men’s dorm and a classroom building underway. It was too cool for any of the workers to run around shirtless, but I enjoyed spending a few minutes at each site watching them work.
Before I knew it, it was time to head for the car to pick up my lunch. I made it to the library at 11:40 and found a bench within sight of the rear entrance. At 11:47, the door opened and a young woman wearing an outsized winter jacket came out, carrying a brown paper bag. I wasn’t sure at first if it was Patricia Fowler or a student, but as I watched her look around furtively, I knew it had to be Patricia, though if I didn’t know she and Mel were brother and sister, I couldn’t have guessed it.
Spotting me, she stopped as if not sure what to do next, and I got up from the bench and walked toward her, leaving the Igloo on the bench.
“Miss Fowler?” I asked as I approached. She nodded, looking mildly uncomfortable. I normally would have extended my hand but didn’t know if that might spook her, so refrained. “I’m Dick Hardesty,” I said, quite unnecessarily, I’m sure. “I appreciate your meeting with me.”
Indicating the bench with the Igloo, I said, “I’ve found us a place, if it’s all right with you.”
She gave me a small smile. “That will be fine,” she said.
“How long have you worked at Marymount?” I asked as we sat down on either side of the Igloo with plenty of room for her to put her lunch as an extra buffer zone.
“Four years,” she said, concentrating on opening the paper bag and extracting a large cloth napkin, which she spread on her lap. She then took out what appeared to be half a sandwich neatly wrapped in aluminum foil and a small Tupperware container of carrot sticks, broccoli, cauliflower, and grapes.
While I waited for her to say something more, I studied her more closely. She was really quite pretty but went to considerable lengths to hide the fact. She wore no makeup, and her hair, though neat, could have benefited from an hour or so with a good stylist.
When she’d said nothing for a full minute, I opened my Igloo to extract my sandwich.
“So, what can you tell me about your grandfather?”
She opened the lid on the Tupperware container and carefully placed it, rim up, in the buffer zone on her side of the Igloo, then with equal care unwrapped her sandwich before speaking.
“I’m not sure what you want to know,” she said, concentrating on selecting a carrot stick, which she raised to her mouth and took a small bite from. “He was my grandfather, and he was very kind to me…to both Mel and me. I wish we had known him when we were younger.”
“I understand your mother and he were not close.”
Again the very small smile. She did not look directly at me but focused her attention on a yellow leaf floating down from a nearby tree. “No. But our father thought we should get to know him, and began encouraging us to visit him whenever our mother was…away.” She flushed when she said it, then quickly took a bite of her sandwich.
I’d about half finished mine, and opened my can of pop.
“Apparently, your mother and grandfather were on the way to reconciliation before his death,” I observed.
She nodded, still not looking at me, picking three grapes from the Tupperware container. “Yes,” she said. “Partial. It was very difficult for Mother, and I was proud of her for making the effort.”
“I assume Mel told you he suspects your grandfather did not commit suicide?”
Her hand froze in the process of lifting the grapes to her mouth, and her face took on a look that was a combination of confusion and concern. She nodded rapidly.
“Yes, he has.”
“And what do you think?”
She shook her head, her brows knitted.
“I honestly don’t know! I could never imagine he would do such a thing, but I also cannot imagine anyone…”
She couldn’t seem to bring herself to finish the sentence and instead popped the grapes into her mouth and began chewing with almost imperceptible jaw movements.
“Were you aware of your grandfather’s being depressed in the month or so before he died?”
She shook her head. “No. I knew he felt terrible about the death of Mr. Prescott, but that is only natural. I’d not seen him for quite a while before he died. I wish now I had been better about visiting him. Maybe if…”
From the look on her face, I thought a change of subject would be in order.
“What do you know about your grandfather’s housekeeper, Esmirelda Taft?”
She swallowed and shrugged. “Not much. She’s been with the family—first Uncle Richard and then with Grandfather—since I was very small. She treats me the same way the rest of Uncle Richard’s family treats me.”
She had me. “And that is?”
“With quiet disdain. They all tend to look right through me as though I weren’t there. They do the same with Anna, Alan’s daughter.”
“I gather you’re not very fond of them.”
She glanced at me, and our eyes met for the briefest of moments before she moved hers away.
“I don’t like to speak ill of anyone,” she said, but I could have read War and Peace between the lines.
I knew I couldn’t just come out and ask her if she thought any of them was a likely candidate for the electric chair, so I tried edging through the door sideways.
“Were any of them close to your grandfather?”
She suppressed a smile.
“Only to his wallet,” she said. “The only time they ever spoke to him was either on his birthday or when they wanted something.” She shook her head. “And he always gave it to them!” she said, incredulous. “Yet the terrible things they would say about him behind his back!” She looked at me, and again our eyes met for an instant. “It’s amazing what one can hear when one is invisible.”
“What can you tell me about them—your uncle Richard and his sons?”
She devoted her full attention to the Tupperware bowl, as though seeking a clue as to what she should say among the carrot sticks and grapes. Finally, she said, “I really don’t feel comfortable talking about other people. It’s not my place.”
“I understand,” I said, “but if Mel is right in his suspicions, that means someone hated your grandfather enough to kill him. I told Mel I would help him, and in order to do so, I really have to know everything I can about who it might have been. I can’t rule anyone out until I get a better idea of who they are.”
She sighed heavily. “All any of them think about is money and themselves. Selfish and greedy and always fighting about who has been cheated out of something, or deprived of something. They all resented Grandfather for not volunteering more. He almost always gave them whatever they asked for, but they felt they shouldn’t have to ask—he should have known what they wanted and given it to them.”
“Did he never draw a line?”
“Yes, toward the end, he did. He finally tired of their constant demands, of their never being satisfied with or grateful for anything he did for them. They always took, took, took and never once said a sincere thank you or went out of their way to be nice to him. They were always ‘borrowing’ money for one thing or another, but I’m sure not one of them ever repaid a cent.
“Grandfather actually set George up in two different businesses, and they both failed, and when Grandfather said no to financing a third, George was outraged. About six months ago, Alan asked Grandfather to lend him the money for a new car—not just a nice, practical family car but a luxury sports car, which Grandfather did. Two weeks later, Alan drove it into a tree while driving drunk—he was lucky he wasn’t killed—and then he had the gall to ask Grandfather for the money to buy another. Grandfather said no.”
; “And Stuart?”
She shook her head. “Oh, my…Stuart! He never runs out of sure-fire projects and inventions that will revolutionize the world, all of which require ‘development capital’ and not one of which has ever gotten off the drawing board. Grandfather finally said no to him, too.”
“Did your grandfather confide in you?”
“I’m not sure what you mean. Did he tell me things he didn’t tell anyone else? I really don’t know, but I’d doubt it. He wouldn’t want to trouble me. I find it interesting that everyone on my side of the family goes out of their way to protect me, while the other side totally ignores me unless they want something. The only way I ever knew what was going on with them was when one of them would call me to complain about how poorly they were being treated and to ask me to intercede on their behalf.”
“And did you?”
She gave me a very small smile. “No. I told them I would, but I limited my intervention to telling Grandfather they’d called. I didn’t have to say anything more. He knew.” She gave a small, unconscious sigh before continuing. “I’m really sorry that he didn’t feel he could talk to me more. I’m not as fragile as everyone seems to think. And I don’t think Grandfather had anyone to whom he could really talk.”
Jonathan, perhaps? a mind-voice asked.
She reached into a hidden pocket in her skirt and pulled out a pocket watch, which she consulted.
“Oh, dear, I’m going to be late!” She reminded me of the White Rabbit.
She hastily gathered her things together, placed the lid back on the Tupperware container, put everything in her paper bag and got up. I tossed everything of mine into the Igloo, closed the lid and stood when she did.
“I’ll walk you to the building,” I said. “I have just one more question. Can you tell me anything more about Esmirelda Taft?”
She struck a rapid pace, and we only had about thirty seconds before we reached the door.
“Whenever I feel insecure about myself and the fact that I sometimes fear I don’t have much of a personality or a life, I need only think of Esmirelda to feel truly blessed. In all the time I have known her, I have never seen her smile, or speak of anything not related to her job.”
We’d reached the door, and she glanced at me only briefly as she said, “I really must go now.”
“Of course,” I said. “Thanks again for talking with me.”
“You’re welcome,” she replied as she opened the door and disappeared into the building without looking back.
*
I took my time driving back to the city and spent the afternoon in the office. The time with Jared had done me a lot of good, I thought. Just stepping away from the case took some of the edge off and helped me put things in perspective. I even took the time to read the paper and do the crossword puzzle.
But the calm didn’t last, and by the time I got home that evening, I was back to fretting about the case. Sometimes my mind is like that line of upturned dominoes I referred to earlier—knock the first one over and it sets off a chain reaction of thoughts.
For some reason, as I was putting yet another TV dinner in the oven, I had a mental picture of the bullet hole in the windshield of Jonathan’s truck, again reminding me that someone might have deliberately been out to kill him. That belief was underscored by the mysterious phone call and its unavoidable implication that, since the unidentified caller had not called back, it was related to the shooting. Which, in turn, could mean Jonathan was still in danger, and after a week of his being gone I wasn’t one step closer to finding out who was behind it all. I assume there are people who deal quite adequately with self-doubt, but I am not one of them.
I ate dinner in front of the TV but was too preoccupied to pay much attention to it. That Jonathan might be in danger meant Joshua was, too, on the trip to and from day care. I could insist on taking him and picking him up every day, but that would all but say, at least in my own mind, to Jonathan that I thought he was in danger and was just throwing him to the wolves. (“I’ll take care of Joshua, you fend for yourself.”)
I also knew Jonathan would never stand for me riding herd on him every minute of every day. He rightly resented my overprotectiveness, and I was unable to explain it to him.
Damn!
As soon as I finished dinner, I tried once again to call George Bement, with no luck, but a call to Mel’s dad Gregory got results on the second ring.
“Mr. Fowler,” I said in response to his “Hello.” “My name is Dick Hardesty, and Mel suggested I call you.”
“About my father-in-law,” he said. “Yes, I know. Mel was very close to him, and simply cannot accept that Clarence probably did, in fact, kill himself. I’m sorry he got you involved. I honestly don’t think there is anything to investigate.”
“So, you’re convinced your father-in-law committed suicide?” I asked, and heard him sigh.
“I can appreciate my son’s loyalty to his grandfather’s memory, and his reluctance to fully accept that Clarence was very old and in ill health. Clarence was a proud man who had always been in control of his own destiny. That he would choose to die on his own terms rather than continue his downward slide would be in keeping with his character. He knew he didn’t have much time left in any case, and probably decided to die as he had lived—in charge. I know he put on a good front for my children, but I’ve known him much longer than they, and I could tell.”
He had a valid point, I supposed. I paused only a moment before moving ahead.
“But you had no specific indication he might have been contemplating suicide?”
“Of course not! I bought him the gun he used to kill himself, and had I any idea at all that he might use it for that purpose…” His voice trailed off, signaling me to change the subject.
“As manager of his finances, were you aware of any problems he might have been having? Any serious financial setbacks?”
“No, none. Since his retirement, he has never been a risk-taker. All his investments are sound. He opted for conservatism over speculation. I’ve managed his money for years, even before I married his daughter.”
“Yes,” I said, “I was wondering how that ever came about.”
He paused only briefly before saying, “It was purely by coincidence that we met, through a mutual friend. Gladys and her father were totally estranged at the time, thanks largely to my mother-in-law’s diligent efforts to demonize Clarence, and I’d like to think that I may have been partly responsible for whatever degree of reconciliation they enjoyed toward the end of his life.”
“So, Mr. Bement—Clarence—had no objection to your marriage?”
“On the contrary. He encouraged it—partly, I’m sure, because Gladys’ mother was so opposed to it. She felt Gladys was marrying ‘far below her station,’ as she put it.”
“Did you have much direct contact with Mr. Bement?”
“Not really, no. Ours began as primarily a business relationship, and remained so even after Gladys and I married. And given the rather awkward and strained relationship between him, my wife, and his son Richard and his family, it’s probably just as well. As a result, about the only time I saw him was when I had some reason to meet with him to discuss his investments.”
“And when was the last time you saw him?”
“A week or so before he died. We had an appointment on…a Tuesday, I think it was. My car had been in a minor fender-bender, and I’d taken it into the shop that morning and took a cab over to his home. He insisted I borrow his car until mine was ready, and I did. I returned it on…Thursday, I believe it was.”
“I see,” I said, again wondering why I’d said it. “I understand that Richard’s side of the family particularly harbored some pretty strong animosity toward him. Can you think of anyone—old business associates or even family members—who might possibly have wanted him dead? Did he have any active business associations going on at the time of his death?”
He paused only a moment before saying, “He has been largely
removed from active engagement in the business world for some time now. Making enemies is part and parcel of acquiring wealth and power, and he undoubtedly had many before he withdrew. But I can’t conceive of any of his former enemies—most of whom are now themselves retired or dead—being involved in his death.”
“You mentioned that you bought the gun that killed him.”
He sighed deeply. “I did, and I’ll never forgive myself for it. I really thought he needed it. He’d lived in apartments all his life and had just built his home and was living there with just his housekeeper. I thought he really should have some form of protection. Of course, if I’d had any idea he would one day use it to kill himself, I never would have done it. But it’s too late now.
“As for any possible family involvement in his death, well, I fear my prejudices would prevent me from giving an objective response. Richard’s entire family is a classic study in greed and dysfunction, and I have always had as little contact with them as possible.”
“I mean no disrespect,” I said, “but I understand your wife’s condition has frequently led her to make threats against her father.”
“Threats, yes. But she would never carry them out. Have you spoken with her?”
“As a matter of fact, I have,” I said, “and had I not known of her past, I’d never have imagined she was ever anything but perfectly normal. But I understand that’s the nature of schizophrenics when they are on their medication.”
“Well, if you know anything about schizophrenics, you also know they very seldom act on their violent impulses. I blame my mother-in-law, with whom I also have almost no contact, for poisoning my wife’s mind toward her father. And as I say, Gladys and Clarence were slowly bridging the gap between them. It’s inconceivable that she would be capable of doing something so heinous.”
