by Dorien Grey
*
Marty called to say he’d done a check on Esmirelda Taft’s brother—which I knew wasn’t easy because I didn’t have a first name to give him. He said that of the dozen or so Tafts in the department’s current files, two of them were from the city and both had been released from prison within the past three months.
One, a Bernard Taft, had been serving eight-to-ten for robbery and assault with a deadly weapon; the other, James Taft, had served eighteen years of a twenty-five-year sentence for second-degree murder. Either one might be Esmirelda’s brother, and the nature of their crimes fit right in with the circumstances of Eli Prescott’s and Clarence Bement’s deaths. And it wasn’t inconceivable that, after Bement’s death, Esmirelda might let her brother drive Clarence’s black Mercedes.
Another suspect to add to the pile. Pure speculation, of course, but…
“One thing, though,” Marty said. “You mentioned the housekeeper’s brother having a family. According to their sheets, both of these guys are single.”
Now, that was an interesting bit of information. Could it be Esmirelda had given her brother a needy family to create a justification for her larceny?
*
I checked the phone book and, not surprisingly, considering both had been in prison for a long time, didn’t find a listing under either name. It also strengthened the probability that Esmirelda had made up the “supporting the family” story. So, how could I find these two guys? Asking Esmirelda would be an exercise in futility, I knew.
Then I thought of Bil (yeah, one L) Dunham, my contact at the DMV with whom I’d once bartered handling a case in exchange for future access to DMV records. I figured newly released inmates would need new driver’s licenses after a lengthy incarceration.
It had been so long since I’d talked to Bil I had to look up his extension before I called, but when I reached him he acted as though we’d just talked a few days before. I gave him the names of Bernard and James Taft and asked him if he could check for licenses issued to either one of those names in the past three months. He said he’d get back to me, and since I knew he was busy, we forewent any casual conversation and hung up.
*
I returned from lunch to find a message on my machine from Bil. Both James Taft and Bernard Taft had applied for licenses. James’s address was 1110 Penman Ave. Bernard’s address was 2222 Tuxford Terrace.
Well, well, well—what a small world it was that Bernard’s address was the same as Clarence Bement’s…and Esmirelda’s.
I immediately set off to go to the address on Bernard Taft’s new driver’s license.
*
The iron gates to Bement’s house were still shut, so I again pulled as far into the drive as I could get, my front bumper against the gate, the back end a foot or two into the street. I’d gotten by with it last time and hoped it was not enough to get me a ticket. Anyone walking down the street—which in this area no one seemed to do—could just go around it.
I was relieved to find that the smaller entry gate was still unlocked, and went up to the front door and knocked loudly, standing directly in front of the door so as not to be seen from the entry hall. After a moment, the door was opened by a stone-faced Esmirelda Taft. Actually, I had never seen her when she wasn’t stone-faced.
“What is it you want? I told you I do not want to talk to you.”
“Would you prefer talking to the police?” I asked.
“I’ve talked to the police,” she said firmly, and began to close the door.
“About your brother Bernard?”
The door stopped in mid-close. Have you ever pulled a window shade all the way down, hard, and then released it suddenly? Her eyelids did the same thing.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she said defensively.
“That’s interesting, since this is the address on his driver’s license.”
She knit her brows and pursed her lips, all the while staring holes in my jaw.
“What business is it of yours? Why should I tell you anything?”
“You’re right, of course. So, if you’d prefer to speak with the police again, I’m sure it can be arranged, though I don’t imagine Bernard will appreciate it, having just been released from prison.”
Her face scrunched into a look of utter disgust and anger. “My brother was falsely accused. He had no official address, so I told him he could use mine until he got settled.”
“And what did Mr. Bement think of that? Is your brother staying here now?”
Her eyes narrowed into slits and her lips mashed themselves together as she struggled with her rage.
“What my employer thought or did not think is absolutely none of your business, nor is my brother any of your concern.”
“So, he is staying here, then?”
If eyes were flame-throwers, I’d have been a small heap of ashes on the welcome mat.
“No, he is not staying here! Now go!” And she stepped back only far enough to slam the door in my face.
I love it when an interview goes well.
Marty time.
*
Returning to the office, I put in a call to City Annex, planning to leave a message for Marty to call me when he had a chance. By luck, he was in.
“What’s up?” he asked the minute he heard my voice.
I told him of my meeting with Esmirelda.
“I’ve been thinking of how much of your time I’ve been taking up on this case, and really feel guilty about it. I wonder if, instead of expecting you to be the middle man, it might be a good idea for me to talk directly with Angell and Garland? My only hesitation is that, from what you’d said, it sounds like they, or the older one—Garland?—anyway, are pretty much going with the suicide angle.”
“I haven’t talked to them in a couple of days,” Marty said, “but, yeah, that’s the impression I got. Maybe it would be easier to have them talk to you. I know they’ll give you a fair hearing. I’ll ask them to give you a call.”
“That’d be great, Marty.”
“This doesn’t let you off the hook for lunch, though.”
“Just call me whenever you’re ready.”
*
Knowing Clarence Bement’s will was to be read that afternoon, I was hoping to hear from Mel, and sure enough, he called shortly after three.
“I just left Mr. Weaver’s office,” he said. “I did my best to postpone the reading, but Uncle Richard and the boys demanded it, and since the new will hasn’t shown up, Mr. Weaver didn’t have much choice.”
“Any surprises?” I asked.
“As a matter of fact, yes. Everyone had known the general terms for years, but the big surprise was a stipulation no one knew about—that our trust funds would terminate with his death.”
Actually, that was logical. If the grandchildren were getting money from the will, they shouldn’t need the trust funds. So it made sense that whatever money remained in the trust account be considered simply another asset to be divided with the rest of the estate.
“I thought Uncle Richard’s boys would have a stroke. They expected their share of the estate and to keep receiving the trust.
“We were all given copies of Dad’s detailed financial report, which makes a complete accounting of every asset and liability, except for those things like the house, stocks, bonds and the like that have yet to be liquidated. There’ll be an additional distribution when they are. Every single penny is accounted for.
“But of course, the boys swore there had to be more and all but accused Dad of being an embezzler. Mr. Weaver pointed out that, if they wanted to challenge the accounting, they could do so, but that it would involve a very long process through the court, including an independent auditor to go over every single item to verify it, and there could be no distribution of any funds until the court said so. That could easily take a year or more. I suspect the boys were taken by surprise at that little revelation.
“So, with no trust funds to fall back on and effectively no
income until the final distribution is made, they grudgingly backed off. They were undoubtedly right that there should have been more in the estate than there was, but that was probably due to all the money they wheedled out of Grandpa B and never repaid. And God knows how much they’ve managed to rip off from the house between the time Grandpa B died and now.”
I sighed. “I can just imagine how they’ll feel if the new will does show up. But to be honest, I’m not optimistic. The chances are it was found and destroyed, either by the killer or by someone from Richard’s side of the family—if they’re not one and the same.”
“Well, as far as I’m concerned, the most important thing is finding out who killed Grandpa B. I don’t care about the money.”
That was pretty noble of him to say, I thought.
“Of course,” I said. “I’m sorry about all this missing will business, but the will aside, you hired me to find a murderer, and I don’t intend to give up just yet.”
“Good,” he said. “If there’s anything more you need from me, please let me know.”
“You can bet on it.”
Chapter 8
I was curious, when Jonathan got home, to know if anything unusual had happened on his first day back. Any cars follow him? Any phone calls received during his absence? But I didn’t want to alarm him by pouncing, so waited to see if he volunteered anything. He didn’t, so at dinner I asked.
“Anybody try to reach you for a job while you were gone?” I asked—casually, I thought.
He smiled. “Yeah, as a matter of fact. Two people left numbers for me.” He looked at me for a moment, as if reading my mind—he was getting pretty good at that. I got the impression he was deliberately dangling a string in front of my nose.
He waited until I opened my mouth to ask who. Then, his smile broadened and he said, “Two women—referrals from other people I’ve already worked for.” He paused again while I gave a mental sigh of relief, then added, “And no, nobody followed me.”
“Am I that transparent?”
“Like a pane of glass.”
*
After dinner, on an impulse, I dialed George Bement’s number and was surprised when the phone was picked up after the third ring.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Bement, this is Dick Hardesty calling. I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ve been busy. What do you want?”
His voice wasn’t slurred, but I got the distinct impression he’d been drinking.
“I wanted to talk with you about your grandfather’s death, and…”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right. Good old Gramps, bless his flinty old heart. What do you want to talk about?”
“Well, I have several questions you might be able to answer for me as one of his grandchildren.”
“Like what?”
“Well, it’s a little complicated to go into the over the phone. I was wondering if we might meet and talk in person. I—”
“Sure, why not? I’m just on my way out the door. Going to meet a—business acquaintance—around eight thirty, but we could meet for a drink first.”
Glancing guiltily toward the kitchen, where Jonathan and Joshua were putting away the dinner dishes, I said, “That would be fine. Where would you like to meet?”
I knew the answer to that one even before I asked.
“Embers, on Melvoy. You know it?”
“I do. What time? And how will I know you?”
“Just ask the bartender. Seven forty-five?”
That was cutting it a little close, but I could make it.
“I’ll see you there.” Hanging up, I went to the kitchen. “I have to go out for a while, Babe,” I said. “Something on the Bement case.”
He looked mildly surprised. “The phone call?”
“Yeah, I’ve been trying to reach one of Mr. Bement’s grandsons for days and finally caught him. He says he’ll meet me for a drink—straight bar,” I added with a grin.
Jonathan returned the grin. “Okay, as long as it’s straight.”
“It shouldn’t take too long, and I’ll be home as soon as I can, but don’t wait up.” I walked over to give him a hug then scooped up Joshua and lifted him over my head. “And don’t you get into any trouble while I’m gone, hear?”
He scowled at me. “I never get into any trouble.”
“Right,” I said, putting him back down.
I debated about changing clothes and decided against it. Embers wasn’t as fancy a place as it had once been, so I just changed the jacket I had on for a relatively new one I’d only worn a few times.
*
Like Embers itself, the neighborhood in which it was located was not quite what it once had been. Still not exactly shabby, but showing signs of getting there. The exclusive little shops that used to dot the area were being replaced by chain outlets and discount stores.
A large neon sign stretching in script across the face of the building still proclaimed “Embers” in vibrant blue, but the s was flickering.
I got a parking place about half a block away. As I walked to the entrance, I noticed a sign promoting “Happy Hour Every Wednesday, 4-7,” which I took as further evidence that its aura of exclusivity had long since passed.
When I entered, I noticed the cloak room was unattended, the guests apparently being responsible for hanging up and retrieving their own coats. Of course, given the hour, I guess that wasn’t a surprise. Still, echos of its glory days as a supper club remained. The small stage was still there, curtains open to reveal a grand piano no one was playing. An abandoned maitre’d’s podium stood off to one side of the three-step stairway down to the main floor.
A waitress with a tray of empty glasses came over as I descended the steps.
“Would you prefer a table or the bar?” she asked pleasantly.
“I’m meeting someone,” I said. “George Bement.”
She smiled and pointed to a man seated alone at a table by the stage.
“He’s right over there,” she said. “Can I get you a drink?”
“A bourbon-Seven,” I said. “Thanks.”
There are actually more people here than I expected, I thought as I headed toward his table. I counted five at the oval bar in the center of the large room, and two well-dressed couples at the only other occupied table. No one was wearing Levi’s or tee shirts, but generally the dress code seemed to be sufficiently casual I didn’t feel out of place.
I quickly scanned the people at the bar. If, as was rumored, Embers had become a discreet drug-trade center, the emphasis was on discretion, and you certainly couldn’t tell by just looking around.
Bement, who was wearing a white shirt and suit coat but no tie, didn’t look up until I was at the table.
“Mr. Bement,” I said, offering my hand. “Dick Hardesty.”
He half-rose to shake it then sat down again, motioning me to a chair. There was a distinct family resemblance between him and Alan, though George’s overall look was more, well, rumpled. If Alan’s appearance could be compared to a just-minted dollar bill, George obviously had been in circulation a bit too long.
“What are you drinking?” he asked, starting to motion to the waitress, who was at the bar.
“I’ve already ordered, thanks.”
“Well, I need a little freshener,” he said, catching her eye and indicating his need. She nodded and turned to the bartender. “So, what’s this all about?”
I caught the distinct olfactory mixture of aftershave and liquor. I suspected that, like some other alcoholics I’d known, he could drink most people under the table without really appearing drunk himself.
“I’m looking into the circumstances of your grandfather’s death,” I said.
“What circumstances? He finally got as sick of being a miserly old skinflint as we were of having to put up with him, and he shot himself.”
The waitress came with our drinks, and I reached for my billfold, but Bement said, “On me,” and, to the waitress, “Put it on
my tab, honey.”
“Thanks,” I said, raising my glass in a toast. “But I’m a little surprised to hear him called a skinflint. From what I understood, he was pretty generous with you and your brothers. Didn’t he set you up in business?”
He eyed me suspiciously. “You’ve been talking to my brothers?”
I nodded. “And your father, and your aunt and your cousins. You’re the last one on my list.”
“That’s just great!” he said with disgust. “I can just imagine the line of crap they all fed you.” He shrugged and took a long swig from his drink. I couldn’t tell exactly what it was—probably gin or vodka, from the clarity of the liquid.
Putting his glass down, he leaned forward, resting his drinking arm on the table. “You know that old story of the kid being tossed in the air?”
I shook my head, though I was pretty sure I did.
“Well, this grandfather picks up his little grandson and tosses him in the air. The kid’s terrified, but the grandfather catches him easily. Then he tosses the kid again, and again catches him. After about four tosses, the kid is really enjoying it. So on the fifth toss, the old man just lets the kid fall to the floor, ker-plop! He looks down at the kid and says ‘Let that be a lesson to you, kid. Never trust anybody!’”
I had heard the story before but found it interesting that, every other time I’d heard it, it had been the kid’s father doing the tossing.
“I’m not quite sure I follow,” I said, though I was a couple steps ahead of him.
“Look,” he said, “when I graduated from college I had the chance to get in on the ground floor of a new company. I went to Gramps, and he grudgingly loaned me the seed money. My business partner buried us in debt then bailed after a year, and despite my best efforts, the company went under.
“A year or so later, a friend from my Harvard days invited me to go in with him on a resort complex he was planning for the Gulf Coast. Again, I went to Clarence, and practically had to beg him for a loan. It was humiliating. I mean, he was already in his late eighties. He had more money than he knew what to do with, and it wasn’t as though he was going to be able to take it with him. We both knew I’d be getting it eventually anyway.
