The Secret Keeper

by Dorien Grey

  I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, so I didn’t. I guess I’m not as clever as I think I am.

  *

  Jonathan had mentioned “circling the wagons,” and that was a definite problem I faced when it came to this case. I realized I might be making a mistake zeroing in on Stuart, Alan, and George Bement. I still couldn’t see Esmirelda and her brother having enough to gain to resort to murder to get it, but I had to go with the obvious first.

  I had little doubt that, if confronted and accused of killing their grandfather—and, I was increasingly convinced, Eli Prescott—none of them would have the slightest hesitation about shoving the others under a bus. I was also sure they were acting as one when it came to denying any knowledge of a signed copy of the new will. No matter who the killer was, it was in their own individual self-interest to try to prevent the new will from going into effect. Even if they did not know exactly what was in it, they had to know it was most likely bad news for them.

  I spent most of Tuesday morning making myself miserable trying to figure out ways to find out things there was no practical way to find out.

  Jonathan had mentioned reading the book Clarence Bement had given him, and that he really liked Sonnet 43, which he remembered from high school: “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.” Well, I could pretty much do a paraphrase on that one: “How far up the creek am I on this case? Let me count the ways…”

  Maybe if I did discreetly accuse Stuart, Alan, and George, individually, one of them might, in the course of pushing the others into the path of the bus, give me something solid to follow up on, or might shake a few more clues out of the skeletons in the family closet. It might be worth a shot.

  Assuming any of them did it, a mind-voice pointed out helpfully.

  *

  I yet again rummaged through my mental in-basket. That one or more on Richard’s side of the family had, as Mel had indicated, gone through Clarence’s home looking for the new will following his death, and with Esmirelda’s tacit approval, was axiomatic. The question was, how could they have missed finding it if, as I was increasingly sure, it was still there somewhere.

  Of course, I recognized that pointing a finger at any one of them could be hazardous to my health. And although I’d put myself in jeopardy in the course of more than one case, this time there was the added—and unacceptable but unavoidable—risk of involving Jonathan and Joshua whenever they were with me. It was hard enough to handle the frustrations of a difficult case without their possibly still being in harm’s way because of it. But I didn’t see that I had much of a choice at this point.

  Considering all the time it had taken to corral the three brothers the first time around, getting to talk to each of them again would not be easy.

  *

  I first called Richard. Naturally, he wasn’t in, so I left a message. To forestall the very real possibility he would just ignore it, I tried to word it with a hook.

  “Mr. Bement, this is Dick Hardesty. I think I’m getting close to closing the case, but I’ve come up with a question regarding your brother-in-law Gregory Fowler that you might be able to answer for me.”

  I knew they were positive Mel’s dad had his hand in the cookie jar and was hoping the opportunity to shift attention to Gregory might be an inducement, and that Richard might want to know just what I meant by “coming close to closing the case,” which was, of course, pure Hardesty bullshit. But even if he thought so, too, I hoped his curiosity might get the better of him.

  I’d long ago decided that answering machines were wonderful devices but also something of a pain in the ass by allowing people to use them to screen calls. I had little doubt that’s what all the Bements were doing when I tried to reach them. I left basically the same message on Alan’s and Stuart’s machines and thought about making a quick side trip to Embers on my way home to see if George might be there, or if the bartender knew which nights he was more likely to be there, but it was Jonathan’s chorus night, so I had to get right home.

  *

  Paranoia can come rather easily to a private investigator, and after yet another round of no-calls-received-from and another round of messages-left-for the Bements from work Wednesday morning, my suspicion they might not be anxious to talk to me was fairly well confirmed.

  As I pondered my next move, my mind came back to who had witnessed the signing of the will. I’m sure Mel was right in assuming anyone mentioned in it could not have been a witness, and I could also understand that Clarence wouldn’t want Richard’s side of the family to even know about it, let alone have any of them witnessing it. I put in calls to Mel’s mom, dad, and Mrs. Prescott to see if they had any idea of who might have been selected, and none of them had any idea. I wanted to call Patricia, too, but knew she was working and didn’t want to bother her at the library.

  After lunch, without a single phone call from the Bements, I was busy fighting off mounting frustration when I remembered seeing a sign outside the Embers proclaiming a Wednesday happy hour, 4 to 7. On the chance George Bement might take advantage of it, I called Jonathan’s work, leaving a message that I’d probably be a few minutes late getting home.

  *

  The minute I walked in the door, I spotted George sitting at the same table as on my last visit. He was staring impassively into his drink as though watching a tiny TV screen among the ice cubes. He once again didn’t even notice me until I was standing beside the table, and even then he didn’t seem startled by my sudden appearance.

  “Mr. Bement,” I said, extending my hand, which he took.

  He gave me an idle smile and said, “Mr. Hardesty! What brings you here? Never mind. I know. You tracked me down like a fox on the moors.”

  I didn’t know they had foxes on the moors, but then, I didn’t know a lot of things.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you by phone, and just took a chance you might be here.”

  “Well, you were right. I am here. Have a seat. What would you like to drink?” As I pulled out a chair, he flagged the waitress over. “Bourbon-Seven, right?” he asked as she approached.

  I merely nodded.

  “A bourbon and Seven, if you will, and I’ll have another while you’re at it.” He took a long swig of his current drink as she walked away, then set the glass down with a satisfied “aahhh!” Turning his attention to me, he said, “And what may I do for you this time? Still looking for dear Grandfather’s alleged…killer?”

  “Still trying to gather information,” I said.

  He gave a quick upward jerk of his head. “I see. And what information are you currently gathering? Zeroing in on one of my dear brothers, I hope.”

  Ah, the power of brotherly love.

  “I was curious about two things. First, you told me last time we met that you knew nothing about your grandfather’s new will. But I’m increasingly convinced he was killed because of it. And, to be honest with you, your side of the family has the most to gain by making sure the new will never surfaces.”

  “Interesting theory,” he said, not looking at me.

  If I told him I thought it still existed, that might trigger a new, intensified search of Bement’s house, and might turn it up this time. So I said, “I’m pretty sure it’s been found and destroyed, either by the killer or by…someone else.” The pause was deliberate. Not subtle, but deliberate.

  He gave me a small smile. “So it’s all rather moot, isn’t it?”

  I shrugged.

  Seeing the waitress approach the table, he hastily drained his glass and put it on the table for her to pick up. As she set the drinks down, I reached for my billfold.

  “I’ll get this one,” I said, but he waved me off.

  “Nonsense!” Glancing at the waitress, he said, “Put it on my tab, honey.”

  Since she was not the same waitress we’d had when I was in before, I gathered he called all the waitresses “honey” to save having to learn their names.

  I raised my glass. “Cheers.”

  He
returned the salute. “And your second question?”

  “Gregory Fowler managed your trust fund, right?”

  “All of them—mine, my brothers’, my father’s. And mismanaged is more the word.”

  “Mismanaged? How was that?”

  “By refusing to be flexible. By sticking everything into musty old companies instead of going with the flow. We were constantly after him to diversify into real growth stocks, but he refused. I don’t know how much his insistence on horse-and-buggy stocks cost us in lost profits over the years. I’m certain he was robbing Clarence blind, and the old coot was too far gone in dementia to realize it. The estate should have been much larger than it was, and I lay that fact right on Fowler’s doorstep.”

  I got out the salt cellar on that one. For one thing, nothing I knew about Clarence Bement suggested he had suffered from dementia. And Mel had indicated—and logically dismissed— the concern that something nefarious was going on that reduced the size of the estate. But rather than wander off any further, I got right back to the conversation.

  “And what makes you think that?”

  “Gregory controls the old man’s money. He has for years. He can do whatever he wants with it, and he’s refused to give any of us regular accountings of just where the money has been going.”

  I hardly felt it necessary to point out that, since it was all Clarence’s money and not theirs, Gregory was not required to tell them anything.

  “The financial statement he presented at the reading was a sham,” he continued. “We’re demanding to see all his books.”

  Again, since Gregory had indicated an independent auditor regularly reviewed his books, I wasn’t sure exactly what the point would be, but I definitely was not surprised to hear George and his kin would automatically assume everyone was as greedy as they were.

  I found it hard to imagine that Gregory Fowler would go around bilking major clients. Richard’s side of the family was dysfunctional enough for both sides. And I wondered, even if they looked at the books under a microscope, how they might feel qualified to spot any discrepancies if there were any. They could probably insist on a second independent audit, but I had no idea what might be involved there.

  I had little doubt that, no matter how much money Clarence Bement might have left, they would insist there had to be more. I could see the storm clouds brewing on the horizon, and I didn’t envy Gregory Fowler.

  Well, the financial squabbling was none of my business. Time to get back on track.

  “Do you have any specific evidence for such an accusation? Has Gregory been buying yachts or mansions or living extravagantly enough to cause suspicion?”

  He took another swig of his drink. “No, he’s way too smart for that. But he’s doing it, mark my words. He’s got it stashed somewhere, I know that.”

  “But, again, you have no real evidence.”

  “I don’t need any. He’s a thief.”

  Well, that settled it, then. The old “don’t bother me with facts, my mind’s made up” theorem.

  I glanced at my watch. “Ah!” I said. “I’ve got to get going! Are you sure you won’t let me get the drinks?”

  He shook his head. “On me.”

  “Well, thanks,” I said, finishing my drink. I got up and extended my hand. “I appreciate the information.”

  “Any time.” As I started to leave, he said, “Oh, one more thing.”

  I turned back to him. “Yes?”

  “Why did the police come around wanting to inspect my car?”

  I shook my head. “Beats me,” I said. And then I left.

  Was it possible, I wondered while driving home, that Gregory Fowler had been dipping into Clarence Bement’s piggy bank? I suppose he could, if he were able to get around a yearly independent audit, but why would he? Not everybody’s a crook. Gregory was a CPA, had a clean bill of health from the police, ran his own company, and apparently had been doing well for himself all these years. His wife and children had just come into a hefty fortune. It didn’t make much sense for him to tap the till.

  *

  I was fixing a second pot of coffee Thursday morning at the office when I remembered something Jonathan had said some time ago—that Clarence had a yard service come in on Fridays. Could a couple of them have been pressed into service as witnesses to the signing of the will? It wasn’t as if it required any special training—just verifying that you’d watched the process.

  While I hated to bother Jonathan at work, and didn’t know if he was working in the nursery’s yard or out with a crew on a job, I called Evergreen. I was told he was in but working in the back of the lot. Rather than have someone go out and get him, I just left a message asking him to call me as soon as he could.

  Ten minutes later, he called back.

  “What’s up?”

  “Sorry to bother you at work, Babe, but I was wondering. You said Mr. Bement had a yard service come in every Friday afternoon. Was it a lawn maintenance company or just a bunch of guys?”

  He was silent a moment, then said, “I’m not sure. It was just three guys in a green pickup with a patched-up rear taillight. There was a name on the truck, but I don’t remember what it was. I think they work for several people in the area. I know I passed them other days when I was going to Mr. Bement’s. I’m really sorry I can’t remember the name.”

  “No problem,” I said. “I can take a drive over to Briarwood and see if I might spot them.”

  “Good luck,” he said. He didn’t ask why I was looking for them, but that was typical of him. He knew I had a reason and didn’t feel he needed to know what it was.

  I waited until around noon, figuring it would be a good time to catch them if they were in the area.

  *

  I’d driven up and down several streets surrounding Clarence Bement’s home before spotting a green pickup loaded with lawn equipment parked in the driveway of a Mount Vernon look-alike. Two men were working in front, and I heard the sound of a lawnmower coming from somewhere just out of sight around the building.

  Noting the truck had a cracked taillight held in place with what looked like duct tape, I pulled up behind it, got out, and approached the workers.

  “Is one of you the boss?” I asked. They looked at one another, then one pointed to the left side of the house.

  “Jim. He’s mowing in the back.”

  I thanked them and headed in the direction of the sound of the mower.

  Seeing me, the guy behind the mower—Jim, my incisive detective’s mind told me—continued his swath until it brought him closer to me. He turned off the mower and said, “Can I help you?”

  A decent-looking guy in his early thirties, he was wearing a tight white tee shirt with prominent sweat stains under the armpits. The day was unseasonably warm for late fall, and being in the sun for a couple hours must have been downright hot, but there must have been some unwritten rule that frowned on anyone’s working shirtless in such a wealthy neighborhood. A bad rule, I thought, since Jim definitely had a body built for being shirtless.

  “You work for Clarence Bement, right?”

  “Yeah. Every Friday. Why?”

  “Did you know he’d died?”

  He shook his head. “No, but I was wondering why we hadn’t seen him out in his back yard. Sorry about that. He seemed like a nice old man. Nobody’s told us to stop going, but if he’s dead, I wonder who’ll be paying the bill.”

  “I’m sure that won’t be a problem,” I said. “You just send a bill to Mr. Bement?”

  “We invoice every month—I sent him a bill last week. You sure there won’t be a problem in our getting paid?”

  I shook my head. “No, I’m sure there won’t be. I was curious as to whether he may have asked you to witness a document? Say around the seventeenth of the month?”

  He looked at me rather suspiciously. “Why are you asking?”

  “I’m a private investigator doing some work for one of Mr. Bement’s relatives, and I was led to believe you might h
ave been asked to serve as a witness to a signing.”

  “Yeah. Me and Chuck. There was a lawyer there, and he gave us each twenty bucks.”

  “And you saw Mr. Bement sign it?”

  “Yeah. He signed it, then we signed it.”

  A wave of relief swept over me. “That’s great,” I said. “Thanks. That’s all I needed to know.”

  He shrugged. “No problem.”

  I turned back toward my car and heard the lawnmower sputter back to life.

  As I passed the pickup, I saw “J.G. Lawn Care” on the door. I made a mental note of it and the phone number.

  One of the other two men looked up as I got into my car, and I gave him a wave, then took a notepad out of my glove compartment and wrote down the name and phone number. Tearing the sheet off the pad, I put it in my shirt pocket then turned on the ignition and left.

  *

  l didn’t hear from Mel until Friday morning at around ten.

  “Hi, Dick. I just got back into town. What have you found out?”

  I told him of tracking down the witnesses to the will.

  “While I don’t know if it will do any good, you might contact the lawyer—Weaver—to see what he has to say. I don’t know if just having someone verify that they witnessed the signing would be enough to negate the original will and put the new one into effect, but you can’t lose anything by asking.”

  “I’ll call him as soon as I hang up with you. Thanks, Dick! Now all we have to do is find out who killed Grandpa B.”

  “And Eli Prescott,” I amended. “And we still have to find the will. Even with sworn witnesses, you might have trouble having it supersede the original. But if it is, by chance, still out there somewhere, we’ll find it.” I waited a second, then said, “You know, I still can’t understand why Richard’s boys are so thoroughly convinced your dad was ripping your grandfather off. Do you have any idea where they might have gotten the idea, other than thinking the estate should have been larger than it was? Is there anything—anything at all you can think of—that might have led them to think that way?”