The Secret Keeper

by Dorien Grey

  “Well, it wasn’t quite as large as I’d thought, either, but how would I know? Grandpa B had been retired for a lot of years, and with everyone constantly having their hand out, wanting more, it’s not surprising.

  “My dad is as honest as the day is long, and if it was anybody else making such rotten statements, I’d be really pissed. But considering the source, I’d almost expect it.” Suddenly, he paused. Quite a long pause, then, “There’s no way they could have found out about Monrovia, and even if they did, Dad didn’t know anything about it.”

  “Monrovia?”

  “Yeah. When I was a kid my folks took me and Pat on a wild animal safari, and I’ve been fascinated with Africa ever since. Mom and Dad have been there several times, and about a month before Grandpa B died, I had a chance to juggle my schedule in order to go.

  “I told you Grandpa B supported a lot of overseas charities, and one of them was a wildlife refuge in Liberia. I told him Liberia was one of my stops, and he asked if I’d be willing to visit the refuge. I told him sure.

  “But when I got to Monrovia and went to their headquarters to get directions, I found it was just an empty office on some dirty side street. There was no refuge. Obviously, it was a scam, and someone was just ripping off supporters. The minute I got back to the States I told both my dad and Grandpa B, and Dad cut off all funding immediately. I wouldn’t be surprised if Esmirelda overheard us and reported it to Uncle Richard. I’m sure that’s the kind of thing he and the boys would love to sink their teeth into.”

  “Well, as you say, I don’t think they really need proof of anything—suspicions are enough.”

  “So, I’d better call Mr. Weaver right now. I’ll let you know what happens.”

  “Do that, please,” I said.

  “Maybe we can get together for a drink sometime,” he said. “You, and Jonathan, of course.”

  “We’d like that,” I said, and meant it. Really meant it.

  Down, boy!

  *

  Half an hour later, Mel called back.

  “He said it might be possible to recognize the new will,” he said, “but that it would be a long, drawn-out procedure. Richard and the boys are between a rock and a hard place. They can’t get a penny until it’s all resolved, yet I really think they believe the new will will cut them out entirely.

  “And a court battle could drag on for years. Still, I talked with Mom, as co-executor of the original will, and she said we should go ahead. Mr. Weaver says we’ll need affidavits from the witnesses to start. And he’ll need the names and addresses—do you have them?”

  “I have the phone number, and if they need me to, I can do the calling to get the exact information they need.”

  “Great. Why don’t you give me what you have, and I’ll see how he wants to handle it.”

  I got out the piece of paper on which I’d written the information from the side of the truck and gave it to him.

  “I’m curious,” I said. “Has anyone actually read the new will, other than Weaver and whoever it was who stole Eli Prescott’s signed copies?”

  “No. Mr. Weaver says he hasn’t read it himself. He says even though both Eli Prescott and Grandpa B are dead, it still falls under lawyer-client confidentiality, and he can’t let anyone see it until it’s read.”

  “Understood,” I said. “Although, of course, whoever stole the signed copies Eli Prescott had in his possession knows very well what’s in it.”

  We talked for a few more minutes, then hung up.

  As I was getting ready to leave the office, I got a call from Detective Angell—I did love that name.

  “News on the Prescott incident,” he said.

  “You found the car that forced him off the road?

  “We think so. You were right about its being a black Mercedes. We found it in Clarence Bement’s garage. They’re doing the paint match now, but I’m pretty sure it will prove to be the one. We questioned the housekeeper, but she claims to have no knowledge of it, and says Bement often loaned it to his family.”

  “Yeah, but how would they have gotten the key? And I don’t think anything goes on around that house she isn’t aware of. I’ll bet you she knows exactly who took the car, and when.”

  “She said the key was kept in the garage, where anyone in the family could get to it. We asked her about the Sunday of Prescott’s ‘accident,’ and she says she goes to seven a.m. mass every Sunday, so if somebody took it while she was at church, she wouldn’t have known.”

  “Good story, but I don’t know if I buy it. She uses the Mercedes to go shopping and to run errands. I wouldn’t be the least surprised if she also took it to church. Which means if someone else drove it that Sunday, she’d probably have had to know about it in advance. Getting her to admit it is the problem.”

  “Well, if the paint matches, we’ll have another talk with her. No point in doing it until we’re absolutely sure.”

  “Understood.”

  We hung up shortly thereafter, and I was left just about where I’d been before the call came in.

  *

  Police lieutenant Mark Richman, with whom I’d worked on a number of cases, had a gay teenage son, Craig, whose services as a babysitter we used whenever we had the opportunity to go somewhere without Joshua. We were lucky in that not only was Craig a great kid but that Joshua looked on him as an older brother and a pal, and Craig, who had a slightly younger brother at home, was terrific with the boy.

  We’d settled into a nice arrangement with Craig and his folks, who looked on Jonathan and me as positive role models for their son. On the Saturday nights Craig babysat, he’d sleep over then accompany Jonathan and Joshua to services at the Metropolitan Community Church Sunday morning. When they returned, we’d all go to brunch, then drop Craig off at home.

  We’d arranged for him to come over Saturday night so that Jonathan and I could have one of our rare “just-the-two-of-us” nights out—dinner and a movie and maybe a stop at a couple of our favorite bars. Jonathan didn’t miss bar-hopping as much as I did, probably because he didn’t drink and hadn’t been as deeply involved in the bar scene as I had been before we met.

  He liked to refer to those rare times as our “date nights,” and I guess it was a pretty accurate way to put it. It gave us the chance to step away from our daily lives, and though we loved Joshua completely, it was nice to just concentrate totally on one another every now and then.

  Dinner at Napoleon’s, the latest James Bond movie, then a stop at Ramon’s, our friend Bob Allen’s bar, then another at Griff’s, our favorite piano bar, to hear Guy Prentice do a couple of sets. The only problem with “date night” was that, with Craig asleep on the sofa in the living room, we had to be a little circumspect as to how the evening ended once the lights were out. But all-in-all, it was a really great night.

  *

  Sunday morning, however, got off to a bad start when I went out into the hall to get the paper. It wasn’t there. Creature of habit that I am, I was mildly pissed at the inconvenience, but figured the delivery boy was running late. It still hadn’t come when Jonathan, Joshua, and Craig left for church. Odd how strongly we depend on our rituals, and how disconcerting it is when, for some reason, those rituals are broken.

  I picked up Sonnets from the Portuguese, which Jonathan had left on the coffee table. I’d read it in college and, like him, had found it a little heavy going in spots. Still, I opened it and began flipping through the dog-eared pages

  Clarence had obviously had it for some time, and out of curiosity, I checked the publication date—Cameo Classics, 1939. I reflected again on the fact that a hard-driven millionaire’s favorite book would be a collection of love poems more than 100 years old. Well, we all have our secrets.

  I noted that on the top of page 5, someone—obviously Clarence—had written the number 44. As I moved through the book, stopping occasionally to read a few lines, I found several other pages with numbers at the top. Idly wondering what might have struck him on the page
s indicated by his notes, I flipped back to page 5 and the first notation.

  I read the whole page, then went to page 44 and read that. I was a little puzzled, since he hadn’t underlined anything, and from what I could see, the two poems had little in common.

  Then I saw that the top of page 44 had the number 15 written on it. Went back to page 15, where again there were no highlighting or underlinings, and wondered what connection there might be to the poem on page 44, or what passage might have had special impact for him.

  At the top of page 15 was the number 37. Same puzzlement. Went to 37 to find the number 8. Again no particular connection, no passages that had any more resonance than the ones around them.

  Well, poetry is totally subjective, and speaks to each person differently. Obviously, Clarence found something significant on each of those pages which spoke to him. I just had no idea of what it was.

  *

  When the boys returned from church, we sat and talked for a few minutes, then headed off for brunch.

  “Can we go to the Cove?” Jonathan said.

  “Sure. Any particular reason?”

  The Cove was a family restaurant popular with gay teenagers and gays and lesbians with children.

  “Craig ran into a friend at church, and he said he was going to the Cove afterwards, so…”

  “Ah,” I said, looking at Craig. “A new love in your life?” He had broken up with a boyfriend not too long before.

  Craig blushed. “Too early to tell,” he said.

  “But you’re hoping.”

  He merely grinned and said nothing.

  *

  The brunch went well, and we left Craig at the restaurant, where he joined a group of kids his age, one of whom was obviously his next candidate for the position of “Mr. Right.” He promised he’d call his parents to let them know why we weren’t dropping him off at the usual time.

  Joshua and I were just finishing the dinner dishes Sunday night when the phone rang. Jonathan, who had been watering the plants, hurried to answer it. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but about two minutes later, he came into the kitchen.

  “It’s for you,” he said. “It’s Mel.”

  That took me somewhat by surprise. Wiping my hands and putting the dishtowel on the counter, I went to the phone.

  “Mel, hi. What’s going on?”

  “Sorry to bother you at home, Dick, but I’ve got an extended rotation, starting Tuesday. There’s some sort of stomach disorder going around, and it’s played havoc with a lot of our flight attendants, so we all have to cover for one another.”

  “Sorry about that,” I said, assuming he hadn’t called just to tell me that. I was right.

  “I’ve been talking with my mom, and she wants you to come with us to Grandpa B’s tomorrow to see if we can find the will. She figures that, since you’re a private investigator, you might be able to spot things we wouldn’t. I know Richard and his kids have all but ransacked the place looking for it, but I think it’s worth a shot.”

  I was flattered by Gladys Fowler’s confidence in my abilities but feared they weren’t all that warranted. Then I figured why not? and agreed.

  “Okay,” I said. “You want me to meet you there?”

  “That’d probably be easier. I’ll pick Mom up, and we’ll meet you there at…ten?”

  “Ten it is,” I said.

  “Got a date with Mel?” Jonathan asked, coming into the living room.

  “Yeah. Him and his mom. We’re meeting at Clarence’s tomorrow to see if we can find the missing will. Everyone’s been searching for it.”

  “That’s too bad. I’m surprised it wasn’t in his safe.”

  “He didn’t have a safe,” I said. “I asked.”

  “Sure he does,” Jonathan said. “I saw it. In the greenhouse, under the potting table along the back wall.”

  Chapter 10

  Good Lord, how stupid can I be? I realized that this was the first time Jonathan had had any idea I was looking for a missing will! All I’d ever done was ask him if Clarence had mentioned a will to him. I was always so hellbent on treating him like a hothouse flower that needed to be shielded from just about everything that I had, in effect, impeded my own progress on the entire case!

  “How did you find out about it?” I finally brought myself to ask after a moment of stunned silence in which I mentally kicked myself around the block several times.

  “One day right after his lawyer friend died, Mr. Bement sent me into the greenhouse to get something for him. He told me just where to look—in one of a long row of cabinets under the potting table. When I opened it, I didn’t find what I was looking for, but I saw a big safe behind a stack of plastic trays. When I went back and told Mr. Bement I couldn’t find what I was looking for, he said he’d made a mistake, and that what he wanted was in another cabinet, so I went back and found it.”

  “And you didn’t say anything about the safe?”

  He shook his head. “No. Why should I? It’s his safe, and it’s not any of my business.”

  Actually, putting it in the greenhouse was really a pretty good idea. How many burglars would look for a safe anywhere but in the main house—usually the ubiquitous “behind the painting in the study” or, a little more creatively, in a liquor cabinet? But a greenhouse?

  And I was sure Clarence had intended for Jonathan to see it. Why was another question.

  “Could he have gotten out there by himself and opened a safe under a tabletop from his wheelchair?” I asked.

  Jonathan shrugged. “It might be a little tough, but not impossible. There’s a sidewalk from the house to the greenhouse, and he was pretty good at getting around in the chair. And like I told you, he could stand up and take a few steps if he had something to hold on to. The aisles inside the greenhouse are wide enough for him to move around. He could just pull up to the potting table, open the door, move the stack of trays—they’re real light—and work the combination. He’d have to twist around a little, but it wouldn’t be all that hard.”

  How and when Bement had gotten the will to the greenhouse, considering Esmirelda’s hovering presence and the fact of his age and being in the wheelchair, was a puzzle. Assuming Esmirelda wasn’t home when the will was signed, though, he could have taken it out there any time before she returned. Perhaps Prescott knew about the safe, and took Clarence to the greenhouse to lock it away for safekeeping.

  The two main questions were: Did he get it into the safe, and was it still there?

  *

  Knowing there was a safe and opening it were two different matters. My first impulse was to go right to the phone and call Mel, but something made me hesitate. If Mel didn’t know there was a safe, he certainly wouldn’t know the combination. Who would? To call attention to the safe, even to Mel, would undoubtedly mean Esmirelda, who never seemed to miss anything, would find out about it, too, and alert Richard and his kids.

  If Mel didn’t know the combination, it’s a sure bet neither Richard nor his kids knew it either, but I didn’t want to risk anything happening to the safe before it could be opened in the presence of Andrew Weaver or one of the other lawyers from Prescott’s firm.

  Sonnets from the Portuguese still lay on the coffee table where I’d left it, and I suddenly knew what I should have known the minute Jonathan told me about the safe. I can be astoundingly dense at times.

  Moving over to pick it up, I quickly went through the notated pages—5, 44, 15, 37, 8. Those numbers weren’t referencing anything in the poems; they were the combination for Clarence Bement’s safe.

  After Eli Prescott died, Bement probably suspected his friend’s death had not been an accident—that someone had found out about the new will, and that he, too, was in danger. He had deliberately let Jonathan know the safe was there, trusting that he’d have no reason to tell anyone about it. He’d then given the book to Jonathan to read so it would be safe, and he’d let Jonathan know he intended for Mel to have it, hoping that Mel might be able to figure i
t out.

  I went to the phone to call him.

  *

  When I arrived at Clarence’s home shortly before ten, there were already two cars in the circular drive, including a black Mercedes, and I parked behind them.

  As I was getting out of my car, a Lincoln Continental pulled up behind me. I waited as the lone occupant, a large, balding man with black-rimmed glasses got out, carrying an expensive-looking briefcase.

  Shifting it to his left hand and extending his right as he approached, he said, “Andrew Weaver, Talmadge, Booker, and Prescott.”

  “Dick Hardesty,” I replied, taking his hand.

  “Ah, yes, the private investigator,” he said pleasantly as we released our handshake and walked toward the house.

  Two raps on the lion’s-head knocker resulted in one half of the double doors being opened wide to reveal Esmirelda Taft, dressed eternally in gray. She looked from Weaver to me with equal impassivity. If I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn she’d never seen me before in her life.

  “This way,” she said, closing the door behind us then leading the way across the polished wood foyer into a paneled den twice the size of my living room, in which were gathered Mel Fowler, his mother, and Richard Bement. None were seated.

  After handshakes and introductions, Richard said, “Well, let’s get to it.” He did not appear happy.

  Mel led the way through the house to the back patio. Where Esmirelda had gone, I had no idea, but I was sure she was aware of our every move.

  Opening the sliding glass doors and crossing the patio, we went to the greenhouse. The sun was out full force, and the greenhouse’s vent windows had not been opened, with the result that the heat and humidity were rather as I imagined a rain forest to be.

  We stopped just inside the entrance, and Mel turned toward me, making a sweeping gesture with his right hand and arm.

  “Lead the way,” he said.

  I moved to the long potting table that stretched almost the length of the rear of the building. Jonathan couldn’t recall exactly which of the ten or so cabinets held the safe, but he did indicate it was close to the far end, so I marched down the aisle as though I knew what I was doing. Purely on a whim, I opened the third door from the end, which revealed a large stack of plastic potting trays. Pulling them out, I saw the safe behind them, just as Jonathan had described.