by Dorien Grey
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the sheet of paper on which I had written the numbers from Sonnets from the Portuguese.
“Who wants the honors?” I asked.
“Go ahead,” Mel said, and with no objections from the rest of the group, I did.
The safe contained several small boxes of varying sizes and a number of legal-sized folders and envelopes. But in the very front, propped up and facing forward, was an envelope marked “Last Will and Testament.” I took it out and handed it to the lawyer, together with the paper on which the combination was written.
Setting his briefcase on the potting table just to one side of the safe, Weaver opened it, then looked mildly perplexed, realizing the safe held more than there was room for in his briefcase. Mel also realized it, and went quickly to a box on a nearby table. Emptying it of a stack of clay pots and saucers, he brought it over as I handed Weaver enough to fill the briefcase, which he then closed after laying the will on top. Placing the rest of the materials in the box Mel provided, he then nodded to me, and I closed the now-empty safe and twirled the tumbler.
We then all filed outside into the relative coolness and went back into the house.
As we entered, Weaver said, “I suggest we go directly to my office to make a registry of what we have, so that each of you may have a copy. It will take quite some time to go through everything thoroughly, but this way there will be no doubt as to the safe’s contents.” Obviously, he’d dealt with wills and distrustful relatives before.
We ended up going directly through the house and out the front door without stopping. I noticed Esmirelda standing like a potted palm halfway up the entry staircase.
As the front door closed behind us, Weaver turned to me and once more extended his hand.
“Thank you for your help, Mr. Hardesty, and thank Mr. Quinlan as well.”
That was my cue to leave, and as the line of cars moved out of the drive and turned left, I turned right.
*
So, was it over? Well, not quite. We had the little issue of who had killed Clarence Bement and Eli Prescott, and I was no closer to determining that than I had been the day I took the case.
There was little I could do but wait until the reading of the new will to see if it might shed some new light on exactly who the killer might be. If it didn’t—well, I didn’t want to think about that at the moment.
Since I’d gone directly from home to Clarence Bement’s, when I got to the office I took my time going through a delayed version of my morning routine, then spent the time until lunch in general puttering. Shortly after I returned from lunch at the diner in the lobby, I received a phone call from Mel.
“How did it go?” I asked after we’d exchanged greetings.
“Pretty well, though Uncle Richard wasn’t too happy with me for ‘involving a stranger in family matters,’ as he put it. I pointed out to him that if it hadn’t been for you, we never would have found the safe, which may have been what he was really unhappy about. Now that we have a signed copy of the new will, the old one will be superseded. Fortunately, no money has been distributed from the estate yet.”
“But you still don’t know what’s in the new will, I assume.”
“No. Mr. Weaver is setting up a reading for next Monday—I’ll be out of town from tomorrow until Saturday. But the main reason I’m calling is because I think Mr. Weaver wants to talk to you.”
That was a surprise. “Me? About what?”
“About Grandpa B’s death—and Mr. Prescott’s. When we were talking in his office while waiting for one of the secretaries to type up the list of the safe’s contents, Mr. Weaver asked how it was that you came to be involved, and I explained that you were looking into Grandpa B’s death and thought Mr. Prescott’s death wasn’t an accident, either. Mr. Weaver was very interested to hear more, and I told him. Again, Uncle Richard did everything he could to claim it was all a bunch of nonsense and a monumental waste of time.
“I just wanted to give you a heads-up in case Weaver does call. I’m not sure exactly what he has in mind, but I got the impression there was something specific he wanted to tell you.”
“Well, thanks, Mel. I appreciate it.”
“So, now that the will’s been found, what do you say I take you and Jonathan out for dinner this Saturday? I’ll be getting back into town around noon, but I’ll call you if anything changes.”
“That sounds great,” I said, “and I’m sure Jonathan will be delighted to spend some time with you. We’ll have to line up a sitter for Joshua, but…”
“Well, I’ll be home until noon tomorrow, so you can reach me any time between now and then. But why don’t we just count on it and you can call me if you can’t make it? Seven thirty Saturday?”
“Again, that sounds fine. Where shall we meet you?”
“How about the Imperator?”
I nearly dropped the phone.
“The Imperator. I’m afraid that’s a little bit out of our league.”
“Hey, it’s on me. Grandpa B used to take Pat and me there when we were kids. And again, I owe you both big time for finding the will.”
“Okay,” I said. “And thanks.”
“No, thank you,” he said. “Talk with you later.”
The Imperator, huh? I remember joking about it with Marty, and I’d actually been there once while working on a case. It was by far the most exclusive restaurant in the city, the kind of place where the menus don’t have prices—the check is sent discreetly to the host. I knew Jonathan would flip out when he heard.
*
Shortly after I hung up with Mel, Detective Angell called.
“The paint from Prescott’s car matches the scratch on Bement’s Mercedes. We talked with the housekeeper again, and she still claims she knows nothing, and that anyone in Bement’s family could have used it—though they all denied driving it anywhere close to the time of Prescott’s death. Apparently, the last family member to use it was Bement’s son-in-law, Gregory Fowler.
“He said he borrowed it with Bement’s permission while his car was in the shop for repairs the Tuesday and Wednesday of the week before Prescott died. He says he returned it on Thursday. We checked with the garage, and they confirmed his story.”
“Yeah, he had told me the same thing.”
“Considering the housekeeper’s brother is an ex-con, we asked if he might have driven it, and she vehemently denied it. She said he didn’t even know where the key was kept. We ran prints on the car, but so many people have driven it—it apparently hadn’t been cleaned in a long while—it was nearly impossible to pick out any individual, recognizable prints, let alone how long they’d been there.”
“Which leaves us pretty much up in the air.”
“Well, we don’t give up easy. We’ll keep on it. What have you found out?”
I filled him in on what little I knew, including that Clarence Bement’s missing will had been found and was to be read the coming Monday.
“It may well provide some pretty strong motivation for murder,” I said.
“Interesting. Thanks. Keep us posted. And if anything else comes up, let us know.”
“Count on it.”
I’d barely set the receiver back on the cradle before the phone rang again.
“Hardesty Investigations,” I said, using my butch/business voice.
“Mr. Hardesty, this is Andrew Weaver calling. I was wondering if we might have a talk.”
I had no idea what he wanted, but was definitely interested in finding out.
“Of course. When and where?”
“My office? Tomorrow morning at, say, eleven?”
“Eleven will be fine.”
*
I was right about Jonathan’s reaction to Mel’s invitation to dinner at the Imperator. I waited until after Joshua had been put to bed before telling him.
He, of course, wanted to run out and buy a new suit the next day, but I finally convinced him that wouldn’t be necessary, and that his “good
” suit would be quite good enough.
“But I won’t know how to act,” he said. “I’ll make a fool of myself.”
“You thought the same thing when we had dinner at the Glicks’ in Briarwood and you did just fine.”
“Well, yes, but…”
“No buts. You can fit in anywhere.”
He gave me a nervous smile, followed by a hug, which he broke to head for the phone to call Craig to see about sitting with Joshua Saturday night.
*
I arrived at the offices of Talmadge, Booker, and Prescott ten minutes early for our eleven o’clock meeting. They were located several floors below Glen O’Banyon’s offices, but were equally impressive. The receptionist took my name, showed me to a seat, and asked if I would like some coffee or a soft drink, which I declined with thanks.
At exactly eleven o’clock, I heard a discreet buzz from the receptionist’s phone. She picked it up, said something I did not hear, then got up from her desk and walked to a highly polished burled walnut door.
“This way, please, Mr. Hardesty.”
The door opened smoothly to reveal a short, thickly carpeted hallway, down which she escorted me to the second door on the left. Rapping lightly, she opened it, stepping aside to let me pass. When I was inside, she smiled and left, closing the door behind me.
Andrew Weaver rose from behind his elegantly modern desk—teak, I’d guess—and came around to greet me.
“I’m glad you could come,” he said with a large smile.
After our handshake he gestured me to a padded beige suede chair that matched four others placed around the room. Just behind me, a solid wall of bookshelves faced Weaver’s desk and a filmy-curtained wall of glass overlooking the city. Apparently, Mr. Weaver and his firm did quite well for themselves.
When we were seated, he leaned forward to place both arms on his desk.
“Mr. Fowler tells me you are investigating Clarence Bement’s death.”
I merely nodded.
“He says you do not believe it was a suicide.”
I nodded again. “That’s correct.”
“Though I said nothing to the family, I share your belief. The morning of the day Mr. Bement died, I received a call from him, asking me to come to his home Monday morning.”
“Did he say what it was about?”
“No, but the implication was that he wanted to institute a legal action. He gave me no specific information. Whether it might have any relevance to your investigation, I don’t know. But I thought you should know.”
Now, that was interesting. Like Weaver, I had no idea who or what might be involved, but I had little doubt but that it was directly related to Bement’s death.
“I appreciate your telling me.”
“Mr. Fowler also indicated that you believe Mr. Prescott’s death also may have been something other than an accident, and that the two deaths may be related.”
“I’m afraid so,” I said.
He looked at me for a moment. “To say I find that possibility frankly shocking would be something of an understatement. Mr. Prescott’s partners, to whom I talked after my conversation with Mr. Fowler, share my concern. May I ask on what you base your assumption?”
Since I wasn’t violating any rules of confidentiality, I gave him a rundown of my suspicions, avoiding any names, including the evidence that the police had found about the paint smudge on Prescott’s door. I did not mention that Clarence Bement’s Mercedes had been involved. He listened intently, nodding from time to time.
“I’m convinced that someone was willing to go to any length to prevent the new will from going into effect,” I continued, “even if it took the deaths of two men to make sure of it. And in the end, it failed.
“I assume you’ve read the new will,” I said.
“No. I have no reason to. It’s in a sealed envelope, which I won’t open until the reading on Monday. After the reading, I’ll have copies made for everyone concerned.”
“Well, I’m most curious to see what it says,” I said, knowing that I’d have to wait until I heard from Mel after the reading.
Weaver gave me a small smile. “As am I,” he said.
*
With everything regarding the case effectively on hold until the reading of the new will, I took some time to step back and reflect calmly on everything I could think of about the case, looking for anything I might have missed, or not followed up on.
That Clarence had called Weaver about possibly taking legal action against someone was a revelation. What that might be and against whom it might be brought were the questions. But it added another possible dimension to the case.
Somewhere, in one of the dark corners of my mind, I caught a slight glimmer of—something. I had no idea what it was, but I didn’t think I was going to like it when I found out.
Since Clarence may have suspected his life might be in danger when Eli Prescott died almost immediately after the new will was drawn up, that underscored my certainty Jonathan’s finding the safe had not been accidental. Clarence had wanted him to know that it existed and where it was.
It also explained why he encrypted the combination of the safe into the pages of Sonnets from the Portuguese and gave it to Jonathan, telling him he wanted Mel to have it. He may have suspected, correctly, that he couldn’t wait until Mel came back to town to pass the book on.
But after going over every bit of information I’d gathered relating to the case one more time, I was basically back where I started. Except for that persistent and bothersome little glimmer of something in the attic of my mind.
*
Following a phone call from Mel shortly after noon on Saturday—Jonathan had spent the morning fretting over whether he would call, and insisted we delay our Saturday chores until he did—we agreed to meet at the Imperator at seven fifteen. We then tried to cram in as many chores as we could before having to start getting ready for the evening.
Craig arrived around six o’clock, and I called out for pizza for him and Joshua while Jonathan went through everything in his closet before settling on his blue blazer and black dress pants. I wore the “Sunday-go-to-meetin’” suit I’ve not had on more than a half-dozen times since I bought it.
We arrived at the Imperator at exactly seven o’clock, thanks to Jonathan’s insistence that we didn’t want to be late. A bright-red Toyota MR2 pulled up to the front of the restaurant just as we approached the entrance, and Mel Fowler stepped out, handing the keys to the valet. Spotting us, he came over, smiling.
I didn’t know which to focus on—the car or him. Both were spectacular, and a glance at Jonathan showed he was having the same problem, which was resolved when the valet drove off with the car.
Looking from Mel to Jonathan, I felt like one of the trolls under the bridge in “Billy Goats Gruff.”
After the handshakes and Jonathan’s comment, “What a beautiful car!” to which Mel’s reply was “Thanks. It’s my one concession to having a trust fund,” Mel said “Shall we?” and gestured toward the door.
From my previous visit, I’d filled Jonathan in on the history of the place. It was named after the famous German ocean liner, Imperator, which was launched within two months of the Titanic’s going down. At the end of WWI, it was seized by the British, who renamed it the Berengaria, and it became the longest-serving ocean liner on the North Atlantic run.
When she was finally scrapped, many of her fittings were sold, including the huge bust of Kaiser Wilhelm that now stood at the head of the short stairway leading from the restaurant’s entry to the dining room, which was presided over by the domed ceiling that had once adorned the Berengaria’s main salon.
I’ve noticed that most things in life, both people and objects, that are truly elegant don’t have to scream “I’m elegant!” They just are, and you know it without being told. There was nothing about the Imperator, from its decor to its service to its food, which was not unquestionably elegant.
Maitre’ds at fancy restaurants have
an annoying tendency toward unctuousness. The Imperator’s was not one of them. Though impeccably groomed and polite, his manner bespoke professional courtesy without the attitude. At the Imperator, he didn’t need it.
After the equally impeccably groomed waiter brought our menus and took our drink orders with a smile but without the usual “Hi, I’m Sam, and I’ll be serving you tonight,” Mel turned to Jonathan, who had subtly been taking it all in, and said, “Well, how do you like the place so far?”
Jonathan merely grinned and shook his head. “Cap’n Rooney’s Fish Shack will never be the same again.”
*
It was one of the best evenings we’d had in—well, I had no idea how long. The meal was amazing, of course. We all had the beef Wellington, and Mel and I shared a bottle of wine three times older than Joshua. For dessert Mel convinced me to order what he did, a Creme Brulee au Parfum saisonnier—burnt cream with truffles—which was decadent as all hell. I would have considered the killing of someone to get the recipe an act of justifiable homicide. Jonathan had a tart-sized raspberry cheesecake that practically had to be nailed to the plate to keep it from floating away.
The conversation was as enjoyable as the meal. Mel had an endless string of stories about his travels and adventures as a flight attendant, and he seemed genuinely interested in hearing about Jonathan’s and my lives, both as a couple and our individual backgrounds.
“I really envy you both,” he said at one point, which startled Jonathan.
“Us?” he asked. “You’re the one with the life most guys would die for.”
Mel smiled. “Yeah, I know that, and I love my life. But running off around the world half the time doesn’t leave much room for a real relationship.”
“You want one?” I asked, immediately feeling a bit foolish for asking, since he’d just indicated he did.
