The Secret Keeper

by Dorien Grey

  “Eventually, definitely. But there’s just no time right now, much as I wish there might be. One-night stands are great, but after a while…”

  “I know what you mean,” I said. “Been there, done that. But enjoy it while you have it. There’ll be time for settling down a little later.”

  He looked at me for a moment without speaking, then said, “I hope you’re right. Still…”

  *

  The waiter’s arrival with more coffee ended that particular topic, and we switched subjects when the conversation resumed.

  I was able to piece together a little better picture of Mel’s own life, which despite his wealth had not been easy, what with his mother’s schizophrenia, his maternal grandmother’s loathing for his grandfather, and an implied subtle aloofness from his father.

  While I knew he was very close to his sister, I couldn’t really get a solid grasp on his relationship with his dad. I could tell he loved and admired him, but I sensed Gregory’s total absorption with his work had not allowed them to be as close as Mel would have liked.

  It couldn’t have been easy for Gregory, either, considering his relatively humble background. He’d obviously had to work his tail off to get where he was. Mel credited his dad with whatever reconciliation had taken place between his mother and Clarence, and with encouraging Clarence’s philanthropic side.

  He didn’t talk much about Richard’s side of the family, which was probably just as well. Why ruin a perfectly good evening?

  *

  After dinner, we invited him to join us for a drink at Ramon’s, and as the valet pulled up with his car Mel asked if Jonathan wanted to ride with him, since he’d expressed such interest in the MR2. Jonathan looked quickly to me, and before I got halfway through my nod, he was already opening the passenger’s side door.

  *

  We got home a little after midnight. I must have had a little too much of a good time, since Jonathan subtly suggested he drive home, and I didn’t argue with him.

  I awoke Sunday morning with a mild hangover, which a shower and two cups of coffee dispatched. The quiet time with the Sunday paper after Jonathan, Joshua, and Craig went off to church helped.

  I had to think back to remember when the last time was that I’d had so much to drink. Not since my single days, I decided. But I didn’t feel guilty—we all need to let go every now and then.

  Brunch after church, dropping Craig off at home, doing those chores we didn’t get to on Saturday, some time at our local park for Joshua to let off steam, calling Mel to thank him for dinner, and calls to most of the gang—Jonathan had to tell everyone about the Imperator—pretty well polished off the rest of the day and evening.

  But that my mind was never far from the case evinced itself when I was talking with Mel.

  “Do me a favor,” I said before we hung up. “Watch Richard and the boys when they come in to the reading. Keep in mind that whoever killed your grandfather and Eli Prescott already knows what’s in the will. See if you can get anything from their reactions—or lack of them.”

  *

  The reading of the new will was scheduled for ten a.m., and I hoped Mel would call as soon as he possibly could. The will was actually none of my business, except that it might provide some badly needed answers I hoped would lead me to Bement’s and Prescott’s killer.

  I spent the morning typing up the draft of my report to Mel, though it was, of course, open-ended and I’d already kept him informed just about every step of the way. Still, I felt a written report was important.

  Also, I’d been on the case for some time now, and apart from Mel’s retainer, I’d not received or requested a penny for my time or expenses, though the latter were minimal. It was just one of the built-in disadvantages of the business, and of a long case.

  In response to a loud growl from my stomach, I glanced at my watch to see it was lunch time, but I was hesitant to leave lest Mel call while I was out. I therefore tried to ignore my stomach, but it had a mind of its own.

  Go eat, already! a mind-voice urged. If he calls, you think he won’t leave a message?

  As usual, it was right, and I went downstairs to the diner.

  *

  Sure enough, the answering machine was blinking when I got back. Mel.

  “Dick. Sorry I missed you. Interesting reading. I won’t be home for a while, but I’ll try to call you again in a little while.”

  Damn, I hate waiting! But that’s what I get for listening to an internal organ.

  At one thirty, the phone rang. I snatched the receiver off the cradle as though I were afraid, if I didn’t, they’d hang up. I hoped it was Mel. I was right.

  “Dick, can you meet me at Grandpa B’s house in half an hour?”

  “Sure,” I said, too surprised to ask why.

  “Good. I’ll see you then.”

  What’s going on? most of my mind-voices asked in unison. I was with them. Pushing everything to the back of my mind for the moment, I got up and left the office.

  *

  As I pulled up in front of Clarence Bement’s house, I saw Mel’s red MR2 in the drive. Both gates were open.

  When I went to the door and knocked, Mel answered.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, unable to curb my curiosity.

  “Come on, let’s go into the den and talk.”

  I followed him through the foyer and down a hallway to the left of the main staircase. I’d only been inside the house once, and other than a quick stop in the den, had just walked through it on the way to the greenhouse and hadn’t really paid that much attention to it. I saw now that it was just as impressive inside as it was out. I had to give Esmirelda credit—she kept the place spotless. However, I was also very much aware she was nowhere to be seen.

  He opened the door to the den which, I now realized, reminded me a bit of Arnold and Iris Glick’s, down to the fireplace. Probably every house in Briarwood had one.

  He gestured me to one of two facing wingback chairs, and we sat.

  “Quite a day,” he said with a smile.

  “So I gather. What happened?”

  “Too bad you weren’t there,” he said. “I was afraid they were going to have to call in the riot squad.”

  “That bad?”

  “Almost. I’ll spare you the histrionics, but it boiled down to instead of the estate’s being divided equally among Mom, Uncle Richard, George, Alan, Stuart, Patricia, and me. Grandpa B amended the will so that Mom, Uncle Richard, Patricia, and I get a flat fifteen percent while Alan, Stuart, and George’s shares were cut to five percent each. I’m surprised you didn’t hear them screaming all the way to your office. It seemed to catch them all totally by surprise.”

  “Interesting,” I said, wishing I’d been there to see for myself. I knew Mel was pretty sharp, but he might not have quite the same degree of experience in spotting a liar as I do.

  Mel nodded and continued. “Another fifteen percent goes to Grandpa B’s charities. He also left Anna, Alan’s daughter and the only great-grandchild, five percent. Esmirelda gets ten thousand dollars plus a three-thousand-dollar resettlement grant from the remaining five percent, and the rest goes for the funeral, lawyer’s fees, and other expenses. And the best part of all was the stipulation that if anyone contests any of the conditions of the will they get nothing.”

  I could well imagine the unhappiness of Alan, George, and Stuart at the prospect of getting only one-third of what they’d expected, but Clarence had been clever in putting in the stipulation that any complaint would result in their losing everything.

  He paused to let me absorb those revelations then added, casually, “Oh, yes, and I was named sole executor of the new will. Uncle Richard was not happy about that little turn of events, though Mom was fine with it.”

  “Congratulations!” I said. “But that’s going to be quite a chore, considering your work schedule. Can you do both?”

  “I think so. But that’s why I’d l
ike to ask you to help me out with a lot of the detail work.”

  Now, that came as a surprise.

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll be glad to, and I’m flattered that you’d ask. But why me? You could probably find someone more qualified in this sort of thing.”

  “Probably,” he conceded. “But I don’t know of anyone, and I can’t ask my dad—he has his own business to run. And while I don’t know you all that well, I feel I can trust you.”

  I have to admit, I was flattered. “I appreciate that,” I said.

  “I’ve already given Esmirelda her notice,” he said, “effective immediately. She has a private entrance to her quarters—off the patio—and I’ve given her a week to find an apartment. I wrote her a personal check for the three thousand to make it easier for her to find a place and told her I would give her a letter of recommendation to a future employer, and that I was sure Uncle Richard would, too.

  “Mr. Weaver said he’d put me in touch with someone to do a complete inventory of the house. I’ve already put in a call to a locksmith to come over this afternoon and change the locks, and to put one on the inner door between Esmirelda’s quarters and the house, which should keep anyone from trying to remove anything they haven’t already walked away with.

  “I have a rotation coming up starting Wednesday, and was hoping you might be able to oversee the inventory. I know this is springing a lot on you, but I really do need your help.”

  “I’ll be happy to do what I can,” I said. “But you do realize we still haven’t found out who killed your grandfather and Mr. Prescott, and I still consider that my primary concern.”

  “Well, I’d hope they might not be mutually exclusive.”

  “I guess you’re right,” I admitted, “but I’m really a little frustrated not to have figured this out yet.”

  “You will.”

  I appreciated the confidence with which he said it. I just hoped he was right.

  A knock at the door announced the arrival of the locksmith. I took that as my cue to leave, and did so, with Mel saying he’d call me the next day.

  *

  Now, that, I thought as I drove back to my office, was an interesting meeting, to say the least. As I’d suspected, the new will had provided at least Alan, Stuart, and George Bement with a solid motive for murder if they’d known about its contents beforehand. But I suddenly realized the only thing they could have known before Prescott died was that there was a new will, not what was in it.

  That bothered me. And according to Mel, they had all apparently been truly shocked. Still, it wasn’t impossible that at least one of them had been acting.

  I was pretty sure Clarence’s having named Mel as executor of the will didn’t sit well with Richard or his sons.

  As to Alan, Stuart, and George getting only five percent each of Clarence’s fortune and assets, it would still probably be far more than I could make in several lifetimes.

  I was glad that Anna had been included. In a way, it was too bad Esmirelda had to lose her job, but I could understand Mel’s reasons for letting her go. She simply couldn’t be trusted not to let Richard and his boys wander in and take whatever they wanted from the things not specifically mentioned in the will.

  The offer to help Mel with his executive duties had caught me totally off-guard, but I knew it would largely involve “grunt work”—making arrangements, running what would be the equivalent of errands, organizing, etc. Not all that different from what I’d often done for Glen O’Banyon and the other attorneys for whom I occasionally worked.

  What did bother me was that I still didn’t know who had killed Clarence Bement and Eli Prescott. I planned to call Detectives Angell and Garland to let them know about the will and the fact that whoever had killed Eli Prescott and stolen his signed copies of the new will had to have known what was in it.

  And there it was again, that glimmer of—something—in the corner of my mind. God, but I hated that, and I seem to do it constantly. What in the hell was it?

  I wanted to see the will—the whole will and everything I could find involved with it. Why? What was I looking for, and how would I know if I found it? The will was technically none of my business. I knew the attorney, Weaver, wouldn’t let me near it without permission, so I would have to ask Mel. But I didn’t want him to think I was letting this helping-with-the-executing job go to my head, or being nosy.

  But I was being nosy, and the only way to have access was to get him to agree to it. Still, all he could do would be to rescind his offer for me to help.

  Okay, Hardesty, my mind-voice in charge of reason—too seldom heard from—said as I started to reach for the phone. Sit down and think. What is it you’re looking for?

  I took its advice and sat at my desk, not going over my notes for the umpteenth time but just trying to relax and see what happened. Nothing did, except for that damned glimmering playing hide-and-seek among the shadows.

  I finally gave up and picked up the phone to leave Mel a message.

  *

  Joshua and I were finishing up the dinner dishes and Jonathan had just gotten off the phone with Cory when Mel called.

  “I’ve got a key to the house for you. And I’m meeting an estate appraiser at the house at nine-thirty tomorrow. Can you be there? I’d like you to meet him, since you’ll probably be dealing with him while I’m on my rotation. And I can give you the key then.”

  “Sure,” I said. “And I have a rather odd favor to ask.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Would you be willing for me to look over the will and all the paperwork that accompanied it?”

  “You mean the financial reports? What would you want that for?”

  “No specific reason. Maybe some financial transaction your grandfather had with someone, some unrepaid loans he’d made—other than to Richard’s boys. I don’t know, but I feel I should check out everything. I just want to see if I can find anything anywhere that might have led to your grandfather’s and Mr. Prescott’s murder.”

  There was a slight pause, then, “Yeah. Sure. I don’t see what harm it would do.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it. I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

  *

  Rather than go into the office first on Tuesday morning, I drove directly to Clarence Bement’s house. The appraiser had not yet arrived, but Mel was there, and we sat in the large living room and talked about nothing in particular until we heard a knock at the door.

  Several years before, long before I became a P.I., I’d dealt with an estate buyer when I sold my parents’ house after they died. It wasn’t easy, letting go of so much of my past, but I couldn’t use everything.

  After setting aside what it was practical for me to take and giving a lot to relatives and my folks’ friends, I contacted two estate buyers to come in and bid on everything from the dishes in the cupboards to the refrigerator to the laundry baskets. They both had antique and secondhand stores, and I’m sure, since my folks weren’t wealthy, most of it ended up in the secondhand stores.

  I’m also sure I didn’t get more than twenty percent of what it was worth, but it was easier than doing a series of yard sales.

  The gentleman Mel welcomed into the house bore absolutely no resemblance, in looks, attitude, or bearing, to the casual, average-Joe types with whom I had dealt. This guy was dressed and acted like a bank manager. Because he didn’t have any direct personal financial interest in the contents of the house, he could be far more objective than someone who makes an offer with their own profit in mind.

  After introductions, Mel led us on a tour of the house, except for Esmirelda’s quarters. The appraiser, rather aptly named Dwayne Grand, said little but took everything in, commenting favorably on several pieces of furniture and art.

  When the tour was finished, he said that one of his estimating teams was just finishing a project and could start work on a detailed inventory on Thursday, if that would be satisfactory. Mel said it was, and I agreed to be there to let them in.

/>   From what I could gather, once the inventory had been made—which Grand said would probably take at least two full days and include photographs of almost everything of value—a listing would be prepared. Mel then would have the option of distributing the list to a number of selected antique dealers or selling everything in bulk to an estate buyer.

  Mel, in turn, gave him a copy of the section of the will that bequeathed specific items to specific people. Grand’s people would collect them and set them aside for disposition according to the will’s directives.

  *

  Mel and I left shortly after Grand, and I walked him to his car.

  “Oh,” he said, “and can you do me a favor and take in the mail? There’s a whole stack of it on the desk in the den. If you have time, maybe you could open it up and set the bills aside so I can take care of them as soon as I get home?”

  “No problem,” I said.

  We reached his car, and he went around back to open the trunk and extract a large envelope, which he handed me.

  “The will and the financials,” he said. “I hope you can find something in there.”

  So did I.

  “I’ll make a copy of everything and get these back to you either later this afternoon or tomorrow before you leave for the airport,” I said.

  He shook his head. “No need. There’s a Copy-Quik between my place and here, so I just ran in and had them run off a set. I’ve got a meeting at the bank in half an hour to deal with the safe deposit box, and I’ll need to show them a copy of the will. I’ll call you as soon as I get back in town. If you absolutely have to reach me, you can call the airline. Otherwise, if there are any minor decisions to be made with the inventory, just make them. I trust your judgment.”

  He took out his keys and detached one from the ring. “And here’s the key to the house for Thursday. It’ll fit all the locks except the ones to Esmirelda’s apartment. We can change them after she’s gone.”

  I took it and attached it to my own key ring, after which we shook hands and I turned toward my car.

  “Oh, one more thing,” he called, and I turned around. “As far as I know, no one knows you’re helping me out with all this. I haven’t told my parents, and certainly not Uncle Richard or his boys. I don’t want to complicate your life fending off calls from anyone.”