The Secret Keeper

by Dorien Grey

  Though I knew before I called what the result would be, I dialed the remaining four numbers. All answering machines, all similar messages, all, I was sure, in the same voice.

  I did not bother calling the two numbers that, by the duration of the calls, were probably legitimate.

  Mel had told me of his trying to locate the wildlife charity in Liberia, which proved to be nothing more than an empty office. I’d be willing to bet the addresses I had on the six questionable charities on the financial report were equally bogus. Which meant only one thing.

  I called American Airlines, and after being shunted from place to place no fewer than four times, I finally reached the personnel office, explaining that I had to get a message to one of their flight attendants, Mel Fowler. No, I didn’t have any idea of his itinerary or what routes he might be on, but that it was urgent that he call me as soon as he possibly could. She asked if it was a family emergency, and I said yes. I wasn’t lying. I gave her my home and office numbers.

  *

  It was Gregory Fowler who had bought the gun for Clarence, whom Gladys said hated guns. It wasn’t illogical to speculate Clarence might have refused to accept it, and that Gregory had taken it back. Gladys had said Clarence never mentioned it again.

  Mel had said he’d told his dad about the new will, and considering what I’d just discovered, it was in Gregory’s best interest if the new will weren’t processed. Under the old one, there were only half a dozen major charities named, each receiving a negligible sum. There would be no valid reason to challenge bequests to them.

  But it had been Gregory who convinced Clarence to increase the number of his charitable donations. I’d be willing to bet the new charities had been added right after one of Gregory’s trips to Africa.

  All he had to do was rent a cheap office with a phone and answering machine, a bank account in the organization’s name and come up with letterheads, fake documentation, and whatever else it might take to convince a casual observer several thousand miles away that everything was totally on the up and up. A minimal expense for a comfortable steady income. He probably called periodically to check for messages, and I was curious what a check of his own office phone calls might reveal.

  As long as the original will was in effect, he didn’t have to worry about anyone questioning the “new” charities, which, not mentioned in the original, wouldn’t be slated for any money at all.

  He had every right to expect that Richard and/or his boys would bitch and moan about the money going to charity under the new will, and that could have led to the unravelling of the entire scheme. The irony was that, had he known about the stipulation cutting off anyone who protested the new will’s terms before he killed Prescott, he may well not have felt he had to kill him.

  But having killed Prescott, it was just too risky not to kill Clarence, too.

  Andrew Weaver had said Clarence had set up a meeting about initiating some legal action but died before it happened. Clarence may well have called Gregory to his home the afternoon he was killed to confront him, and perhaps give him a chance to explain. He may have thought it only fair, but obviously didn’t anticipate the result.

  Gregory, however, just as obviously did. He had everything to lose—his business, his reputation, possibly his family. If he had, indeed, kept the gun Clarence had refused to accept, he undoubtedly brought it to the meeting. And Clarence died.

  When Clarence’s signed copy of the new will came to light and was processed, Gregory had little choice but to hope the stipulation barring contesting the will’s provisions would prevent anyone from questioning the charities, and it’s unlikely anyone would have. The total amount going to the six bogus charities was still very small potatoes compared to the total estate.

  Like Esmirelda’s having padded the grocery bill just a little, Gregory was clever enough not to take too much at once, probably figuring a little here and there over several years would not be noticed. But it was enough that two men had to die to be sure he wouldn’t be found out.

  I felt terrible for Mel and his mother and sister, and I hesitated for just a moment, thinking I should tell Mel before I told the police. But I’d been hired to find out who had killed Clarence Bement, and I was certain I had. Delaying telling the police wouldn’t change anything.

  *

  Getting up from the desk, I walked to the living room.

  “I’m going to run out for some coffee,” I said. “Can I get anyone anything?”

  “We’re fine, thank you,” Ms. Lennox said without so much as looking at her associates.

  “I’ll be back shortly,” I said, and left.

  *

  Okay, Hardesty, a mind-voice said before I even got in the car. So, exactly what do you have?

  Well, until the police could prove it, all I really had was still speculation. But it was pretty solid speculation.

  Gregory Fowler had been channeling funds earmarked for charity into his own coffers. Why? Maybe he resented the fact he’d had to work so hard all his life while his wife had more money than she knew what to do with. He had full control of Clarence’s finances and, again, might have figured that as long as he wasn’t too greedy about it, it was unlikely Clarence would ever find out.

  But somehow, he did. Perhaps he’d initially been tipped off by Mel’s visit to Liberia.

  *

  I pulled into the drive-through lane at the first fast-food place I came to once I’d left Briarwood, and got a coffee and apple fritter to go. Returning to Bement’s I went back into the den, feeling a bit guilty for not going into the kitchen.

  I sat down at Clarence’s desk and slowly drank my coffee and ate my apple fritter with no real enthusiasm. My mind was still on the phone bill and what it represented.

  The ringing of the phone made me jump. Hoping it might be Mel, I answered it.

  “Bement residence.”

  “Dick! It’s Mel.” Thank you, God! “I just landed at Gander and got your message. They said it was a family emergency. What’s wrong?” His voice reflected his concern.

  “Everyone’s fine,” I said, attempting to placate him before dropping the bombshell, “but I’m afraid I do have some really bad news.” I then laid out the case against his father.

  When I finished, there was a very long silence, finally broken by, “I…I can’t believe it! Are you sure? Really sure?”

  “I’m afraid I am. I could be wrong, but I sincerely doubt it.”

  “So what are you going to do?” he asked, the tension in his voice making it clear he already knew the answer.

  “I don’t have a choice, Mel. You know that.”

  The tightness was still in his voice when he said, “Couldn’t you…I mean, isn’t there a way we could…”

  “I really wish there were, Mel. Really, I do. But there isn’t. You hired me to find out who killed your grandfather. If it was your dad, he can’t just walk away. If he didn’t do it, the police will figure it out.”

  Only silence from the other end of the line.

  “I’m so very sorry it had to turn out this way, Mel. I really am.”

  Finally, a long sigh. “It’s okay, Dick. I understand. I know you have to tell the police, but what if you’re wrong? You know how they are—they think they’ve caught the bad guy and they stop looking. They could railroad him on the basis of what you’ve found out, and the real killer might never be found.”

  I knew it was his desperation talking, and I also knew what he said was correct. I felt terrible for him.

  “Well, you’ve got one big advantage over most people if it comes to that,” I said, “You can afford to get him the best lawyers in the world, and if I’m wrong, they’ll prove it. Everything will work out the right way. Trust me.”

  “I do,” he said, but I felt less than reassured. “Look, my flight is boarding. I’ve got to go. I’ll see about getting a replacement as soon as we reach London, and I’ll be back as soon as I can. I’ll call you the minute I get in.”

  *r />
  I hung up feeling like shit. I couldn’t imagine what Mel must be going through. Which, I wondered, was more important: finding out who killed his beloved grandfather, or protecting his father?

  Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I should hold off talking to Angell and Garland. But I knew second-guessing myself was an exercise in total futility.

  I also knew that there was the chance that Mel might call his dad and alert him, in which case Gregory had the option of running to avoid arrest.

  So, did I wait until Mel got back and talk to him some more? What real good would it do? It would just prolong the inevitable, and if Mel did try to warn his dad, he could be in serious trouble himself. He hadn’t specifically asked me to wait, and all things considered, I didn’t really think I had any option.

  I picked up the phone.

  Chapter 11

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned being a private investigator for what seems at times like three hundred years, it is that life is not a detective novel. It’s a thought I have at the end of nearly every case—especially those cases in which I find myself more personally involved than I really should allow myself to be.

  Which, come to think of it, is most of them.

  I really felt sorry for Mel. He was a nice guy, and I liked him and his mother and his sister, and even his dad, what little I’d gathered from talking with him. Let’s face it, I tend to like almost everybody until they do something to let me know I shouldn’t.

  I really wish it had turned out that one of Richard’s boys had done it. I could live with that very nicely. But, irrational as I knew it was, I felt as though I had somehow screwed up several lives.

  Detective novels, too, always end up with a slam-pow-bang my cases seldom do. In my experience, the bad guys get arrested and go to trial, and as excitement-packed as those trials may be, they have little to do with me.

  And so it was with this one.

  *

  So as not to leave any loose ends, I should say that, once Detective Garland decided to get off his dead ass and get to work, things moved along rapidly. Just about all my suppositions had turned out to be accurate, and Gregory was arrested. A grand jury indicted him on two counts of murder, and the prosecutor opted for separate trials for each count.

  I was called to testify in both trials, and I hated it. Having to sit there like some mannequin in a department store window and look at Gregory at the defense table, and Mel and Patricia and Gladys right behind him, and watch the pain and sadness in their faces was something I never want to experience again.

  And when all was said and done, there were dozens of questions to which I did not have, and never could have, answers, and speculation covered only some of them.

  Exactly what had happened that Friday Clarence died? I had no way of knowing, but a logical scenario would be that everything was set in motion when Mel returned from Africa and told Clarence—and his dad—about the wildlife reserve charity scam. Clarence had subsequently called the numbers he had for the supposed charities—though why he waited so long before doing so, I had no idea—and come to the conclusion that Gregory was, indeed, stealing from him.

  He’d called Weaver to set up an appointment to discuss legal action but then had called Gregory to the house to either confront him or give him a chance to explain before meeting with Weaver. I wondered if Clarence ever suspected his friend Prescott’s death was anything other than a tragic accident, or that Gregory was involved in it. If he had, it’s very unlikely he would have tried to confront the man.

  I remembered Mrs. Prescott saying her husband had had a phone call with Clarence that had disturbed him. Perhaps it was in regards to Clarence’s having suspicions about the fake charities. Prescott may have urged Clarence to go to the police, but Clarence may have wanted to talk to Gregory first.

  But the shock of Prescott’s death delayed Clarence’s taking any action until he called Weaver to set up an appointment. He then called Gregory. Gregory undoubtedly figured out why Clarence wanted to see him, and the meeting ended in Clarence’s death.

  Was it possible Clarence had seen Gregory take the Mercedes the morning Eli Prescott was killed and, after making the phone calls that revealed the extent of Gregory’s charities scam, put two and two together? I’ll never know.

  Why hadn’t Gregory simply left the country before the will was read? He knew what was in it. He knew there was a chance the charities scheme would be uncovered if anybody requested an independent audit of the books—such a request might not be considered challenging the will. He’d undoubtedly stashed away enough money that he could just have fled to a country with no extradition treaty with the U.S.

  But that would mean abandoning his business and his family, and perhaps, in balancing the chances for another audit against the possibility no one would question the charities, he opted to ride it out. He’d managed to fool the auditors for several years; perhaps he thought he could do it again if he had to.

  It was a gamble, and he lost.

  And who had shot at Jonathan? What about the mysterious phone call? Who had followed him? Gregory? He didn’t own a black Mercedes and, from what I knew, only used Clarence’s to force Prescott off the bluff. Any one of Richard’s boys had ready access to Clarence’s car. Did one or more of them think Jonathan knew something that might threaten them somehow? Were all three incidents the work of just one, or several? Did any of them even know what the others were doing?

  Questions! Questions! Too damned many unanswered questions! I’m a private investigator, fer chrissakes! I should know these things. A mind-voice calmly asking, How? wasn’t as much comfort as I’d have liked it to be.

  I again thought of the inscription I was planning to ask Jonathan to put on my tombstone: “Life ain’t easy, kid.”

  So, back to Gregory Fowler. He was found guilty in both trials, which immediately set the appeals process in motion. Mel and his mom had, as I knew they would, hired the best trial lawyers money could buy, which had to have put a large dent even in the Bement family fortune. Neither Richard nor anyone from his side of the family ever appeared in court or, apparently, ever showed the slightest interest in its outcome. They were probably all too busy blowing every penny of their inheritance. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer bunch.

  I only saw Mel a couple of times after his return. He claimed he wasn’t angry with me, but how could he not be? I felt truly bad about it, but I understood. He was cordial, but I could sense the distance, and I respected it. From my standpoint, he’d hired me to find his grandfather’s killer, and I’d done my job. But I was reminded of the old saying, “Be careful what you wish for.”

  I submitted my bill and was promptly paid. He took a leave of absence from the airline for his dad’s trial and tactfully terminated the need for my assistance with the executor duties.

  Totally unexpectedly, I received a sizable check from Talmadge, Booker, and Prescott, and another from Marjory Prescott for my help in finding Eli Prescott’s killer. Both checks immediately went into a new bank account established as Joshua’s college fund.

  *

  And at home? The case was just another ripple on the pond. Our routine went on unchanged. Dinners and brunches with friends, an occasional “just us” night for Jonathan and me, Saturday chores, and Sunday Jonathan-and-Joshua to church while I stayed home with the paper. Story Time and Cap’n Rooney’s and Tuesday chorus practice.

  And when it comes right down to it, as they say, “It don’t get much better than that.”

  About the Author

  Dorien Grey started out as a pen name, nothing more, for a lifelong book and magazine editor who wanted to write his own novels as a bridge between the gay and straight communities. However, because he was living in a remote and time-warped area of the upper Midwest where gays still feel it necessary to keep a very low profile, he did not feel comfortable using his own name—a sad commentary on our society, he admits.

  But as his first book, a detective novel, led to the s
econd and then the third, he found Dorien slowly became much more than a pseudonym, evolving into an alter ego.

  “It’s reached the point,” he said, “where all I have to do is sit down at the computer and let Dorien tell the story.”

  Dorien’s “real person” had a not-uninteresting life. Two years into college, he left to join the Naval Aviation Cadet program. He washed out and spent the rest of his brief military career on an aircraft carrier in the Mediterranean. The journal he kept of his time in the military, in the form of letters home, honed his writing skills and provided him with a wealth of experiences to draw from in his future writing.

  Returning to college after service, he graduated with a BA in English and embarked on a series of jobs that led him into the editing field. While working for a Los Angeles publishing house, he was instrumental in establishing a division exclusively for the publication of gay paperbacks and magazines, of which he became editor. He moved on to edit a leading L.A.-based international gay men’s magazine.

  Tiring of earthquakes, brush fires, mudslides, and riots, he returned to the Midwest, where Dorien emerged, full-blown, like Athena from the head of Zeus.

  He—and Dorien, of course—moved to Chicago, and devoted their energies to writing. He completed ten books in the popular Dick Hardesty Mystery series, and numerous stand-alone works of fiction and nonfiction.