The Secret Keeper (18 page)

“May I help you, sir?” he asked.

I do wish handsome young men wouldn’t ask me that question, or call me “sir.” I’d found another gray hair after my morning shower and was a bit sensitive to anything hinting of my approaching dotage.

“Is Mr. Bement in?” 

“Is he expecting you?”

“I’ve been trying to reach him by phone for several days,” I said, “and thought I’d better just come by. Could you ring him for me?”

The young man smiled. “Mr. Bement has left instructions he is not to be disturbed before noon.”

Well, Mr. Bement can go fuck himself
, I thought. But instead I said, “It’s really important that I see him.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I must follow my instructions.”

“I understand,” I said. “But could you see to it that he gets this?” I showed him the envelope.

“Of course,” he said, coming around a small counter to open the door to take it.

“And would you tell him it’s very important that he contact me as soon as possible?”

He smiled again. “Of course,” he repeated, and with that, I turned and left. 

Still on the hamster wheel, eh, Hardesty?
a mind-voice asked as I returned to my car.
Still getting nowhere.

*

Since the diner at which I was to meet Anna Bement wasn’t all that far from my office, I debated between walking or taking the bus rather than driving and trying to find a parking place. I opted for the bus. I also remembered to take along a small notepad and pencil, just in case.

I arrived at the diner at exactly twelve fifteen. It was fairly crowded, of course, with the lunch crowd, and I realized I had no idea what Anna Bement looked like—the deaf don’t wear signs and are, unless they’re signing, indistinguishable in a crowd. However, I spotted an attractive young woman in her mid-twenties seated alone at a booth for two on the far side of the room. She glanced at me and when I mouthed
Anna?
, she smiled and nodded.

I made my way to her booth and slid into the seat opposite her. I smiled and signed
Nice to meet you
.

She returned the smile and said, “Nice to meet you, too.” The only indication she was deaf was the vaguely “flat” tone caused by the lack of inflection common with many speaking deaf.

I won’t go into all the details of our combined talk/sign/note-writing—the latter mostly mine when I either did not know how to sign something or on those rare occasions I wasn’t sure she was able to interpret my lip movements. Even the best lip readers don’t catch every word.

While waiting to order, we engaged in the usual getting-to-know-one-another chitchat, and I found her charming and funny. Like many deaf people, she had a job that required a minimum of spoken communication, and had been a copy editor for several years. She was dating a deaf printing press operator who worked at the same publishing company—the deaf also do very well in jobs with high-decibel surroundings that might bother the hearing.

When our conversation got around to Mel’s suspicions about her great-grandfather’s death, she said she hadn’t known Clarence all that well, but that he had been very kind to her and never forgot her birthday. Once again, what she didn’t say was as telling as what she did say.

None of her family—including her parents—signed, and she had been sent off to a small boarding school for the deaf that discouraged sign in favor of stressing learning to speak and lip read. She, as do many young deaf people forced to learn to speak, deeply resented the implication that being deaf was somehow shameful. It had strained her relationship with her parents, and especially her father, Alan. I’d known a deaf guy several years before who had shared Anna’s experience, and though he learned to speak, he refused to.

“If they want to talk to me, let them learn sign!” he’d said…well, written.

And while Anna’s opinion of her uncles and grandfather Richard apparently paralleled Mel’s and Patricia’s, when I asked her if she had any idea of who, if Clarence had not committed suicide, might have harbored enough resentment to kill him, she, unlike Mel, could not bring herself to say that any one of them would be capable of murder. She did give several examples of their greed and duplicity in dealing with Clarence, and said that her father—and I’d assume the others—had become particularly resentful and bitter towards him in the months before his death. She’d not fully understood what was going on because everyone tended to ignore her.

I asked if she might know anything at all about the new will, and not surprisingly, she was unaware of it, though she said her father had been spending a lot more time on the phone since Clarence’s death.

We finished lunch and went our separate ways, and as I waited for the bus back to my office I reflected on my impatience. I was glad I’d had a chance to meet and talk with Anna, but as far as learning anything really new that could help me in the case or set me off in a new direction, there was nothing. I have to admit I was more than a little frustrated, and had yet another of my hamster-wheel moments. It seemed I was running as fast as I could and getting absolutely nowhere.

Maybe I’d read a few too many detective novels or seen too many TV shows, but it seemed to me things should all move along smoothly—A leading to B, which is directly linked to C. Instead, my experience tended to be more like A heading toward B then being sidetracked to F, which then bounced to W and…

Although I’d spoken with Eli Prescott’s widow, I thought I might contact his law firm and see if I could possibly get any information from them. Unlikely, but I didn’t have anything to lose by trying. 

*

Back at the office, I pulled out the Yellow Pages as soon as I sat down. I knew Prescott had partners, but I hoped his name might have been the first among them, which would have made locating his office much easier. No such luck. That ours is an increasingly litigious society was amply verified by the number of Yellow Page entries for “Attorneys.”

But I persevered and finally found, on the last page, a listing for a Talmadge, Booker, and Prescott. I recognized the address as being in the same building as Glen O’Banyon, the city’s leading gay attorney, with whom I’d worked closely on a number of cases.

I wanted to talk to Prescott’s secretary, to see if she knew anything at all about the will, and particularly whether Prescott had said anything to her about who he intended to have witness it. I knew a will requires two witness signatures. Might he have mentioned to her who they might be, maybe asked her to make some phone calls for him to set up the signing? It was an outside chance, but worth taking.

My first thought was that Esmirelda would have been asked to witness it, since she was always around. But since Clarence had to have known she was reporting everything that happened back to Richard and his boys, and he’d told Mel he didn’t want anyone in the family to know of his plans, it was highly unlikely he’d have asked her.

As to who else he might have gotten, I hadn’t a clue. Perhaps if Jonathan had been working at Bement’s that day, he’d have been asked, but he hadn’t mentioned it and I’m sure he would have.

Immediately, my mind went back to the shooting incident. Had the shooter assumed Jonathan had witnessed the will and wanted to stop him from being able to verify it?

I called the number I’d circled on the Yellow Pages.

“Talmadge, Booker, and Prescott,” the receptionist said in a tone reminiscent of announcing the arrival at Gate 3 of Flight 43 from Phoenix.

“May I speak with Eli Prescott’s secretary?” I asked.

“I’m sorry, sir, she’s out on maternity leave.”

“Of course!” I said, going into my tapdance-around-the-truth routine. “She mentioned she was leaving the last time I saw Eli. How is she doing?”

“Very well, thanks,” she said.

“I’d like to send her a card. She was always very helpful to me.”

“That would be very nice, Mr…”

Uh-oh. “Fowler,” I said. “Mel Fowler. Clarence Bement’s grandson,” figuring she might possibly recognize the name.

“Of course,” she said. “If you want to send the card here, we’ll be sure she gets it.”

I knew better than to expect her to give me the woman’s address and phone number, but it never hurts to hope.

“I’ll do that,” I said. “And I should address it to both her and her husband. I don’t think I know his name.”

“Robert. Robert and Judith Zumbro.”

The gods were with me! If the last name had been Smith or Jones, I’d have been up a creek. But how many Robert Zumbros can there be in the phone book?

I thanked her for her time and hung up.

*

The answer to how many Robert Zumbros there could possibly be in the phone book was two. Oh, well. The first one I called turned out to be the number for Robert Zumbro Senior. At least that pretty much narrowed it down. I immediately called the second number, which was answered by a pleasant female voice.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Zumbro?” I asked, though the odds were pretty strongly in my favor. I didn’t wait for her acknowledgment before continuing. “My name is Dick Hardesty. I’m a private investigator working for Clarence Bement’s grandson, and I was hoping you could help me.”

“And how might I do that, Mr. Hardesty?” she asked, just a touch of humor in her voice.

“I understand you were Mr. Prescott’s secretary until the time of his unfortunate death.”

“Yes, I was his secretary for eight years. I still can’t believe he’s dead.”

“I can imagine how hard it must be for you,” I said. “My reason for calling is that I’m looking into the circumstances surrounding Mr. Bement’s death. As you know, he died quite soon after Mr. Prescott.”

“Yes. I was sorry to hear of his death. He and Mr. Prescott were friends.”

“I assume you were the one who typed up a new will for Mr. Bement, and was wondering if you might know who Mr. Prescott intended to have witness it.”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t have any idea. I know I typed it up on my last day at work—a Friday—and that Mr. Prescott was going to take it over to Mr. Bement for signature on his way home that evening. That was two days before his death.”

“I understand there are normally four copies made of a will. Is that right?”

“Yes. One for the client, two for our office, and one for the court.”

So, Prescott would have left an unsigned draft in the office file, one with Bement, and had the remaining copies with him when he returned home. He died before he could return to the office to file them.

The sound of a baby crying effectively ended the conversation.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hardesty, but I have to go see after the baby.”

“Of course,” I said. “I appreciate your talking with me. And congratulations.”

*

So the question now was: Who had witnessed the will? Not Esmirelda. Not Mel. Most certainly no one else from Clarence’s family. From what Jonathan had said, Clarence apparently had few visitors. So who?

Perhaps Esmirelda knew who, other than Prescott, Clarence expected at the house that Friday afternoon. But then I remembered Marty had said she had Tuesday and Friday afternoons off. It was probably not coincidental Prescott had chosen that time to bring the will over, knowing she wouldn’t be around.

Still, there might be an outside chance she might know if Clarence was expecting any visitors that afternoon. Much as I wasn’t looking forward to it, I felt it was worth trying to find out.

I was, of course, curious about the contents of the new will, since it might very well provide a clue as to who was willing to kill to prevent it from being filed. I had little doubt but that it contained some fundamental changes—probably including yanking the financial rug out from under Richard’s boys. The fact they would be extremely upset at the very prospect of a new will kept them at the top of my prime-suspects list. 

Regardless, it wasn’t going to be easy. And perhaps, I thought, that is what I should instruct Jonathan to have carved on my tombstone: “Life ain’t easy.”

Part of me wanted to postpone approaching Esmirelda Taft again, but I knew that wouldn’t work if I wanted to get to the bottom of all this. Shortly after three thirty, I reluctantly got up from my desk to head for Clarence Bement’s home.

When I arrived, I was not particularly surprised to see both gates to the circular drive were closed. Since on-street parking in Briarwood was frowned upon, the message the closed gates sent was rather clear. There was, however, a small, and also closed, entry gate on the garage side of the house. I took a chance and pulled as close to the driveway gate as I could. I was blocking the sidewalk, and the rear of the car extended about a foot past the curb, but I took a chance on leaving it there. Briarwood was not exactly a place where you had to worry about a lot of sidewalk traffic. Besides, I didn’t expect to be very long.

The small gate was unlocked, and I let myself in, closing it behind me and going directly to the front door, where I again used the lion’s-head knocker. A moment later, as I looked through the side panel, I saw Esmirelda Taft approaching.

The door opened—again, only about a quarter of the way, to facilitate its being quickly closed if necessary—and she eyed me impassively.