The Secret Keeper (22 page)

“Oh, yeah, that’s right. Good old Gramps, bless his flinty old heart. What do you want to talk about?”

“Well, I have several questions you might be able to answer for me as one of his grandchildren.”

“Like what?”

“Well, it’s a little complicated to go into the over the phone. I was wondering if we might meet and talk in person. I—
”

“Sure, why not? I’m just on my way out the door. Going to meet a—business acquaintance—around eight thirty, but we could meet for a drink first.”

Glancing guiltily toward the kitchen, where Jonathan and Joshua were putting away the dinner dishes, I said, “That would be fine. Where would you like to meet?”

I knew the answer to that one even before I asked.

“Embers, on Melvoy. You know it?”

“I do. What time? And how will I know you?”

“Just ask the bartender. Seven forty-five?”

That was cutting it a little close, but I could make it.

“I’ll see you there.” Hanging up, I went to the kitchen. “I have to go out for a while, Babe,” I said. “Something on the Bement case.”

He looked mildly surprised. “The phone call?”

“Yeah, I’ve been trying to reach one of Mr. Bement’s grandsons for days and finally caught him. He says he’ll meet me for a drink—straight bar,” I added with a grin.

Jonathan returned the grin. “Okay, as long as it’s straight.”

“It shouldn’t take too long, and I’ll be home as soon as I can, but don’t wait up.” I walked over to give him a hug then scooped up Joshua and lifted him over my head. “And don’t you get into any trouble while I’m gone, hear?”

He scowled at me. “I never get into any trouble.”

“Right,” I said, putting him back down.

I debated about changing clothes and decided against it. Embers wasn’t as fancy a place as it had once been, so I just changed the jacket I had on for a relatively new one I’d only worn a few times.

*

Like Embers itself, the neighborhood in which it was located was not quite what it once had been. Still not exactly shabby, but showing signs of getting there. The exclusive little shops that used to dot the area were being replaced by chain outlets and discount stores.

A large neon sign stretching in script across the face of the building still proclaimed “Embers” in vibrant blue, but the
s
was flickering.

I got a parking place about half a block away. As I walked to the entrance, I noticed a sign promoting “Happy Hour Every Wednesday, 4-7,” which I took as further evidence that its aura of exclusivity had long since passed.

When I entered, I noticed the cloak room was unattended, the guests apparently being responsible for hanging up and retrieving their own coats. Of course, given the hour, I guess that wasn’t a surprise. Still, echos of its glory days as a supper club remained. The small stage was still there, curtains open to reveal a grand piano no one was playing. An abandoned maitre’d’s podium stood off to one side of the three-step stairway down to the main floor.

A waitress with a tray of empty glasses came over as I descended the steps.

“Would you prefer a table or the bar?” she asked pleasantly.

“I’m meeting someone,” I said. “George Bement.”

She smiled and pointed to a man seated alone at a table by the stage.

“He’s right over there,” she said. “Can I get you a drink?”

“A bourbon-Seven,” I said. “Thanks.”

There are actually more people here than I expected
, I thought as I headed toward his table. I counted five at the oval bar in the center of the large room, and two well-dressed couples at the only other occupied table. No one was wearing Levi’s or tee shirts, but generally the dress code seemed to be sufficiently casual I didn’t feel out of place.

I quickly scanned the people at the bar. If, as was rumored, Embers had become a discreet drug-trade center, the emphasis was on discretion, and you certainly couldn’t tell by just looking around.

Bement, who was wearing a white shirt and suit coat but no tie, didn’t look up until I was at the table.

“Mr. Bement,” I said, offering my hand. “Dick Hardesty.”

He half-rose to shake it then sat down again, motioning me to a chair. There was a distinct family resemblance between him and Alan, though George’s overall look was more, well, rumpled. If Alan’s appearance could be compared to a just-minted dollar bill, George obviously had been in circulation a bit too long.

“What are you drinking?” he asked, starting to motion to the waitress, who was at the bar.

“I’ve already ordered, thanks.” 

“Well, I need a little freshener,” he said, catching her eye and indicating his need. She nodded and turned to the bartender. “So, what’s this all about?”

I caught the distinct olfactory mixture of aftershave and liquor. I suspected that, like some other alcoholics I’d known, he could drink most people under the table without really appearing drunk himself.

“I’m looking into the circumstances of your grandfather’s death,” I said.

“What circumstances? He finally got as sick of being a miserly old skinflint as we were of having to put up with him, and he shot himself.”

The waitress came with our drinks, and I reached for my billfold, but Bement said, “On me,” and, to the waitress, “Put it on my tab, honey.”

“Thanks,” I said, raising my glass in a toast. “But I’m a little surprised to hear him called a skinflint. From what I understood, he was pretty generous with you and your brothers. Didn’t he set you up in business?”

He eyed me suspiciously. “You’ve been talking to my brothers?”  

I nodded. “And your father, and your aunt and your cousins. You’re the last one on my list.”

“That’s just great!” he said with disgust. “I can just imagine the line of crap they all fed you.” He shrugged and took a long swig from his drink. I couldn’t tell exactly what it was—probably gin or vodka, from the clarity of the liquid.

Putting his glass down, he leaned forward, resting his drinking arm on the table. “You know that old story of the kid being tossed in the air?”

I shook my head, though I was pretty sure I did.

“Well, this grandfather picks up his little grandson and tosses him in the air. The kid’s terrified, but the grandfather catches him easily. Then he tosses the kid again, and again catches him. After about four tosses, the kid is really enjoying it. So on the fifth toss, the old man just lets the kid fall to the floor, ker-plop! He looks down at the kid and says ‘Let that be a lesson to you, kid. Never trust anybody!’”

I
had
heard the story before but found it interesting that, every other time I’d heard it, it had been the kid’s father doing the tossing. 

“I’m not quite sure I follow,” I said, though I was a couple steps ahead of him.

“Look,” he said, “when I graduated from college I had the chance to get in on the ground floor of a new company. I went to Gramps, and he grudgingly loaned me the seed money. My business partner buried us in debt then bailed after a year, and despite my best efforts, the company went under.

“A year or so later, a friend from my Harvard days invited me to go in with him on a resort complex he was planning for the Gulf Coast. Again, I went to Clarence, and practically had to beg him for a loan. It was humiliating. I mean, he was already in his late eighties. He had more money than he knew what to do with, and it wasn’t as though he was going to be able to take it with him. We both knew I’d be getting it eventually anyway.

“But he just had to do his cat-and-mouse routine until I practically had to grovel for it. Finally, he agreed to a loan. The project was about halfway finished when Hurricane Alicia came along, and we lost everything.”

“The project wasn’t insured?” I couldn’t resist asking.

“I came on board after the project was already underway, and I found out only after the hurricane that he’d taken out a policy based on the original cost estimates. When I came in we nearly doubled the size of the project, but he never updated the policy.”

Uh-huh. I wondered how incredibly stupid one would have to be not to make sure a construction project was fully insured before even starting it.

He paused long enough to finish his drink and signal the waitress for another. He asked if I was ready, and I declined.

“So,” he continued, “that did it for me with partners. I decided it was time to get into something I really wanted to do, something I knew I’d be good at. So when I heard that Milt Thomas, a friend of the family, was retiring and wanted to sell his travel agency, I jumped at it. Thomas Tours is the biggest travel agency in the city, as you surely know…”

Uh, yes, I did, but appreciated the sideways compliment of my intelligence.

“…and he was willing to sell it to me for a song. So I went to Clarence, and he said no. No! Flat out, no argument, no reason. Just no!”

“You’ve had travel agency experience, then?” I asked.

“I’ve dealt with travel agencies all my life,” he said, which didn’t exactly answer my question. I was pretty sure that “dealing with” a travel agency, as in having them make arrangements for a trip, isn’t quite the same as knowing the travel agency business. I also assumed that may have been one reason for Clarence Bement’s refusal. I normally would have asked if he had approached a bank, but from what I’d heard of his past business history, I didn’t have to bother.

“I can imagine your grandfather’s refusal must have made you angry.”

He looked at me with a cocked eyebrow and a small smile.  

“I’ve talked with my father,” he said. “I know what you’re getting at. And yes, I was angry. That old miser angered everyone he came in contact with. But no, I had nothing whatsoever to do with his long-overdue death. And now I don’t have to go crawling to him for money. I’ve got enough to last me, even though he did manage to squander most of it away, leaving us with practically nothing.”

I was curious as to his definition of “practically nothing” but didn’t say anything. Apparently, he was referring to what Mel had reported as his unhappiness with the size of the estate. I didn’t point out to him that, even if he hadn’t gotten a penny, the money was Clarence Bement’s to do with as he saw fit. Even “squandering” it, which I sincerely doubt he did.

Some people are just never satisfied.

The waitress came with his drink, and I waited until he paused to take a long swig before speaking.

“Were you aware your grandfather made a new will?”

“Yes, but since it was never filed it doesn’t matter.”

“You’re not curious about what might be in it?”

“Not in the least. Mel did his best to postpone the reading, but it didn’t work. He hates my side of the family, probably with some justification—I can’t stand them either—and would do anything to keep us from getting what’s rightfully ours. Well, he tried, and he failed.”

“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted Clarence dead badly enough to do something about it?”

“Well, if anybody did, I’ll drink to him—or her! Frankly, I wouldn’t put it past anyone on either side of the family, not even that kiss-ass Mel. He was as anxious to get at the money as any of us.

“Grandmother may live in Europe and plead poverty, but she still has a long reach. My charming aunt Gladys is a psycho, my father has been stewing with resentment and abandonment issues since before I was born. Hell hath no fury like Alan deprived of whatever it is he wants at the moment—he was a spoiled brat as a child and he still is. Stuart blames Gramps for depriving the world of his marvelous inventions.

“As for Mel and his dysfunctional sister, their little ‘gee-whiz-we’re-just-plain-folks’ routine has never fooled me for a minute. They’re as greedy as the rest of the family. I can’t help but think of them as Cesare and Lucretia Borgia. And we can’t overlook Uncle Gregory, who has had his hand in the till for years. Not to mention the lifetime of enemies dear Gramps accumulated.

“But to answer your question, no, offhand I can’t think of anyone in particular.”

“Do you know anything about Esmirelda Taft.”

He shook his head. “Did I not put her on the list? I must be slipping. I really don’t know all that much about her, but I’ve never trusted her. She never says anything, but you can be sure nothing escapes her. I was already out of the house when she worked for my parents, and the only times I’ve seen her since have been at McScrooge’s birthday get-togethers. She’s not what I’d call a party girl by a long shot.”

“Did you know her brother had been in jail for assault with a deadly weapon?”

“Nope. I didn’t know she had a brother. I never heard her say one word about her personal life. It never occurred to me she might have one.” He drained his drink and was in the process of signaling the waitress for another when he spotted someone coming in the door. “Ah,” he said. “My appointment has arrived, and I’m afraid I wouldn’t want to bore you with our business talk, so…”

“Of course,” I said. “Thanks for the drink and your time.”

“No problem,” he said as I got up and reached across the table to shake hands.

As I walked toward the door I passed the man Bement had spotted, who merely stared at me, expressionless, as he moved toward the table I’d just left.