The Secret Keeper (25 page)

He nodded. “Okay,” he said.

*

As soon as Jonathan got home, Joshua hurried to show him his triumph, and Jonathan, too, showered him with praise, which delighted the boy. Jonathan took the paper into the kitchen and put it up on the refrigerator with a small magnet.

After Joshua and I finished doing the dinner dishes, he insisted we watch him write a new letter to his grandfather, which he did sitting cross-legged at the coffee table, which doubled as a desk for the occasion. All was accomplished with great deliberation, his intense concentration evinced by furrowed brows and the end of his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth. When he finished, Jonathan addressed an envelope for him and folded the letter, which Joshua placed in it, licked the flap and closed it. He then licked the stamp and, with a bit of guidance as to exactly where it should go, affixed it. It was upside down, but we didn’t think the post office would mind.

I promised I would put it in the mail first thing in the morning, and he ran off to play in his room while Jonathan and I settled down to watch some TV.

When a commercial came on, I turned to him.

“I know I asked you before, but are you sure Mr. Bement never mentioned his making a new will?” 

Jonathan, his attention on a blond hunk taking a shower for a soap commercial, shook his head, then turned to me when the camera switched from the hunk to a bubble-covered wrapped bar of the sponsor’s product.

“No. Why would he?” He raised his eyebrows in a mock look of surprise. “Wait! You think he might have left everything to me? That would be nice. Hey, I’d be happy with just his gardening tools.”

I grinned. “Well, I wouldn’t hold my breath.” 

“Tell me. But why did you ask?”

Even though I really didn’t like dragging him into my business, and I’d just had a long conversation with myself about that very subject, I had no idea why I lied yet again.

“Just curious. I was wondering if possibly Mr. Bement might have mentioned something about it to you, even in passing.”

He shook his head again. “No. I’m sure. Really. I’d have remembered it.” He looked at me closely, and his eyes narrowed. “Do you suppose there might be some connection between Mr. Prescott’s death and Mr. Bement’s?”

I shrugged. “I’d bet on it. There are two distinct sides to the Bement family—his son Richard and three grandsons on the one side, and Mel and his mom, dad, and sister on the other. Richard’s sons are greedy pains in the ass and were a real thorn in Clarence’s side. Did he ever say anything to you about them?”

“No. Like I think I told you, he’d sometimes talk about people, but I can’t remember his using any names. I got the idea there were a few who were close to him that he wasn’t very fond of but, again, no names.”

“I can guess,” I said. “Apparently, he finally had enough and turned off the spigot, which naturally pissed them all off royally. I’d be willing to bet the new will made some pretty drastic changes in the distribution of his fortune.”

Jonathan was quiet a minute, then said, “And you think that’s why my truck was shot at? Because somebody thinks Mr. Bement told me something about his new will?”

“
You
thought the shot at your truck was deliberate?” 

He gave me a small smile and reached over to take my hand. “Not until you started circling the wagons and going into your ‘let’s protect Jonathan’ number and shuttling Joshua and me off to Wisconsin. It didn’t take me long to figure out why. Usually when you do that, you drive me crazy, but I knew you were protecting Joshua, too, because he’s alone with me going back and forth to Happy Day. So, I didn’t say anything.”

I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, so I didn’t. I guess I’m not as clever as I think I am.

*

Jonathan had mentioned “circling the wagons,” and that was a definite problem I faced when it came to this case. I realized I might be making a mistake zeroing in on Stuart, Alan, and George Bement. I still couldn’t see Esmirelda and her brother having enough to gain to resort to murder to get it, but I had to go with the obvious first.

I had little doubt that, if confronted and accused of killing their grandfather—and, I was increasingly convinced, Eli Prescott—none of them would have the slightest hesitation about shoving the others under a bus. I was also sure they were acting as one when it came to denying any knowledge of a signed copy of the new will. No matter who the killer was, it was in their own individual self-interest to try to prevent the new will from going into effect. Even if they did not know exactly what was in it, they had to know it was most likely bad news for them.

I spent most of Tuesday morning making myself miserable trying to figure out ways to find out things there was no practical way to find out.

Jonathan had mentioned reading the book Clarence Bement had given him, and that he really liked Sonnet 43, which he remembered from high school: “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.” Well, I could pretty much do a paraphrase on that one: “How far up the creek am I on this case? Let me count the ways…”

Maybe if I did discreetly accuse Stuart, Alan, and George, individually, one of them might, in the course of pushing the others into the path of the bus, give me something solid to follow up on, or might shake a few more clues out of the skeletons in the family closet. It might be worth a shot.

Assuming any of them did it
, a mind-voice pointed out helpfully. 

*

I yet again rummaged through my mental in-basket. That one or more on Richard’s side of the family had, as Mel had indicated, gone through Clarence’s home looking for the new will following his death, and with Esmirelda’s tacit approval, was axiomatic. The question was, how could they have missed finding it if, as I was increasingly sure, it was still there somewhere.

Of course, I recognized that pointing a finger at any one of them could be hazardous to my health. And although I’d put myself in jeopardy in the course of more than one case, this time there was the added—and unacceptable but unavoidable—risk of involving Jonathan and Joshua whenever they were with me. It was hard enough to handle the frustrations of a difficult case without their possibly still being in harm’s way because of it. But I didn’t see that I had much of a choice at this point.

Considering all the time it had taken to corral the three brothers the first time around, getting to talk to each of them again would not be easy.

*

I first called Richard. Naturally, he wasn’t in, so I left a message. To forestall the very real possibility he would just ignore it, I tried to word it with a hook.

“Mr. Bement, this is Dick Hardesty. I think I’m getting close to closing the case, but I’ve come up with a question regarding your brother-in-law Gregory Fowler that you might be able to answer for me.”

I knew they were positive Mel’s dad had his hand in the cookie jar and was hoping the opportunity to shift attention to Gregory might be an inducement, and that Richard might want to know just what I meant by “coming close to closing the case,” which was, of course, pure Hardesty bullshit. But even if he thought so, too, I hoped his curiosity might get the better of him.

I’d long ago decided that answering machines were wonderful devices but also something of a pain in the ass by allowing people to use them to screen calls. I had little doubt that’s what all the Bements were doing when I tried to reach them. I left basically the same message on Alan’s and Stuart’s machines and thought about making a quick side trip to Embers on my way home to see if George might be there, or if the bartender knew which nights he was more likely to be there, but it was Jonathan’s chorus night, so I had to get right home.

*

Paranoia can come rather easily to a private investigator, and after yet another round of no-calls-received-from and another round of messages-left-for the Bements from work Wednesday morning, my suspicion they might not be anxious to talk to me was fairly well confirmed.

As I pondered my next move, my mind came back to who had witnessed the signing of the will. I’m sure Mel was right in assuming anyone mentioned in it could not have been a witness, and I could also understand that Clarence wouldn’t want Richard’s side of the family to even know about it, let alone have any of them witnessing it. I put in calls to Mel’s mom, dad, and Mrs. Prescott to see if they had any idea of who might have been selected, and none of them had any idea. I wanted to call Patricia, too, but knew she was working and didn’t want to bother her at the library.

After lunch, without a single phone call from the Bements, I was busy fighting off mounting frustration when I remembered seeing a sign outside the Embers proclaiming a Wednesday happy hour, 4 to 7. On the chance George Bement might take advantage of it, I called Jonathan’s work, leaving a message that I’d probably be a few minutes late getting home.

*

The minute I walked in the door, I spotted George sitting at the same table as on my last visit. He was staring impassively into his drink as though watching a tiny TV screen among the ice cubes. He once again didn’t even notice me until I was standing beside the table, and even then he didn’t seem startled by my sudden appearance.

“Mr. Bement,” I said, extending my hand, which he took.

He gave me an idle smile and said, “Mr. Hardesty! What brings you here? Never mind. I know. You tracked me down like a fox on the moors.”

I didn’t know they had foxes on the moors, but then, I didn’t know a lot of things.

“I’ve been trying to reach you by phone, and just took a chance you might be here.”

“Well, you were right. I am here. Have a seat. What would you like to drink?” As I pulled out a chair, he flagged the waitress over. “Bourbon-Seven, right?” he asked as she approached. 

I merely nodded.

“A bourbon and Seven, if you will, and I’ll have another while you’re at it.” He took a long swig of his current drink as she walked away, then set the glass down with a satisfied “aahhh!” Turning his attention to me, he said, “And what may I do for you this time? Still looking for dear Grandfather’s alleged…killer?”

“Still trying to gather information,” I said.

He gave a quick upward jerk of his head. “I see. And what information are you currently gathering? Zeroing in on one of my dear brothers, I hope.”

Ah, the power of brotherly love.

“I was curious about two things. First, you told me last time we met that you knew nothing about your grandfather’s new will. But I’m increasingly convinced he was killed because of it. And, to be honest with you, your side of the family has the most to gain by making sure the new will never surfaces.”

“Interesting theory,” he said, not looking at me.

If I told him I thought it still existed, that might trigger a new, intensified search of Bement’s house, and might turn it up this time. So I said, “I’m pretty sure it’s been found and destroyed, either by the killer or by…someone else.” The pause was deliberate. Not subtle, but deliberate.

He gave me a small smile. “So it’s all rather moot, isn’t it?”

I shrugged.

Seeing the waitress approach the table, he hastily drained his glass and put it on the table for her to pick up. As she set the drinks down, I reached for my billfold.

“I’ll get this one,” I said, but he waved me off. 

“Nonsense!” Glancing at the waitress, he said, “Put it on my tab, honey.”

Since she was not the same waitress we’d had when I was in before, I gathered he called all the waitresses “honey” to save having to learn their names.

I raised my glass. “Cheers.”

He returned the salute. “And your second question?”

“Gregory Fowler managed your trust fund, right?”

“All of them—mine, my brothers’, my father’s. And mismanaged is more the word.”

“Mismanaged? How was that?”

“By refusing to be flexible. By sticking everything into musty old companies instead of going with the flow. We were constantly after him to diversify into real growth stocks, but he refused. I don’t know how much his insistence on horse-and-buggy stocks cost us in lost profits over the years. I’m certain he was robbing Clarence blind, and the old coot was too far gone in dementia to realize it. The estate should have been much larger than it was, and I lay that fact right on Fowler’s doorstep.”

I got out the salt cellar on that one. For one thing, nothing I knew about Clarence Bement suggested he had suffered from dementia. And Mel had indicated—and logically dismissed— the concern that something nefarious was going on that reduced the size of the estate. But rather than wander off any further, I got right back to the conversation.

“And what makes you think that?”

“Gregory controls the old man’s money. He has for years. He can do whatever he wants with it, and he’s refused to give any of us regular accountings of just where the money has been going.”

I hardly felt it necessary to point out that, since it was all Clarence’s money and not theirs, Gregory was not required to tell them anything.

“The financial statement he presented at the reading was a sham,” he continued. “We’re demanding to see all his books.” 

Again, since Gregory had indicated an independent auditor regularly reviewed his books, I wasn’t sure exactly what the point would be, but I definitely was not surprised to hear George and his kin would automatically assume everyone was as greedy as they were.