The Secret Keeper (29 page)

We arrived at the Imperator at exactly seven o’clock, thanks to Jonathan’s insistence that we didn’t want to be late. A bright-red Toyota MR2 pulled up to the front of the restaurant just as we approached the entrance, and Mel Fowler stepped out, handing the keys to the valet. Spotting us, he came over, smiling.

I didn’t know which to focus on—the car or him. Both were spectacular, and a glance at Jonathan showed he was having the same problem, which was resolved when the valet drove off with the car.

Looking from Mel to Jonathan, I felt like one of the trolls under the bridge in “Billy Goats Gruff.”

After the handshakes and Jonathan’s comment, “What a beautiful car!” to which Mel’s reply was “Thanks. It’s my one concession to having a trust fund,” Mel said “Shall we?” and gestured toward the door.

From my previous visit, I’d filled Jonathan in on the history of the place. It was named after the famous German ocean liner,
Imperator
, which was launched within two months of the
Titanic
’s going down. At the end of WWI, it was seized by the British, who renamed it the
Berengaria
, and it became the longest-serving ocean liner on the North Atlantic run.

When she was finally scrapped, many of her fittings were sold, including the huge bust of Kaiser Wilhelm that now stood at the head of the short stairway leading from the restaurant’s entry to the dining room, which was presided over by the domed ceiling that had once adorned the
Berengaria
’s main salon.

I’ve noticed that most things in life, both people and objects, that are truly elegant don’t have to scream “I’m elegant!” They just are, and you know it without being told. There was nothing about the Imperator, from its decor to its service to its food, which was not unquestionably elegant.

Maitre’ds at fancy restaurants have an annoying tendency toward unctuousness. The Imperator’s was not one of them. Though impeccably groomed and polite, his manner bespoke professional courtesy without the attitude. At the Imperator, he didn’t need it.

After the equally impeccably groomed waiter brought our menus and took our drink orders with a smile but without the usual “Hi, I’m Sam, and I’ll be serving you tonight,” Mel turned to Jonathan, who had subtly been taking it all in, and said, “Well, how do you like the place so far?”

Jonathan merely grinned and shook his head. “Cap’n Rooney’s Fish Shack will never be the same again.”

*

It was one of the best evenings we’d had in—well, I had no idea how long. The meal was amazing, of course. We all had the beef Wellington, and Mel and I shared a bottle of wine three times older than Joshua. For dessert Mel convinced me to order what he did, a
Creme Brulee au Parfum saisonnier
—burnt cream with truffles—which was decadent as all hell. I would have considered the killing of someone to get the recipe an act of justifiable homicide. Jonathan had a tart-sized raspberry cheesecake that practically had to be nailed to the plate to keep it from floating away. 

The conversation was as enjoyable as the meal. Mel had an endless string of stories about his travels and adventures as a flight attendant, and he seemed genuinely interested in hearing about Jonathan’s and my lives, both as a couple and our individual backgrounds.

“I really envy you both,” he said at one point, which startled Jonathan.

“Us?” he asked. “You’re the one with the life most guys would die for.”

Mel smiled. “Yeah, I know that, and I love my life. But running off around the world half the time doesn’t leave much room for a real relationship.”

“You want one?” I asked, immediately feeling a bit foolish for asking, since he’d just indicated he did.

“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 like 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.”