The Secret Keeper (10 page)

She sighed, and took a sip of her tea. “Of course. But, still. He didn’t come to the funeral, and I totally understood why.”

“Did your husband mention to you that he had drawn up a new will for Mr. Bement?”

She gave me a look of mild surprise. “Why, no, he didn’t. Though I’d not be the least surprised if he did. Clarence’s family—with a few exceptions—treated him shamelessly. Demanding everything, giving nothing.” She looked at me silently for a moment, then said, “You know, I think that as we get older, we get a bit more sentimental. We need people more just at the time when we have them less.

“Clarence always felt guilty for the estrangement from his children, though it was totally his wife’s doing. He always tried to do everything he could to win their approval, and all he won was their contempt. I’m sure it had to have hurt him, especially these last few years as his friends died off and he was more and more alone. His daughter’s children were the only ones who obviously cared for him for himself rather than his money.”

She paused, then added, “But I’m curious. Why did you ask the question?”

“Because I think there is a strong possibility he did not commit suicide.”

Her eyes opened wide. “You can’t be serious!” 

I shrugged. “I’m afraid I am. I never met the man, but my partner Jonathan worked for him and was very fond of him, and insists he would never have killed himself. You knew him far better than Jonathan did and would have a better idea of whether or not he was capable of suicide.”

“Jonathan? The young man who helped him with his garden these last few months? Clarence mentioned him frequently—we spoke often by phone—and thought very highly of him.”

It was kind of her to say, and I knew it would please Jonathan. 

Her brows furrowed. “But you know, there
was
something about Clarence’s death I’d never really considered until thinking it over just now. He hated guns. That he would kill himself at all, let alone with a gun…”

“The police say the gun was his,” I pointed out.

“Yes, but as I say, he hated them. I understand his son-in-law bought him one for protection about ten years ago, over his objection, and he never mentioned it again. That he would ever use it, especially on himself—it just doesn’t make sense. I don’t know why that didn’t register until now. But that it might not have been suicide—oh, dear!”

Her lips quivered and she hastily dug into her handbag to retrieve a handkerchief, with which she dabbed at her eyes. She then looked at me with a sad little smile and said, “And I’d thought I was out of tears.”

“So, your husband didn’t mention his having drawn up a new will?”

She shook her head. “No. Not a word. But that he didn’t wasn’t really unusual. Eli never discussed his work at home. Although…”  

I waited, giving her time to complete her thought then, after a few moments of silence, jumped in with, “Yes?”

“A few days after Clarence’s death, Andrew Weaver, who assumed most of Eli’s responsibilities with the firm, called to ask if Eli might have left copies of a new will in his briefcase. He didn’t mention that it might have been Clarence’s. I checked, and there was nothing.” She paused, looking pensive, then said, “I don’t know if it might have had anything to do with a new will—perhaps it did—but Eli seemed disturbed about something in the week or so before…the accident. Clarence had called one evening, and while I heard only a few of Eli’s comments, I could tell it was not an ordinary conversation. From what I could gather, Eli had given Clarence some advice Clarence declined to take—which was very unusual in itself.”

“But you have no idea what it might have been about?”

Again a head shake. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t.” 

I put that one in my mental follow-up file and proceeded with my next question. “I assume you know most of Mr. Bement’s family?”

“Yes, but not all that well. We were invited to his annual birthday celebrations, but we seldom attended, preferring to take him out to dinner either shortly before or after. We used the excuse that it was a time for family, but if truth be told, we simply preferred to avoid them.”

My curiosity must have shown on my face, because she poured more tea into her cup, then continued.

“Clarence, bless his heart, understood completely. It’s hard to explain, but those gatherings seemed more of an ordeal for him, and everyone concerned, than a celebration. His daughter often did not attend, and I found the hypocritical unctuousness of Richard’s sons most disturbing. Any one of them would make a fine Iago.”

Another thought flashed into my head, and I decided to follow up on it.

“I’m curious,” I said. “Your husband’s accident was early Sunday morning. May I ask where he was going?”

“He received a phone call from a client Saturday night, which was not unusual—it was one of the few things about him that drove me to distraction. He could not say no.”

“Do you know who called?” I asked. “Might it have been Clarence?”

“No, I could have told by the tone of his voice, but it had to be one of his older clients, because about six years ago I told him he simply could not let clients use him like that. So he stopped the practice with his newer clients, but he felt he could not suddenly stop doing what some of his clients were used to his doing.”

That thought had to be followed up on. “Did your husband represent any other members of Mr. Bement’s family?”

“Most of them,” she said. “To be honest, it was more as a courtesy to Clarence. They were a constant source of irritation to him, though he’d never tell Clarence. They were always calling Eli at home with some legal question or other.”

“Why didn’t they simply make an appointment to see him at his office?” 

“Because then they would have to pay for his time, and why pay for something you can impose on someone to give you for free? I did my very best to dissuade their calls, but to no avail.” She paused a moment. “And do you know, not one of Richard’s sons attended Eli’s funeral, or so much as sent a card of condolence. After all he had done for them, I found their callousness shameful, though I can’t say I expected anything better. How Clarence could have ended up with such a greedy, insensitive bunch I do not understand. He should have disowned every one of them.”

I agreed. I did not mention that perhaps he had.

We talked for another half-hour or so, sliding by mutual consent from the subject of her husband’s and Clarence’s deaths to more general subjects. She asked about my family, and I showed her a photo of the three of us, and a separate one of Joshua.

“They’re charming!” she said, which of course pleased me even if she was just being polite.

She, I learned, had been an English war bride, having met Eli Prescott while he was stationed in England during WWII. They had two daughters, both of whom had married and moved away but with whom she exchanged frequent visits. She was considering the possibility, she said, of perhaps selling her home and moving closer to one of them.

All in all, a pleasant and informative meeting. I found it interesting that Mrs. Prescott apparently made no connection between the burglary of her home and the missing will. Then I realized there was no reason why she would have, if she had been unaware of the will or its possible link to Bement’s death. I was willing to bet the will had been in Eli Prescott’s briefcase, and that it had been taken. I was also very curious about what lay behind the reference to Prescott’s having been disturbed following a phone call from Clarence. 

*

I spent the rest of the day trying to shuffle in the information Mrs. Prescott had given me with what I knew about the case so far. I’d found it interesting to learn that two of Bement’s grandchildren were gay, and especially that his granddaughter was deaf.

I wondered if Cory and Nick might know her, and thought again how odd it was that, until we’d met them, I’d barely been aware of anyone deaf. Of course, that was sort of understandable, since the deaf look and act like everyone else in a crowd.

But pulling myself back to the issue at hand, I was in something of a dilemma. While I was increasingly convinced Bement had not killed himself, the police—at least, according to what I had gathered from Marty—were apparently willing to accept that he had.

So, on the one hand, I didn’t want to keep anything from them, but on the other hand, I wasn’t about to tap them on the shoulders, say “Uh…” and tell them how to conduct their business. I figured the best thing to do was just go on with my own investigation, and if the police decided to jump in at a later point, so be it.

From what Mel had said, I agreed that his mother sounded at least like a pretty likely suspect and a good place to start the investigation. Then, considering his observations on the rest of his family, I doubted I’d have any shortage of prospective suspects.

Of course, the basic question of why anyone would want to kill a multimillionaire had a rather obvious answer. But one who was ninety years old? Why wouldn’t the killer have saved the time, energy and prospect of spending the rest of his/her life in jail by just waiting for nature to take its course? It couldn’t have been much longer—a few more years at most.

But since the killer wasn’t willing or able to wait, it might make it easier to figure out who did it. Being desperate for money tends to be like dropping a stone into a calm pool—it leaves ripples that can be followed back to their source. If anyone was so much in need of money right away, there should be evidence of it. So, checking into the financial affairs of all concerned would be in order. Not easy to do, but…

*

I had realized even before Mel walked out the door that this case was going to be very different from most of my past adventures, and I was looking forward to it. I would have continued looking for whoever had tried to kill Jonathan—and yes, I still had no doubt that shooting was not an accident—whether I’d talked to Mel or not, but it was nice to have someone help pay the bills.

Mel had given me a lot of material to dig through, but I wanted to call Marty first to see if he knew anything more from the last time we’d talked.

In any murder investigation, there’s a natural amount of overlap with the police, as there would be in this one if they ever got around to looking at Bement’s death as a murder. But when most of the people involved in the case are gay, I have a definite advantage—thanks to the residual effects of the historical antagonism between the police and the gay community, gays naturally tend to be more willing to open up to one of their own than to somebody with a badge.

Here, however, there were more potential straight suspects than gays. This put a dent in any “home court/just us chickens” advantages I might normally have had if everyone involved were gay.

In a way, I was rather glad the police
weren’t
more involved at this point. Whenever I was working on an active police case, talking to people the police had most often already talked to, I couldn’t help but feel like the guy with a broom and a shovel walking behind the elephants in a circus parade.

Okay, so where to start? Normally, I’d probably go with Mel’s mother. But the housekeeper had been the last known person to see Bement alive, and just from what little Mel had said about her, she sounded like a good first contact.

I found it hard to imagine a housekeeper—or a schizophrenic mother—perched on a bridge with a gun. And unless the housekeeper figured prominently in Bement’s will, I couldn’t see how she’d have much of a motive to kill him. That, plus she’d be out of a job. 

Still, I put her at the top of my tentative list, even before Mel’s mom, on the grounds that, as Bement’s housekeeper, she was in a unique position to know more about his daily life and people coming and going than most of the others. 

I then realized that I had not asked Mel’s mom’s name.

Dumb, Hardesty, dumb.

Chapter 4

Seeing no point in wasting time, I left the office fif
teen minutes later, stopped by the bank to deposit Mel’s check, and drove out to Briarwood to see Esmirelda Taft. I remembered the address—2222 Tuxford Terrace—only because Jonathan had asked me to deposit his last check from Bement the week before, and I liked the alliteration of the address. I’d also noticed Bement’s signature was so shaky as to be all but illegible and could concede the possibility that, if he had taken his own life, he might have missed with the first shot.

I’d thought only briefly about trying to call first, dismissing it on the grounds it would be too easy for Ms. Taft to hang up on me. She could still slam the door in my face, but at least I would have a chance to take a look around the property to see if anything might stand out that could facilitate a murderer’s gaining entry.

I found it easily enough. Set far back from the street behind a six-foot red brick wall spanning the front of the property, it was a beautiful Georgian-style gem whose elegant simplicity stood out from the overly ornate Versailles-wannabe ostentation of its neighbors.

The wall was broken only by wrought iron gates on either side of the property, marking the ends of the semicircular drive, but the one on the left also led to a driveway running past the house to a three-car garage in the same colonial style. Simple tall chimneys flanked the symmetrically balanced house, while white-framed multi-pane windows and a solid white, quietly elegant double-door entrance framed by classically simple scrollwork spoke clearly of both wealth and dignity.