The Secret Keeper

by Dorien Grey

  Mel thinks I’m handsome, huh?

  Don’t go there, Hardesty!

  *

  Oak Terrace was set in—and was indistinguishable from—a stretch of trendy mid-rise apartment complexes lining the east bank of the river, their backs looking out on the bluffs along the west bank. I wasn’t quite sure where it got the name “Oak Terrace,” since the trees lining the street were all maples and I saw nothing resembling a terrace. Maybe at the rear of the building, on the river side.

  Turning into the underground garage, I found a spot in the visitors’ parking section and followed the yellow arrows painted on the floor to a door that led up to the reception area, which resembled the lobby of a luxury hotel. I signed in and was directed to the elevators and Apartment 9B.

  Checking my watch—it said 12:59—I knocked, to have the door opened almost immediately by a very attractive, impeccably groomed woman in her mid-sixties wearing a gossamer-thin, rose-colored open dressing gown over what looked to be a blue silk high-collared oriental pajama set. For some reason she reminded me of Madam Chiang Kai-Shek.

  “Mr. Hardesty, I presume,” she said warmly, extending her hand, which I took.

  I followed her into a large living room with a huge picture window looking out on the bluffs. Since I wasn’t close to the window, I couldn’t see the river nine stories below. To the immediate right of the entrance was a very compact, gleaming kitchen, though I had passed a large dining room adjacent to the lobby where several people I had assumed to be residents were apparently finishing lunch. To the left of the door was a short hallway with the bathroom on one side and a closed door I assumed led to the bedroom on the other. The “other half” lived very well, I decided.

  Showing me to a seat on the plush sofa, she took a chair beneath the window.

  “And what is it you would like to know?” she asked, getting right to the point.

  “Anything you can tell me about your father that might support Mel’s concern about the circumstances of his death,” I said.

  She smiled, placing her arms casually on the arms of her chair.

  “Were ours a normal family, I would dismiss Mel’s suspicions out of hand. He was devoted to his grandfather and, as he undoubtedly told you, was very concerned about my reactions and feelings toward my father when I was off my medications. I have my mother to thank for that, since she instilled in me and my brother a deep resentment and distrust of my father. It is not healthy to be raised in so toxic an atmosphere, as both Richard and I can attest. I do think my children have fared much better than Richard’s, however.”

  While I’m not quite sure what I was expecting, I was quite impressed by her calm demeanor. My experience with people I knew to be schizophrenic was fairly limited, but I’d never have guessed Mrs. Fowler was one of them.

  Realizing there was no easy way to work up to it, I said, “Do you think Mel’s concern has merit?”

  She looked at me impassively, then gave a small sigh. “Frankly, Mr. Hardesty, I honestly don’t know. I simply cannot imagine anyone shooting themselves.”

  “Which brings up my next question. I understand your husband gave him the gun that killed him.”

  Shaking her head gently, she said, “Yes, and Gregory cannot forgive himself. He bought it when my father moved into his new house. He’d always lived in apartments with doormen and security, and Gregory was concerned for his safety when he began living without those amenities. The house has security systems, of course, but…”

  “Did you notice any change in your father just prior to his death that might indicate he was considering suicide?”

  “No. Nothing. But I’d not seen him for at least a month before his death. Over the past few years, the chasm between us had narrowed, as it were, but we never came anywhere near to what most people would think of as a loving father-daughter relationship. My mother carefully created so wide a gulf between us that it could never be properly spanned. Relationships, as with most things, tend to be easier to destroy than to build.

  “I think my children turned out very well, considering everything. I cannot say the same for the rest of the family. I really did try to provide Mel and Patricia with as normal a life as possible, if there is such a thing as normal. I think, of all the family, Mel turned out the best.”

  “Well, then, let me ask you this. If your father did not commit suicide, can you think of anyone who may have wanted to kill him?”

  She looked at me oddly. “Murder is what happens in the newspapers and on TV and in novels, not to anyone one actually knows.”

  “The same could be said for suicide,” I observed. “But hypothetically, then, could you think of anyone at all who wanted your father dead?”

  “Other than my mother, you mean? I’m sure she was delighted to hear he was dead, but if she had wanted to kill him she could have done something about it any time in the past forty years. I can’t imagine she’d wait until now. And I suspect she so enjoyed bedeviling him she’d never dream of depriving herself of the pleasure.

  “As for the rest of the family, I can’t imagine any of them having the intestinal fortitude to do so, though I’m quite sure they were all eagerly awaiting his death—which isn’t the same as precipitating it. Still, I suppose I wouldn’t put it past any one of them—hypothetically.”

  She paused for just a moment before saying, “I take that back. There’s Anna, Alan’s daughter. She’s the only decent member on Richard’s side of the family. I think being deaf and largely ignored spared her from being exposed to all the bile everyone else was spewing. The rest of them are all a bunch of money-grubbing leeches I wouldn’t trust around a child’s piggy bank.”

  Yeah, but what do you really think of them? one of my mind-voices asked.

  “Anyone in particular?”

  She shook her head. “Take your pick,” she said. “Mother has always skillfully diverted the endless financial requests from Richard’s brood of piglets to my father, claiming poverty and insisting it was he who owed them for having abandoned his wife and children. It worked, of course, and they have all been feeding at my father’s trough for years. It amazes me that he would have put up with it but, for whatever reason—guilt, probably—he did.”

  “Mel mentioned his grandfather’s generosity to the family, but that he’d recently ‘turned off the tap,’ as he put it.”

  “So I understand,” she said. “And it was long overdue. I’m sure Richard’s brood was livid. Even while he was giving them everything they asked for, they resented his not giving them more. Yet as far as any of them actually resorting to murder, that would seem to me rather like killing the goose that laid the golden egg.”

  Another moment of silence, then, “I can guarantee you they will have gone through every penny they get from Father’s will within a year, just as they did with the money their mother left them when she died. Then all they will have left is the income from their trust funds. And if they think they can then fall back on my mother to keep shoveling money into the trough, they are in for a very rude and well-deserved awakening.”

  “Which brings me to the question of your father’s will. I understand there is a new one, but no signed copies to validate it.”

  “So I understand, though I had not been aware of it until the lawyers called to ask if I might know the whereabouts of any signed copies.”

  “And you didn’t.”

  “No,” she said. “I haven’t a clue.”

  “I understand you and your brother are co-executors of your father’s estate.”

  “By default, yes. Eli Prescott, my father’s friend and attorney, was to manage the estate, but Richard and I were listed as co-executors in the event Mr. Prescott was unable to serve. I suspect the only reason we were named as co-executors was another way to attempt to assuage the family. I have no idea whether that may have changed with the new will, and the lawyers won’t divulge any of its details as long as the original will is still in effect.”

  I decided not to take t
hat detour off the main course of our conversation at the moment, so moved on to my next question.

  “And whose decision was it to keep Ms. Taft on as housekeeper after your father’s death?”

  “Richard wanted her to remain, ostensibly so that someone would be there to look out for the place until it can be sold. But frankly, I think it is because he wants to keep the fox guarding the henhouse.”

  “I’m sorry…?” I said. “I don’t follow.”

  “Esmirelda had been employed by Richard and his family for several years prior to his wife Pauline’s death. Then he insisted she go to care for Father when his long-time housekeeper retired and moved to be with her children.”

  “Do you know anything more of her background?”

  “Not really. She never married, and though she never spoke of it, I understand she had a brother who had spent time in prison. I’m not sure where I heard that. At any rate, I’ve not been to the house since Father’s death, and don’t intend to go. There is nothing there of interest to me. But I am sure Richard’s litter will do their best to strip the house bare before it is sold, and I resent that deeply.”

  “But you didn’t object to Richard’s wanting to keep her on?”

  “There would have been little point, really. To have insisted on a new housekeeper would merely have hastened the stripping process before a new will could be found.”

  “Surely the will—the original, at any rate—left specific instructions as to the disposition of all his property,” I said.

  “I’m sure it does,” she said. “Though I’m not sure of the exact details. We were all aware of the general tone of the will. Unfortunately,it has not yet been read. I received a call this morning from Mr. Prescott’s firm asking us to meet with them a week from this coming Monday for the reading.

  “My husband is finalizing the financial data now. There is a tremendous amount of preparatory work for verifying all the assets, and I suspect the lawyers want to allow as much time as possible to find a signed copy of the new will. I was a bit surprised that Richard agreed to any delay at all, but then I realized his motives are far from altruistic.”

  “How so?”

  She sighed. “It will give those little sticky-fingered parasites more time to walk off with everything that isn’t nailed down. Richard, of course, won’t object, and Esmirelda won’t lift a finger to stop them. She’ll probably hold the door open while they cart everything off. The more time they have to do it before the will is read, the better. It’s not that my children need the money, but as a matter of principle and fairness, it’s disgraceful.”

  “But surely, if something is specified in the will and not found among the estate…”

  “If the original will remains in effect, Richard and/or Esmirelda will merely claim that those items were sold subsequent to the drawing up of the will. It has been a number of years, after all. If the new will surfaces, they will have something of a problem on their hands. And if the new will is found, I have every intention of taking legal action on any item mentioned in it which is not fully accounted for.”

  “Did your father have any enemies outside the family? A man in his position invariably does.”

  “Yes, and I’m sure my father had more than his share. But I knew nothing at all of his business or the people he knew through it. And he retired twenty years ago—almost all of his one-time competitors and business associates are dead. I can’t imagine anyone waiting this long to exact revenge.”

  “So when he retired, he did so totally? He didn’t keep his hand in things?”

  “I honestly wouldn’t know. As I say, I never knew anything of his business life. It’s entirely possible, I suppose, but since we were not close, he never confided in me on those matters.”

  I couldn’t help but wonder if he might have indirectly confided in Jonathan on “those matters.” It was highly unlikely, and even more unlikely that Jonathan would have known what he was talking about even if he had. Still, there is some truth to the old saying that it is sometimes easier to talk to a complete stranger than to someone one knows well. And given Bement’s age, failing health, and increasing isolation…

  The ringing of the phone cut short both my train of thought and my meeting with Mrs. Fowler, who, upon answering it, merely said, “Thank you, I’ll be there in a moment.” Hanging up, she announced it was time for the “brain pickers” appointment she’d mentioned when I’d called earlier. I got up from my chair and thanked her for her time. She showed me to the door, where we exchanged the requisite pleasantries, and I left.

  *

  Returning to the office, I put in a call to City Annex and asked to speak to Detective Pardue or Stein. Informed they were not in, I left a message saying I had retrieved bullet casings from the Woods Road railway bridge and asked them to call.

  I then spent the rest of the afternoon going over the little I did know and contemplating the gaping hole of what I did not. All I was sure of was that I wanted Jonathan and Joshua out of harm’s way as soon as possible.

  Richard Bement was the next logical one on my contact list, but I had a feeling it wasn’t going to be easy. The bulk of the deaths I’ve investigated have clearly been murders, and so considered by everyone involved. Here, the line wasn’t so clearly drawn. In fact, Jonathan and Mel Fowler—and, increasingly, I—seemed to be the only people who didn’t buy into the suicide theory.

  If Richard Bement or any of his “litter,” as Mel’s mother had referred to them, was directly or indirectly involved in Clarence Bement’s death, it would hardly be in their interest to suggest they’d even considered it had been anything other than suicide. If there were an element of truth in what Mel and his mother said, I was not looking forward to meeting any of them.

  As I mulled over the situation on the way back to the office, I came up with a plan to possibly get Richard and his kids to talk to me, should they show any reluctance to do so voluntarily. Mel had left town that morning, and would probably be gone until Monday. Nevertheless, I called his number and left a message asking him to call me as soon as he could. I’d intended to call Richard as soon as I returned to the office but then decided to wait until Monday—I wanted to see him as soon after talking to him as possible. It was getting too late in the day for that, and the weekend was going to be pretty hectic.

  Detective Stein returned my call at around quarter-to-four.

  “So, you found some casings on the bridge?” he asked immediately, eliminating any need for introductory chitchat.

  “Yeah. I figured there might be a chance they’d have a fingerprint, and…”

  “And you still think the shot at your partner was tied in with the Bement suicide?”

  That he referred to it as a “suicide” pretty much told me he thought the whole thing was a waste of time, but I still said, “I’m sure of it.”

  There was a slight pause, then, “Well, tell you what. Why don’t you drop the casings off at the main desk for Detectives Angell and Garland, since they’ve got the Bement case. They’re not in now, but I’ll leave a note to tell them to expect them.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “No problem. Later.” And he hung up.

  I had the distinct impression I’d just been summarily dismissed, but what the hell? It wasn’t the first time.

  Putting the casings into a large envelope within a larger envelope and addressing it to “Detectives Angell and Garland,” I sealed the outer envelope and left the office to drop it off at City Annex on my way home.

  Since this was Jonathan and Joshua’s last night at home, we decided to have a farewell dinner at Cap’n Rooney’s Fish Shack. I could tell Jonathan was excited at the prospect of seeing his family again, and Joshua made it a point to tell the counterman, who appeared duly impressed, that he was going to Wisconsin on an airplane.

  As soon as we got home, Jonathan started packing, and since I would just be in the way, I took the time to put in a call to Nick and Cory, which Cory answered on the
first ring.

  “Cory, hi, it’s Dick.”

  “Hi, Dick! Jonathan all ready for the trip?”

  “Champing at the bit,” I said. “I wonder if you could do me a favor.”

  “Sure. What do you need?”

  “Remember I was asking you the other day about Anna Bement? I need to speak with her and would like to take you up on your offer to arrange a meeting for me.”

  “Be happy to. I can call her tonight—she has a TTY.”

  A TTY, I’d known even before Mel told me, was a phone device specifically designed for use by the deaf. It had a typewriter keyboard and a small screen on which whatever the caller and sender typed would appear. Great thing, science. I always wonder what they’d come up with next.

  “When do you want to meet? I know Anna reads lips very well, and she speaks, but if you think you might need an interpreter, I’ll be happy to do it.”

  “I appreciate the offer, Cory, but I don’t want to impose on you or take up your time. I should be able to manage, unless she might feel more comfortable with an interpreter.”

  “No, I don’t think that would be a problem for her. She interacts with hearing people every day at work.”

  “Great. Then everything should be fine. As for when, any time at her convenience,” I said.

  “I’ll give you a call as soon as I reach her,” he said. “Tell Jonathan and Joshua to have a great trip, and we’ll look forward to hearing all about it when they get back.”

  “And my best to Nick. Thanks, Cory.”

  I felt a little guilty after talking with Cory to realize I should have been watching over Joshua, who wanted to help pack and consequently had stacked his bed with toys, books, and games he wanted to take along. Including Bunny, of course. I don’t think he totally bought my “leaving Bunny to keep me company” story, but when I promised we’d get him something new—we didn’t mention “and smaller”—at the airport to take with him, he magnanimously agreed.

  Surveying the pile on his bed, he apparently thought he would have no need for clothes, and there certainly would have been no room for them had he taken everything else he wanted to. But after considerable bartering, and a few teeterings perilously close to the rim of Tantrum Canyon, the bags were packed and placed beside the front door.