The Secret Keeper

by Dorien Grey

  As soon as we’d finally gotten Joshua to bed, I suggested what I thought was an excellent way to relieve some of Jonathan’s anxiety, and he readily agreed. We wouldn’t be seeing one another for a week, so we did our best to make up for it once the lights were out.

  *

  Both Jonathan and Joshua were up by six Saturday morning, and although he’d done all the packing the night before, Jonathan felt obliged to recheck everything to make sure nothing had been forgotten, which of course inspired Joshua to remember a couple more things he couldn’t get by without. Luckily, both suitcases were already so crammed there wasn’t room for anything else.

  Traffic was light, and we were at the airport by seven forty-five, which gave us enough time to grab a quick breakfast at the terminal’s restaurant. Despite his excitement, Joshua managed to polish his off in record time. I knew Jonathan was always nervous before flying, but he managed to hide it from Joshua if not from me.

  After picking up the tickets at the counter and checking the bags, we stopped at the gift shop and let Joshua pick out a small stuffed animal to keep him company on the trip. After a relatively limited debate, he chose a bright yellow Big Bird, and we arrived at the departure gate about ten minutes before boarding.

  A DC-8 was waiting at the loading dock, its nose close enough to the terminal window Joshua could wave to someone he saw moving around in the cockpit. While he was reaching the age that he no longer routinely carried on conversations with his stuffed animals, I noticed he kept a firm hold on Big Bird.

  When they announced boarding, he was like a racehorse at the starting gate, pulling at Jonathan’s hand to move him toward the passageway, but I scooped him up.

  “Aren’t you going to say good-bye?” I asked, turning him to face me.

  “Good-bye!” he said, turning his head to watch the crowd surging into the passageway. “We’ll be late!” he objected.

  “Hug first,” I said, and he reluctantly threw his arms around my neck for a quick hug. I kissed him on the forehead. “You be a good boy, now, hear?”

  He nodded vigorously then started squirming to be let down. Jonathan grabbed his hand as soon as his feet hit the floor then turned to give me a much longer hug with his free arm.

  “We’ll miss you!” he said.

  “Ditto,” I said. “Call me tonight if you can. Remember, though, I’ll be going to dinner with the guys.”

  “I will,” he promised. “Tell them all hello for me.”

  “Let’s go!” Joshua urged, leaning at a 45-degree angle to get Jonathan moving. He reminded me of one of those circus strong men trying to pull a locomotive.

  I watched them move down the passageway—Jonathan turning once for a quick wave with his free hand—and then they were lost in the crowd. I stood by the window for ten minutes, until the whine of the plane’s engines preceded its slow move backward, pushed by a stubby airport service truck. It slowly turned, the tug disengaged, and the plane headed down the taxiway toward the runway. I turned from the window and made my way back through the terminal toward the parking lot.

  I was driving to the airport entrance when I saw an American DC-8—probably Jonathan and Joshua’s—lift off and pass over the road in front of me. I missed them already.

  *

  True to his word, Jonathan called that evening shortly before ten. I’d only gotten home a few minutes earlier after an enjoyable dinner with Tim, Phil, Jake, and Jared, though it wasn’t the same without Jonathan.

  “Sorry I didn’t call earlier,” he said, “but I wasn’t sure you’d be home yet from dinner. How was it?”

  “Fine, but kind of strange without you there. How’s it going?” I asked.

  “Pretty good. Joshua’s a little confused, but there were enough other kids around to keep him occupied. I just got him to bed. But I wanted to tell you—guess who was a steward on our flight to Chicago?” Not waiting for an answer, which I could readily have provided, he said, “Mr. Bement’s grandson, Mel! I only met him that once, but he recognized me right away, and he made a big fuss over Joshua. Anyway, he was really busy, but I told him how sorry I was about his grandfather. And just before we landed in Chicago, he came over to talk to me for a minute. He said he really enjoyed meeting you and said how lucky we were to have each other, and Joshua. That was really nice of him.”

  “That it was,” I said.

  We only talked for another minute or two before Jonathan said, “I’d better go—this is going on my dad’s phone bill.”

  We hung up after his promising to call collect next time.

  It was the first night I’d slept alone in a very long time, and I kept waking up after rolling over to put my arm across Jonathan only to have it drop down on empty mattress.

  *

  Sunday passed quickly with brunch at Bob and Mario’s, and before I knew it, it was Sunday night. There was a message on the machine from Cory, and I called him back immediately. He said Anna Bement would be willing to see me any time.

  He’d told me she worked as a proofreader at a publishing house I recognized as being not too far from my office. She’d suggested she and I might try meeting for lunch on Wednesday, if I felt I could manage without an interpreter. I told him I was sure I could, that Wednesday would be fine, and asked him to set it up at a time and place of her choosing. He said he’d try to reach her as soon as we hung up, and would get back to me.

  I was fixing my evening Manhattan, acutely aware of the unaccustomed silence, when Cory called, saying Anna would meet me Wednesday at twelve fifteen at a small diner near her work. I thanked him again, and we ended the conversation with the usual promises to see one another soon.

  *

  Jonathan called shortly before ten. He didn’t sound very happy.

  “I just now left Joshua’s room. I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He was a holy terror all day. He wouldn’t mind, he yelled at my sister Ruth’s youngest kids, and he’s been a general pain in the behind. I’m sure Ruth thinks he’s a spoiled brat, and he was sure acting like one.

  “I’ve never seen him like this, and I was really embarrassed. He threw a major tantrum when I told him it was time to go to bed, and when I finally got him there, he didn’t want me to read him a story. But when I got up to leave, he started crying, so I went back and laid down with him until he went to sleep.”

  “Any idea of what might have set him off?” I asked. “He usually has a reason, even if it doesn’t make much sense to us.”

  “No. We went over to see Ruth after church, and the minute we got there, he started.”

  I sighed. “And nothing happened to trigger it?”

  “No, I…” He paused. “Oh, Lord! Of course! Why didn’t I realize it?”

  “What?”

  “In order to get to Ruth’s from my dad’s, we had to drive right past Samuel and Sheryl’s house. It was a really strange sensation for me, but I didn’t think Joshua even noticed. But of course, he had to have. He was born and raised there. It’s the place he and his parents left and never went back. But he didn’t say a word. Oh, God, I feel awful!”

  I empathized with him totally. Even for a five-year-old, being kicked in the stomach with memories must have hurt like hell. No wonder he’d acted up.

  “There’s nothing you can do about it now,” I said. “Just be sure to be extra-patient with him, as you always are. We knew this might happen, and it did. He’ll get over it—he doesn’t have much choice. Just keep reassuring him that his mom and dad wanted you to take care of him, and that we love him.”

  He sighed. “Yeah, you’re right, of course, and I do try. But…”

  “That’s all we can do—try. I just wish I were there to help you.”

  “So do I. I miss you.”

  “Me, too, Babe.”

  *

  Monday morning, as I drove to work, I had a momentary rush of adrenaline realizing that, with only five days of not having to be concerned for Jonathan and Joshua’s safety, I had to try to cram in as much as
I possibly could between now and heading for the airport Friday to pick them up.

  It was highly unlikely I’d have the whole case solved by then—I had no guarantee I would solve it at all. However, knowing from experience that panic is counterproductive, at best, I took a mental step backward and determined I’d do as much as I could in the time available.

  As soon as I walked in the office, I went to the phone to call Richard Bement. I really expected to get an answering machine and was surprised to hear the phone being picked up at the other end.

  I’d read somewhere that it was Thomas Alva Edison who was responsible for making “hello” the standard response to a phone call. Alexander Graham Bell favored “Ahoy! Ahoy!” and I was rather glad he’d lost that particular battle. At any rate, it was “Hello?” I heard when Richard Bement answered the phone.

  “Mr. Bement, my name is Dick Hardesty, and I’m a friend of your nephew, Mel. He suggested I contact you.”

  “About what? Just why might my nephew be suggesting you call me?”

  “It’s a bit complicated,” I began truthfully, “and I was hoping we might meet in person to discuss it.”

  “‘It’ being…?”

  “In addition to Mel’s friend, I’m also a private investigator. Mel told me he has reason to believe that his grandfather’s—your father’s—death might not have been a suicide, and that he was thinking of taking his concerns to the police. I suggested he let me look into the matter first to see if there were any need to involve the police.”

  “The police? That’s totally ridiculous. My father was ninety years old, senile, and in ill health. He chose to take his own life. Period. I have no idea what Mel thinks he is doing or why, but I won’t be a party to it.”

  “I’m afraid not being a party to it really won’t be an option if I’m unable to convince Mel not to go to the police. I was frankly surprised they didn’t look more closely into the circumstances of your father’s death at the time, but I’m sure they shared your analysis of the situation.

  “Still, if a member of the family were to suggest otherwise, they would have little choice but to investigate, especially considering your father’s prominence. So it really would be better all around if you could help me convince Mel there’s no basis for his concern.”

  A long pause was followed by a put-upon sigh. “Very well. I have absolutely nothing to tell you, but if you insist, I have to be in town for a business meeting and lunch, so I can meet you for a few minutes afterwards. Say two thirty at Georgio’s.”

  “I’ll see you there,” I said, idly wondering what sort of “business meeting” it might be, since Mel had said Richard Bement never worked a day in his life. I suspected he just wanted to meet in neutral territory.

  Georgio’s was a fancy newly opened bar at the Montero, the doyenne of the city’s hotels. I hadn’t asked how to recognize him; I figured it would be fairly quiet at two thirty and I could manage.

  Since I had plenty of time before meeting Richard, I next tried calling his son George, the one Mel had described as a “serious druggie.” There was no answer and no machine. On to Stuart. An answering machine picked up on the second ring to alert the caller that “Mr. Bement” was not in at the moment but would return my call at his earliest convenience. Since I assumed it was he who had recorded the message, I found the use of “Mr. Bement” to be more than a little affected, and the “at his convenience” downright arrogant.

  A call to Alan Bement resulted in another answering machine response—a woman’s voice—and another left message.

  Knowing that both Patricia and Gregory Fowler worked during the day, I determined to try to reach them from home after dinner. Gregory, Patricia, Richard, Alan, Stuart, George, Mel…uh…Mel’s mom, whose name escaped me at the moment—Lord, I hoped I could remember who was who and who said what.

  I left the office at a quarter till two and opted to take the bus rather than going through the hassle of looking for a parking place near the Montero or paying the exorbitant parking fees in the nearby public garages. Hey, money’s money.

  It was two fifteen, and I was early as usual when I walked into the crystal, brass, and polished-mahogany lobby, which never failed to bring back memories of past cases and lost loves, mine and others’. The relatively small cocktail lounge off the main dining room had been completely redone, greatly expanded, and renamed since I was last there. A small stage had been added to allow the room to be used as a show lounge.

  There were only half a dozen people in the place when I entered—all in pairs, which saved me wondering if one of them might be Richard Bement. I walked to the bar and, in honor of the occasion of breathing the rarified air of the wealthy and not having had to pay parking fees, ordered a whiskey sour from the red-vested bartender, whose hair was so shiny with grooming gel it almost reflected light.

  *

  My watch told me it was a quarter to three, and I was contemplating ordering another drink when an imperious figure strode into the room and marched directly to the bar. Without once having looked around, he sat at the next-to-last stool at the far end of the bar, summoning the bartender to bring him a Bombay gin martini with two garlic olives.

  The fact he had kept me waiting and that he didn’t bother to check to see if I might be there was pretty much what I’d anticipated. He was the mountain, and I was Mohammed. Getting up from my stool, I walked over to him.

  “Mr. Bement,” I said, standing slightly behind him so he would have to turn a bit to see me. (If games he wanted, games he’d get.) I then passed behind him to take the last stool, forcing him to turn again in the other direction. “I appreciate your agreeing to see me.”

  He totally ignored me while he removed his wallet from the inside pocket of his silk-lined suit coat and from a thick stack of bills selected a twenty, which he placed on the bar. He could just as easily have handed it directly to the bartender, but this way it was necessary for the bartender to reach for it. Games, games, games.

  “Would you like another, sir?” the bartender asked me before moving off to the cash register.

  “Yes, please,” I said, noting Bement did not offer to take it out of his twenty. I neither wanted nor expected him to, but small gestures, or lack thereof, tell a lot about a person.

  Waiting until he had removed the speared olives, tapped them on the edge of the glass, eaten one, set the spear and second olive on his napkin and taken a slow sip of his martini—all the while staring at something in the empty space between him and the back bar—he finally said, “So, exactly what is it you expect me to tell you about my father?”

  “Do you think it possible he did not commit suicide?”

  The bartender brought my drink and I paid him. Bement waited until he’d gone before speaking.

  “It seems my nephew is light in the brain as well as the loafers. But anything’s possible. A man in my father’s position inevitably has a long roster of enemies. And though he outlived most of them, I don’t suppose it is impossible for someone to still harbor a grudge.”

  “But wouldn’t it be strange if after all these years—”

  “The world abounds in ‘strange,’” he observed.

  Despite the very short time I’d spent in his company, I tended to agree.

  “I gather you and your father were not close.”

  He picked the remaining olive from his napkin, put it in his mouth and pulled out the empty skewer before replying.

  “Please, Mr…Hardesty, was it?” He of course knew damned good and well it was. “I’m sure my nephew has taken great pleasure in parading all our family skeletons before you. Despite what I’m sure he told you, I did not hate my father. I was totally neutral to him. I fully realized his shameful treatment of my mother had nothing to do with me, though I’d be lying if I didn’t say it and she clouded my relationship with him.”

  “So, you’re not aware of any enemies he may have had, or made recently?”

  He shook his head. “Not at all. He was once
a powerful and formidable man, but as he grew older he grew weaker in every sense. At the end, he was just a pathetic old man with no friends and no dignity. So did someone put him out of his misery? Or did he gather the last bit of courage to do it himself? I’d like to think the latter.”

  “What can you tell me about Esmirelda Taft?”

  “What about her? She’s a housekeeper, nothing more.”

  “Well, for one thing, I’m curious as to whether she ever told you, as she did the police, that your father had mentioned suicide several times.”

  There was a long pause, as though he was thinking over his response options.

  “Yes, I seem to recall she mentioned it.”

  “And you knew he had a gun?”

  “I knew he had been given one several years before, but he had never mentioned it.”

  “But you knew he had one, and you weren’t concerned when you heard he’d talked of suicide?”

  “It never occurred to me he would follow through on it. Talking is one thing, doing quite another.”

  “I see,” I said, wondering as I did so why people feel it necessary to say “I see” at all. “So, back to Ms. Taft.”

  He raised an eyebrow and gave a slight shake of his head. “She was, and is, an employee. Nothing more. She sails through life, doing what she is paid to do while remaining totally unaffected by and uninterested in anything around her. In that regard, she’s the perfect housekeeper.”

  “I understand she has a brother who spent time in prison.”

  He looked at me strangely. “I won’t ask how you came by that knowledge, but yes. Esmirelda is a very private person, and in all the time she was with us, I can’t say I ever heard her say a word about her personal life.”

  “How did you find out about her brother?”

  “My late wife became aware, shortly before she died, that Esmirelda was apparently padding our grocery bills—not a great deal, perhaps twenty dollars or so a week—and confronted her. Esmirelda readily admitted it, explaining she had a brother in prison, and that she had taken the money only to help support his family while he was incarcerated.”