The Secret Keeper

by Dorien Grey

“Do you know if she was on her medication when her father died?”

  There was a long pause before, “I’m sorry, Mr. Hardesty, but I am really very uncomfortable with this.”

  “I apologize,” I said, “but in order to put Mel’s concerns to rest, I need to get as complete a picture of the circumstances leading to your father-in-law’s death as I can, and that involves looking into some rather dark corners.” He said nothing in response, so I continued. “So, do you know whether or not she was on her medication at the time of Clarence’s death?”

  “I assume she was. I’d had dinner with her about a week before, and she was perfectly fine then. I never ask if she is on her medication, though I can always tell when she’s not. As Mel probably told you, we are separated.”

  “Again I apologize for prying, but do you know anything about Richard and his family that might indicate one of them would have reason to cause your father-in-law’s death?”

  A small sigh was followed by, “Frankly, I would put nothing past any of them. But I have nothing specific. As I told you, I have—and want—as little as to do with them as possible. I do know all of Richard’s sons frequently approached my daughter, asking her to intervene on their behalf with their endless requests to Clarence, who had finally grown tired of their incessant demands and total lack of gratitude. But frankly, I doubt they would have the intestinal fortitude, let alone the brains, to plan and carry out a murder.”

  “You were aware, I’m sure, that Richard’s side of the family is convinced you have been mismanaging their trust funds.”

  He gave a quick snort of disgust. “They’ve hardly made that a secret, and I’ve been dealing with it for years. They were constantly calling me to demand that I switch Clarence’s funds into some stock or other based on nothing more than some wild rumor they’d heard, and were irate when I refused.

  “Look, I’ve been a CPA for a great many years, and I know my business. And to forestall any conceivable accusations of impropriety, an independent auditing firm reviews my books annually. So I would take whatever any of them says with about three pounds of salt, if I were you.”

  “Had Clarence mentioned anything to you about concern that his housekeeper may have been mishandling the household expenses? I understand there was a minor problem when she worked for Richard’s family.”

  “No, he never said anything to that effect. And I can’t imagine she’d have access to that much money even if she had been.”

  “And no one else had access to any of Clarence’s accounts?”

  “Absolutely not. He was far too wise to let any of his blood relatives get anywhere near them. And when it came to his finances, I did not consider myself a relative.”

  “Had he mentioned anything to you about the new will?”

  “I wasn’t even aware there was one until Mel told me. There’s really no reason why Clarence would have.”

  “So you don’t know if you are mentioned in either will?”

  “Well, since the original was drawn up before Gladys and I were married, I know I’m not in it and sincerely doubt I’d be in any new one. There would be no real reason for me to be. Gladys told me some time ago that it provided for his children and grandchildren not yet born, but nothing for the spouses of the main heirs.”

  “Well, I appreciate your candor, Mr. Bement. I’ve kept you long enough for now, but I hope you won’t mind if I contact you again if I have any more questions.”

  “Not at all.”

  We exchanged good-byes and hung up.

  *

  A quick call from Jonathan around ten, saying he’d had to make two trips to Joshua’s room since putting him to bed less than an hour before because the boy had awakened with nightmares and called for him.

  “I hate to cut this short,” he said, “but I’d better go back up and make sure he’s sleeping alright. I don’t want him to disturb my dad.”

  “I understand, Babe,” I said. “Did he say what the nightmares were about?”

  “No. Just that some monsters were after him. No idea what it means, but probably all tied into dealing with his memories. I’m sure he’ll be okay.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, I said. “Give him a big hug for me.”

  “Will do. Now I’d better get back. I’ll call tomorrow.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Yes, I do,” he said. “I really miss you.”

  “Double for me.”

  We hung up, with me feeling guilty for not being there. I had no idea what I could really have done if I were, but…

  Chapter 6

  Finding no messages on my office machine Wednesday morning, I tried to concentrate on reading the newspaper and doing the crossword puzzle in order not to start calling the Bements too early. After about fifteen minutes, I gave up and reached for the list Mel had given me, and the phone.

  I’d left a message on Alan’s machine and gotten no response, so tried him first. The phone was answered, “Bement residence,” by a woman, and I wasn’t sure if it was his wife or a maid. When I identified myself, mentioned I had left a message earlier, and asked if he was in, I was informed he had gotten my message (with no further explanation), was not in at the moment, and she did not know when he would return.

  I left my number again and ramped up my earlier message, saying I needed to speak to him regarding his grandfather’s death. Though I didn’t say so, I determined that, if he didn’t respond, I’d keep after him until he did.

  I next tried Stuart, and I dialed his number without much hope of success. His machine did not kick in after four rings, and I was just about to hang up when I heard the receiver being picked up, followed by a rather groggy-sounding “Yes?”

  If Stuart Bement were, in fact, gay it could have been a trick answering the phone for him, but I made a leap of faith.

  “Mr. Bement, this is Dick Hardesty calling again. I left a message on your machine—”

  “Yes, I know,” he interrupted, “but I’ve been far too busy to get back to you. Do you always call this early?”

  Early? It was nine thirty in the morning! In my world, that isn’t considered early.

  “Sorry if I woke you, but I did want to talk to you about your grandfather’s death.”

  “So you mentioned. But I have no idea why you might want to talk to me. There’s nothing I can tell you. What is it, exactly, you’re investigating?”

  “The possibility his death was not a suicide.”

  “Ah, yes. Mel. The fair-haired apple of my grandfather’s eye. Mel is as delusional as his mother.”

  I let that one pass and moved on.

  “I gather you weren’t particularly close to your grandfather?”

  “You might say that. He was a miserly old fool who did his best to destroy our entire family and begrudged any display of entrepreneurial talent. His despicable treatment of my grandmother was inexcusable. I could tell you stories…”

  I’m sure you could, I thought. But before he could get started, I interrupted with “I understood he was quite generous with you and your brothers.”

  His laugh was more of a snort, and had no humor in it.

  “Generous? He had all the money in the world, yet we had to beg for every crumb he grudgingly tossed our way. I mean, we carry the Bement name. We have obligations.”

  From the way he was talking, I got a mental image of a windswept hovel in a snowy forest, surrounded by wolves, with a young Stuart and his brothers huddled pathetically around a small fire sharing a bowl of watery gruel and one spoon.

  Before he had a chance to go on along that same line, I said, “Mel tells me you’re an inventor.”

  “Yes, I hold a number of patents. I have one under full development now that will revolutionize the electronics industry. I’ve just hired a top marketing firm to do extensive consumer surveys, and the prototype is nearly ready for testing.”

  I didn’t feel it necessary to ask where he might be getting the financing for all this, and thought that if
he was counting on his inheritance for funding, he was being rather premature in spending money he didn’t have. The will hadn’t even been read yet.

  “Well, I wish you a great deal of success,” I said. “So you’re convinced your grandfather committed suicide?”

  “I have no idea. I’m sure he had more enemies than the Library of Congress has books, and I’m sure any number of them would quite probably be willing to contribute to a fund to hire a hit man, but what other people may do is of no concern to me.”

  “What did your brothers think of him?” I asked.

  He laughed again, a little more sincerely this time. “I fear they were considerably less enamored of our grandfather than I, and, frankly, I wouldn’t put anything past either of them. He treated us all like lap dogs, making us jump for little treats. It was disgusting.” He paused, perhaps thinking he may have said more than he should have, then suddenly said, “Well, you’ll have to excuse me. I have an appointment.”

  “Of course,” I said. “But before you go, I have two quick questions. What do you know of your grandfather’s new will?”

  “Nothing at all, and I have even less interest. I understand it was not signed and therefore has no validity. Now, I really must go.”

  “I understand, but can you tell me how I might reach your brother George? He doesn’t seem to have an answering machine, and I was wondering if you know when would be a good time to catch him in?”

  “I’m afraid I’d have no idea. George keeps—sporadic—hours, and we seldom talk, so I can’t help you.”

  “Well, thank you for your time.”

  “Good day, then,” he said, and hung up.

  “Sporadic” hours, eh? I wonder if they might be related to the drug and alcohol problems Mel alluded to.

  *

  I tried calling George one more time and, when there was no answer, decided to take more direct action and drive to his home. I felt like I’d been running in place too long with this guy and wanted to have at least the illusion I was getting somewhere.

  I wrote a note, in case he wasn’t in, asking him to call me regarding his grandfather’s death and saying somewhat cryptically that it would definitely be in his best interests to do so. I addressed an envelope, put the note inside, sealed it, and took a dispenser of Scotch Tape from my desk drawer to attach it to his front door.

  The address Mel had given me was in an area with both apartments and private homes, and I hoped for the latter so I wouldn’t have to deal with getting past a front desk. No such luck. The address was a shiny new high-rise befitting the status of the Bement name and fortune.

  I really couldn’t imagine what it must be like to be the equivalent of an appendix to a wealthy family. Mel and Patricia were in the same family, yet they both seemed to be fairly well grounded, as evidenced by the fact they worked actual jobs, even though they undoubtedly had enough family money they didn’t have to. Maybe part of it was that Gregory Fowler, Mel and Patricia’s dad, was the only member—fringe though he may be—of the clan to have come from a non-wealthy background. I wouldn’t be surprised if Gladys had married Gregory as a way of spiting her mother.

  I managed to find a parking place on the street and, taking the envelope with my note—it was pretty obvious I wouldn’t need to worry about taping it to a door. Wishing I’d worn a heavier jacket when I’d left for work, I entered the building and approached the speaker-phone in the glass partition that separated the room-sized entry from the building’s inner sanctum. Behind the partition stood a very nice-looking young man, who had apparently just gotten up from a desk directly below the window, probably alerted to my arrival by a signal from the opening entrance door.

  “May I help you, sir?” he asked.

  I do wish handsome young men wouldn’t ask me that question, or call me “sir.” I’d found another gray hair after my morning shower and was a bit sensitive to anything hinting of my approaching dotage.

  “Is Mr. Bement in?”

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “I’ve been trying to reach him by phone for several days,” I said, “and thought I’d better just come by. Could you ring him for me?”

  The young man smiled. “Mr. Bement has left instructions he is not to be disturbed before noon.”

  Well, Mr. Bement can go fuck himself, I thought. But instead I said, “It’s really important that I see him.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I must follow my instructions.”

  “I understand,” I said. “But could you see to it that he gets this?” I showed him the envelope.

  “Of course,” he said, coming around a small counter to open the door to take it.

  “And would you tell him it’s very important that he contact me as soon as possible?”

  He smiled again. “Of course,” he repeated, and with that, I turned and left.

  Still on the hamster wheel, eh, Hardesty? a mind-voice asked as I returned to my car. Still getting nowhere.

  *

  Since the diner at which I was to meet Anna Bement wasn’t all that far from my office, I debated between walking or taking the bus rather than driving and trying to find a parking place. I opted for the bus. I also remembered to take along a small notepad and pencil, just in case.

  I arrived at the diner at exactly twelve fifteen. It was fairly crowded, of course, with the lunch crowd, and I realized I had no idea what Anna Bement looked like—the deaf don’t wear signs and are, unless they’re signing, indistinguishable in a crowd. However, I spotted an attractive young woman in her mid-twenties seated alone at a booth for two on the far side of the room. She glanced at me and when I mouthed Anna?, she smiled and nodded.

  I made my way to her booth and slid into the seat opposite her. I smiled and signed Nice to meet you.

  She returned the smile and said, “Nice to meet you, too.” The only indication she was deaf was the vaguely “flat” tone caused by the lack of inflection common with many speaking deaf.

  I won’t go into all the details of our combined talk/sign/note-writing—the latter mostly mine when I either did not know how to sign something or on those rare occasions I wasn’t sure she was able to interpret my lip movements. Even the best lip readers don’t catch every word.

  While waiting to order, we engaged in the usual getting-to-know-one-another chitchat, and I found her charming and funny. Like many deaf people, she had a job that required a minimum of spoken communication, and had been a copy editor for several years. She was dating a deaf printing press operator who worked at the same publishing company—the deaf also do very well in jobs with high-decibel surroundings that might bother the hearing.

  When our conversation got around to Mel’s suspicions about her great-grandfather’s death, she said she hadn’t known Clarence all that well, but that he had been very kind to her and never forgot her birthday. Once again, what she didn’t say was as telling as what she did say.

  None of her family—including her parents—signed, and she had been sent off to a small boarding school for the deaf that discouraged sign in favor of stressing learning to speak and lip read. She, as do many young deaf people forced to learn to speak, deeply resented the implication that being deaf was somehow shameful. It had strained her relationship with her parents, and especially her father, Alan. I’d known a deaf guy several years before who had shared Anna’s experience, and though he learned to speak, he refused to.

  “If they want to talk to me, let them learn sign!” he’d said…well, written.

  And while Anna’s opinion of her uncles and grandfather Richard apparently paralleled Mel’s and Patricia’s, when I asked her if she had any idea of who, if Clarence had not committed suicide, might have harbored enough resentment to kill him, she, unlike Mel, could not bring herself to say that any one of them would be capable of murder. She did give several examples of their greed and duplicity in dealing with Clarence, and said that her father—and I’d assume the others—had become particularly resentful and bitter towards him in the m
onths before his death. She’d not fully understood what was going on because everyone tended to ignore her.

  I asked if she might know anything at all about the new will, and not surprisingly, she was unaware of it, though she said her father had been spending a lot more time on the phone since Clarence’s death.

  We finished lunch and went our separate ways, and as I waited for the bus back to my office I reflected on my impatience. I was glad I’d had a chance to meet and talk with Anna, but as far as learning anything really new that could help me in the case or set me off in a new direction, there was nothing. I have to admit I was more than a little frustrated, and had yet another of my hamster-wheel moments. It seemed I was running as fast as I could and getting absolutely nowhere.

  Maybe I’d read a few too many detective novels or seen too many TV shows, but it seemed to me things should all move along smoothly—A leading to B, which is directly linked to C. Instead, my experience tended to be more like A heading toward B then being sidetracked to F, which then bounced to W and…

  Although I’d spoken with Eli Prescott’s widow, I thought I might contact his law firm and see if I could possibly get any information from them. Unlikely, but I didn’t have anything to lose by trying.

  *

  Back at the office, I pulled out the Yellow Pages as soon as I sat down. I knew Prescott had partners, but I hoped his name might have been the first among them, which would have made locating his office much easier. No such luck. That ours is an increasingly litigious society was amply verified by the number of Yellow Page entries for “Attorneys.”

  But I persevered and finally found, on the last page, a listing for a Talmadge, Booker, and Prescott. I recognized the address as being in the same building as Glen O’Banyon, the city’s leading gay attorney, with whom I’d worked closely on a number of cases.

  I wanted to talk to Prescott’s secretary, to see if she knew anything at all about the will, and particularly whether Prescott had said anything to her about who he intended to have witness it. I knew a will requires two witness signatures. Might he have mentioned to her who they might be, maybe asked her to make some phone calls for him to set up the signing? It was an outside chance, but worth taking.