The Secret Keeper (19 page)

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Taft,” I began, the use of “Mrs.” not being accidental, though I was sure she had to be single, “the Friday afternoon before Mr. Prescott died, he had an appointment with Mr. Bement. I’d like to know who else was here.”

“Friday afternoon I grocery shop. It is none of my business who may have been here. And it is none of yours,” she said. “You will leave now, or I will have you arrested for trespassing.”

Resisting the temptation to throttle her, I merely smiled.

“Thank you for your time,” I said as she closed the door and, as I watched, disappeared into the depths of the house. 

*

As I headed home, I passed a branch of the public library, and on impulse pulled into a parking place. Inside, I asked the desk for copies of the local papers for the week prior to Clarence’s death, starting with the Sunday Eli Prescott died.

Settling in at a table with the papers, I went through them quickly, concentrating on the first and second pages of each edition on the grounds that’s where fatal car accidents and the deaths of important people would be found. Sure enough, I found it in both Monday editions.

The first headline read “Attorney Dies in Crash,” and opened with the facts—prominent attorney Eli Prescott, 68, was killed early Sunday morning in a one-car crash on the notoriously treacherous McAlester Road, a steep and winding shortcut to and from his home at the top of the bluffs on the west side of the river. I immediately remembered an earlier case I’d had in which another car had suffered the same fate, one of its tires deliberately shot out as the car approached one of the road’s several hairpin turns. I’d be willing to bet, knowing what little I did, that Prescott’s car had also had help in going over the edge.

The second article was basically identical.

After the facts of the accident, both articles went on to give the standard biographical data, including his partnership in Talmadge, Booker, and Prescott; his many philanthropic enterprises; the fact that he left a wife, Marjorie, two children, six grandchildren, etc. The funeral was scheduled for Wednesday.

I checked both papers for the day after Prescott’s funeral and found small articles noting the burglary of the Prescott home during the funeral and the theft of several thousand dollars’ worth of valuables and the contents of a small safe, the value of which had yet to be determined. Pretty much what Mrs. Prescott had told me.

But though I was convinced whoever had broken into Prescott’s house had taken his signed copies of the will, I wondered if they knew Prescott almost surely left a copy with Bement, and that there was a draft copy retained at the law office. Maybe they were dumb enough not to think of it, and to assume they had the original and a signed copy.

But I couldn’t bet on that. Which brought me right back to what had become of Clarence’s copy.

Again assuming the killer had not found it, and might have killed Clarence when he wouldn’t tell where it was, just about anyone in Clarence’s family would have had access to the house to look for it after his death. Well, amend that to anyone on Richard’s side of the family, since Esmirelda probably wouldn’t have allowed anyone from Mel’s side in without watching them like a hawk.

That Esmirelda might have found and done something with it herself was a possibility. If she had, she’d most likely have turned it over to Richard. But there was also the possibility that, while she couldn’t have been mentioned in the original will drawn up decades before, she might be left a little something in the new one—which would make it in her best interests not to let anyone destroy it.

Sheeesh!

*

By the time I left the library, I knew I wanted to talk to Marty as soon as I could to see if there might not be something about Prescott’s “accident” the papers hadn’t mentioned. I tried calling him the minute I got home, but he wasn’t at his desk, so I left a message. I then went to the kitchen to make myself a Manhattan. It had been a busy day, and I only wished I felt like I knew more at the end of it than I had at the start.

Jonathan didn’t call until shortly after ten, just having gotten back from a family dinner at his sister Ruth’s.

“I’ll call the airline tomorrow to make sure everything is on schedule,” he said. “We’ll make the rounds of all the relatives tomorrow to say good-bye, then I’ll take my dad and Joshua out to dinner, just the three of us. We’ll leave for Rhinelander right after breakfast Friday. You’ll meet us at the airport?”

I grinned. “You thought I wouldn’t?”

He laughed. “Well, no, but I just wanted to be sure. So I’ll call tomorrow, then.”

“You don’t have to bother calling,” I said. “Just enjoy the evening with your dad. I’ll be seeing you Friday.”

“Well, we’ll see how it goes,” he replied. 

We exchanged good-byes and hung up, my happiness at the prospect of having them back home clouded by my renewed anxiety over getting to the bottom of the Bement issue.

Chapter 7

I thought, driving to work Thursday morning,
that it promised to be another busy day. With Jonathan and Joshua due back in little more than twenty-four hours, I still had to find a way to reach George and Alan Bement. The fact Alan hadn’t returned my call after two days made me less than happy. Also, I wanted to talk with Marty about Eli Prescott’s accident.

Arriving at my office, I tossed the paper on my desk without even looking at it—a sure sign I was keyed up—sat down, picked up the phone and dialed Alan Bement’s number. I recognized the answering voice as the same woman from the last time I’d called.

“This is Dick Hardesty again. Is Mr. Bement in?”

I heard the receiver being muffled and some indistinguishable murmurings before: “I’m sorry, he just left.”

I resisted the temptation to say, “Like hell he did, lady!” Instead I said, “That’s too bad. I’d hoped to speak with him before I went to the police.”

There was a distinct pause. “If you’ll hold a moment, I’ll try to catch him.”

You do that, lady
, I thought. I could almost see her handing him the phone and his carefully counting to twenty before saying “This is Alan Bement. Who are you and why are you calling? I’m late for an appointment.”

Sure you are, Alan. And the best defense is a good offense.

“I won’t keep you,” I said, tired of trying the Mr. Nice Guy routine. “It’s important that we get together—today—to discuss the circumstances surrounding your grandfather’s death.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” His defensive tone clearly indicated he knew perfectly well what I was talking about.

“I understand, and that’s precisely why I need to talk to you.”

“And what’s this talk about the police?” he demanded.

“I’ll explain that, too, when we meet. I’ll let you pick the time and place.”

“I really don’t have time for all this nonsense,” he blustered.

“I’d hardly call murder nonsense, and it will definitely be in your own interest to help me clarify some things before I talk with the police.” I knew what I was saying was mostly bull, but I hoped
he
didn’t. I deliberately kept my voice calmly authoritative.

There was a deep sigh of obvious disgust, then: “Where is your office? I’ll come by around three.”

“Three’s fine,” I said, and gave him my address. As soon as I had done so, he hung up.

That he’d volunteered to come to my office surprised me a bit, but I guess he didn’t want to discuss it on the phone where his wife might overhear, or to be seen consorting with a private investigator by meeting somewhere in public. Perhaps it was the “The Guy I’m With Might Be a Murderer” sign I always wore around my neck. People are strange, and I’d given up trying to figure them out a long time ago.

*

I’d just returned to my desk with a coffee refill when Marty Gresham called.

“What can I do for you, Dick?” he asked without so much as a “hello.” Jonathan apparently isn’t the only one to whom I am transparent. I decided to cut right to the chase.

“About two weeks ago—the seventeenth—Clarence Bement’s attorney, Eli Prescott, was killed when his car went off the bluff on McAlester Road less than two days after he’d drawn up a new will for Bement. The fact that Bement himself died less than a week later, the fact that all the signed copies of the new will seem to have disappeared—and the fact that Prescott’s home was burglarized during his funeral— strike me as being just too long a string of coincidences. Could you check to see if the police report on Prescott’s death indicated anything suspicious?”

“Sure. I probably won’t be able to get to it today, and tomorrow’s going to be a bear. Is Monday okay?”

“Monday’s fine,” I said, then thought of Esmirelda Taft’s brother. “One other thing before I let you go. Bement’s housekeeper, Esmirelda Taft, has a brother who is either currently in prison or spent time there. I understand he has a family, I assume living locally. I don’t have a first name for him, so I don’t suppose there’s anything you might do to check on him, but…”

“Well, without a first name, or when he went in, or where he might have spent his prison time, it’s pretty unlikely. I’ll do what I can.”

“I appreciate that, Marty,” I said. “I owe you. Maybe I can take you to lunch one day next week by way of thanks.”

“Sounds good. The Imperator would be nice.” 

Since the Imperator was so exclusive the rarified atmosphere could cause nosebleeds in the common man, I knew he was joking.

“Sure. Just give me time to rob a bank first.” 

*

Not wanting to miss out on the remote chance that George Bement—the only one of the clan I’d not yet talked with—might call, I phoned downstairs for lunch, which I picked up and ate at my desk. After I’d finished, I read the paper, did the crossword puzzle, went through the mail, paid a few bills, and generally busy-worked my way through the next couple of hours.

Shortly before three, the phone rang. I answered, afraid it might be Alan Bement calling to cancel. If it was, I’d be pretty pissed.

“Dick, it’s Mel. Have you found out anything at all about the new will?”

“I talked with the secretary who typed it up, and she said Prescott was going to take it over to your grandfather’s that same night, the Friday before he died. I’m convinced now that his death was not an accident, and that he was killed because of the will. Whoever did it did not want to see it go into effect. 

“Which raises another question. The signing of a will requires two witnesses, and I was wondering if you know who either Prescott or your grandfather might have gotten to witness it?”

There was a long pause. “No. I really can’t think of anyone. I’m almost positive he wouldn’t have asked Esmirelda, and he didn’t want anyone in the family to know there was a new will—plus, I don’t think it’s legal for a family member to be a witness. Grandpa B didn’t have that many friends left, and he was really isolated since his fall. So I honestly don’t have a clue.” There was a slight pause, then: “Maybe Jonathan?”

“No, I asked. And you don’t have any idea where your grandfather might have put his copy?”

He sighed. “Again, not a clue. Even if he
had
installed a safe in the house after it was built, I can’t imagine where it might be, but if there is one, I’m sure someone would have found it and opened it by now. I’ll be willing to bet Uncle Richard and the boys have been all over that house with a fine-toothed comb. I’ve been trying to convince Mr. Weaver to postpone the reading until a signed copy of the new will can be found, but he says they can’t put it off forever. All he was waiting for was the financial information from my father, so unless something turns up between now and Monday…”

“I understand,” I said. “But much as I hate to say it, the signed copies Prescott brought back from the signing were probably found during the burglary and destroyed. So unless your grandfather’s copy is still around somewhere, the new will is unenforceable. I’m also positive that, if I can find who stole it, we’ll know who killed Eli Prescott and your grandfather.”

*

Three thirty came and went. At ten-to-four, the door opened and Alan Bement (I took a wild guess that it was him) strode into the room without knocking, closing the door behind him with a back-arm gesture that didn’t require looking. 

In his mid-forties, well-tanned, impeccably groomed, not a single graying hair out of place, he wore a very expensive lightweight trench coat over a dark-gray business suit. His shoes obviously did not come from Thom McAn and were shined to within an inch of their lives. I doubted he shined them himself.

I stood up and extended my hand, which he cursorily shook, before gesturing him to a chair, which he took without removing his coat.

“So, what is this all about?” he asked. His question was more of a demand. Imperiousness apparently ran in the family, at least on Richard’s side.

I explained Mel’s concerns that Clarence Bement’s death was not a suicide. I was sure the news would not catch him by surprise. I was right.

He snorted derisively. “So my father tells me. We had a good laugh over it. All that fairy dust has finally gone to Mel’s head! Clarence was a sick old fool who shot himself. Mel’s a first-class—what do they call them?—drama queen. Period.”

“And what was your relationship with your grandfather? I gather you weren’t close.” I knew the answer to that one, but wanted to see as well as hear his reaction.