The Secret Keeper (20 page)

His face remained impassive.

“I hardly knew him,” he said. “And we certainly
weren’t
close. He treated everyone like they were mice and he was the cat.”

“Interesting,” I said. “I’d been led to believe he was very generous to you and your brothers.” 

“Generous? We practically had to beg for every crumb. He never
gave
us a penny—he made clear every cent was a loan.”

I had to fight to resist asking just how many of those loaned cents were ever repaid.

“Besides, he owed us, after what he did to our grandmother!”

I’m always bemused by people who claim they’re “owed” something without a shred of good reason for the claim. And, again, from what Mel and his mother had said about Clarence’s ex-wife, I didn’t think I’d ever want to get on her bad side. She obviously took the definitions of
vindictive
and
bitter
to a new level, and had used them to effectively poison her children and grandchildren against her former husband. That poison had tainted Clarence’s best efforts to establish a relationship with them. And, also from what I’d heard and read, he hadn’t exactly thrown
her
penniless into the snow. 

“I understand there was some issue about a car…loan…shortly before your grandfather died?”

“There was no ‘issue’ involved. About two months ago, my new Mercedes was totaled. The insurance company denied the claim because of some technicality.”

Like a DUI?
I wondered.

“I certainly couldn’t be without a vehicle until they made up their minds, so I immediately ordered a replacement. However, I was having some temporary cash flow problems and asked the old goat for a loan, and he said no. I had no alternative but to postpone delivery on the new car. It was humiliating. And then he had the gall to compound the insult by suggesting I cancel the order for the Mercedes and—I’m quoting him here—look for a good used car!
Used?
He might as well have slapped me in the face!”

Well, I didn’t know about Clarence, but I was certainly tempted to.

I again resisted asking him how many previous “loans” he had received from his grandfather, and how many of them he had repaid. I already had an idea from Mel, and there was little point in stirring up the hornets’ nest.

“I’m curious as to why you didn’t ask your father or one of your brothers to loan you the money. Or your grandmother?”

His laugh, like his eyes, was totally devoid of humor.

“Right,” he said.

I didn’t press him.

“And what about the rest of your family? How did they get along with your grandfather?”

“How would you imagine? He was a miserly old fool who delighted in making us leap through hoops,” he said. “I always had far too much dignity, of course, but Stuart and George don’t have a shred of it. They were lap dogs, jumping up and down and wagging their tails in hopes he’d toss them a scrap. And they hated him for it. But it did them no good. Of course, they are always chasing after some pipe dream.” 

I wondered if the reference to a pipe might be a dig at George’s drug problem—or Stuart’s inventions. 

“I suppose I can’t fault Clarence for cutting them off,” he continued. “Stuart with his ridiculous inventions, George running one business after another into the ground. But that I should be treated the same way as those losers is unconscionable. No reason other than spite.”

Spite? Spite over what? Again, I didn’t pursue it.

Instead, I said, “Suppose, for the sake of argument, that Mel is right, and your grandfather did not commit suicide. Obviously, you’re a good judge of character, and although you may not have been close to Clarence, you surely know more about him and his life than I do. If he were murdered, who might you suspect?”

“Just about everyone who ever met him, I’d guess.”

“Could you narrow that down just a little?”

“Well, since you ask, frankly, if I had to pick someone, I wouldn’t put it past George. When he’s not in a drug-induced stupor, he’s drunk. And he’s a mean drunk. Stuart is too far off in space to have the guts. And then there’s Aunt Gladys, who spends most of her time in one loony bin or the other. She’s threatened to kill him more times than I can count. Even that faggot kiss-ass Mel.”

The fact that pinning a murder on his brother, aunt, or cousin would mean a larger slice of the Bement fortune for himself didn’t escape me.

“Thanks for the tip,” I said. “And do you know if George might be out of town? I’ve been trying to reach him.”

“Good luck on that. Since his last business went belly-up a couple months ago, I understand when he’s not locked in his apartment, he’s practically taken up residence at a place called Embers. You know it?”

As a matter of fact, I did. It was once a high-class nightclub that now had a sizable secondary clientele of discreet high-dollar junkies and drug dealers. I’d been there a couple of times on cases. It was not one of my favorite places in all the world.

“I know it,” I said. “So,” I added, “did you ever get your Mercedes?”

“I plan to go directly from the reading of the will this coming Monday to the dealership. The insurance still hasn’t come through, but they can go screw themselves. Maybe I’ll get two!” He laughed. Obviously, he was pretty confident he’d be coming into a lot of money, but I didn’t know if he realized that, even after the reading of the will, there was a lot of legal paperwork that had to be completed before the money was handed out.

“What do you know about your grandfather’s new will?”

The smug smile into which his laughter had faded dimmed slightly. “I understand he supposedly drew up a new will, but it was never filed and therefore is not valid.”

“Do you know what was in it?”

He scowled. “It doesn’t matter,” he stated flatly. “The will he drew up in nineteen forty-six, immediately after the divorce from my grandmother, leaves his estate to be divided equally among his surviving heirs. It is still in force.” 

Making a production of raising his arm and pulling back the sleeve of his trench coat to look at his watch—a Piaget, I’m pretty sure—he got up from the chair.

“I think we’re through here,” he said. “I have another appointment.”

I got up from my chair, but he was already heading for the door. Reaching it, he turned only long enough to say “I trust you won’t be contacting me again.”

I wouldn’t count on it
, I thought, but said nothing. He opened the door and left.

Waiting about ten minutes to be sure I’d not run into him on the way out or on the street, I locked up the office and went home. There had been no phone call from George Bement, which was something of a mixed blessing, since it would have been a bit awkward had he called while his brother was sitting six feet from me. 

I hoped George would call Friday before I left for the airport, though I wasn’t planning to hold my breath on that one. My only other option was to wait until Monday and, if I’d not heard from him by the end of the day, go to Embers Monday night to try to find him.

Driving home, I thought yet again of Jonathan and the incident on Woods Road, and experienced yet another rush of frustration. Other than his having been followed from work and thinking he’d seen the same black Mercedes at least one other time, plus that unexplained phone call, there had been no further suspicious activity. Once again questioning just how much of it might be coincidence coupled with my paranoia, I tried to con myself into thinking that perhaps it had all had nothing whatever to do with Clarence Bement’s death. It didn’t work.

After his and Joshua’s return the next day, I had no idea of what to expect. There
was
the chance that whoever was responsible for the shooting and for following him had decided that, after more than a week of no overt police activity, Jonathan really didn’t know whatever the shooter suspected he might and had decided to back off. Especially if it was all tied in with Clarence’s death, the shooter might not want to stir the pot any more than he—or she—had to. I fervently hoped that was the case, but didn’t dare let my guard down.

*

Though I’d told Jonathan he needn’t call, I was glad when he did, to let me know everything was on schedule, and they would be leaving Cranston for the airport in Rhinelander right after breakfast.

“I can’t wait to get home!” he said, and the fact that he lowered the volume of his voice when he said it led me to believe his dad was otherwise in hearing range.

“I know what you mean,” I said. I momentarily thought of bringing a sleeping pill to the airport for Joshua and tossing him in the trunk while I threw Jonathan in the back seat and made up for a week of celibacy.

*

I awoke extra early Friday morning, eager to get the day going. I was at work by eight thirty, made and drank a pot of coffee, finished the crossword puzzle, fielded two phone calls from people who wanted to hire a private investigator but who changed their minds when the subject of money came up.

Just as most people are pretty good at reading between the lines, I can usually tell quite a bit about prospective clients just by listening between the pauses on their initial calls. I have been known, if I sense that the caller really needs help, to be flexible in my rates, but if one of the first questions out of their mouths is how much I charge—and particularly the tone in which they ask it—I can be pretty sure whether they’re really interested in getting help or just in getting cheap help.

Both the calls fell into the latter category, and the conversations were short. (“I’ll think about it and get back to you” is a sure-fire sign I’m never going to hear from them again, which is fine with me.)

By shortly after noon, I was beginning to get both hungry and antsy. I thought about running down to the diner in the lobby, but then remembered the airport had a rather nice, albeit, in the tradition of airports everywhere, overpriced restaurant. I decided I could afford to splurge.

As I got up from my desk to leave, I glanced out the window to discover that clouds had rolled in, and the sky looked ominous. I hoped that weather wouldn’t delay Jonathan’s flight, and sat back down to call the airport to check on arrival time. I was assured everything was on schedule, but took my umbrella with me.

Halfway to the airport, the skies opened up with a full Wagnerian thunderstorm, the rain so heavy at times I could barely see the road. It was still raining heavily when I pulled into the parking garage at the airport. Normally, I’d have parked in one of the open lots surrounding the terminal, but didn’t want to risk it still raining heavily when we came out; the parking garage had a covered ramp to the terminal.

It was shortly after one o’clock when I got to the restaurant and found a table near the window overlooking the runways. There were two planes awaiting takeoff but apparently being held for a break in the rain before being cleared. No planes were landing, which I did not take as a good sign.

I ordered a Manhattan, and the waitress said she’d wait to take my food order until I was ready. As I watched the rain and sipped my drink, my thoughts switched back and forth between—and sometimes overlapped—Jonathan and Joshua’s return and Clarence Bement’s death and its implications.

I tried to convince myself Clarence Bement really might have committed suicide—murders happen far less often in real life than in books or on TV. Granted, from what I’d learned of Bement’s family, they seemed to represent a Whitman’s Sampler of dysfunctions and were not exactly candidates for my best-friends list. That did not automatically make them murder suspects. And I had yet to talk to George Bement. Until I did, and unless I could then prove Clarence had really been murdered and who did it, Jonathan would remain in potential danger. I can’t express what I thought about that, but I knew I had to keep it from getting in the way of my doing my job.

I finished my drink and picked up the menu, which was the cue for the waitress to come over. I declined her offer to get me another drink and, on her recommendation, ordered the ham casserole. Glancing at my watch, I saw it was one forty-five, which would give me plenty of time to eat and meet them at the gate when their plane got in—assuming it was on time. The two planes awaiting clearance for takeoff had apparently received it, for they were gone when I looked out at the runway. The rain also seemed to be letting up. 

*

When I arrived at the designated arrival gate, I learned the plane was running twenty minutes late. I found a
New York Times
someone had left, and sat down to read while I waited.

At 3:20, they announced the arrival of American Flight 642 from Chicago, and I hastily got up and moved toward the door, watching the plane, its engines whining softly and rivulets of water moving down its sleek sides, nose up to the terminal, the passenger boarding bridge moving out to meet it as soon as it came to a halt. 

It was several more minutes before the passageway doors opened and the passengers began coming out. I spotted Jonathan immediately about halfway down, looking down to his right, obviously saying something to Joshua, whom I couldn’t see because of everyone ahead of him. As they neared the door, Jonathan saw me and grinned broadly, again turning to say something to Joshua. As soon as they reached the door, Jonathan released Joshua’s hand to let him come running over, Big Bird clutched under one arm.