The Secret Keeper (24 page)

*

Cory and Nick lived not too far from Jonathan’s work, in a pleasant older area of 1920s-era two- and three-flat buildings. Theirs was across from a small park, so finding a parking place wasn’t too difficult. They lived on the second floor, and my pressing the doorbell was responded to almost immediately by a buzz and the blinking of a small light above the door. There was a click as the lock disengaged, letting us in.

“Why’s the light blinking?” Joshua asked.

“Because deaf people can’t hear the buzzer, and this lets them know when the door’s open,” I explained. He looked suitably impressed.

There were already two other couples there when we came in. Cory greeted us at the door and took our jackets, while Nick carried the Jell-O into the kitchen. Cory made the introductions: a deaf gay couple, Lennie and Kurt; and a straight couple, Dan and Jean, who lived in the ground floor apartment and were Cory and Nick’s landlords, and their five-year-old son Ben. 

As soon as introductions were made, Ben came over to Joshua and said “You wanna play a game?” Joshua looked quickly at Jonathan and me. Jonathan nodded, and Ben went to retrieve a large paper bag from beside the couch. He sat down on the floor directly in front of the door and reached into it to remove its contents. 

“Ben!” his mother said, then signed something rapidly to him, and he nodded and got up.

“Let’s go play over here,” he said, moving to one corner of the room.

The doorbell rang, triggering a blinking lamp by the archway to the dining room. Noticing it immediately, Nick moved to press the entry buzzer. A minute later, Anna Bement arrived with an extremely handsome young man I assumed to be her fiancé, whom the others apparently knew and whom she introduced to Jonathan and me as Mitch. He both said and signed “hello” before shaking hands—and a very nice handshake it was, too. (I know,
Watch it, Hardesty!
but I could tell Jonathan was as impressed as I was.)

*

It was a most interesting evening, and being in a group comprised of both the hearing and the deaf, and being continuously exposed to both talking and sign simultaneously, took a bit of getting used to, but we managed and really had a nice time. As always, the deaf members of the group were infinitely patient with Jonathan and me while Cory interpreted everything between both groups.

Joshua and Ben became instant best friends and were off in their own little world, laughing and playing games Ben had brought from downstairs in the paper bag.

There was a lot of conversation and laughter, and I found it most interesting to realize that the deaf’s sense of humor is enhanced by the fact that the hearing are usually limited to words alone when telling a joke, whereas the deaf have the flexibility of sign combined with physical expressions and gestures. I’m afraid I probably missed a couple of the jokes simply because they were so gesture-oriented.

American Sign Language is not merely a word-by-word translation of English. It’s a different language, originally based on French rather than English, and as with all languages, things tend to get lost in translation. 

Anna sat beside me at dinner, and I had a chance to talk with her in small segments while still keeping up with what the others were saying or doing. However, I was able to patch together some pretty interesting information.

She said she’d been thinking of our conversation, and because I’d asked specifically about anyone who might have an especially strong grudge against Clarence Bement, she hadn’t thought to mention that her father and uncles, who had never gotten along, seemed to have united in some specific resentment of Gregory Fowler, Mel’s dad. I’d already gotten that from several sources.

“I don’t know any of the details,” she said, “but obviously it has something to do with money. In our family, everything does.”

I remembered my conversation with Gregory, and reflected again on how some people manage to hang on to their prejudices in defiance of all logic.

*

I had time Monday, while waiting to hear whether anything unusual might have been found about the crash that killed Eli Prescott, to think about the weekend. I wondered if I had convinced Garland and Angell to step back from their suicide stance. If I hadn’t, I really didn’t know what I could say or do to change their minds. 

It occurred to me that I’d never be the hero in a detective novel. I don’t go around beating up the bad guys or shooting people—I own a gun, but never carry it, and I’ve never shot anyone. I’ve worked on more than my share of murder cases, but most of the time I just gather up enough evidence to turn over to the police and let them do the bringing-to-justice part.

Detectives and P.I.s in novels are sharp and direct as a rifle shot. No messing around. No distractions. A straight line from clue to clue to perpetrator to jail or the morgue. Lots of fist fights and bullet-dodging and car chases and Perils of Pauline moments. Well, I’ve slugged a suspect or two along the way, but I don’t think that quite qualifies. I don’t recall ever having a case that ended in a car chase or a real knock ’em down, drag ’em out brawl or a gunfight. I’m not a hard-drinking, tough-talking bad-ass. I don’t bounce from bed to bed, though I used to and have to admit I kind of miss it every now and then.

But I figure what I have is worth a lot more than whatever I’d get from having a different trick every night. Like I say, been there, done that.

I’ve toyed with the idea of, when I get ready to retire, maybe writing a book about my adventures, but I doubt if anyone would be much interested in reading it without a lot more blood and gore than I could provide. Maybe I could make that part up. We’ll see.

My reverie was interrupted by a phone call from Detective Angell.

“Detective Gresham just gave us the report on Prescott’s accident,” he said, “and it looks like you might be on to something—on Prescott’s death, if not Bement’s.

“While there were no witnesses, and the car was totaled in the drop off the bluff, the driver’s-side front door was almost intact, and it had a long crease with evidence of black paint. The car went through the guard rail on a curve, and it’s possible it might have been nudged.

“Prescott’s wife said she wasn’t aware of any earlier accident that might have accounted for the crease or paint, but said she has her own car and seldom even rode in her husband’s, so she wouldn’t have noticed the crease even if it was there. But that, plus the fact Prescott’s home was burglarized during the funeral…

“Anyway, our captain has authorized a further investigation.”

“That’s great!” I said, and meant it. Better three heads than one. “So, if I’m right about Prescott, chances are I’m right about Bement. I’m positive they’re related. And you might make a note that Bement’s family is partial to black Mercedes. Bement had one, too, and you might check in his garage.”

“Aha. Thanks,” he said. “Oh, and one more thing. We checked with Bernard Taft’s parole officer, and even if you’re right about Bement’s death not being a suicide, you can rule Bernard out as the killer.”

“Why’s that?” 

“He got a job with a roofing contractor right after his release, and the day Bement died, he fell off a garage roof and hurt his back. He spent the night in the hospital.”

Damn!

“And we did a quick check on the relatives. All pretty clean—quite a few DUIs, an assortment of parking tickets, a disturbing the peace. Pretty routine.”

“And nothing on Gregory Fowler, Bement’s accountant?”

“Nope. Squeaky clean. Not even a traffic ticket on him.”

“I appreciate your doing all this,” I said.

“No problem. We’ll keep our eyes and ears open,” he continued, “but we’re taking it one step at a time.”

“Understood. And I’d appreciate your keeping me posted.”

Angell chuckled. “Yeah, Marty, uh, Detective Gresham, told us to handle you with kid gloves. Apparently, you’ve got some pretty good connections in the department.”

By that I assumed he meant Marty and Lt. Mark Richman. It was nice to know Angell and Garland were aware of it.

Chapter 9

As we hung up, I mentally scratched Bernard Taft
off my suspects list, and my thoughts went back to the missing will. It wasn’t a hard trail to follow.

Prescott had taken the will with him when he left work on the Friday before his death, and died before he could return to the office. He must have gone directly to Clarence’s to get the copies signed, and he had to have left a copy with Clarence.

I was convinced Prescott’s home had been burglarized to find his copies of the will, and whoever did it had to know, or at least suspect, that Clarence also had a copy. But what had happened to it? Found and destroyed, most likely. But how and under what circumstances? Had Clarence come upon the killer during the search? Is it possible he had been killed because he wouldn’t tell where it was? 

The killer had to have known Esmirelda wasn’t home, which meant he knew the household routine. And Clarence wouldn’t have been able to put up much of a struggle even if he were to catch someone in the house. Which led me back to Richard’s boys.

All pure speculation.

And again, for the fifty-third time, why would anyone try to shoot Jonathan? A bungled attempt to try to silence him just on the chance he might know something was still the most likely scenario, from what I knew of Richard Bement’s side of the family. They all struck me as being considerably more greedy than bright. Going after Jonathan might have been a knee-jerk reaction. They may have feared that Jonathan’s confirmation of the existence of the signed new will in court would be enough to challenge the validity of the original, even without a copy. 

When the shit didn’t hit the fan about the new will after the incident, the shooter/killer—and while they might be two different people, it was easier and more logical to assume they were one and the same—decided not to press his luck. I was by now almost certain it had been a “his” rather than a “her.”

As to the mysterious phone call, it could be chalked up to my paranoia. Sometimes a mysterious phone call is just a mysterious phone call with no sinister implications. I’d have liked to believe that.

If my mind had been a butter churn, I could have opened my own dairy. 

All right, so back to Clarence’s copy of the will. It would almost without question be Richard’s side of the family that would have the most to fear—and probably lose—if the new will came to light, and they all were greedy enough to do whatever it took to see that it didn’t. Which still didn’t answer the question of how or why anyone might think Clarence had confided in Jonathan about it—or anything else, for that matter. Jonathan had told me Clarence had few friends in whom he could confide, and received few visitors other than Mel in the last weeks of his life. If Esmirelda were reporting everything to Richard and/or his sons, surely she would have told them Clarence spent a lot of time with Jonathan and seemed to be fond of him. By even merely mentioning to Jonathan that he’d made a new will, Clarence would have taken the matter outside the family and opened the possibility of someone’s making unwanted waves.

Why does everything have to be so damned complicated?

*

I was almost positive Esmirelda had found out about the new will and told Richard and/or his sons, though short of beating the information out of her with a rubber hose I had no idea of how to get her to admit it. Still, the signing of the will would have required not one but two witnesses. Even if Jonathan had witnessed the signing, which he didn’t, there would have to have been a second witness.

On the surface, Esmirelda would be the most logical choice to be one of them, but that would have all but guaranteed Richard and his sons would learn about it immediately, which I’m sure was the last thing Bement wanted. 

So, who would he and Prescott have gotten to witness the signing? 

*

Because Jonathan had a meeting right after work with one of his new clients, I agreed to pick Joshua up from Happy Day. Since I didn’t want to double-park and risk having him dart out onto the street, I parked half a block away and walked back to pick him up. He was waiting for me at the front gate, under the watchful eye of Emily Bronson.

As soon as I arrived and opened the gate, he ran over to me, waving a yellow sheet of paper.

“Look what I did, Uncle Dick!” he proclaimed proudly, handing it to me.

I took it from him and saw JOSHUA printed in large and uneven block letters that gave only casual obeisance to the restrictions of the lines. 

“You wrote this?” I asked, duly impressed, and he nodded happily. I knew he had been learning the alphabet, but hadn’t been aware they were doing actual words yet.

I picked him up and gave him a big hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“I’m proud of you!” I said, and meant it, and he beamed. It was a real milestone, and I had a quick pang of sorrow that his parents weren’t there to share the moment.

“I wrote a letter to Grandpa,” he said proudly.

“You did? What did you say?”

He pulled back his head and looked at me as if I weren’t quite bright.

“Joshua,” he said, indicating the yellow paper.

“Ah. Well, maybe you can write another letter to Grandpa tonight,” I said. “I think Uncle Jonathan and I would really like to keep this one, if it’s okay with you.”