The Secret Keeper (9 page)

“So you didn’t tell anyone about it?”

“No. I did ask my dad if Grandpa B had ever talked to him about a new will, but I didn’t say I knew he had one. 

“Anyway, after Grandpa B died, Andrew Weaver, the lawyer who took over Mr. Prescott’s clients, found an unsigned copy of a new will Mr. Prescott had drawn up, apparently just before he died. Mr. Weaver called my mom and Uncle Richard to see if they knew anything about it, whether Grandpa B had ever signed it, or, if he did, where the signed copies were. Mom didn’t even know there was a new will, and Uncle Richard claimed he didn’t, either, but I wouldn’t believe a word he said.

“Mr. Weaver said there had to be copies somewhere, since it didn’t appear to be a rough draft, and wills are always drawn up in sets of four. Nobody seems to know what happened to the other copies, or if Grandpa B ever signed it. And then I found out that Mr. Prescott’s home had been burglarized during his funeral! I think the burglary was just a cover-up for looking for the new will.”

Now, that was an eye-opener. If true, it could suggest Prescott’s fatal accident could have been murder, to hide the fact there was a new will. Whoever did it must have been pretty sure Prescott didn’t have the signed copies with him at the time of his death, because they wouldn’t have risked having the will found in the wreckage. How they might know was another matter. But if that were the case, the funeral would have then provided a perfect time to search Prescott’s home for it. 

In any event, it opened up a very large can of worms. 

I again pulled myself back to the moment as Mel was saying “…and since nothing was found among any other of Mr. Prescott’s or Grandpa B’s papers, and the new will was never filed, with Mr. Prescott dead there’s no proof it was actually signed. So, unless we can find a copy that Grandpa B signed, the original will retains precedence.”

“Might it be in your grandfather’s safe deposit box, or his home safe?”

He shook his head. “Mom and Uncle Richard went to the bank just to see if it might be in the safe deposit box—as co-executors, they both had to be there in order to get into the box, which is probably a good thing—and only a copy of the original will was there. As for a home safe, he didn’t have one.”

“How do you know?”

“There was one point when I was teenager when I wanted to be an architect, just around the time Grandpa B built the house. He gave me a copy of the plans, and I kept them. I checked them over right after he died, just to see if there might be a safe somewhere. There isn’t. But I’ll be willing to bet Uncle Richard and the boys have been all over the place with a fine-tooth comb looking for one. And if they found it, well…”

As Arte Johnson used to say on
Laugh-In
, “Vel-ly intellesting.”
At least this case won’t be dull
, I thought—as if a possible murder case ever was.

“Has the will been read yet?”

“Not yet. Mr. Weaver said that although wills are almost never ‘read’ anymore—the heirs are just sent copies—Grandpa B had stipulated he wanted an old-fashioned reading, even though almost everyone knew what was in it. Though if a new signed will shows up, it should be a very interesting reading. Richard and his sons are pushing the lawyers for a date, but Mr. Weaver wants to give plenty of time for a signed copy of the new will to show up.

“And gathering and updating all the financial information and figuring out the value of the assets is going to take some time, too. Still, it can’t be put off forever, and every day it’s put off is a day longer Uncle Richard and his boys have to wait for their money. They’re already champing at the bit.”

“I’m sure they are, especially if you’re right that they might possibly have found a signed copy at your grandfather’s home and don’t like what’s in it.” I had another thought. “Was Prescott married?”

He nodded.

“Do you happen to have their phone number? I’d really like to talk to his wife to see what she might know about the will, and I’ve got a few questions about the burglary.”

Setting his coffee cup on the edge of my desk and hoisting his shapely rear—I know, I know:
Hardesty!
—off the chair to reach into his back pocket, he produced a folded sheet of paper, which he leaned forward to hand me.

“I figured you might want them, so right after you called, I wrote down the numbers of everyone I thought you might want to contact. I included Mrs. Prescott.”

I opened the sheet and glanced quickly at the names, noting the perfect penmanship.
Jeez! Beauty, brains, money, a life of travel and adventure, and he writes well! T’ain’t fair!

“The only number I don’t have is for Anna, since she has a TTY, a special machine that lets her type messages via the phone line. But the caller has to have one, too, so… The number I gave you for Mom is for Oak Terrace. She’s been there since right after the funeral, but she can have visitors.” He paused, then said, “So, you’ll take the case?”

“I’ll be glad to,” I said. “You know, of course, that I can’t give you an iron-clad guarantee, and the police will quite probably solve it on their own if they decide there’s reason to investigate more thoroughly, but I’ll give it my best shot.”

“That’s all I can ask,” he said. “And please feel free to use my name any time you need to. I’m sure that’ll get a rise out of some of them.”

He sat there smiling without saying anything for a moment, looking at me, then sat forward in his chair as if starting to get up.

“I assume there’s some paperwork involved? And a retainer?”

“As a matter of fact,” I said, reaching into my desk drawer for a contract while he reached into his shirt pocket to extract a folded blank check.

Business completed, we talked for a few more minutes, and as he got up to leave, he said, “Can I ask you a somewhat personal question?”

“Sure,” I said, a little puzzled.

“Do you and Jonathan by any chance have an open relationship?”

“I’m sorry?” Talk about something coming totally out of left field! I knew what he was saying, but wanted clarification anyway.

“Do either of you ever play around?”

Damn! I hate questions like that, only because of the answer.

“Afraid not,” I said.

He grinned again and extended his hand. 

“Pity,” he said, and turned to leave. 

*

I sat at my desk, staring at the signed copy of the contract and the retainer check and taking a mental cold shower. There are certain times, depending on the client’s circumstances, that I hesitate to ask for a retainer. In Mel Fowler’s case, were I single, I would have been more than happy to have taken it out in trade. However, I was not single, and Mel, as an heir to Clarence Bement’s fortune, hardly had to worry about the money.

He’d told me he was leaving town Friday but had included his home number on the list he’d given me, so I could at least leave a message if I needed to reach him. Not wanting to waste time, I checked the other numbers on his list, looking for Eli Prescott’s home number, then picked up the phone and dialed.

It was answered on the second ring, with a pleasant “Hello?”

“Mrs. Prescott?” I asked. A maid wouldn’t have answered with a “hello,” but I didn’t want to take chances. 

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Prescott, my name is Dick Hardesty, and I’d like to express my condolences on the death of your husband.” I waited until she had said “Thank you,” and forged ahead. “I’m sorry to bother you, but hope you might be able to answer a few questions for me. I’m a private investigator looking into the death of Clarence Bement.” I did not add “and possibly your husband.”

There was a moment of silence before she sighed. “Ah, Clarence. Such a shame, and I’m afraid that, coming so closely as it did to the death of my husband, I was unable to react to it as fully as I otherwise would have. Clarence was a dear friend, and a long-time client of my husband. However, they always kept the lawyer-client relationship totally separate from the friendship, so if you’re looking for something relating to business, I doubt if I can be of much help.”

I detected a slight English accent. “I do have several questions I wish I could address to your husband, but I have others I’m sure you might be able to answer. I know this is an imposition,” I said, “but would you have a few minutes you could spare me to talk in person?”

“Of course,” she said. “I’m in that transitory stage of early widowhood between everyone fawning all over me and being something of a fifth wheel among the other married couples in our circle. It might do me good to step away from it all for a moment and talk with someone new. And I am most curious as to what you might possibly be ‘looking into’ in regards to poor Clarence’s suicide.”

“I’ll be happy to explain when I see you,” I said. “When and where would be convenient for you?”

“I was just getting ready to go into town to attend to a few matters, and I always have tea at the Cheshire Cat on Bridgemoor afterwards. Are you familiar with it?”

“Of course,” I said, though I’d only been there once. It was a combination of discreetly upper-middle-class English pub and coffeehouse and was a popular meeting place for the city’s sizable expatriate English community. That confirmed the slight English accent I’d detected when she spoke.

“Would you like to meet me there at, say, two thirty? I’ll probably have a shopping bag from Marsten’s, but if not, my friends constantly tell me I resemble the queen, so you should be able to spot me. You are a detective, after all.” She said the latter with a slight smile in her voice, and I decided right then that I liked her. “And if all else fails,” she added, “the wait-staff know me.”

“I really appreciate it, Mrs. Prescott, and look forward to meeting you.”

“Until then,” she said, and we hung up.

*

The Cheshire Cat was located at the far east end of the main downtown business district and on a bus line that ran in front of my office, so rather than drive, I caught the bus and got off directly in front of the place.

It had been built around the turn of the century to resemble something out of Shakespeare’s time and hadn’t changed since then. Two stories, dull-red brick with exposed white-painted wood crossbeams; tall, tiny-paned windows, white-shuttered on the second floor; a steep-pitched roof with narrow dormers, red clay chimneys, a hand-painted sign featuring a grinning cat hanging from the front of the building. It bore absolutely no resemblance to any of the buildings surrounding it, and yet somehow it was all the other buildings that looked out of place.

The front doors led to a small, rather dark vestibule, then through another set of leaded-glass double doors into the coffeehouse, which occupied the right half of the ground floor. Another door immediately to the left of the entry led to the pub. The whole place was tastefully dark, with lots of polished paneling. Calculatedly quaint, but it worked. 

There were perhaps a dozen small tables—no booths—scattered around the room, two of which were occupied by couples, one by a threesome, and one with two couples. No single women, and none resembling Queen Elizabeth. I took a table in the back, where I could keep a watch, and was approached by an attractive young waitress in a white apron. I ordered a coffee, black, and she smiled and left.

Almost immediately after she brought it, the front door opened, and Queen Elizabeth entered. (Well, she really did look like her, minus the tiara, of course.) I rose as her eyes swept the room, and spotting me, she smiled and came over. She set her Marsten’s shopping bag beside the chair opposite me, she smiled again and extended her hand.

“Mr. Hardesty—a pleasure to meet you.”

“And I you,” I said, taking her hand and returning the smile. “I really appreciate your agreeing to talk with me.”

When she was seated, the waitress came over with a tray bearing a fragile-looking cup and saucer and a small teapot. She set the tray down, moved the cup and saucer onto the table, then poured about half a cup from the teapot, which she also set down, with a smile.

“Thank you, Darlene,” Mrs. Prescott said as the girl picked up the tray and moved away. In the center of the table was a small pewter sugar bowl containing sugar cubes and a pair of tongs, with which she transferred one cube to her cup, opening her napkin to extract a small spoon.

Glancing at me with a small smile and indicating her tea, she said, “Taylor’s. I’m sure this is the only place in town that serves it. As I said, the wait-staff rather knows me by now. So, what can I possibly tell you, Mr. Hardesty?”

I felt a bit guilty talking about death and dying to someone who had so recently experienced its effects, but I had little choice. There was no way to ease into it, so once again I just jumped in with both feet.

“You and your husband were close friends with Mr. Bement, you said.”

She nodded. “For many years. Toward the end, we were just about his only surviving friends, I fear.”

“Do you believe he committed suicide?”

She looked at me, her teacup poised halfway between the saucer and her lips. She carefully set the cup down before saying, “I could never have imagined it in a million years! But he was getting so very frail, and I rather guiltily assumed that the loss of my husband’s friendship may have been more than he could handle. I should have reached out to him…”

“You had your own grief to deal with,” I said. “I’m sure Mr. Bement understood.”