The Secret Keeper (21 page)

I scooped him up and gave him a big hug.

“I missed you!” I said, then shifted him to one arm to give Jonathan a hug.

“Miss me, too?” he asked.

I grinned. “Oh, were you gone?”

Joshua looked at me and scowled.

“We were in Wisconsin,” he said.

I jounced him with my arm.

“I know,” I said. “I was just teasing.”

I set Joshua down without releasing his hand, and we went in search of their luggage.

*

Rather than bother with cooking dinner their first night back, we called out for pizza, then spent the rest of the evening before Joshua’s bedtime unpacking, getting everything settled in and listening to their adventures—Joshua’s, of course, being the far more colorful albeit somewhat less cohesive. It struck me again, listening to him, that he had the makings of a future novelist. Clarence Bement’s death and my investigation into it were gratefully set aside for the evening. 

As anyone, straight or gay, with children knows, there are distinct limitations to privacy when they occupy the house. Practicality and decorum limit full expression of enthusiasm in certain situations.

So, when Jonathan and I got to bed, even though we were careful to close Joshua’s door completely rather than leaving it ajar as we normally did, and did the same with ours, we had to be careful that the sounds of our catching up on a week’s separation didn’t result in a five-year-old banging on our door demanding to know what the noise was all about.

But even with those limitations, we managed quite well. 

*

The rest of the weekend zipped by, and for various reasons, including a mild but welcome case of sleep deprivation thanks to Jonathan’s—well, okay, mine, too—libido, we were running late Monday morning. I volunteered to take Joshua to day care so Jonathan could go directly to work.

I casually—I hope—cautioned him to pay close attention to anything or anyone unusual, and to be on the lookout for the car he had seen following him before. His reaction was a small smile and a quiet “Yes, sir.”

I enjoyed, while driving Joshua to day care, still more of his impressions of the trip, and I listened attentively to his version, which centered largely on his encounters with various farm animals and his adventures in the hayloft of his cousins’ barn. He’d related much of the same information on the ride from the airport and at dinner and at home, but I’d noted he didn’t speak much about the people involved, which I found somewhat interesting.

When questioned specifically about his relatives now on the way to day care, he conceded they were “all right,” but that’s about as far as he would go. And I found the fact he made no reference at all to his parents or to seeing his former home both interesting and mildly disturbing.

*

Marty called to say he’d done a check on Esmirelda Taft’s brother—which I knew wasn’t easy because I didn’t have a first name to give him. He said that of the dozen or so Tafts in the department’s current files, two of them were from the city and both had been released from prison within the past three months.

One, a Bernard Taft, had been serving eight-to-ten for robbery and assault with a deadly weapon; the other, James Taft, had served eighteen years of a twenty-five-year sentence for second-degree murder. Either one might be Esmirelda’s brother, and the nature of their crimes fit right in with the circumstances of Eli Prescott’s and Clarence Bement’s deaths. And it wasn’t inconceivable that, after Bement’s death, Esmirelda might let her brother drive Clarence’s black Mercedes.

Another suspect to add to the pile. Pure speculation, of course, but…

“One thing, though,” Marty said. “You mentioned the housekeeper’s brother having a family. According to their sheets, both of these guys are single.”

Now, that was an interesting bit of information. Could it be Esmirelda had given her brother a needy family to create a justification for her larceny?

*

I checked the phone book and, not surprisingly, considering both had been in prison for a long time, didn’t find a listing under either name. It also strengthened the probability that Esmirelda had made up the “supporting the family” story. So, how could I find these two guys? Asking Esmirelda would be an exercise in futility, I knew.

Then I thought of Bil (yeah, one
L
) Dunham, my contact at the DMV with whom I’d once bartered handling a case in exchange for future access to DMV records. I figured newly released inmates would need new driver’s licenses after a lengthy incarceration.

It had been so long since I’d talked to Bil I had to look up his extension before I called, but when I reached him he acted as though we’d just talked a few days before. I gave him the names of Bernard and James Taft and asked him if he could check for licenses issued to either one of those names in the past three months. He said he’d get back to me, and since I knew he was busy, we forewent any casual conversation and hung up.

*

I returned from lunch to find a message on my machine from Bil. Both James Taft and Bernard Taft had applied for licenses. James’s address was 1110 Penman Ave. Bernard’s address was 2222 Tuxford Terrace.

Well, well, well—what a small world it was that Bernard’s address was the same as Clarence Bement’s…and Esmirelda’s.

I immediately set off to go to the address on Bernard Taft’s new driver’s license.

*

The iron gates to Bement’s house were still shut, so I again pulled as far into the drive as I could get, my front bumper against the gate, the back end a foot or two into the street. I’d gotten by with it last time and hoped it was not enough to get me a ticket. Anyone walking down the street—which in this area no one seemed to do—could just go around it. 

I was relieved to find that the smaller entry gate was still unlocked, and went up to the front door and knocked loudly, standing directly in front of the door so as not to be seen from the entry hall. After a moment, the door was opened by a stone-faced Esmirelda Taft. Actually, I had never seen her when she
wasn’t
stone-faced.

“What is it you want? I told you I do not want to talk to you.”

“Would you prefer talking to the police?” I asked.

“I’ve talked to the police,” she said firmly, and began to close the door.

“About your brother Bernard?”

The door stopped in mid-close. Have you ever pulled a window shade all the way down, hard, and then released it suddenly? Her eyelids did the same thing.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she said defensively.

“That’s interesting, since this is the address on his driver’s license.”

She knit her brows and pursed her lips, all the while staring holes in my jaw.

“What business is it of yours? Why should I tell you anything?”

“You’re right, of course. So, if you’d prefer to speak with the police again, I’m sure it can be arranged, though I don’t imagine Bernard will appreciate it, having just been released from prison.”

Her face scrunched into a look of utter disgust and anger. “My brother was falsely accused. He had no official address, so I told him he could use mine until he got settled.”

“And what did Mr. Bement think of that? Is your brother staying here now?”

Her eyes narrowed into slits and her lips mashed themselves together as she struggled with her rage.

“What my employer thought or did not think is absolutely none of your business, nor is my brother any of your concern.”

“So, he
is
staying here, then?” 

If eyes were flame-throwers, I’d have been a small heap of ashes on the welcome mat.

“No, he is not staying here! Now go!” And she stepped back only far enough to slam the door in my face.

I love it when an interview goes well.

Marty time.

*

Returning to the office, I put in a call to City Annex, planning to leave a message for Marty to call me when he had a chance. By luck, he was in.

“What’s up?” he asked the minute he heard my voice.

I told him of my meeting with Esmirelda.

“I’ve been thinking of how much of your time I’ve been taking up on this case, and really feel guilty about it. I wonder if, instead of expecting you to be the middle man, it might be a good idea for me to talk directly with Angell and Garland? My only hesitation is that, from what you’d said, it sounds like they, or the older one—Garland?—anyway, are pretty much going with the suicide angle.”

“I haven’t talked to them in a couple of days,” Marty said, “but, yeah, that’s the impression I got. Maybe it would be easier to have them talk to you. I know they’ll give you a fair hearing. I’ll ask them to give you a call.”

“That’d be great, Marty.” 

“This doesn’t let you off the hook for lunch, though.” 

“Just call me whenever you’re ready.” 

*

Knowing Clarence Bement’s will was to be read that afternoon, I was hoping to hear from Mel, and sure enough, he called shortly after three.

“I just left Mr. Weaver’s office,” he said. “I did my best to postpone the reading, but Uncle Richard and the boys demanded it, and since the new will hasn’t shown up, Mr. Weaver didn’t have much choice.”

“Any surprises?” I asked.

“As a matter of fact, yes. Everyone had known the general terms for years, but the big surprise was a stipulation no one knew about—that our trust funds would terminate with his death.”

Actually, that was logical. If the grandchildren were getting money from the will, they shouldn’t need the trust funds. So it made sense that whatever money remained in the trust account be considered simply another asset to be divided with the rest of the estate.

“I thought Uncle Richard’s boys would have a stroke. They expected their share of the estate
and
to keep receiving the trust.

“We were all given copies of Dad’s detailed financial report, which makes a complete accounting of every asset and liability, except for those things like the house, stocks, bonds and the like that have yet to be liquidated. There’ll be an additional distribution when they are. Every single penny is accounted for.

“But of course, the boys swore there had to be more and all but accused Dad of being an embezzler. Mr. Weaver pointed out that, if they wanted to challenge the accounting, they could do so, but that it would involve a very long process through the court, including an independent auditor to go over every single item to verify it, and there could be no distribution of any funds until the court said so. That could easily take a year or more. I suspect the boys were taken by surprise at that little revelation.

“So, with no trust funds to fall back on and effectively no income until the final distribution is made, they grudgingly backed off. They were undoubtedly right that there should have been more in the estate than there was, but that was probably due to all the money they wheedled out of Grandpa B and never repaid. And God knows how much they’ve managed to rip off from the house between the time Grandpa B died and now.”

I sighed. “I can just imagine how they’ll feel if the new will does show up. But to be honest, I’m not optimistic. The chances are it was found and destroyed, either by the killer or by someone from Richard’s side of the family—if they’re not one and the same.”

“Well, as far as I’m concerned, the most important thing is finding out who killed Grandpa B. I don’t care about the money.”

That was pretty noble of him to say, I thought.

“Of course,” I said. “I’m sorry about all this missing will business, but the will aside, you hired me to find a murderer, and I don’t intend to give up just yet.”

“Good,” he said. “If there’s anything more you need from me, please let me know.”

“You can bet on it.”

Chapter 8

I was curious, when Jonathan got home, to know
if anything unusual had happened on his first day back. Any cars follow him? Any phone calls received during his absence? But I didn’t want to alarm him by pouncing, so waited to see if he volunteered anything. He didn’t, so at dinner I asked.

“Anybody try to reach you for a job while you were gone?” I asked—casually, I thought.

He smiled. “Yeah, as a matter of fact. Two people left numbers for me.” He looked at me for a moment, as if reading my mind—he was getting pretty good at that. I got the impression he was deliberately dangling a string in front of my nose.

He waited until I opened my mouth to ask who. Then, his smile broadened and he said, “Two women—referrals from other people I’ve already worked for.” He paused again while I gave a mental sigh of relief, then added, “And no, nobody followed me.”

“Am I that transparent?”

“Like a pane of glass.” 

*

After dinner, on an impulse, I dialed George Bement’s number and was surprised when the phone was picked up after the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Bement, this is Dick Hardesty calling. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ve been busy. What do you want?”

His voice wasn’t slurred, but I got the distinct impression he’d been drinking.

“I wanted to talk with you about your grandfather’s death, and…”