Chapter 3

I left work a little early to get the truck in and took the bus home from there. I’d just walked in the apartment door when the phone rang.

“Jonathan Quinlan?” an odd, androgynous voice asked. It might have been my imagination, but it sounded as though the caller was deliberately altering his (?) voice, and I shifted into alert mode.

“No, I’m sorry, he’s not here,” I said. “Can I help you?”

“Uh…no, I don’t think so. When do you expect him back?”

“Can I ask what this is about?”

There was a long hesitation before, “I wanted to speak to him about a landscaping job.”

“Well, if you’ll leave me your name and number, I’ll have him get back to you as soon as he can.”

Another pause. “That’s all right. I’ll try him again later,” was followed by the click of the phone being hung up, and the dial tone.

I held the receiver away from my head and scowled at it as though it might tell me something more. It didn’t, and I eventually replaced it on the cradle. I wondered how the caller had gotten our number, and I was not happy.

Jonathan and Joshua got home without incident. I didn’t mention the call, but asked if he’d seen the black Mercedes; he said he might have but wasn’t sure.

“I was out with my boss most of the day,” he said. “He said it’s fine if I want to take one of my weeks’ vacation now, by the way. Anyway, when we came back just before closing. I think I might have caught a glimpse of it about a block away but couldn’t be sure. I’d parked the car on the grounds, and I left through the back exit onto Freeman. If it was the guy, I’m sure he didn’t see me. It may not have been him, anyway. But I didn’t want to take any chances.”

Smart kid. 

“I’ve been thinking,” I said as we fixed dinner, “that it might be a good idea for me to answer the phone until you and Joshua leave for Wisconsin. And I know it might be a little awkward, but could you ask whoever answers the phone at work to say you’re not in and just get a number if any calls come in for you?”

He looked a little puzzled. “Yeah, I can do that. But why?”

“Well, if anyone calls and leaves a number, it’s probably legit. But if they won’t leave a number, I don’t think you want to talk to them anyway.”

As if a light had gone on in his head, he said, “Oh.”

*

We waited until near the end of dinner to tell Joshua he was going to take an airplane ride to go to see his grandpa and aunts and cousins. He seemed far more excited about the plane ride than seeing the relatives.

After dinner, Jonathan called his dad who, from what I could understand without actually hearing both sides of the conversation, had no problem with the short notice for the visit. After confirming the basics, Jonathan turned the phone over to Joshua, who had been all but hopping up and down to talk to his grandfather.

“I’m coming to see you!” he said happily. “On an airplane!”

They talked for a minute, until Joshua said, “Okay,” and handed the phone back to Jonathan to finish the conversation.

While Jonathan had been very close to his mother and his brother Samuel, his family was not terribly close-knit. He was the baby of the family; Samuel had been five years older, and his three sisters were several years older than Samuel. They had all been married and starting families of their own before Jonathan finished grade school. His father had been too busy trying to run the family farm and working as a long-haul truck driver to spend much of what they now call “quality time” with any of his children.

But Jonathan, being Jonathan, was devoted to them all, and it was he who initiated most of the contacts with them. He never missed a birthday or wedding anniversary.

*

Needless to say, Joshua was a handful all night. We’d intended to start calling the gang to let them know the two Js would be gone for a week but only managed one call, to Phil and Tim—a call made much longer than it would have been by Joshua’s insistence on talking to both of them. He seemed to fear that if he talked to just one, the other would be left in the dark. And a first airplane ride warranted as many people knowing as possible.

After getting a still-hyper Joshua safely tucked into bed, Jonathan and I went into the living room to watch TV.

“You know, I’m a little concerned about something,” Jonathan said as we sat on the couch.

“Yeah? What?”

“I’m worried about how he’ll react to going home.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, though the minute he said it, I think I knew.

“You know how he loves Sesame Street? The other day we were talking about it on the way home from day care, and he was telling me that Big Bird was his favorite character. I asked him why, and he said, ‘He doesn’t have a mommy or daddy either.’ It nearly broke my heart. I don’t know why I didn’t tell you at the time.

“Anyway, I’m a little afraid that going back to Wisconsin might really be hard on him. It was home until he came to us, and he hasn’t been back since…since the accident. I know he’s adjusted really well, but maybe going back might bring out a lot of things he’s covered over. I mean, he knows his parents aren’t coming back, but because he didn’t go to the funeral, he didn’t have the closure of knowing for sure.”

“Well, I think you were right in not wanting to expose him to all that, and you weren’t in any shape yourself to handle the extra trauma,” I said. “We’ll just have to see how he reacts to going back and deal with any problems when and if they come up.” Even as I said it, I felt guilty, realizing that it would be Jonathan who had to deal with them, since I wouldn’t be there to help.

“I was thinking,” he continued. “He came here with Bunny, and I think one reason he likes it so much is because it reminds him of his folks and before they…before.”

Jonathan had bought Bunny, a large stuffed rabbit, while we were on vacation in New York, and it had been a fourth-birthday present for Joshua. The two had been inseparable ever since, and while Joshua was beginning to grow out of his doll stage, Bunny was still his bed partner.

“I really hope he doesn’t want to bring Bunny with him on the trip,” he said. Bunny is entirely too big to carry on the plane.

“I’m sure he will. But I’ll ask him if he would leave Bunny here to keep me company when I get lonesome. We’ll tell him we’ll get him something at the airport to take with him. And Bunny’s being here will help remind him that he belongs here now.”

“That’s a good idea! Thanks!”

Our conversation was interrupted by the ringing of the phone, which I hurried to answer.

“Is Jonathan Quinlan in?” the voice asked. It was not the same one who had called earlier, but I was still cautious.

“I’m sorry, he’s not. Can I take a message?”

“Are you his partner?”

That was an odd question.

“Yes,” I said, leaving it at that.

“You’re a private investigator?”

I paused only a second, increasingly curious and not a little suspicious, before saying, “Yes.”

“My name is Mel Fowler. Jonathan worked for my late grandfather, and I was calling him to get your name and number. I’d like to talk to you about looking into the circumstances surrounding my grandfather’s death.”

Well, well, I thought. So Jonathan isn’t the only one who suspects Bement’s death may not have been a suicide.

“I’ll be happy to talk to you, Mr. Fowler. When would you like to meet?”

“I’ll be starting a three-day rotation Friday, so would you have any time at all tomorrow?”

“I don’t have my schedule with me,” I said, knowing I didn’t have any specific appointments but finding it hard to break the old habit of always acting as if I were busier than I was. “But I think it’s fairly clear tomorrow morning. How about ten o’clock?” I gave him my office phone number and address.

“Thank you! I’ll see you then.”

We exchanged good-byes and hung up.

Jonathan had been watching me, curious, ever since he heard me mention Mel Fowler’s name, and I returned to the couch to fill him in.

“See?” he said. “I knew I was right about Mr. Bement not killing himself.”

“Well, we still don’t know that for a fact,” I said, “but it’s nice to know you aren’t alone in your opinion.” 

*

Jonathan and Joshua left a little early Thursday morning so Jonathan could tell the Bronson sisters of the trip. I took the bus to work so I could pick up Jonathan’s truck on my way home.

Promptly at ten o’clock, a knock at the door pulled my eyes up to the silhouette of a male figure on the opaque glass. I got up from my desk and walked over to open it.

I try not to think in stereotypes, but if the stereotype of a male flight attendant was of a strikingly handsome hunk all but radiating gay vibes, Mel Fowler was it. Not nelly, not fem, but unmistakably gay.

Jonathan’s brief but glowing physical description hadn’t done Mel justice. If he ever decided to hang up his airline steward’s uniform, he could instantly get a job as resident hunk on any soap opera on TV.

He was about Jonathan’s height and build, with a cover-model face and the kind of light-blue eyes that, in my single days, would have made me melt. (Okay, so they still made me thaw a little.) He was wearing a bright-blue sport shirt, white chinos, and dark brown loafers, all of which did nothing to lessen his overall sex appeal. I also caught the slight scent of a cologne I’d given Jonathan for our anniversary and which always drove me to distraction. It took quite a bit of will power to push my libido back into its little box and close the lid.

“Come in,” I said, a little unnecessarily, extending my hand.

His grip was strong and warm, and the thaw factor rose by several degrees. Whatever American was paying him wasn’t enough. But then I realized that, as Clarence Bement’s grandson, he probably didn’t need the money.

I showed him to a chair in front of my desk.

“Coffee?” I asked, having just made a fresh pot in anticipation.

“No, thanks,” he said. His voice would make a great topping for an ice-cream sundae, I decided. “I had a late breakfast.” And again, while most straights probably wouldn’t immediately pick up on it, if I had my eyes closed and heard his voice across a crowded room, I’d have known he was gay. It’s a gift we have.

I moved around to my chair and sat down.

“So what can I do for you, Mr. Fowler?” I always used a client’s last name until otherwise advised.

“It’s Mel…Mr. Hardesty,” he said, grinning. Nice grin.

“Fair enough,” I replied, returning the grin and noticing the lid had come off of my libido box. I forced it back in. “And it’s Dick.”

“See? We’re making progress already.”

“I must admit I was a little surprised to get your call.”

He sat back in his chair. “You shouldn’t be. Grandpa B became really very fond of Jonathan in the short time he knew him, and Jonathan talked about you several times. He’s very proud of you, and you’re really lucky to have him.”

“Believe me, I know,” I said. “But why do you suppose your grandfather would have mentioned all this to you?”

“Well, at first I thought it was just his casual way of letting me know he knew I’m gay—we’d never talked about it, but how could he not know? Anyway, because he knew Jonathan was, he was probably just letting me know he was okay with it.”

He smiled, and I realized I’d been staring at him. He was truly hot.

Hardesty! a chorus of my mind-voices cautioned in unison.

“Your grandfather sounds like he was pretty sharp, even at ninety,” I said, pulling myself back to the moment.

“Oh, he was! Which is one of the reasons I’m here.”

“So, what can I do for you, Mel?” I repeated.

“You can find who killed him.” 

“Have you talked to the police?” 

“Briefly. They seem pretty convinced it was suicide. When I tried to tell them Grandpa B would never do that, they were very nice but pointed out that reaction is pretty standard in families of people who kill themselves.”

“Okay,” I said, as conversationally as I could manage. “And what makes you think his death was not a suicide?” I did not want to tell him that I’d already checked with the police regarding Jonathan’s theory.

“Because I know my grandfather, and I know he simply would not willingly cut his life short by so much as a minute.”

“But being confined to a wheelchair after his fall must have been really hard on him. And I understand a close friend had just died. Perhaps he was more depressed than he let you know?” 

“Of course he was depressed; who wouldn’t be? But it was precisely because he knew his time was limited that made every day even more precious to him. He read, he loved music and his garden and his other hobbies—none of that changed after his fall.”

“Do you have any idea who would have wanted to kill him, or why?” Again, I knew full well that whenever a millionaire dies under suspicious circumstances, the why is often obvious.

He gave me a wry smile. “We can start with my family,” he said. “Or, more specifically, my uncle Richard’s side of the family. They define the term ‘money-grubbers.’ They were constantly hounding Grandpa B for money for one thing or another. They never let up, until toward the end he’d finally had enough and turned off the tap.”

“And how did they react to that?”

“I think you can guess. They were furious but didn’t dare let it show because they were afraid they’d be cut out of his will.”

I thought for a moment before saying, “And are they that demanding with your grandmother? She’s still alive, I assume?”

He shook his head. “Oh, yes, very much so. But it wouldn’t have done them any good. They all inherited the spending gene from her. She’s been living in Europe—she has a little pièd-a-terre, as she calls it, in San Remo on the Italian Riviera—for years, and hasn’t been back to the States in ages, so I’m the only one in the family who has a chance to see her every now and then.

“She’s had four wealthy husbands since she divorced Grandpa B, and ran through every penny she got from them. Her fourth husband left her the villa she lives in, and an annuity that allows her to live comfortably but not lavishly. She guards it carefully. And when she dies, the annuity stops. So, there is no reason to try to dun her for money she doesn’t have. At least, that’s her story, and she’s sticking to it. 

“She’s in her mid-eighties now, and when I have a flight to Europe; she’ll sometimes come up to Paris or down to Rome for dinner with me, but I generally try to avoid it since the only thing she talks about is how Grandpa B did her wrong. She didn’t come to his funeral.”

“Interesting,” I said. “So tell me more about your family.” I already had gathered they were not the Cleavers.

“Think The Psychiatrists’ Handbook of Dysfunctions,” he said. “We’re all in there somewhere, on both sides of the family. But I’m worried that if anyone were looking for suspects, the first person they’d zoom in on is my mother. She’s schizophrenic and has been in and out of hospitals for years. We’re pretty close when she’s on her meds, but like a lot of schizophrenics, as soon as she starts feeling better she thinks she doesn’t need them anymore and ends up back in the hospital.

“Whenever she was off her meds, she was convinced Grandpa B hated her and was hiring people to kill her. I suppose that’s a leftover reaction from the garbage my grandmother fed her after she and Grandpa B got divorced.”

“And was she on her medication at the time your grandfather died?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve been working a lot lately, so I hadn’t talked to her for several days before it happened, and I was in London when I heard he’d died.”

“So you don’t know where your mother was at the time?”

He shook his head. “No. She usually locks herself in her apartment and won’t answer the door or the phone. But her word alone wouldn’t tend to hold much weight as an alibi if she needed one. Anyway, I know she could never kill anyone no matter what her mental state was.” He paused, looked at me, and grinned. “See what I mean about dysfunctions?”

“I think I’m getting the picture,” I said. “But I gather there’s more.”

He nodded. “Oh, yeah. My sister Pat is a librarian at Mountjoy College in Carrington. I love her dearly, but she’s borderline autistic and pretty much a recluse when she’s not working, although, other than being painfully quiet and shy, she’s a sweetheart. She loved Grandpa B almost as much as I did but had a harder time showing it.”

“And your dad?”

He took a deep breath. “Oh, Dad’s okay. Like Pat, he never says much about anything. His accounting firm handles the family money, and it isn’t easy. Dad’s own family was poor as church mice, and I think that’s helped him to be a better financial manager for the family. When you’ve always had more money than you know what to do with, you have no idea how hard it is for those who don’t. God knows Uncle Richard and his kids haven’t a clue. I don’t think even Grandpa B really realized it. He had always supported a few major charities, but it was Dad who encouraged him to expand the scope and amount of his donations.”

“It must have been a little hard for someone who came from a nonwealthy background to fit into a really rich family,” I observed.

“Probably harder than he’d ever admit. I don’t mean to sound unkind when I say that one reason I think he’s stayed with Mom all these years is because handling the family money is the vast bulk of his business. He might have felt that, if he were to divorce Mom, Grandpa B would look for another accountant. I’m sure that wouldn’t have been the case, but I can’t say I really blame Dad for having it in the back of his mind. The Bements don’t do divorce gracefully. He’s devoted his entire career to watching over Bement money, and I don’t know if he’d be able to start over if he lost the accounts.”

“I gather your parents’ marriage was not one made in heaven.” 

Again the wry smile. “Other than the schizophrenia, you mean? Yeah, you might say that. My grandmother was vehemently against the marriage, but she couldn’t do much to stop it. But she never hid her displeasure.”

“That must have been rough on you and your sister.”

“Not really. Grandmother sees things the way she wants to see them. Pat and I are our mother’s children as far as she is concerned, not our father’s. And Mom’s schizophrenia has really been tough on Dad, though he tries not to let it show. It’s hard to love someone you don’t know half the time. It’s like tamping a cigarette in an ashtray. Eventually the flame goes out, but a little smoke hangs around. Dealing with Mom’s been hard enough for me and Pat, but I can imagine what it must be like for him. He’s stood by her, even though she moved out on him a year or so ago. He seems a lot happier now.”

He glanced over at the coffee pot and said, “Maybe I will have a cup of coffee, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure,” I said, hastily getting up. “Cream—well, the powdered stuff, since I don’t have a refrigerator here—and sugar?”

“Both.”

When we had our coffee and I’d sat back down, he picked up his story where he’d left off.

“So, let’s see…Ah, yes. Uncle Richard’s side—there’s him, his wife Pauline, who died several years ago, and his three kids, George, Alan, and Stuart. They’re all crazy as bedbugs, and they all hate one another. A set of winners if there ever was one. Aunt Pauline was the glue that held them all together, but once she died, that was it. 

“Uncle Richard is Grandma’s favorite, and thanks to her he’s never worked a day in his life. She was hell-bent on seeing that he ‘married well’ and all but arranged his marriage to Pauline, whose family had made a fortune in retail. Aunt Pauline was pretty sensible, and she tried her best not to spoil their kids, but it didn’t work. They all took after Uncle Richard in the firm belief that actually working was beneath them—though frankly, I can’t imagine anyone hiring them even if they did want to work.

“Uncle Richard is a little too fond of gambling, though he has always managed to keep his head just above water. George is a serious druggie; Alan’s a womanizer who I suspect abuses his wife; and Stuart is, to put it mildly, flat-out strange. He claims to be an inventor, and actually has a couple of patents on worthless gee-gaws. He knows everything there is to know about everything and will not hesitate to tell you so whether you want to know or not. I’m sure Stuart is gay, by the way, not that it matters. He’s so walled into his closet he could never find his way out.

“I’ve never had much to do with any of them. It’s like a really bad soap opera, and it’s almost like we weren’t related at all. Wishful thinking on my part.” He grinned again.

“When Pauline died, the boys nearly trampled one another in their rush to spend every cent she left them. I still can’t figure out how they did it, but they managed. The only decent one in Richard’s whole family is Anna, Alan’s daughter. She’s really quite nice. She’s deaf, which probably spared her being too caught up in the family dynamics. The rest of the family all but ignores her, like she’s some kind of freak, and she’s probably just as well off for it.

“The only time I ever see everyone is when the whole family gets—got—together every year on December fifteenth for Grandpa B’s birthday. They’d spend that one day falling all over one another buttering him up, then ignore him the rest of the year unless they wanted something—which, until recently, he’d almost always give them.

“Because his birthday was so close to Christmas, that meant they didn’t have to bother actually spending the holiday with him. Most of them would send him a present for Christmas, usually something he either had no use for or already had twenty of. They didn’t care—they figured the old ‘it’s the thought that counts’ would cover it.”

“I wonder why he put up with it.”

Cocking his head and raising one eyebrow, he said, “Guilt. I think he felt guilty because he hadn’t been a real part of their lives once Grandma got custody of Mom and Richard in the divorce and did everything she could to turn them and their kids against him. He’s always been more than generous with all of us. At the time of the divorce, he established sizable trust funds for my mother and Uncle Richard. And when each of the grandkids was born, he did the same for us.

“The funds for the grandkids didn’t kick in until we turned twenty-five. Though Pat and I have real jobs, so we don’t have to rely on it, The Three Stooges—Richard’s boys—have all been living off of it from the minute they qualified, and especially after they blew what Aunt Pauline left them. But it was never enough. They always wanted more. I really felt sorry for the way the family treated Grandpa B. He didn’t deserve it.”

“And what about his housekeeper?” I asked.

“Esmirelda,” he said. “Esmirelda Taft. She’s not a member of the family, but aside from the money, she’s cut from the same cloth. Very efficient in an I, Robot sort of way. Absolutely no personality or sense of humor. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile.”

“How long had she been with him?”

“About ten years, I think. She originally worked for Uncle Richard and Aunt Pauline. Six months after Aunt Pauline died, Grandpa B’s longtime housekeeper retired and moved to be with family in Florida, and Uncle Richard insisted that Esmirelda go work for him, I suspect to keep a close eye on Grandpa B and report everything he did back to Uncle Richard.”

“Do you know if she’s still looking after the house?”

He nodded. “Yes, she’s agreed to stay on until it’s decided what to do with the place.”

“Who is the executor of the will?” I asked.

“Interesting you should bring that up,” Mel said. “Grandpa B had named his lawyer, Eli Prescott, to handle his affairs, but Mr. Prescott was killed in a car crash less than a week before Grandpa B died. He and Grandpa B were good friends, and his death hit Grandpa B hard.”

“Hard enough to drive him to suicide?” Jonathan had mentioned the lawyer’s death and its effect on the old man. And I remember Marty’s mentioning there was something about it in the police report on his death.

Mel shook his head. “No. Grandpa B was both a pragmatist and a realist. He’d lost good friends before. He knew death was a part of life, but he wanted to hold on to life as long as he could.”

“I’d assume there was an alternate executor to his will?” 

“Yes. Co-alternates: Uncle Richard and my mother.”

Apparently, my face reflected my thoughts. He paused to take another drink of his coffee, then said, “Yeah, it just gets better and better. And that brings up another issue. A big one.”

“Which is…?” I asked.

“I went over to see Grandpa B right after Eli Prescott died—the day I met Jonathan, as a matter of fact. He was still really upset and was sort of rambling, I’m afraid. But he said something about making a new will, and said I shouldn’t worry. I told him he didn’t owe me anything. He asked me not to say anything about it to anyone, and he didn’t go into detail, but I know he’d been pretty fed up with Richard and his kids for a long time. The thing is, I wasn’t able to tell if he’d already made out a new will, or was planning to do it when Eli died.”

“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.”

She sighed, and took a sip of her tea. “Of course. But, still. He didn’t come to the funeral, and I totally understood why.”

“Did your husband mention to you that he had drawn up a new will for Mr. Bement?”

She gave me a look of mild surprise. “Why, no, he didn’t. Though I’d not be the least surprised if he did. Clarence’s family—with a few exceptions—treated him shamelessly. Demanding everything, giving nothing.” She looked at me silently for a moment, then said, “You know, I think that as we get older, we get a bit more sentimental. We need people more just at the time when we have them less.

“Clarence always felt guilty for the estrangement from his children, though it was totally his wife’s doing. He always tried to do everything he could to win their approval, and all he won was their contempt. I’m sure it had to have hurt him, especially these last few years as his friends died off and he was more and more alone. His daughter’s children were the only ones who obviously cared for him for himself rather than his money.”

She paused, then added, “But I’m curious. Why did you ask the question?”

“Because I think there is a strong possibility he did not commit suicide.”

Her eyes opened wide. “You can’t be serious!” 

I shrugged. “I’m afraid I am. I never met the man, but my partner Jonathan worked for him and was very fond of him, and insists he would never have killed himself. You knew him far better than Jonathan did and would have a better idea of whether or not he was capable of suicide.”

“Jonathan? The young man who helped him with his garden these last few months? Clarence mentioned him frequently—we spoke often by phone—and thought very highly of him.”

It was kind of her to say, and I knew it would please Jonathan. 

Her brows furrowed. “But you know, there was something about Clarence’s death I’d never really considered until thinking it over just now. He hated guns. That he would kill himself at all, let alone with a gun…”

“The police say the gun was his,” I pointed out.

“Yes, but as I say, he hated them. I understand his son-in-law bought him one for protection about ten years ago, over his objection, and he never mentioned it again. That he would ever use it, especially on himself—it just doesn’t make sense. I don’t know why that didn’t register until now. But that it might not have been suicide—oh, dear!”

Her lips quivered and she hastily dug into her handbag to retrieve a handkerchief, with which she dabbed at her eyes. She then looked at me with a sad little smile and said, “And I’d thought I was out of tears.”

“So, your husband didn’t mention his having drawn up a new will?”

She shook her head. “No. Not a word. But that he didn’t wasn’t really unusual. Eli never discussed his work at home. Although…”  

I waited, giving her time to complete her thought then, after a few moments of silence, jumped in with, “Yes?”

“A few days after Clarence’s death, Andrew Weaver, who assumed most of Eli’s responsibilities with the firm, called to ask if Eli might have left copies of a new will in his briefcase. He didn’t mention that it might have been Clarence’s. I checked, and there was nothing.” She paused, looking pensive, then said, “I don’t know if it might have had anything to do with a new will—perhaps it did—but Eli seemed disturbed about something in the week or so before…the accident. Clarence had called one evening, and while I heard only a few of Eli’s comments, I could tell it was not an ordinary conversation. From what I could gather, Eli had given Clarence some advice Clarence declined to take—which was very unusual in itself.”

“But you have no idea what it might have been about?”

Again a head shake. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t.” 

I put that one in my mental follow-up file and proceeded with my next question. “I assume you know most of Mr. Bement’s family?”

“Yes, but not all that well. We were invited to his annual birthday celebrations, but we seldom attended, preferring to take him out to dinner either shortly before or after. We used the excuse that it was a time for family, but if truth be told, we simply preferred to avoid them.”

My curiosity must have shown on my face, because she poured more tea into her cup, then continued.

“Clarence, bless his heart, understood completely. It’s hard to explain, but those gatherings seemed more of an ordeal for him, and everyone concerned, than a celebration. His daughter often did not attend, and I found the hypocritical unctuousness of Richard’s sons most disturbing. Any one of them would make a fine Iago.”

Another thought flashed into my head, and I decided to follow up on it.

“I’m curious,” I said. “Your husband’s accident was early Sunday morning. May I ask where he was going?”

“He received a phone call from a client Saturday night, which was not unusual—it was one of the few things about him that drove me to distraction. He could not say no.”

“Do you know who called?” I asked. “Might it have been Clarence?”

“No, I could have told by the tone of his voice, but it had to be one of his older clients, because about six years ago I told him he simply could not let clients use him like that. So he stopped the practice with his newer clients, but he felt he could not suddenly stop doing what some of his clients were used to his doing.”

That thought had to be followed up on. “Did your husband represent any other members of Mr. Bement’s family?”

“Most of them,” she said. “To be honest, it was more as a courtesy to Clarence. They were a constant source of irritation to him, though he’d never tell Clarence. They were always calling Eli at home with some legal question or other.”

“Why didn’t they simply make an appointment to see him at his office?” 

“Because then they would have to pay for his time, and why pay for something you can impose on someone to give you for free? I did my very best to dissuade their calls, but to no avail.” She paused a moment. “And do you know, not one of Richard’s sons attended Eli’s funeral, or so much as sent a card of condolence. After all he had done for them, I found their callousness shameful, though I can’t say I expected anything better. How Clarence could have ended up with such a greedy, insensitive bunch I do not understand. He should have disowned every one of them.”

I agreed. I did not mention that perhaps he had.

We talked for another half-hour or so, sliding by mutual consent from the subject of her husband’s and Clarence’s deaths to more general subjects. She asked about my family, and I showed her a photo of the three of us, and a separate one of Joshua.

“They’re charming!” she said, which of course pleased me even if she was just being polite.

She, I learned, had been an English war bride, having met Eli Prescott while he was stationed in England during WWII. They had two daughters, both of whom had married and moved away but with whom she exchanged frequent visits. She was considering the possibility, she said, of perhaps selling her home and moving closer to one of them.

All in all, a pleasant and informative meeting. I found it interesting that Mrs. Prescott apparently made no connection between the burglary of her home and the missing will. Then I realized there was no reason why she would have, if she had been unaware of the will or its possible link to Bement’s death. I was willing to bet the will had been in Eli Prescott’s briefcase, and that it had been taken. I was also very curious about what lay behind the reference to Prescott’s having been disturbed following a phone call from Clarence. 

*

I spent the rest of the day trying to shuffle in the information Mrs. Prescott had given me with what I knew about the case so far. I’d found it interesting to learn that two of Bement’s grandchildren were gay, and especially that his granddaughter was deaf.

I wondered if Cory and Nick might know her, and thought again how odd it was that, until we’d met them, I’d barely been aware of anyone deaf. Of course, that was sort of understandable, since the deaf look and act like everyone else in a crowd.

But pulling myself back to the issue at hand, I was in something of a dilemma. While I was increasingly convinced Bement had not killed himself, the police—at least, according to what I had gathered from Marty—were apparently willing to accept that he had.

So, on the one hand, I didn’t want to keep anything from them, but on the other hand, I wasn’t about to tap them on the shoulders, say “Uh…” and tell them how to conduct their business. I figured the best thing to do was just go on with my own investigation, and if the police decided to jump in at a later point, so be it.

From what Mel had said, I agreed that his mother sounded at least like a pretty likely suspect and a good place to start the investigation. Then, considering his observations on the rest of his family, I doubted I’d have any shortage of prospective suspects.

Of course, the basic question of why anyone would want to kill a multimillionaire had a rather obvious answer. But one who was ninety years old? Why wouldn’t the killer have saved the time, energy and prospect of spending the rest of his/her life in jail by just waiting for nature to take its course? It couldn’t have been much longer—a few more years at most.

But since the killer wasn’t willing or able to wait, it might make it easier to figure out who did it. Being desperate for money tends to be like dropping a stone into a calm pool—it leaves ripples that can be followed back to their source. If anyone was so much in need of money right away, there should be evidence of it. So, checking into the financial affairs of all concerned would be in order. Not easy to do, but…

*

I had realized even before Mel walked out the door that this case was going to be very different from most of my past adventures, and I was looking forward to it. I would have continued looking for whoever had tried to kill Jonathan—and yes, I still had no doubt that shooting was not an accident—whether I’d talked to Mel or not, but it was nice to have someone help pay the bills.

Mel had given me a lot of material to dig through, but I wanted to call Marty first to see if he knew anything more from the last time we’d talked.

In any murder investigation, there’s a natural amount of overlap with the police, as there would be in this one if they ever got around to looking at Bement’s death as a murder. But when most of the people involved in the case are gay, I have a definite advantage—thanks to the residual effects of the historical antagonism between the police and the gay community, gays naturally tend to be more willing to open up to one of their own than to somebody with a badge.

Here, however, there were more potential straight suspects than gays. This put a dent in any “home court/just us chickens” advantages I might normally have had if everyone involved were gay.

In a way, I was rather glad the police weren’t more involved at this point. Whenever I was working on an active police case, talking to people the police had most often already talked to, I couldn’t help but feel like the guy with a broom and a shovel walking behind the elephants in a circus parade.

Okay, so where to start? Normally, I’d probably go with Mel’s mother. But the housekeeper had been the last known person to see Bement alive, and just from what little Mel had said about her, she sounded like a good first contact.

I found it hard to imagine a housekeeper—or a schizophrenic mother—perched on a bridge with a gun. And unless the housekeeper figured prominently in Bement’s will, I couldn’t see how she’d have much of a motive to kill him. That, plus she’d be out of a job. 

Still, I put her at the top of my tentative list, even before Mel’s mom, on the grounds that, as Bement’s housekeeper, she was in a unique position to know more about his daily life and people coming and going than most of the others. 

I then realized that I had not asked Mel’s mom’s name.

Dumb, Hardesty, dumb.