Chapter 4

Seeing no point in wasting time, I left the office fifteen minutes later, stopped by the bank to deposit Mel’s check, and drove out to Briarwood to see Esmirelda Taft. I remembered the address—2222 Tuxford Terrace—only because Jonathan had asked me to deposit his last check from Bement the week before, and I liked the alliteration of the address. I’d also noticed Bement’s signature was so shaky as to be all but illegible and could concede the possibility that, if he had taken his own life, he might have missed with the first shot.

I’d thought only briefly about trying to call first, dismissing it on the grounds it would be too easy for Ms. Taft to hang up on me. She could still slam the door in my face, but at least I would have a chance to take a look around the property to see if anything might stand out that could facilitate a murderer’s gaining entry.

I found it easily enough. Set far back from the street behind a six-foot red brick wall spanning the front of the property, it was a beautiful Georgian-style gem whose elegant simplicity stood out from the overly ornate Versailles-wannabe ostentation of its neighbors.

The wall was broken only by wrought iron gates on either side of the property, marking the ends of the semicircular drive, but the one on the left also led to a driveway running past the house to a three-car garage in the same colonial style. Simple tall chimneys flanked the symmetrically balanced house, while white-framed multi-pane windows and a solid white, quietly elegant double-door entrance framed by classically simple scrollwork spoke clearly of both wealth and dignity.

Both of the iron gates were, fortunately, open, and I turned into the one that led to the curved drive in front of the house then branched off to the garage.

The main drive was wide enough for another car to squeeze by if necessary, so I parked across from the front door. Seeing no bell when I got to the door, I used the lion’s-head brass knocker to announce my arrival.

The narrow antique poured-glass sidelight windows looked onto a large, very simple hardwood-floored vestibule. I waited a moment then knocked again, not sure whether it couldn’t be heard within the depths of the house or no one was there to hear it.

Just as I was about to turn and leave, I caught a glimpse of the gray-clad form of a woman crossing the foyer toward the door. A moment later, the right half opened about a quarter of the way to reveal an ordinary-looking woman in her sixties, with gray hair, no makeup, and wearing sensible shoes and a gray dress that for some reason made me wonder if she might be a Mennonite. 

“Yes?” she asked, her face expressionless.

“Ms. Taft?” I asked—Mel hadn’t mentioned her marital status. “Mel Fowler suggested I come by and talk with you.”

She eyed me suspiciously. “About what?”

Her hand still remained on the inner knob; she was obviously prepared to close the door at any moment.

“I’m a private investigator, and Mr. Fowler has hired me to look into a few things surrounding his grandfather’s death.”

Her expression had not changed since she opened the door. “I told the police everything I know,” she said flatly. “I suggest you talk to them.”

“Mr. Fowler seemed to think—”

“I am not employed by Mr. Fowler, so what he thinks is of no concern to me. Good day.”

And with that, she shut the door, and I watched through the narrow sidelight as she disappeared from view without looking back.

That went well, I thought. What a delightful woman. And, I’d wager, definitely a Miss.

At the risk of having the police sicced on me for trespassing, I hurried down the driveway along the side of the house to the back yard. It was exactly as Jonathan had described it. Several fruit trees, a large garden now rapidly going to seed, a high cedar fence running the full length of the property on the side paralleling the driveway and three-car garage, a tall, full hedge across the back behind the large greenhouse, and the hedge Jonathan had just planted for the neighbors on the far side. A low red brick wall extended from the house to surround a large flagstone patio with an umbrella table in the center. Several chairs lined the wall beside the sliding glass patio doors leading into the house, and on the opposite side of the patio was another, regular door.

The patio doors would be the easiest for an intruder to access, and with the gaps in the newly planted hedge on the one side, getting into the yard wouldn’t be that much of a problem, assuming he or she didn’t simply come down the drive. 

I returned to the car as quickly as I could and drove off, pretty sure I saw a gray-clad figure watching from an upstairs window. And as I pulled onto the street, I recalled her saying she was “not employed by Mr. Fowler” and wondered exactly who, with Bement dead, she was employed by.

*

Thursday evening, after verifying with Jonathan as soon as he got home that there had been no unusual telephone calls or any sightings of the black Mercedes, I asked if Clarence had ever mentioned anything to him about his having made a new will. He looked at me a little strangely. 

“No. Why would he do that?”

He had a good point.

After dinner, while I kept Joshua busy “reading” a magazine, Jonathan called Roger Rothenberger to tell him he was going to have to miss the next practice. We spent most of the remainder of the evening on the phone, calling the rest of the gang to let them know of the impending trip. We caught Bob and Mario just before they headed off to work at their respective bars, and they said they’d just talked to Tim and Phil, who had already told them about it. (Ah, the joys of the grapevine.) They invited me to join them for brunch Sunday, to which I readily agreed.

After Jonathan finished telling Cory, I asked to talk with him, and inquired if they, by any chance, knew Anna Bement. He said they did, which I couldn’t say surprised me, and that they could put me in touch with her whenever I wanted.

Coincidentally, as soon as I’d hung up, Tim and Phil called asking me to join them for dinner at Napoleon’s Saturday night—to keep me off the streets, as Tim put it—and Jake made a similar invitation later when I talked briefly with him. I told him of Tim and Phil’s invitation and suggested we make it a group thing. I felt a little like a traffic cop at a busy intersection by that time but reflected again on how nice it is to have friends.

*

Friday morning at the office, even though I was impatient to get moving, I forced myself to go through my rituals before calling Oak Terrace. I wasn’t quite sure of the protocol, or of just how much independence the, uh, residents had, but when I reached the switchboard and asked to speak to Mrs. Fowler, I was told she was in a meeting, which is a nice general euphemism covering a multitude of possible real reasons.

I asked if there were specific hours for visitors and was in turn asked if I were a family member. When I said “a friend of the family,” I was informed visitors were welcome between one and four p.m.

With time to kill, and the shot at Jonathan still very much in my mind, I decided to drive out to Woods Road. It was a nice day, cool, and the trees were turning. I took my time getting there.

Woods Road is paved for less than half a mile after it crosses the main road, and then it turns to gravel. It runs for probably five miles before ending at County Line Road. Jonathan was right—there wasn’t a single house on the entire stretch.

The railroad bridge Pardue had mentioned was about four miles in. I drove under it, glancing in my rearview mirror as I passed, and, returning my attention to the road, saw the bullet-riddled stop sign ahead. I had no idea why they’d put a sign there, since it marked a cross road that was little more than a dirt path. Still, I drove past it to the first place where I could turn around then headed back.

About fifty feet from the stop sign, I saw the pothole Jonathan had swerved to avoid—though I’d imagine at the speed he must have been going, already preparing to stop for the sign, it had been more a jog than a swerve—and pulled off the road beside it. It was only about 300 feet from the bridge, the rusty iron side rails of which could easily hide someone. Looking back at the stop sign, it was clear to me that anyone aiming for that would be firing at a considerably lower angle than if they were aiming at the windshield of an approaching truck.

Using the car as reference, I walked to the bridge and climbed the embankment to the tracks. From the trestle, I could see that the dirt road marked by the stop sign passed through a patch of trees on the other side of Woods Roads and moved considerably closer to the tracks. Someone could easily have parked a car in the trees and come up onto the bridge to lie in wait.

Whoever it was had probably waited until Jonathan passed in order to be sure it was the right truck—there was no “Evergreen” identification on the front. What’s more, while Jonathan could have turned left on County Line Road when he’d reached it and wended his way back to town from there, it would have been a considerably longer drive that way. So, it was logical for him to just turn around and head back the way he’d come.

I slowly crossed the trestle on the side facing the stop sign, looking for shell casings. I found at least a dozen, of several different calibers, and had no idea how long they’d been there. Still, I picked them all up with a Kleenex and put them in my pocket. If the police could tell the caliber of gun that had made the hole, having both the casing and the bullet might be worthwhile. There was even the far outside chance there might be a fingerprint on the casing. Unlikely, but possible.

That the police would come looking for them on their own was extremely remote. Considering their regular workload, I was pretty sure that, as far as they were concerned, this was still just a minor incident not worth the effort.

I returned to my car and drove back to town, wondering if what little I’d learned had been worth going in the first place.

It did give me a chance to think, though. Despite my certainty it had been a deliberate attack, I couldn’t in all fairness discount the possibility it could just as easily have been some idiot doing target practice; or that the shooter was trying to send Jonathan a message—though, a message about what? And what might they expect him to do about it if it were received.

No, I came back to the conclusion that whoever had fired the shot was serious and intended to kill him. The question of why remained.

I found it hard to believe whatever it might be had anything to do with Clarence Bement’s new will. Still, if Clarence had told Jonathan anything at all someone didn’t want to chance his repeating, or merely assumed Jonathan knew something he shouldn’t, that might be a solid motive. But it implied whatever it was had to be pretty important, and if that were the case, Jonathan might have picked up on it.

That the mystery caller had not called back was mildly bothersome. How had he (or she—I still couldn’t figure out the voice’s gender) gotten our number? Jonathan may well have given it to Clarence, and that could link the call or the caller to Bement’s house. It was also possible the caller didn’t know Jonathan had a partner. In that case, he/she might have hesitated to call again in a variation of the old “if a man answers, hang up” joke.

On the way back to town, I stopped for gas and decided to call Oak Terrace again, not wanting to just drop in. I wasn’t sure what my next move would be if Mel’s mother refused to see me, but took a chance. This time, the switchboard put me through, and after three rings the phone was answered with a pleasant “Hello.”

“Mrs. Fowler, my name is Dick Hardesty, and your son Mel suggested I call you.”

“Yes, I spoke with Mel right after he’d left your office yesterday. Apparently, he wanted to reassure me he wasn’t pointing a finger at me. Exactly what is it you expect I might tell you, Mr. Hardesty?”

I breathed a small sigh of relief. So far, so good. “Right now I’m mainly concerned with learning everything I can about your late father and the circumstances leading up to his death. I was wondering if I could stop by for a few minutes this afternoon?”

“I think that could be arranged,” she said pleasantly. “I’m afraid my social calendar is not exactly filled at the moment. Mel tells me you’re quite handsome, and I always have time in my life for handsome men. If you’d care to come by about one, we could talk for a bit before my next session with the brain pickers.”

I thanked her, expressed my condolences on the loss of her father, told her I’d see her at one o’clock, and hung up.

Mel thinks I’m handsome, huh?

Don’t go there, Hardesty!

*

Oak Terrace was set in—and was indistinguishable from—a stretch of trendy mid-rise apartment complexes lining the east bank of the river, their backs looking out on the bluffs along the west bank. I wasn’t quite sure where it got the name “Oak Terrace,” since the trees lining the street were all maples and I saw nothing resembling a terrace. Maybe at the rear of the building, on the river side.

Turning into the underground garage, I found a spot in the visitors’ parking section and followed the yellow arrows painted on the floor to a door that led up to the reception area, which resembled the lobby of a luxury hotel. I signed in and was directed to the elevators and Apartment 9B. 

Checking my watch—it said 12:59—I knocked, to have the door opened almost immediately by a very attractive, impeccably groomed woman in her mid-sixties wearing a gossamer-thin, rose-colored open dressing gown over what looked to be a blue silk high-collared oriental pajama set. For some reason she reminded me of Madam Chiang Kai-Shek.

“Mr. Hardesty, I presume,” she said warmly, extending her hand, which I took.

I followed her into a large living room with a huge picture window looking out on the bluffs. Since I wasn’t close to the window, I couldn’t see the river nine stories below. To the immediate right of the entrance was a very compact, gleaming kitchen, though I had passed a large dining room adjacent to the lobby where several people I had assumed to be residents were apparently finishing lunch. To the left of the door was a short hallway with the bathroom on one side and a closed door I assumed led to the bedroom on the other. The “other half” lived very well, I decided.

Showing me to a seat on the plush sofa, she took a chair beneath the window.

“And what is it you would like to know?” she asked, getting right to the point.

“Anything you can tell me about your father that might support Mel’s concern about the circumstances of his death,” I said.

She smiled, placing her arms casually on the arms of her chair.

“Were ours a normal family, I would dismiss Mel’s suspicions out of hand. He was devoted to his grandfather and, as he undoubtedly told you, was very concerned about my reactions and feelings toward my father when I was off my medications. I have my mother to thank for that, since she instilled in me and my brother a deep resentment and distrust of my father. It is not healthy to be raised in so toxic an atmosphere, as both Richard and I can attest. I do think my children have fared much better than Richard’s, however.”

While I’m not quite sure what I was expecting, I was quite impressed by her calm demeanor. My experience with people I knew to be schizophrenic was fairly limited, but I’d never have guessed Mrs. Fowler was one of them.

Realizing there was no easy way to work up to it, I said, “Do you think Mel’s concern has merit?”

She looked at me impassively, then gave a small sigh. “Frankly, Mr. Hardesty, I honestly don’t know. I simply cannot imagine anyone shooting themselves.”

“Which brings up my next question. I understand your husband gave him the gun that killed him.”

Shaking her head gently, she said, “Yes, and Gregory cannot forgive himself. He bought it when my father moved into his new house. He’d always lived in apartments with doormen and security, and Gregory was concerned for his safety when he began living without those amenities. The house has security systems, of course, but…”

“Did you notice any change in your father just prior to his death that might indicate he was considering suicide?”

“No. Nothing. But I’d not seen him for at least a month before his death. Over the past few years, the chasm between us had narrowed, as it were, but we never came anywhere near to what most people would think of as a loving father-daughter relationship. My mother carefully created so wide a gulf between us that it could never be properly spanned. Relationships, as with most things, tend to be easier to destroy than to build.

“I think my children turned out very well, considering everything. I cannot say the same for the rest of the family. I really did try to provide Mel and Patricia with as normal a life as possible, if there is such a thing as normal. I think, of all the family, Mel turned out the best.”

“Well, then, let me ask you this. If your father did not commit suicide, can you think of anyone who may have wanted to kill him?”

She looked at me oddly. “Murder is what happens in the newspapers and on TV and in novels, not to anyone one actually knows.”

“The same could be said for suicide,” I observed. “But hypothetically, then, could you think of anyone at all who wanted your father dead?”

“Other than my mother, you mean? I’m sure she was delighted to hear he was dead, but if she had wanted to kill him she could have done something about it any time in the past forty years. I can’t imagine she’d wait until now. And I suspect she so enjoyed bedeviling him she’d never dream of depriving herself of the pleasure.

“As for the rest of the family, I can’t imagine any of them having the intestinal fortitude to do so, though I’m quite sure they were all eagerly awaiting his death—which isn’t the same as precipitating it. Still, I suppose I wouldn’t put it past any one of them—hypothetically.”

She paused for just a moment before saying, “I take that back. There’s Anna, Alan’s daughter. She’s the only decent member on Richard’s side of the family. I think being deaf and largely ignored spared her from being exposed to all the bile everyone else was spewing. The rest of them are all a bunch of money-grubbing leeches I wouldn’t trust around a child’s piggy bank.”

Yeah, but what do you really think of them? one of my mind-voices asked.

“Anyone in particular?” 

She shook her head. “Take your pick,” she said. “Mother has always skillfully diverted the endless financial requests from Richard’s brood of piglets to my father, claiming poverty and insisting it was he who owed them for having abandoned his wife and children. It worked, of course, and they have all been feeding at my father’s trough for years. It amazes me that he would have put up with it but, for whatever reason—guilt, probably—he did.”

“Mel mentioned his grandfather’s generosity to the family, but that he’d recently ‘turned off the tap,’ as he put it.”

“So I understand,” she said. “And it was long overdue. I’m sure Richard’s brood was livid. Even while he was giving them everything they asked for, they resented his not giving them more. Yet as far as any of them actually resorting to murder, that would seem to me rather like killing the goose that laid the golden egg.”

Another moment of silence, then, “I can guarantee you they will have gone through every penny they get from Father’s will within a year, just as they did with the money their mother left them when she died. Then all they will have left is the income from their trust funds. And if they think they can then fall back on my mother to keep shoveling money into the trough, they are in for a very rude and well-deserved awakening.”

“Which brings me to the question of your father’s will. I understand there is a new one, but no signed copies to validate it.”

“So I understand, though I had not been aware of it until the lawyers called to ask if I might know the whereabouts of any signed copies.”

“And you didn’t.”

“No,” she said. “I haven’t a clue.”

“I understand you and your brother are co-executors of your father’s estate.”

“By default, yes. Eli Prescott, my father’s friend and attorney, was to manage the estate, but Richard and I were listed as co-executors in the event Mr. Prescott was unable to serve. I suspect the only reason we were named as co-executors was another way to attempt to assuage the family. I have no idea whether that may have changed with the new will, and the lawyers won’t divulge any of its details as long as the original will is still in effect.”

I decided not to take that detour off the main course of our conversation at the moment, so moved on to my next question.

“And whose decision was it to keep Ms. Taft on as housekeeper after your father’s death?”

“Richard wanted her to remain, ostensibly so that someone would be there to look out for the place until it can be sold. But frankly, I think it is because he wants to keep the fox guarding the henhouse.”

“I’m sorry…?” I said. “I don’t follow.”

“Esmirelda had been employed by Richard and his family for several years prior to his wife Pauline’s death. Then he insisted she go to care for Father when his long-time housekeeper retired and moved to be with her children.”

“Do you know anything more of her background?”

“Not really. She never married, and though she never spoke of it, I understand she had a brother who had spent time in prison. I’m not sure where I heard that. At any rate, I’ve not been to the house since Father’s death, and don’t intend to go. There is nothing there of interest to me. But I am sure Richard’s litter will do their best to strip the house bare before it is sold, and I resent that deeply.”

“But you didn’t object to Richard’s wanting to keep her on?”

“There would have been little point, really. To have insisted on a new housekeeper would merely have hastened the stripping process before a new will could be found.”

“Surely the will—the original, at any rate—left specific instructions as to the disposition of all his property,” I said.

“I’m sure it does,” she said. “Though I’m not sure of the exact details. We were all aware of the general tone of the will. Unfortunately,it has not yet been read. I received a call this morning from Mr. Prescott’s firm asking us to meet with them a week from this coming Monday for the reading.

“My husband is finalizing the financial data now. There is a tremendous amount of preparatory work for verifying all the assets, and I suspect the lawyers want to allow as much time as possible to find a signed copy of the new will. I was a bit surprised that Richard agreed to any delay at all, but then I realized his motives are far from altruistic.”

“How so?”

She sighed. “It will give those little sticky-fingered parasites more time to walk off with everything that isn’t nailed down. Richard, of course, won’t object, and Esmirelda won’t lift a finger to stop them. She’ll probably hold the door open while they cart everything off. The more time they have to do it before the will is read, the better. It’s not that my children need the money, but as a matter of principle and fairness, it’s disgraceful.”

“But surely, if something is specified in the will and not found among the estate…”

“If the original will remains in effect, Richard and/or Esmirelda will merely claim that those items were sold subsequent to the drawing up of the will. It has been a number of years, after all. If the new will surfaces, they will have something of a problem on their hands. And if the new will is found, I have every intention of taking legal action on any item mentioned in it which is not fully accounted for.”

“Did your father have any enemies outside the family? A man in his position invariably does.”

“Yes, and I’m sure my father had more than his share. But I knew nothing at all of his business or the people he knew through it. And he retired twenty years ago—almost all of his one-time competitors and business associates are dead. I can’t imagine anyone waiting this long to exact revenge.”

“So when he retired, he did so totally? He didn’t keep his hand in things?”

“I honestly wouldn’t know. As I say, I never knew anything of his business life. It’s entirely possible, I suppose, but since we were not close, he never confided in me on those matters.”

I couldn’t help but wonder if he might have indirectly confided in Jonathan on “those matters.” It was highly unlikely, and even more unlikely that Jonathan would have known what he was talking about even if he had. Still, there is some truth to the old saying that it is sometimes easier to talk to a complete stranger than to someone one knows well. And given Bement’s age, failing health, and increasing isolation…

The ringing of the phone cut short both my train of thought and my meeting with Mrs. Fowler, who, upon answering it, merely said, “Thank you, I’ll be there in a moment.” Hanging up, she announced it was time for the “brain pickers” appointment she’d mentioned when I’d called earlier. I got up from my chair and thanked her for her time. She showed me to the door, where we exchanged the requisite pleasantries, and I left.

*

Returning to the office, I put in a call to City Annex and asked to speak to Detective Pardue or Stein. Informed they were not in, I left a message saying I had retrieved bullet casings from the Woods Road railway bridge and asked them to call.

I then spent the rest of the afternoon going over the little I did know and contemplating the gaping hole of what I did not. All I was sure of was that I wanted Jonathan and Joshua out of harm’s way as soon as possible.

Richard Bement was the next logical one on my contact list, but I had a feeling it wasn’t going to be easy. The bulk of the deaths I’ve investigated have clearly been murders, and so considered by everyone involved. Here, the line wasn’t so clearly drawn. In fact, Jonathan and Mel Fowler—and, increasingly, I—seemed to be the only people who didn’t buy into the suicide theory.

If Richard Bement or any of his “litter,” as Mel’s mother had referred to them, was directly or indirectly involved in Clarence Bement’s death, it would hardly be in their interest to suggest they’d even considered it had been anything other than suicide. If there were an element of truth in what Mel and his mother said, I was not looking forward to meeting any of them.

As I mulled over the situation on the way back to the office, I came up with a plan to possibly get Richard and his kids to talk to me, should they show any reluctance to do so voluntarily. Mel had left town that morning, and would probably be gone until Monday. Nevertheless, I called his number and left a message asking him to call me as soon as he could. I’d intended to call Richard as soon as I returned to the office but then decided to wait until Monday—I wanted to see him as soon after talking to him as possible. It was getting too late in the day for that, and the weekend was going to be pretty hectic.

Detective Stein returned my call at around quarter-to-four.

“So, you found some casings on the bridge?” he asked immediately, eliminating any need for introductory chitchat.

“Yeah. I figured there might be a chance they’d have a fingerprint, and…”

“And you still think the shot at your partner was tied in with the Bement suicide?” 

That he referred to it as a “suicide” pretty much told me he thought the whole thing was a waste of time, but I still said, “I’m sure of it.”

There was a slight pause, then, “Well, tell you what. Why don’t you drop the casings off at the main desk for Detectives Angell and Garland, since they’ve got the Bement case. They’re not in now, but I’ll leave a note to tell them to expect them.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“No problem. Later.” And he hung up.

I had the distinct impression I’d just been summarily dismissed, but what the hell? It wasn’t the first time.

Putting the casings into a large envelope within a larger envelope and addressing it to “Detectives Angell and Garland,” I sealed the outer envelope and left the office to drop it off at City Annex on my way home.

Since this was Jonathan and Joshua’s last night at home, we decided to have a farewell dinner at Cap’n Rooney’s Fish Shack. I could tell Jonathan was excited at the prospect of seeing his family again, and Joshua made it a point to tell the counterman, who appeared duly impressed, that he was going to Wisconsin on an airplane.

As soon as we got home, Jonathan started packing, and since I would just be in the way, I took the time to put in a call to Nick and Cory, which Cory answered on the first ring.

“Cory, hi, it’s Dick.”

“Hi, Dick! Jonathan all ready for the trip?”

“Champing at the bit,” I said. “I wonder if you could do me a favor.”

“Sure. What do you need?”

“Remember I was asking you the other day about Anna Bement? I need to speak with her and would like to take you up on your offer to arrange a meeting for me.”

“Be happy to. I can call her tonight—she has a TTY.”

A TTY, I’d known even before Mel told me, was a phone device specifically designed for use by the deaf. It had a typewriter keyboard and a small screen on which whatever the caller and sender typed would appear. Great thing, science. I always wonder what they’d come up with next.

“When do you want to meet? I know Anna reads lips very well, and she speaks, but if you think you might need an interpreter, I’ll be happy to do it.”

“I appreciate the offer, Cory, but I don’t want to impose on you or take up your time. I should be able to manage, unless she might feel more comfortable with an interpreter.”

“No, I don’t think that would be a problem for her. She interacts with hearing people every day at work.”

“Great. Then everything should be fine. As for when, any time at her convenience,” I said. 

“I’ll give you a call as soon as I reach her,” he said. “Tell Jonathan and Joshua to have a great trip, and we’ll look forward to hearing all about it when they get back.”

“And my best to Nick. Thanks, Cory.”

I felt a little guilty after talking with Cory to realize I should have been watching over Joshua, who wanted to help pack and consequently had stacked his bed with toys, books, and games he wanted to take along. Including Bunny, of course. I don’t think he totally bought my “leaving Bunny to keep me company” story, but when I promised we’d get him something new—we didn’t mention “and smaller”—at the airport to take with him, he magnanimously agreed.

Surveying the pile on his bed, he apparently thought he would have no need for clothes, and there certainly would have been no room for them had he taken everything else he wanted to. But after considerable bartering, and a few teeterings perilously close to the rim of Tantrum Canyon, the bags were packed and placed beside the front door.

As soon as we’d finally gotten Joshua to bed, I suggested what I thought was an excellent way to relieve some of Jonathan’s anxiety, and he readily agreed. We wouldn’t be seeing one another for a week, so we did our best to make up for it once the lights were out.

*

Both Jonathan and Joshua were up by six Saturday morning, and although he’d done all the packing the night before, Jonathan felt obliged to recheck everything to make sure nothing had been forgotten, which of course inspired Joshua to remember a couple more things he couldn’t get by without. Luckily, both suitcases were already so crammed there wasn’t room for anything else.

Traffic was light, and we were at the airport by seven forty-five, which gave us enough time to grab a quick breakfast at the terminal’s restaurant. Despite his excitement, Joshua managed to polish his off in record time. I knew Jonathan was always nervous before flying, but he managed to hide it from Joshua if not from me.

After picking up the tickets at the counter and checking the bags, we stopped at the gift shop and let Joshua pick out a small stuffed animal to keep him company on the trip. After a relatively limited debate, he chose a bright yellow Big Bird, and we arrived at the departure gate about ten minutes before boarding.

A DC-8 was waiting at the loading dock, its nose close enough to the terminal window Joshua could wave to someone he saw moving around in the cockpit. While he was reaching the age that he no longer routinely carried on conversations with his stuffed animals, I noticed he kept a firm hold on Big Bird.

When they announced boarding, he was like a racehorse at the starting gate, pulling at Jonathan’s hand to move him toward the passageway, but I scooped him up.

“Aren’t you going to say good-bye?” I asked, turning him to face me.

“Good-bye!” he said, turning his head to watch the crowd surging into the passageway. “We’ll be late!” he objected.

“Hug first,” I said, and he reluctantly threw his arms around my neck for a quick hug. I kissed him on the forehead. “You be a good boy, now, hear?”

He nodded vigorously then started squirming to be let down. Jonathan grabbed his hand as soon as his feet hit the floor then turned to give me a much longer hug with his free arm.

“We’ll miss you!” he said.

“Ditto,” I said. “Call me tonight if you can. Remember, though, I’ll be going to dinner with the guys.” 

“I will,” he promised. “Tell them all hello for me.”

“Let’s go!” Joshua urged, leaning at a 45-degree angle to get Jonathan moving. He reminded me of one of those circus strong men trying to pull a locomotive.

I watched them move down the passageway—Jonathan turning once for a quick wave with his free hand—and then they were lost in the crowd. I stood by the window for ten minutes, until the whine of the plane’s engines preceded its slow move backward, pushed by a stubby airport service truck. It slowly turned, the tug disengaged, and the plane headed down the taxiway toward the runway. I turned from the window and made my way back through the terminal toward the parking lot.

I was driving to the airport entrance when I saw an American DC-8—probably Jonathan and Joshua’s—lift off and pass over the road in front of me. I missed them already.

*

True to his word, Jonathan called that evening shortly before ten. I’d only gotten home a few minutes earlier after an enjoyable dinner with Tim, Phil, Jake, and Jared, though it wasn’t the same without Jonathan.

“Sorry I didn’t call earlier,” he said, “but I wasn’t sure you’d be home yet from dinner. How was it?”

“Fine, but kind of strange without you there. How’s it going?” I asked.

“Pretty good. Joshua’s a little confused, but there were enough other kids around to keep him occupied. I just got him to bed. But I wanted to tell you—guess who was a steward on our flight to Chicago?” Not waiting for an answer, which I could readily have provided, he said, “Mr. Bement’s grandson, Mel! I only met him that once, but he recognized me right away, and he made a big fuss over Joshua. Anyway, he was really busy, but I told him how sorry I was about his grandfather. And just before we landed in Chicago, he came over to talk to me for a minute. He said he really enjoyed meeting you and said how lucky we were to have each other, and Joshua. That was really nice of him.”

“That it was,” I said.

We only talked for another minute or two before Jonathan said, “I’d better go—this is going on my dad’s phone bill.”

We hung up after his promising to call collect next time.

It was the first night I’d slept alone in a very long time, and I kept waking up after rolling over to put my arm across Jonathan only to have it drop down on empty mattress.

*

Sunday passed quickly with brunch at Bob and Mario’s, and before I knew it, it was Sunday night. There was a message on the machine from Cory, and I called him back immediately. He said Anna Bement would be willing to see me any time.

He’d told me she worked as a proofreader at a publishing house I recognized as being not too far from my office. She’d suggested she and I might try meeting for lunch on Wednesday, if I felt I could manage without an interpreter. I told him I was sure I could, that Wednesday would be fine, and asked him to set it up at a time and place of her choosing. He said he’d try to reach her as soon as we hung up, and would get back to me.  

I was fixing my evening Manhattan, acutely aware of the unaccustomed silence, when Cory called, saying Anna would meet me Wednesday at twelve fifteen at a small diner near her work. I thanked him again, and we ended the conversation with the usual promises to see one another soon.

*

Jonathan called shortly before ten. He didn’t sound very happy.

“I just now left Joshua’s room. I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He was a holy terror all day. He wouldn’t mind, he yelled at my sister Ruth’s youngest kids, and he’s been a general pain in the behind. I’m sure Ruth thinks he’s a spoiled brat, and he was sure acting like one.

“I’ve never seen him like this, and I was really embarrassed. He threw a major tantrum when I told him it was time to go to bed, and when I finally got him there, he didn’t want me to read him a story. But when I got up to leave, he started crying, so I went back and laid down with him until he went to sleep.”

“Any idea of what might have set him off?” I asked. “He usually has a reason, even if it doesn’t make much sense to us.” 

“No. We went over to see Ruth after church, and the minute we got there, he started.”

I sighed. “And nothing happened to trigger it?”  

“No, I…” He paused. “Oh, Lord! Of course! Why didn’t I realize it?”

“What?” 

“In order to get to Ruth’s from my dad’s, we had to drive right past Samuel and Sheryl’s house. It was a really strange sensation for me, but I didn’t think Joshua even noticed. But of course, he had to have. He was born and raised there. It’s the place he and his parents left and never went back. But he didn’t say a word. Oh, God, I feel awful!”

I empathized with him totally. Even for a five-year-old, being kicked in the stomach with memories must have hurt like hell. No wonder he’d acted up.

“There’s nothing you can do about it now,” I said. “Just be sure to be extra-patient with him, as you always are. We knew this might happen, and it did. He’ll get over it—he doesn’t have much choice. Just keep reassuring him that his mom and dad wanted you to take care of him, and that we love him.”

He sighed. “Yeah, you’re right, of course, and I do try. But…”

“That’s all we can do—try. I just wish I were there to help you.”

“So do I. I miss you.”

“Me, too, Babe.”

*

Monday morning, as I drove to work, I had a momentary rush of adrenaline realizing that, with only five days of not having to be concerned for Jonathan and Joshua’s safety, I had to try to cram in as much as I possibly could between now and heading for the airport Friday to pick them up.

It was highly unlikely I’d have the whole case solved by then—I had no guarantee I would solve it at all. However, knowing from experience that panic is counterproductive, at best, I took a mental step backward and determined I’d do as much as I could in the time available.

As soon as I walked in the office, I went to the phone to call Richard Bement. I really expected to get an answering machine and was surprised to hear the phone being picked up at the other end.

I’d read somewhere that it was Thomas Alva Edison who was responsible for making “hello” the standard response to a phone call. Alexander Graham Bell favored “Ahoy! Ahoy!” and I was rather glad he’d lost that particular battle. At any rate, it was “Hello?” I heard when Richard Bement answered the phone.

“Mr. Bement, my name is Dick Hardesty, and I’m a friend of your nephew, Mel. He suggested I contact you.”

“About what? Just why might my nephew be suggesting you call me?”

“It’s a bit complicated,” I began truthfully, “and I was hoping we might meet in person to discuss it.”

“‘It’ being…?”

“In addition to Mel’s friend, I’m also a private investigator. Mel told me he has reason to believe that his grandfather’s—your father’s—death might not have been a suicide, and that he was thinking of taking his concerns to the police. I suggested he let me look into the matter first to see if there were any need to involve the police.”

“The police? That’s totally ridiculous. My father was ninety years old, senile, and in ill health. He chose to take his own life. Period. I have no idea what Mel thinks he is doing or why, but I won’t be a party to it.”

“I’m afraid not being a party to it really won’t be an option if I’m unable to convince Mel not to go to the police. I was frankly surprised they didn’t look more closely into the circumstances of your father’s death at the time, but I’m sure they shared your analysis of the situation.

“Still, if a member of the family were to suggest otherwise, they would have little choice but to investigate, especially considering your father’s prominence. So it really would be better all around if you could help me convince Mel there’s no basis for his concern.” 

A long pause was followed by a put-upon sigh. “Very well. I have absolutely nothing to tell you, but if you insist, I have to be in town for a business meeting and lunch, so I can meet you for a few minutes afterwards. Say two thirty at Georgio’s.”

“I’ll see you there,” I said, idly wondering what sort of “business meeting” it might be, since Mel had said Richard Bement never worked a day in his life. I suspected he just wanted to meet in neutral territory. 

Georgio’s was a fancy newly opened bar at the Montero, the doyenne of the city’s hotels. I hadn’t asked how to recognize him; I figured it would be fairly quiet at two thirty and I could manage.

Since I had plenty of time before meeting Richard, I next tried calling his son George, the one Mel had described as a “serious druggie.” There was no answer and no machine. On to Stuart. An answering machine picked up on the second ring to alert the caller that “Mr. Bement” was not in at the moment but would return my call at his earliest convenience. Since I assumed it was he who had recorded the message, I found the use of “Mr. Bement” to be more than a little affected, and the “at his convenience” downright arrogant.

A call to Alan Bement resulted in another answering machine response—a woman’s voice—and another left message.

Knowing that both Patricia and Gregory Fowler worked during the day, I determined to try to reach them from home after dinner. Gregory, Patricia, Richard, Alan, Stuart, George, Mel…uh…Mel’s mom, whose name escaped me at the moment—Lord, I hoped I could remember who was who and who said what.

I left the office at a quarter till two and opted to take the bus rather than going through the hassle of looking for a parking place near the Montero or paying the exorbitant parking fees in the nearby public garages. Hey, money’s money. 

It was two fifteen, and I was early as usual when I walked into the crystal, brass, and polished-mahogany lobby, which never failed to bring back memories of past cases and lost loves, mine and others’. The relatively small cocktail lounge off the main dining room had been completely redone, greatly expanded, and renamed since I was last there. A small stage had been added to allow the room to be used as a show lounge.

There were only half a dozen people in the place when I entered—all in pairs, which saved me wondering if one of them might be Richard Bement. I walked to the bar and, in honor of the occasion of breathing the rarified air of the wealthy and not having had to pay parking fees, ordered a whiskey sour from the red-vested bartender, whose hair was so shiny with grooming gel it almost reflected light.

*

My watch told me it was a quarter to three, and I was contemplating ordering another drink when an imperious figure strode into the room and marched directly to the bar. Without once having looked around, he sat at the next-to-last stool at the far end of the bar, summoning the bartender to bring him a Bombay gin martini with two garlic olives. 

The fact he had kept me waiting and that he didn’t bother to check to see if I might be there was pretty much what I’d anticipated. He was the mountain, and I was Mohammed. Getting up from my stool, I walked over to him.

“Mr. Bement,” I said, standing slightly behind him so he would have to turn a bit to see me. (If games he wanted, games he’d get.) I then passed behind him to take the last stool, forcing him to turn again in the other direction. “I appreciate your agreeing to see me.”

He totally ignored me while he removed his wallet from the inside pocket of his silk-lined suit coat and from a thick stack of bills selected a twenty, which he placed on the bar. He could just as easily have handed it directly to the bartender, but this way it was necessary for the bartender to reach for it. Games, games, games.

“Would you like another, sir?” the bartender asked me before moving off to the cash register.

“Yes, please,” I said, noting Bement did not offer to take it out of his twenty. I neither wanted nor expected him to, but small gestures, or lack thereof, tell a lot about a person.

Waiting until he had removed the speared olives, tapped them on the edge of the glass, eaten one, set the spear and second olive on his napkin and taken a slow sip of his martini—all the while staring at something in the empty space between him and the back bar—he finally said, “So, exactly what is it you expect me to tell you about my father?”

“Do you think it possible he did not commit suicide?”

The bartender brought my drink and I paid him. Bement waited until he’d gone before speaking.

“It seems my nephew is light in the brain as well as the loafers. But anything’s possible. A man in my father’s position inevitably has a long roster of enemies. And though he outlived most of them, I don’t suppose it is impossible for someone to still harbor a grudge.”

“But wouldn’t it be strange if after all these years—”

“The world abounds in ‘strange,’” he observed. 

Despite the very short time I’d spent in his company, I tended to agree.

“I gather you and your father were not close.”

He picked the remaining olive from his napkin, put it in his mouth and pulled out the empty skewer before replying.

“Please, Mr…Hardesty, was it?” He of course knew damned good and well it was. “I’m sure my nephew has taken great pleasure in parading all our family skeletons before you. Despite what I’m sure he told you, I did not hate my father. I was totally neutral to him. I fully realized his shameful treatment of my mother had nothing to do with me, though I’d be lying if I didn’t say it and she clouded my relationship with him.”

“So, you’re not aware of any enemies he may have had, or made recently?”

He shook his head. “Not at all. He was once a powerful and formidable man, but as he grew older he grew weaker in every sense. At the end, he was just a pathetic old man with no friends and no dignity. So did someone put him out of his misery? Or did he gather the last bit of courage to do it himself? I’d like to think the latter.”

“What can you tell me about Esmirelda Taft?”

“What about her? She’s a housekeeper, nothing more.”

“Well, for one thing, I’m curious as to whether she ever told you, as she did the police, that your father had mentioned suicide several times.”

There was a long pause, as though he was thinking over his response options.

“Yes, I seem to recall she mentioned it.”

“And you knew he had a gun?”

“I knew he had been given one several years before, but he had never mentioned it.”

“But you knew he had one, and you weren’t concerned when you heard he’d talked of suicide?”

“It never occurred to me he would follow through on it. Talking is one thing, doing quite another.”

“I see,” I said, wondering as I did so why people feel it necessary to say “I see” at all. “So, back to Ms. Taft.”

He raised an eyebrow and gave a slight shake of his head. “She was, and is, an employee. Nothing more. She sails through life, doing what she is paid to do while remaining totally unaffected by and uninterested in anything around her. In that regard, she’s the perfect housekeeper.”

“I understand she has a brother who spent time in prison.”

He looked at me strangely. “I won’t ask how you came by that knowledge, but yes. Esmirelda is a very private person, and in all the time she was with us, I can’t say I ever heard her say a word about her personal life.”

“How did you find out about her brother?”

“My late wife became aware, shortly before she died, that Esmirelda was apparently padding our grocery bills—not a great deal, perhaps twenty dollars or so a week—and confronted her. Esmirelda readily admitted it, explaining she had a brother in prison, and that she had taken the money only to help support his family while he was incarcerated.”

“And you didn’t consider that grounds for dismissal?”

“I certainly did, but my wife was a very compassionate woman. She pointed out that Esmirelda was an excellent housekeeper who could have made considerably more money with any number of other families. She said Esmirelda had sworn it would never happen again. My wife promised to keep a careful watch on her, so I agreed to keep her on. It was only after my wife’s death I learned she had subsequently given Esmirelda a raise in the equivalent amount of what she’d been taking so she could continue giving money to her brother’s family. Shortly thereafter, my father’s housekeeper quit, and I decided he needed Esmirelda more than we did.”

So, you got rid of her, I thought. Problem over. At least for you. Clever.

“And did you mention this to your father?”

“I saw no need. It was a closed issue.”

“Did your wife or you ever learn why her brother was sent to prison?”

He shook his head. “Not specifically. Some relatively minor offense, I assume. My wife saw no point in pressing her.”

A most interesting story, and I wondered how much actual truth there was in it. I wondered, too, if Esmirelda might have pulled the same routine with Clarence Bement, and whether he might not have been so “compassionate” if he’d found out about it.

But even if she had been padding the bill, and Clarence had known about it—and I couldn’t envision a multimillionaire looking through grocery store receipts—I could hardly see being caught at padding a grocery bill as motive for murder. On the other hand, if he had threatened to fire her because of it…

I filed it all away in my “to be considered” file, and was thinking of a way to pull the conversation back to the main topic when he saved me the trouble.

“As for my sons, which I assume will be the subject of your next question, my father made a pathetic attempt to buy their affection on the assumption his money could make up for the damage his earlier scandalous behavior had done the family. Then, after encouraging them to come to him if they needed anything, he suddenly cut them off.”

“And how did they react to that?”

Shaking his head, he said, “They were not happy, of course. He’d led them on and led them on only to drop them. None of them, I readily admit, is without flaw, and there’s always been a healthy rivalry among them.”

Healthy rivalry? An interesting way to put it.

“But frankly,” he continued without missing a beat, “I find even the most remote implication that either I or any of my sons could possibly be involved in any way in my father’s death to be insulting.”

“I was not implying you were.” Directly, one of my mind-voices amended. “But as I told you on the phone, Mel is convinced your father would never have committed suicide, and my job is to see if there might possibly be any real justification for his belief. If there is none, he won’t pursue the matter further.”

His look told me he wasn’t buying it.

“Does anyone in your family drive a black Mercedes with tinted windows?” I asked, deciding to switch the subject, and suddenly remembering Jonathan’s description of the car that had followed him when he left work the day after the shooting incident.

He looked at me a bit strangely, then said, “That’s a rather odd question. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious,” I lied, then compounded it. “I drove by your father’s house the other day and saw a black Mercedes in the drive.”

“Ah,” he said. “Well, our entire family is partial to black Mercedes. I have one, but I’ve not been to the house in some time. Stuart has one, too, but I can’t imagine what he would have been doing there. Alan had one but wrecked it. George doesn’t drive. It was probably Esmirelda.”

“Esmirelda Taft has a black Mercedes with tinted windows?” Why hadn’t I asked her when I first went over to Bement’s home—or checked out the garage?

Maybe it’s time you switched careers, a mind-voice—the one in charge of sarcasm—said. Flower arranging would be nice.

He smiled. “No, she’s not paid that well. My father has—had—one, though he hadn’t driven in several years. She has her own car—an old junker—but she keeps it in the garage and uses the Mercedes for shopping and errands.”

I quickly filed the information away for later consideration and moved on.

“I understand Eli Prescott was to be your father’s executor, but that you and your sister assumed duties as alternates when Prescott was killed.” I deliberately chose the word killed rather than died to see if there might be any reaction. There was none.

He nodded, taking another sip of his martini. “Yes, though I’ve been doing most of the work.”

I wondered, since the will had not yet been read, what “work” there might be at this point. I also noted his glass was almost empty, and was quite sure that, when it was, he would find reason to end the discussion and leave.

“Do you know anything about the whereabouts of the new will your father made out shortly before Eli Prescott’s death?”

He turned his head only slightly in my direction. “Nothing at all. I wasn’t even aware there was one until the lawyers called to ask if I knew where it was. Apparently, there was only one copy, and it was never signed so, therefore, is not enforceable.”

“Do you know any details of the new will?” Mel’s mom had already told me the lawyer wouldn’t tell her.

“No, and it really doesn’t matter, since it is not valid.”

“What if a signed copy of the new will were to show up?”

He gave me a sidelong glance. “Then we would just have to see. But I’m not holding my breath.”

I wondered what might lie beneath that statement.

“One more question,” I said. “Do you or any of your sons own a twenty-two rifle?”

“For hunting, you mean?”

“Hunting or any other reason.”

“No. Guns of any kind have only one purpose—to kill, as my late father’s death can attest. Neither I nor any of my sons possess or have ever possessed a gun.”

He drained his martini and picked up his change from the bar—leaving a one dollar tip. “Now I must be going. I trust we will not be meeting again.”

I wouldn’t bet on that, I thought.

Turning away from me as he got up from his stool, he left.

*

Regarding Richard’s response to my question about having a .22 rifle, I really couldn’t picture him or his sons as outdoorsmen. I rather doubted they had ever seen a wild animal, let alone hunted one. Still, .22s were relatively easy to acquire and so ubiquitous as to be difficult to trace.

But that Richard, Stuart, and Clarence all had a black Mercedes—and Esmirelda had access to Clarence’s—was most interesting. And if Richard’s family was as cozy with Esmirelda Taft as I suspected they were, either Alan or George could have borrowed Clarence’s, perhaps in an attempt to set up Richard and/or Stuart. 

Back to Esmirelda—Jeezus, Hardesty! Enough with the mental ping-pong! One thing at a time! a mind-voice demanded—might she have been engaged in some other form of larceny in the belief she wouldn’t be caught? Nor could I just skip over the fact she had a brother who might or might not still be in prison, whom I wanted to know more about.

A lot to consider.

It was nearly time to go home, but rather than just pick up my car and go, I returned to my office, curious as to whether either Alan or Stuart might have returned my call. They hadn’t. I did make a note to try them again from home if I had time, and also to try to reach George, since I’d not been able to leave a message for him.

From what Mel had said about his sister Patricia’s being pretty reclusive and not liking to drive, I assumed any meeting with her would have to be in Carrington. So, if I could arrange a meeting, it would mean an hour’s drive up and an hour’s drive back at a time when there was so little time to spare. I probably should have tried to call her Sunday when I got home from Bob and Mario’s. Oh, well.

I wondered idly if, since both she and Jared worked at the college, Jared might know her. I wasn’t sure how often he made it to the library where she worked, but Marymount wasn’t all that big a school, so there was a possibility.

*

Monday evening, I had my evening Manhattan, watched the news, and popped a frozen dinner into the oven before deciding it was time to call Patricia Fowler. The phone was answered on the second ring by a tentative “Hello?” Odd how much suspicion and insecurity can be telegraphed in one short word.

“Miss Fowler, this is Dick Hardesty. I assume your brother told you I’d be calling.”

“Yes, he did. But I’m not sure why you’d want to talk to me.”

“As he probably told you, he’s asked me to look into the circumstances surrounding your grandfather’s death. I was wondering if we might meet for a bit to discuss some questions I have.” 

“I’m sure I don’t know anything you might find of any interest.”  

“Mel’s told me you and he were close to your grandfather, and so you’re in a unique position to help me learn as much about him as I can.”

“Well, I don’t know. I’m really very busy, and…” And you don’t like having people in your home and you aren’t comfortable in public places, one of my mind-voices said.

“I realize how busy you must be,” I said, “but I have to come up to Carrington tomorrow on other business…” Again, the gentle lie. “…and was wondering if we might have lunch.”

“No.” She said it as though I’d just jumped out from behind a tree and yelled “Boo!” She quickly amended her reaction by saying, “I…I bring my lunch from home.”

“Ah, we have something in common. I always take my lunch to work, too.” 

You’ll burn in hell, you know! an unidentified mind-voice said sanctimoniously. I ignored it and thought quickly back on the few times I had been on the Marymount campus. I seemed to remember a small park adjacent to the library. 

“I can bring my lunch when I come up tomorrow. Perhaps we might meet in the park next to the library and talk while we’re eating?”

There was a long pause, then: “Well, I…”

“Mel said you and he knew your grandfather better than anyone,” I repeated. “I just want to get a better picture of who he was and what might have led to his death. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind your talking to me.”

Another long pause, and finally a hesitant, “Very well. I take my lunch at eleven forty-five. There are a couple of park benches near the rear entrance to the library. I usually eat there.”

“That will be fine,” I said, praying it wouldn’t decide to rain. “I’ll see you there at eleven forty-five. And thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my dinner is waiting.”

“Of course. Until tomorrow, then,” I said.

As I hung up, I thought of my rotten timing—I probably should have arranged to meet her after work; then I could maybe have gotten together with Jared for dinner while I was up there. Well, too late now. But I did give him a call, just to see how things were going.

When I explained I’d be at Marymount but wouldn’t have a chance to see him, he said, “What time’s your meeting?” When I told him eleven forty-five, he said, “Well, if you want to come up a little early, I don’t have a class tomorrow between ten and eleven, so maybe you could come by my office sometime after ten, and we could at least have coffee.”

“Good idea. Tell me how to find you, and I’ll see you then.”

I jotted down the directions to his office, we talked for another minute or two, then hung up.

It was going to be a very busy day.