Chapter 9

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

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

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

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

All pure speculation.

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

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

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

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

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

Why does everything have to be so damned complicated?

*

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You did? What did you say?”

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

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

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

He nodded. “Okay,” he said.

*

As soon as Jonathan got home, Joshua hurried to show him his triumph, and Jonathan, too, showered him with praise, which delighted the boy. Jonathan took the paper into the kitchen and put it up on the refrigerator with a small magnet.

After Joshua and I finished doing the dinner dishes, he insisted we watch him write a new letter to his grandfather, which he did sitting cross-legged at the coffee table, which doubled as a desk for the occasion. All was accomplished with great deliberation, his intense concentration evinced by furrowed brows and the end of his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth. When he finished, Jonathan addressed an envelope for him and folded the letter, which Joshua placed in it, licked the flap and closed it. He then licked the stamp and, with a bit of guidance as to exactly where it should go, affixed it. It was upside down, but we didn’t think the post office would mind.

I promised I would put it in the mail first thing in the morning, and he ran off to play in his room while Jonathan and I settled down to watch some TV.

When a commercial came on, I turned to him.

“I know I asked you before, but are you sure Mr. Bement never mentioned his making a new will?” 

Jonathan, his attention on a blond hunk taking a shower for a soap commercial, shook his head, then turned to me when the camera switched from the hunk to a bubble-covered wrapped bar of the sponsor’s product.

“No. Why would he?” He raised his eyebrows in a mock look of surprise. “Wait! You think he might have left everything to me? That would be nice. Hey, I’d be happy with just his gardening tools.”

I grinned. “Well, I wouldn’t hold my breath.” 

“Tell me. But why did you ask?”

Even though I really didn’t like dragging him into my business, and I’d just had a long conversation with myself about that very subject, I had no idea why I lied yet again.

“Just curious. I was wondering if possibly Mr. Bement might have mentioned something about it to you, even in passing.”

He shook his head again. “No. I’m sure. Really. I’d have remembered it.” He looked at me closely, and his eyes narrowed. “Do you suppose there might be some connection between Mr. Prescott’s death and Mr. Bement’s?”

I shrugged. “I’d bet on it. There are two distinct sides to the Bement family—his son Richard and three grandsons on the one side, and Mel and his mom, dad, and sister on the other. Richard’s sons are greedy pains in the ass and were a real thorn in Clarence’s side. Did he ever say anything to you about them?”

“No. Like I think I told you, he’d sometimes talk about people, but I can’t remember his using any names. I got the idea there were a few who were close to him that he wasn’t very fond of but, again, no names.”

“I can guess,” I said. “Apparently, he finally had enough and turned off the spigot, which naturally pissed them all off royally. I’d be willing to bet the new will made some pretty drastic changes in the distribution of his fortune.”

Jonathan was quiet a minute, then said, “And you think that’s why my truck was shot at? Because somebody thinks Mr. Bement told me something about his new will?”

“You thought the shot at your truck was deliberate?” 

He gave me a small smile and reached over to take my hand. “Not until you started circling the wagons and going into your ‘let’s protect Jonathan’ number and shuttling Joshua and me off to Wisconsin. It didn’t take me long to figure out why. Usually when you do that, you drive me crazy, but I knew you were protecting Joshua, too, because he’s alone with me going back and forth to Happy Day. So, I didn’t say anything.”

I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, so I didn’t. I guess I’m not as clever as I think I am.

*

Jonathan had mentioned “circling the wagons,” and that was a definite problem I faced when it came to this case. I realized I might be making a mistake zeroing in on Stuart, Alan, and George Bement. I still couldn’t see Esmirelda and her brother having enough to gain to resort to murder to get it, but I had to go with the obvious first.

I had little doubt that, if confronted and accused of killing their grandfather—and, I was increasingly convinced, Eli Prescott—none of them would have the slightest hesitation about shoving the others under a bus. I was also sure they were acting as one when it came to denying any knowledge of a signed copy of the new will. No matter who the killer was, it was in their own individual self-interest to try to prevent the new will from going into effect. Even if they did not know exactly what was in it, they had to know it was most likely bad news for them.

I spent most of Tuesday morning making myself miserable trying to figure out ways to find out things there was no practical way to find out.

Jonathan had mentioned reading the book Clarence Bement had given him, and that he really liked Sonnet 43, which he remembered from high school: “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.” Well, I could pretty much do a paraphrase on that one: “How far up the creek am I on this case? Let me count the ways…”

Maybe if I did discreetly accuse Stuart, Alan, and George, individually, one of them might, in the course of pushing the others into the path of the bus, give me something solid to follow up on, or might shake a few more clues out of the skeletons in the family closet. It might be worth a shot.

Assuming any of them did it, a mind-voice pointed out helpfully. 

*

I yet again rummaged through my mental in-basket. That one or more on Richard’s side of the family had, as Mel had indicated, gone through Clarence’s home looking for the new will following his death, and with Esmirelda’s tacit approval, was axiomatic. The question was, how could they have missed finding it if, as I was increasingly sure, it was still there somewhere.

Of course, I recognized that pointing a finger at any one of them could be hazardous to my health. And although I’d put myself in jeopardy in the course of more than one case, this time there was the added—and unacceptable but unavoidable—risk of involving Jonathan and Joshua whenever they were with me. It was hard enough to handle the frustrations of a difficult case without their possibly still being in harm’s way because of it. But I didn’t see that I had much of a choice at this point.

Considering all the time it had taken to corral the three brothers the first time around, getting to talk to each of them again would not be easy.

*

I first called Richard. Naturally, he wasn’t in, so I left a message. To forestall the very real possibility he would just ignore it, I tried to word it with a hook.

“Mr. Bement, this is Dick Hardesty. I think I’m getting close to closing the case, but I’ve come up with a question regarding your brother-in-law Gregory Fowler that you might be able to answer for me.”

I knew they were positive Mel’s dad had his hand in the cookie jar and was hoping the opportunity to shift attention to Gregory might be an inducement, and that Richard might want to know just what I meant by “coming close to closing the case,” which was, of course, pure Hardesty bullshit. But even if he thought so, too, I hoped his curiosity might get the better of him.

I’d long ago decided that answering machines were wonderful devices but also something of a pain in the ass by allowing people to use them to screen calls. I had little doubt that’s what all the Bements were doing when I tried to reach them. I left basically the same message on Alan’s and Stuart’s machines and thought about making a quick side trip to Embers on my way home to see if George might be there, or if the bartender knew which nights he was more likely to be there, but it was Jonathan’s chorus night, so I had to get right home.

*

Paranoia can come rather easily to a private investigator, and after yet another round of no-calls-received-from and another round of messages-left-for the Bements from work Wednesday morning, my suspicion they might not be anxious to talk to me was fairly well confirmed.

As I pondered my next move, my mind came back to who had witnessed the signing of the will. I’m sure Mel was right in assuming anyone mentioned in it could not have been a witness, and I could also understand that Clarence wouldn’t want Richard’s side of the family to even know about it, let alone have any of them witnessing it. I put in calls to Mel’s mom, dad, and Mrs. Prescott to see if they had any idea of who might have been selected, and none of them had any idea. I wanted to call Patricia, too, but knew she was working and didn’t want to bother her at the library.

After lunch, without a single phone call from the Bements, I was busy fighting off mounting frustration when I remembered seeing a sign outside the Embers proclaiming a Wednesday happy hour, 4 to 7. On the chance George Bement might take advantage of it, I called Jonathan’s work, leaving a message that I’d probably be a few minutes late getting home.

*

The minute I walked in the door, I spotted George sitting at the same table as on my last visit. He was staring impassively into his drink as though watching a tiny TV screen among the ice cubes. He once again didn’t even notice me until I was standing beside the table, and even then he didn’t seem startled by my sudden appearance.

“Mr. Bement,” I said, extending my hand, which he took.

He gave me an idle smile and said, “Mr. Hardesty! What brings you here? Never mind. I know. You tracked me down like a fox on the moors.”

I didn’t know they had foxes on the moors, but then, I didn’t know a lot of things.

“I’ve been trying to reach you by phone, and just took a chance you might be here.”

“Well, you were right. I am here. Have a seat. What would you like to drink?” As I pulled out a chair, he flagged the waitress over. “Bourbon-Seven, right?” he asked as she approached. 

I merely nodded.

“A bourbon and Seven, if you will, and I’ll have another while you’re at it.” He took a long swig of his current drink as she walked away, then set the glass down with a satisfied “aahhh!” Turning his attention to me, he said, “And what may I do for you this time? Still looking for dear Grandfather’s alleged…killer?”

“Still trying to gather information,” I said.

He gave a quick upward jerk of his head. “I see. And what information are you currently gathering? Zeroing in on one of my dear brothers, I hope.”

Ah, the power of brotherly love.

“I was curious about two things. First, you told me last time we met that you knew nothing about your grandfather’s new will. But I’m increasingly convinced he was killed because of it. And, to be honest with you, your side of the family has the most to gain by making sure the new will never surfaces.”

“Interesting theory,” he said, not looking at me.

If I told him I thought it still existed, that might trigger a new, intensified search of Bement’s house, and might turn it up this time. So I said, “I’m pretty sure it’s been found and destroyed, either by the killer or by…someone else.” The pause was deliberate. Not subtle, but deliberate.

He gave me a small smile. “So it’s all rather moot, isn’t it?”

I shrugged.

Seeing the waitress approach the table, he hastily drained his glass and put it on the table for her to pick up. As she set the drinks down, I reached for my billfold.

“I’ll get this one,” I said, but he waved me off. 

“Nonsense!” Glancing at the waitress, he said, “Put it on my tab, honey.”

Since she was not the same waitress we’d had when I was in before, I gathered he called all the waitresses “honey” to save having to learn their names.

I raised my glass. “Cheers.”

He returned the salute. “And your second question?”

“Gregory Fowler managed your trust fund, right?”

“All of them—mine, my brothers’, my father’s. And mismanaged is more the word.”

“Mismanaged? How was that?”

“By refusing to be flexible. By sticking everything into musty old companies instead of going with the flow. We were constantly after him to diversify into real growth stocks, but he refused. I don’t know how much his insistence on horse-and-buggy stocks cost us in lost profits over the years. I’m certain he was robbing Clarence blind, and the old coot was too far gone in dementia to realize it. The estate should have been much larger than it was, and I lay that fact right on Fowler’s doorstep.”

I got out the salt cellar on that one. For one thing, nothing I knew about Clarence Bement suggested he had suffered from dementia. And Mel had indicated—and logically dismissed— the concern that something nefarious was going on that reduced the size of the estate. But rather than wander off any further, I got right back to the conversation.

“And what makes you think that?”

“Gregory controls the old man’s money. He has for years. He can do whatever he wants with it, and he’s refused to give any of us regular accountings of just where the money has been going.”

I hardly felt it necessary to point out that, since it was all Clarence’s money and not theirs, Gregory was not required to tell them anything.

“The financial statement he presented at the reading was a sham,” he continued. “We’re demanding to see all his books.” 

Again, since Gregory had indicated an independent auditor regularly reviewed his books, I wasn’t sure exactly what the point would be, but I definitely was not surprised to hear George and his kin would automatically assume everyone was as greedy as they were.

I found it hard to imagine that Gregory Fowler would go around bilking major clients. Richard’s side of the family was dysfunctional enough for both sides. And I wondered, even if they looked at the books under a microscope, how they might feel qualified to spot any discrepancies if there were any. They could probably insist on a second independent audit, but I had no idea what might be involved there.

I had little doubt that, no matter how much money Clarence Bement might have left, they would insist there had to be more. I could see the storm clouds brewing on the horizon, and I didn’t envy Gregory Fowler.

Well, the financial squabbling was none of my business. Time to get back on track.

“Do you have any specific evidence for such an accusation? Has Gregory been buying yachts or mansions or living extravagantly enough to cause suspicion?”

He took another swig of his drink. “No, he’s way too smart for that. But he’s doing it, mark my words. He’s got it stashed somewhere, I know that.”

“But, again, you have no real evidence.”

“I don’t need any. He’s a thief.”

Well, that settled it, then. The old “don’t bother me with facts, my mind’s made up” theorem. 

I glanced at my watch. “Ah!” I said. “I’ve got to get going! Are you sure you won’t let me get the drinks?”

He shook his head. “On me.”

“Well, thanks,” I said, finishing my drink. I got up and extended my hand. “I appreciate the information.” 

“Any time.” As I started to leave, he said, “Oh, one more thing.”

I turned back to him. “Yes?”

“Why did the police come around wanting to inspect my car?”

I shook my head. “Beats me,” I said. And then I left.

Was it possible, I wondered while driving home, that Gregory Fowler had been dipping into Clarence Bement’s piggy bank? I suppose he could, if he were able to get around a yearly independent audit, but why would he? Not everybody’s a crook. Gregory was a CPA, had a clean bill of health from the police, ran his own company, and apparently had been doing well for himself all these years. His wife and children had just come into a hefty fortune. It didn’t make much sense for him to tap the till.

*

I was fixing a second pot of coffee Thursday morning at the office when I remembered something Jonathan had said some time ago—that Clarence had a yard service come in on Fridays. Could a couple of them have been pressed into service as witnesses to the signing of the will? It wasn’t as if it required any special training—just verifying that you’d watched the process.

While I hated to bother Jonathan at work, and didn’t know if he was working in the nursery’s yard or out with a crew on a job, I called Evergreen. I was told he was in but working in the back of the lot. Rather than have someone go out and get him, I just left a message asking him to call me as soon as he could.

Ten minutes later, he called back.

“What’s up?”

“Sorry to bother you at work, Babe, but I was wondering. You said Mr. Bement had a yard service come in every Friday afternoon. Was it a lawn maintenance company or just a bunch of guys?”

He was silent a moment, then said, “I’m not sure. It was just three guys in a green pickup with a patched-up rear taillight. There was a name on the truck, but I don’t remember what it was. I think they work for several people in the area. I know I passed them other days when I was going to Mr. Bement’s. I’m really sorry I can’t remember the name.”

“No problem,” I said. “I can take a drive over to Briarwood and see if I might spot them.”

“Good luck,” he said. He didn’t ask why I was looking for them, but that was typical of him. He knew I had a reason and didn’t feel he needed to know what it was.

I waited until around noon, figuring it would be a good time to catch them if they were in the area.

*

I’d driven up and down several streets surrounding Clarence Bement’s home before spotting a green pickup loaded with lawn equipment parked in the driveway of a Mount Vernon look-alike. Two men were working in front, and I heard the sound of a lawnmower coming from somewhere just out of sight around the building.

Noting the truck had a cracked taillight held in place with what looked like duct tape, I pulled up behind it, got out, and approached the workers.

“Is one of you the boss?” I asked. They looked at one another, then one pointed to the left side of the house. 

“Jim. He’s mowing in the back.”

I thanked them and headed in the direction of the sound of the mower.

Seeing me, the guy behind the mower—Jim, my incisive detective’s mind told me—continued his swath until it brought him closer to me. He turned off the mower and said, “Can I help you?”

A decent-looking guy in his early thirties, he was wearing a tight white tee shirt with prominent sweat stains under the armpits. The day was unseasonably warm for late fall, and being in the sun for a couple hours must have been downright hot, but there must have been some unwritten rule that frowned on anyone’s working shirtless in such a wealthy neighborhood. A bad rule, I thought, since Jim definitely had a body built for being shirtless.

“You work for Clarence Bement, right?”

“Yeah. Every Friday. Why?”

“Did you know he’d died?”

He shook his head. “No, but I was wondering why we hadn’t seen him out in his back yard. Sorry about that. He seemed like a nice old man. Nobody’s told us to stop going, but if he’s dead, I wonder who’ll be paying the bill.”

“I’m sure that won’t be a problem,” I said. “You just send a bill to Mr. Bement?”

“We invoice every month—I sent him a bill last week. You sure there won’t be a problem in our getting paid?”

I shook my head. “No, I’m sure there won’t be. I was curious as to whether he may have asked you to witness a document? Say around the seventeenth of the month?”

He looked at me rather suspiciously. “Why are you asking?”

“I’m a private investigator doing some work for one of Mr. Bement’s relatives, and I was led to believe you might have been asked to serve as a witness to a signing.”

“Yeah. Me and Chuck. There was a lawyer there, and he gave us each twenty bucks.”

“And you saw Mr. Bement sign it?”

“Yeah. He signed it, then we signed it.”

A wave of relief swept over me. “That’s great,” I said. “Thanks. That’s all I needed to know.”

He shrugged. “No problem.”

I turned back toward my car and heard the lawnmower sputter back to life.

As I passed the pickup, I saw “J.G. Lawn Care” on the door. I made a mental note of it and the phone number.

One of the other two men looked up as I got into my car, and I gave him a wave, then took a notepad out of my glove compartment and wrote down the name and phone number. Tearing the sheet off the pad, I put it in my shirt pocket then turned on the ignition and left.

*

l didn’t hear from Mel until Friday morning at around ten.

“Hi, Dick. I just got back into town. What have you found out?”

I told him of tracking down the witnesses to the will.

“While I don’t know if it will do any good, you might contact the lawyer—Weaver—to see what he has to say. I don’t know if just having someone verify that they witnessed the signing would be enough to negate the original will and put the new one into effect, but you can’t lose anything by asking.”

“I’ll call him as soon as I hang up with you. Thanks, Dick! Now all we have to do is find out who killed Grandpa B.”

“And Eli Prescott,” I amended. “And we still have to find the will. Even with sworn witnesses, you might have trouble having it supersede the original. But if it is, by chance, still out there somewhere, we’ll find it.” I waited a second, then said, “You know, I still can’t understand why Richard’s boys are so thoroughly convinced your dad was ripping your grandfather off. Do you have any idea where they might have gotten the idea, other than thinking the estate should have been larger than it was? Is there anything—anything at all you can think of—that might have led them to think that way?”

“Well, it wasn’t quite as large as I’d thought, either, but how would I know? Grandpa B had been retired for a lot of years, and with everyone constantly having their hand out, wanting more, it’s not surprising.

“My dad is as honest as the day is long, and if it was anybody else making such rotten statements, I’d be really pissed. But considering the source, I’d almost expect it.” Suddenly, he paused. Quite a long pause, then, “There’s no way they could have found out about Monrovia, and even if they did, Dad didn’t know anything about it.”

“Monrovia?” 

“Yeah. When I was a kid my folks took me and Pat on a wild animal safari, and I’ve been fascinated with Africa ever since. Mom and Dad have been there several times, and about a month before Grandpa B died, I had a chance to juggle my schedule in order to go.

“I told you Grandpa B supported a lot of overseas charities, and one of them was a wildlife refuge in Liberia. I told him Liberia was one of my stops, and he asked if I’d be willing to visit the refuge. I told him sure.

“But when I got to Monrovia and went to their headquarters to get directions, I found it was just an empty office on some dirty side street. There was no refuge. Obviously, it was a scam, and someone was just ripping off supporters. The minute I got back to the States I told both my dad and Grandpa B, and Dad cut off all funding immediately. I wouldn’t be surprised if Esmirelda overheard us and reported it to Uncle Richard. I’m sure that’s the kind of thing he and the boys would love to sink their teeth into.”

“Well, as you say, I don’t think they really need proof of anything—suspicions are enough.”

“So, I’d better call Mr. Weaver right now. I’ll let you know what happens.”

“Do that, please,” I said.

“Maybe we can get together for a drink sometime,” he said. “You, and Jonathan, of course.”

“We’d like that,” I said, and meant it. Really meant it.

Down, boy!

*

Half an hour later, Mel called back. 

“He said it might be possible to recognize the new will,” he said, “but that it would be a long, drawn-out procedure. Richard and the boys are between a rock and a hard place. They can’t get a penny until it’s all resolved, yet I really think they believe the new will will cut them out entirely. 

“And a court battle could drag on for years. Still, I talked with Mom, as co-executor of the original will, and she said we should go ahead. Mr. Weaver says we’ll need affidavits from the witnesses to start. And he’ll need the names and addresses—do you have them?”

“I have the phone number, and if they need me to, I can do the calling to get the exact information they need.”

“Great. Why don’t you give me what you have, and I’ll see how he wants to handle it.”

I got out the piece of paper on which I’d written the information from the side of the truck and gave it to him.

“I’m curious,” I said. “Has anyone actually read the new will, other than Weaver and whoever it was who stole Eli Prescott’s signed copies?”

“No. Mr. Weaver says he hasn’t read it himself. He says even though both Eli Prescott and Grandpa B are dead, it still falls under lawyer-client confidentiality, and he can’t let anyone see it until it’s read.”

“Understood,” I said. “Although, of course, whoever stole the signed copies Eli Prescott had in his possession knows very well what’s in it.”

We talked for a few more minutes, then hung up.

As I was getting ready to leave the office, I got a call from Detective Angell—I did love that name.

“News on the Prescott incident,” he said.

“You found the car that forced him off the road?

“We think so. You were right about its being a black Mercedes. We found it in Clarence Bement’s garage. They’re doing the paint match now, but I’m pretty sure it will prove to be the one. We questioned the housekeeper, but she claims to have no knowledge of it, and says Bement often loaned it to his family.”

“Yeah, but how would they have gotten the key? And I don’t think anything goes on around that house she isn’t aware of. I’ll bet you she knows exactly who took the car, and when.”

“She said the key was kept in the garage, where anyone in the family could get to it. We asked her about the Sunday of Prescott’s ‘accident,’ and she says she goes to seven a.m. mass every Sunday, so if somebody took it while she was at church, she wouldn’t have known.”

“Good story, but I don’t know if I buy it. She uses the Mercedes to go shopping and to run errands. I wouldn’t be the least surprised if she also took it to church. Which means if someone else drove it that Sunday, she’d probably have had to know about it in advance. Getting her to admit it is the problem.”

“Well, if the paint matches, we’ll have another talk with her. No point in doing it until we’re absolutely sure.”

“Understood.” 

We hung up shortly thereafter, and I was left just about where I’d been before the call came in.

*

Police lieutenant Mark Richman, with whom I’d worked on a number of cases, had a gay teenage son, Craig, whose services as a babysitter we used whenever we had the opportunity to go somewhere without Joshua. We were lucky in that not only was Craig a great kid but that Joshua looked on him as an older brother and a pal, and Craig, who had a slightly younger brother at home, was terrific with the boy. 

We’d settled into a nice arrangement with Craig and his folks, who looked on Jonathan and me as positive role models for their son. On the Saturday nights Craig babysat, he’d sleep over then accompany Jonathan and Joshua to services at the Metropolitan Community Church Sunday morning. When they returned, we’d all go to brunch, then drop Craig off at home.

We’d arranged for him to come over Saturday night so that Jonathan and I could have one of our rare “just-the-two-of-us” nights out—dinner and a movie and maybe a stop at a couple of our favorite bars. Jonathan didn’t miss bar-hopping as much as I did, probably because he didn’t drink and hadn’t been as deeply involved in the bar scene as I had been before we met. 

He liked to refer to those rare times as our “date nights,” and I guess it was a pretty accurate way to put it. It gave us the chance to step away from our daily lives, and though we loved Joshua completely, it was nice to just concentrate totally on one another every now and then. 

Dinner at Napoleon’s, the latest James Bond movie, then a stop at Ramon’s, our friend Bob Allen’s bar, then another at Griff’s, our favorite piano bar, to hear Guy Prentice do a couple of sets. The only problem with “date night” was that, with Craig asleep on the sofa in the living room, we had to be a little circumspect as to how the evening ended once the lights were out. But all-in-all, it was a really great night.

*

Sunday morning, however, got off to a bad start when I went out into the hall to get the paper. It wasn’t there. Creature of habit that I am, I was mildly pissed at the inconvenience, but figured the delivery boy was running late. It still hadn’t come when Jonathan, Joshua, and Craig left for church. Odd how strongly we depend on our rituals, and how disconcerting it is when, for some reason, those rituals are broken. 

I picked up Sonnets from the Portuguese, which Jonathan had left on the coffee table. I’d read it in college and, like him, had found it a little heavy going in spots. Still, I opened it and began flipping through the dog-eared pages

Clarence had obviously had it for some time, and out of curiosity, I checked the publication date—Cameo Classics, 1939. I reflected again on the fact that a hard-driven millionaire’s favorite book would be a collection of love poems more than 100 years old. Well, we all have our secrets.

I noted that on the top of page 5, someone—obviously Clarence—had written the number 44. As I moved through the book, stopping occasionally to read a few lines, I found several other pages with numbers at the top. Idly wondering what might have struck him on the pages indicated by his notes, I flipped back to page 5 and the first notation.

I read the whole page, then went to page 44 and read that. I was a little puzzled, since he hadn’t underlined anything, and from what I could see, the two poems had little in common.

Then I saw that the top of page 44 had the number 15 written on it. Went back to page 15, where again there were no highlighting or underlinings, and wondered what connection there might be to the poem on page 44, or what passage might have had special impact for him.

At the top of page 15 was the number 37. Same puzzlement. Went to 37 to find the number 8. Again no particular connection, no passages that had any more resonance than the ones around them.

Well, poetry is totally subjective, and speaks to each person differently. Obviously, Clarence found something significant on each of those pages which spoke to him. I just had no idea of what it was.

*

When the boys returned from church, we sat and talked for a few minutes, then headed off for brunch. 

“Can we go to the Cove?” Jonathan said.

“Sure. Any particular reason?”

The Cove was a family restaurant popular with gay teenagers and gays and lesbians with children.

“Craig ran into a friend at church, and he said he was going to the Cove afterwards, so…”

“Ah,” I said, looking at Craig. “A new love in your life?” He had broken up with a boyfriend not too long before.

Craig blushed. “Too early to tell,” he said.

“But you’re hoping.” 

He merely grinned and said nothing.

*

The brunch went well, and we left Craig at the restaurant, where he joined a group of kids his age, one of whom was obviously his next candidate for the position of “Mr. Right.” He promised he’d call his parents to let them know why we weren’t dropping him off at the usual time.

Joshua and I were just finishing the dinner dishes Sunday night when the phone rang. Jonathan, who had been watering the plants, hurried to answer it. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but about two minutes later, he came into the kitchen.

“It’s for you,” he said. “It’s Mel.”

That took me somewhat by surprise. Wiping my hands and putting the dishtowel on the counter, I went to the phone.

“Mel, hi. What’s going on?”

“Sorry to bother you at home, Dick, but I’ve got an extended rotation, starting Tuesday. There’s some sort of stomach disorder going around, and it’s played havoc with a lot of our flight attendants, so we all have to cover for one another.”

“Sorry about that,” I said, assuming he hadn’t called just to tell me that. I was right.

“I’ve been talking with my mom, and she wants you to come with us to Grandpa B’s tomorrow to see if we can find the will. She figures that, since you’re a private investigator, you might be able to spot things we wouldn’t. I know Richard and his kids have all but ransacked the place looking for it, but I think it’s worth a shot.”

I was flattered by Gladys Fowler’s confidence in my abilities but feared they weren’t all that warranted. Then I figured why not? and agreed.

“Okay,” I said. “You want me to meet you there?”

“That’d probably be easier. I’ll pick Mom up, and we’ll meet you there at…ten?”

“Ten it is,” I said.

“Got a date with Mel?” Jonathan asked, coming into the living room.

“Yeah. Him and his mom. We’re meeting at Clarence’s tomorrow to see if we can find the missing will. Everyone’s been searching for it.”

“That’s too bad. I’m surprised it wasn’t in his safe.”

“He didn’t have a safe,” I said. “I asked.”

“Sure he does,” Jonathan said. “I saw it. In the greenhouse, under the potting table along the back wall.”