Free The Secret Keeper by Dorien Grey Page B

know?”
    “There was one point when I was teenager when I wanted to be an architect, just around the time Grandpa B built the house. He gave me a copy of the plans, and I kept them. I checked them over right after he died, just to see if there might be a safe somewhere. There isn’t. But I’ll be willing to bet Uncle Richard and the boys have been all over the place with a fine-tooth comb looking for one. And if they found it, well…”
    As Arte Johnson used to say on Laugh-In , “Vel-ly intellesting.” At least this case won’t be dull , I thought—as if a possible murder case ever was.
    “Has the will been read yet?”
    “Not yet. Mr. Weaver said that although wills are almost never ‘read’ anymore—the heirs are just sent copies—Grandpa B had stipulated he wanted an old-fashioned reading, even though almost everyone knew what was in it. Though if a new signed will shows up, it should be a very interesting reading. Richard and his sons are pushing the lawyers for a date, but Mr. Weaver wants to give plenty of time for a signed copy of the new will to show up.
    “And gathering and updating all the financial information and figuring out the value of the assets is going to take some time, too. Still, it can’t be put off forever, and every day it’s put off is a day longer Uncle Richard and his boys have to wait for their money. They’re already champing at the bit.”
    “I’m sure they are, especially if you’re right that they might possibly have found a signed copy at your grandfather’s home and don’t like what’s in it.” I had another thought. “Was Prescott married?”
    He nodded.
    “Do you happen to have their phone number? I’d really like to talk to his wife to see what she might know about the will, and I’ve got a few questions about the burglary.”
    Setting his coffee cup on the edge of my desk and hoisting his shapely rear—I know, I know: Hardesty! —off the chair to reach into his back pocket, he produced a folded sheet of paper, which he leaned forward to hand me.
    “I figured you might want them, so right after you called, I wrote down the numbers of everyone I thought you might want to contact. I included Mrs. Prescott.”
    I opened the sheet and glanced quickly at the names, noting the perfect penmanship. Jeez! Beauty, brains, money, a life of travel and adventure, and he writes well! T’ain’t fair!
    “The only number I don’t have is for Anna, since she has a TTY, a special machine that lets her type messages via the phone line. But the caller has to have one, too, so… The number I gave you for Mom is for Oak Terrace. She’s been there since right after the funeral, but she can have visitors.” He paused, then said, “So, you’ll take the case?”
    “I’ll be glad to,” I said. “You know, of course, that I can’t give you an iron-clad guarantee, and the police will quite probably solve it on their own if they decide there’s reason to investigate more thoroughly, but I’ll give it my best shot.”
    “That’s all I can ask,” he said. “And please feel free to use my name any time you need to. I’m sure that’ll get a rise out of some of them.”
    He sat there smiling without saying anything for a moment, looking at me, then sat forward in his chair as if starting to get up.
    “I assume there’s some paperwork involved? And a retainer?”
    “As a matter of fact,” I said, reaching into my desk drawer for a contract while he reached into his shirt pocket to extract a folded blank check.
    Business completed, we talked for a few more minutes, and as he got up to leave, he said, “Can I ask you a somewhat personal question?”
    “Sure,” I said, a little puzzled.
    “Do you and Jonathan by any chance have an open relationship?”
    “I’m sorry?” Talk about something coming totally out of left field! I knew what he was saying, but wanted clarification anyway.
    “Do either of you ever play around?”
    Damn! I hate questions like that, only