A Secret to Die For Read online

  A Secret to Die For

  By Edward Kendrick

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2018 Edward Kendrick

  ISBN 9781634866828

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  A Secret to Die For

  By Edward Kendrick

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 1

  Brian clenched his hands, pasting a smile on his face. It was ten minutes to nine, he was working to fill in for a sick employee on what was supposed to be his day off, the coffee shop closed at nine—and four people had just walked in. He could have told them the shop was closing, but one look at his manager cut off any thought of doing so.

  “How may I help you?” he asked.

  The two men and one of the women knew what they wanted and told him. The second woman stared at the list above the counter. “Maybe, no, umm…”

  “Come on, Val,” one of the men said as she kept vacillating. “Make up your mind. Honestly, you’re hopeless, and I’m sure these guys would like to close before midnight.”

  No kidding.

  While Brian’s manager began making the specialty coffees for the one couple, Brian drew a regular one from the almost empty coffee machine for the second man.

  Val eventually settled on a raspberry mocha espresso with all the trimmings. By then her companions were ready to leave—and so was Brian, if he could have. He made her drink, heaving a silent sigh of relief when she joined her friends and they took off. All that remained now was clean-up, which Brian took care of while his manager did the books. By the time they finished it was after nine-thirty.

  As he walked to the bus stop, Brian took out his phone to check for messages. He only had one, from a Walter Johnson, asking him to call back at his earliest convenience. Brian had no idea who he was, but did as the man asked, figuring he’d be sent to voicemail given the hour. He was half right. He’d reached an answering machine—“Johnson and Parker, Attorneys-at-Law. We are closed. Please leave a message and we will return your call as soon as possible.”

  Huh? A lawyer? Why the hell would a lawyer be calling me? He shrugged, gave his name and number, saying he was returning Mr. Johnson’s call, and hung up.

  * * * *

  Brian had barely finished eating breakfast when his phone rang. He checked the Caller ID and answered.

  “Mr. Newell? Brian Newell?” a man asked. When Brian told him he was, the man said, “My name is Walter Johnson. I’m, I was, your grandfather’s attorney.”

  Brian frowned. “As far as I know, both my grandfathers died years ago. Why are you calling me now? And which grandfather?”

  “Alistair. Your father’s father. Yes, he’s deceased.”

  “You must have the wrong Brian Newell. My dad’s father was James Newell.”

  “I believe you’re the man I need to talk with. Are you available today to visit our offices?”

  “I suppose, as long as it’s before noon. I’m due at work at one.”

  “It’s nine-fifteen. Can you be here by ten?” Mr. Johnson gave Brian the address.

  “Sure, why not.”

  “Excellent. I’ll see you then.”

  * * * *

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Newell,” Mr. Johnson said after introducing himself. He escorted Brian to his plush office at the end of a long hallway. “If you’ll have a seat, please, I’ll explain everything to you.”

  Brian debated between the sofa and one of two armchairs arranged around a coffee table at one side of the room, opting for a chair. When he was seated, Mr. Johnson took the other chair, pressing his fingertips together as he studied Brian.

  “I’ll begin by telling you something that I know you are not aware of,” Mr. Johnson began. “The man you knew as your grandfather, James Newell, was your father’s step-father.”

  “Are you serious?” Brian blurted out.

  “Quite serious,” Mr. Johnson replied. “Alistair McDermott was your father’s birth father. Soon after your grandmother divorced him, she married James Newell. From what Alistair told me, the divorce was contentious, to put it politely, and your father was only a baby when it happened.”

  “I’d ask her and Grandpa James why they didn’t tell me about Alistair,” Brian replied, “if they were alive. Unfortunately…” He shook his head with a sigh.

  “I understand.”

  “Have you told my father?”

  “No, I haven’t. One of the stipulations of Alistair McDermott’s will is that he not be informed.”

  “He’s dead, too, I take it. When?”

  “Two weeks ago, of cancer. He was eighty-four.”

  “Six years older than Grandpa James, when he died.” Brian tapped a finger to his lips. “You said he had a will. I presume, since you wanted to talk with me, I’m mentioned in it, which means he knew about me.”

  “He did. He kept track of your father, because he was his son, even though he stayed out of his life.”

  “Obviously, from what you said, he had no interest in being anything to him other than his sperm donor,” Brian replied tightly.

  “True. His stated reason was that he had no desire to become a second-hand parent when your dad already had a new father in James. He made it one of the stipulations of the divorce that your grandmother was not to tell your father about him.” Mr. Johnson smiled dryly. “I suspect he didn’t want your father to try to contact him when he was older, in an attempt to get money. He was a very wealthy man.”

  “Dad would never have done that!” Brian protested.

  “Perhaps not, but it’s a moot point, now. He is not an heir, and as I told you, it’s stated clearly in Alistair McDermott’s will that he is not to be informed that he is Alistair’s son. If you tell him, all of Alistair’s money will go to several charities.”

  “Where do I come into this?” Brian asked.

  “You are Alistair’s sole heir.”

  “You have got to be kidding me,” Brian replied, shocked and somewhat dismayed as well.

  “No, I’m not. Before you become too elated, there are two stipulations. One, as I’ve said, is that you don’t tell your parents about Alistair. The second is, you are to spend the next year living in Alistair’s home.”

  “Umm, what exactly d
oes that involve, and where is it?”

  Mr. Johnson smiled. “It involves just what it says. You are to move into his home and reside there for a period of one year. I don’t think you’ll find it a hardship as you won’t have to move away from the city. It’s an older house on Seventh Avenue. Fairly large but not a mansion.”

  “Like I can afford…”

  “Brian, everything will be paid for. All you have to do is live there and take care of his bird.”

  “Bird?” Brian grimaced. “I’m more of a cat person, myself.”

  “Be that as it may, Alistair owned a scarlet macaw.” Mr. Johnson chuckled. “It has a room of its own in the house, set up like a tropical forest.”

  “Good grief.”

  “I agree, but Alistair adored the bird and was more than willing to sacrifice what had been the solarium on the second floor to keep it happy.”

  “Does it have a name?” Brian asked.

  “Sir Kenith the Red.”

  “Sounds Viking, like Erik the Red.”

  “I suppose so,” Mr. Johnson agreed. “According to Alistair, Kenith means ‘born of fire.’”

  Deciding to get off birds for the time being, Brian asked, “What does the house look like?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough. I do have a few photos of the interior.” Mr. Johnson got a thick folder from a file cabinet, taking out a smaller folder which he handed to Brian.

  “Holy shit.” Brian whistled as he looked at the pictures. “It’s beautiful, if you like dark wood and fireplaces. There are even ones in the bedrooms.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Four bedrooms for one man? What did he do, spend a different night in each one?”

  “I believe they were for guests, when he had them, which was rarely. He was a solitary man. Or perhaps I should say his home was his place of refuge from the rest of the world. He made his money as an investment banker, eventually owning his own firm before he retired.”

  “And here I am, working as a barista in a coffee shop. You’re sure I’m really his grandson?”

  Mr. Johnson smiled. “Yes, Brian, I am. Now, what other questions do you have before we visit your new home? Or am I being presumptive about you wanting to live there?”

  Brian blew out a long breath. “How am I going to explain this to my folks?”

  “How often do they visit here?”

  “Once in a blue moon. I think the last time was a year ago Christmas. I went home two months ago for Mom’s birthday. Other than that, well…” Brian chewed his lip. “It’s sort of ‘We love you, from a distance, but…’.”

  “They don’t approve of your life style?”

  “What life style? I manage to pay for my apartment, and food, and even an occasional night out. They expected a lot more out of me. The problem is, I’ve never figured out what I wanted to do with my life, other than I didn’t want to follow in Dad’s footsteps and work in some dreary office.”

  “You’re twenty-five. You still have time to figure it out. If you decide on a career, you’ll be able to afford to go to college. But not,” Mr. Johnson, cautioned, “until you’ve fulfilled the stipulations of the will. As for your parents, I suggest you let them know you’ve moved and leave it at that. I’m sure you can come up with a logical reason without telling them about the house, per se.”

  Brian grimaced. “I hope so. Thankfully they don’t know Denver all that well, so they won’t know from the address that it’s in a fairly prestigious neighborhood. I mean, it is, isn’t it?”

  “It is. Are you ready to go look at it?” Mr. Johnson asked, getting up. “Where did you park?”

  Brian snorted. “Nowhere, since I don’t own a car.”

  He had the feeling the lawyer was about to say ‘At your age?’ and thought better of it. Instead, he nodded. “Mine is in the parking garage.” He stopped at the receptionist’s desk to tell her he’d be gone for at least an hour. Then he and Brian left, picking up his car and heading to Alistair McDermott’s house.

  * * * *

  “It’s not as big as I expected,” Brian said as he got out of the car. “I mean it’s not small, but…”

  “You thought it would take up a whole city block?”

  “I guess, in my imagination, yeah. After all, you did say it was almost a mansion.”

  The property went from the alley to the side street and was deep enough it could have accommodated a second house, as Brian found out when Mr. Johnson took his around to the side. A high wall surrounded the back yard, with a gated opening for the driveway.

  Returning to the front, Mr. Johnson led the way up the flagstone path to the porch. Taking a ring of keys from his pocket, he unlocked the door and ushered Brian into the entryway, momentarily going into the coat closet—“To disarm the security system,” he explained to Brian. Directly ahead of them was a stairway to the second floor and to their left, the living room, which had hardwood flooring that extended into the dining room, and a large fireplace with floor-to-ceiling, mahogany bookshelves on either side. The kitchen, with its modern appliances and mahogany cabinetry, and the small breakfast nook off it, had granite-tiled floors. A door off the kitchen led to a three-car garage. Upstairs, the bedrooms were carpeted, with granite-tiled en suite bathrooms.

  “Where’s the bird?” Brian asked when they exited the last bedroom.

  “In here.” Mr. Johnson opened a door at the far end of the hallway.

  Sunlight poured into the room through the three glassed-in walls and the ceiling. Trees in huge pots filled the room, with vines climbing up them and the arched beams that soared up to until they met in the center of the ceiling. In the middle of the solarium was a small flower garden with several chairs and an ornate table in the center.

  “I don’t see Sir Kenith,” Brian said. He did seconds later when a blur of red, green, and blue flew down from the top of one of the trees, screeching loudly as it, or ‘he’ since it was the macaw, landed on a branch inches away from Brian. “Holy shit, he’s big, and damned noisy.”

  “Damned noisy,” Sir Kenith said, mimicking him.

  “He learned that fast?” Brian asked in surprise, his gaze locked on the beautiful bird.

  Mr. Johnson laughed. “Not quite. Alistair used to say that to him when he got too loud.”

  “Whew.” Brian tentatively held out his arm, wondering if the bird would sit on it. For a long moment, Sir Kenith stared at it, and at him. Then with amazing grace, he stepped from the branch onto Brian’s arm, his claws curling around Brian’s forearm tightly enough to keep his balance, but not painfully so. “You are quite something,” he told the macaw.

  The bird dipped its head at the compliment—or at least that’s what Brian hoped, knowing nothing about birds. It could be something he does as a part of what he is, I suppose. Still, it would be fun if he really understood me. His arm was beginning to tire, as the macaw wasn’t exactly light, so he put his hand on a tree branch. The bird immediately walked onto it. “Thank you,” Brian said.

  “Welcome,” Sir Kenith replied in a harsh voice before letting out a series of ear-shattering calls as he hopped from branch to branch then soared to the top of the tallest tree.

  “If he shits on me,” Brian said under his breath, getting a laugh from Mr. Johnson before the man suggested they leave the bird to his own devices. “What do I feed him, and what about cleaning up after him and…what have you?”

  “His food is in a refrigerator in the cabinet on the wall by the door, next to the sink. Alistair had a man who came in to clean the room. I’ll let him know to keep coming, if you want. Believe it or not, Sir Kenith is well trained to do his duty only in certain spots. Otherwise the garden furniture would be useless.”

  Brian imagined that and laughed. “Yes, I think I’d like the guy to do the clean-up, at least for now. Did my grandfather ever take Sir Kenith out of the room?”

  “Oh, yes. They would spend the evenings together. Apparently he likes music and will sing along with variety shows on TV, or music Alistair would have on w
hile he painted.”

  “He was an artist?” Brian asked in surprise.

  “Indeed. Some of the pictures hanging in the various rooms are his.”

  “Damn.”

  “Come. I’ll show you his studio.” Mr. Johnson took him down to a room off what had been Alistair’s study. It was a fully equipped with everything an artist would need, including two vacant easels.

  “Maybe…” Brian said under his breath.

  “Yes?”

  “Nothing. I used to paint a little. Nothing a good as my grandfather’s work. Still, I enjoyed playing around with it—and drawing, which I’m better at.”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you got back into it again, using the studio,” Mr. Johnson said. “For the moment, however, I need to return to my office, and you should do what’s necessary to move in here. That is presuming you intend to.”

  “I do. Hell, this place is a lot better than my furnished apartment. At least I won’t have to move any furniture. I’ll have to pack up my clothes, and books, and what have you, but it shouldn’t take too long. I can call for one of those large cabs to move it all over here. Not until tomorrow, though. I have to work today.”

  “Here are the keys.” Mr. Johnson handed him the key ring as they walked to the entryway. “Front door, back and side doors, the driveway gate.” He pointed them out as he enumerated them. “Oh, one thing more—well, that I can think of at the moment.” He chuckled. “Alistair had a young man working for him, cataloguing his extensive library, checking on Kenith when Alistair wasn’t around, and taking care of the grounds.”

  “That’s definitely multi-tasking,” Brian commented.

  “Indeed. I have no idea where Alistair found him, but he lucked out when he did. Conley is a marvel, according to what your grandfather told me. He has the keys to the house, but I’ve informed him he’s to talk with you before he continues working on the library. If you don’t want him here, let him know.”

  “Okay. I suppose, since he’s probably in the middle of doing that, he might as well finish up.”

  “I agree. Your grandfather used a housekeeping service as well. They came once a week. If you’d like, I can have them continue.”