Authors: Jonathan Kellerman
A clipped voice said, “Andy Zeiman.”
I began explaining.
He said, “Marcy from ACD just called. You want to locate an SJ for some sort of criminal investigation.”
Statement, not a question. Unperturbed.
I said, “If that’s possible.”
“Anything’s possible. Date and model.”
“We’ve been told it was a ’38 SJ, blue over blue.”
“SJ because it had pipes, right? Problem is you can put pipes on anything. Real SJs are rare.”
“Aren’t all Duesenbergs?”
“Everything’s relative. Total Duesenberg production is four hundred eighty-one, SJs are less than ten percent of that. Most were sold on the East Coast until ’32, then the trend shifted out here because that’s where the money and the flamboyance were.”
“Hollywood types.”
“Gable, Cooper, Garbo, Mae West, Tyrone Power. Et cetera.”
“How about we start with the real SJs. Is there a listing of original owners?”
“Sure.”
“Where can I find it?”
“With me,” said Zeiman. “What year does your witness think he saw this supposed SJ?”
“Nineteen fifty, give or take.”
“Twelve-year-old car, there’d be a good chance of repaint, so color might not matter. Also, it wasn’t uncommon to put new bodies on old chassis. Like a custom-made suit, altered to taste.”
“If it helps to narrow things down, the owner may have been a doctor.”
“Give me your number, something comes up I’ll let you know.”
Seven minutes later, he called back. “You might have gotten lucky. I’ve got a blue/blue Murphy-bodied Dual Cowl Phaeton ordered by a Walter Asherwood in ’37, delivered November ’38. Murphy body with later enhancement by Bohman and Schwartz. Both were L.A.-based coachbuilders.”
“The car started out on the West Coast.”
“Yup. Walter Asherwood held on to it until ’43, when he transferred ownership to James Asherwood, M.D. Nothing else in the log fits, so it’s either this one or your person didn’t see a real SJ.”
“Where did the Asherwoods live?”
“Can’t give you the address because for all I know family members are still living there and we respect privacy.”
“Can you give me a general vicinity?”
“L.A.”
“Pasadena?”
“You can fish but I won’t bite,” said Zeiman. “You’ve got a name, that should be sufficient.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “Can you tell me who owns the car, now?”
“One of our members.”
“Did he or she buy it from Dr. Asherwood?”
“There’s a complete chain of ownership but that’s all I can say. Why do you need the current owner, anyway?”
“We’re trying to trace a dead baby’s mother.”
“What?”
“The car was seen parked in the driveway of a house where an infant was buried decades ago. The bones were just dug up.”
“Dead baby?” said Zeiman. “So we’re talking murder.”
“That’s not clear.”
“I don’t get it, either it’s murder or it’s not.”
I said, “Depends on cause of death.”
“Hold on,” he said. “My wife mentioned something about that, she’d heard it on the news. Made her cry. Okay, I’ll make some calls.”
“Thanks for all the help.”
“Most interesting request I’ve had since two months ago.”
“What happened two months ago?”
“Shifty Mideastern type walks into my shop, flashing cash, wants me to build a Frankencar out of retools that he can sell as genuine to a sucker in Dubai. I said no thanks, phoned the Huntington Beach cops, they told me intent’s no felony, until a crime was committed there’s nothing they can do. That felt wrong to me so I tried the FBI, they didn’t even return my call. At least you do your job. So I’ll help you.”
It took just over an hour to hear back from Zeiman. By then I’d made progress on my own.
A search of
38 duesenberg dual cowl phaeton murphy body
had produced three possibilities. The first was a “barn find” up for auction in Monterey. The once-sleek masterpiece had been the victim of a 1972 engine fire during careless storage in Greenwich, Connecticut. Hobbled by engine rot, char scars, metastatic rust, and a broken axle, it was deemed “ripe for restoration to show condition” and estimated to fetch between six and eight hundred thousand dollars. The auction company’s catalog presented a history that included a California stint, up north, under the stewardship of a Mrs. Helen Bracken of Hillsborough. But subsequent owners included neither Walter nor James Asherwood and the original color, still in evidence through the blemishes, was claret over scarlet.
Candidate number two, a black beauty, due to go on the block in Amelia Island, Florida, had accumulated a slew of awards during a pampered life. Five owners: New York, Toronto, Savannah, Miami, Fishers Island.
Bingo came in the form of a car that had taken first place at the Pebble Beach Concourse d’Elegance ten years ago, a gleaming behemoth benefiting from a six-year frame-off restoration by Andrew O. Zeiman.
Program notes from the award ceremony noted that care had been taken to replicate the car’s original cerulean/azure paint job as well as the “precise hue of its robin’s egg blue convertible roof, now replaced with modern but period-reminiscent materials.”
The proud owners were Mr. and Mrs. F. Walker Monahan, Beverly Hills, California. A winners’ circle photo showed them to be mid-sixtyish, immaculately turned out, flanked by a burly, white-bearded man. Andrew Zeiman was clad, as was Mr. Monahan, in a straw Borsalino, a navy blazer, pressed khakis, conservative school tie.
I had my eyes on Zeiman’s photograph when the phone rang. “It’s Andy again.” Low-tech Skype. “You must be one of those fortunate sons, maybe we should hit the blackjack tables.”
“The case resolves, I might just take you up on that.”
“The current owners agreed to talk to you. They’re good people.”
“Do they remember the Asherwoods?”
“Talk to them,” said Zeiman.
R
esearching the person you’re trying to influence is a handy tool when peddling gewgaws, pushing con games, and practicing psychotherapy.
The same goes for witness interviews; before reaching out to the F. Walker Monahans of Beverly Hills, I searched their names on the Web.
Mister sat on the board of two banks and Missus, a woman named Grace, occupied similar positions at the Getty, the Huntington, and the volunteer committee of Western Pediatric Medical Center.
The hospital affiliation made me wonder if she’d be the link to Dr. James Asherwood.
A search of his name pulled up nothing but a twelve-year-old
Times
obituary.
Dr. James Walter Asherwood had passed away of natural causes at his home in La Canada-Flintridge, age eighty-nine. That placed him at forty or so during the period Ellie Green had lived at the house in Cheviot Hills. Easily feasible age for a relationship. For unwanted fatherhood.
Asherwood’s bio was brief. Trained at Stanford as an obstetrician-gynecologist, he’d “retired from medicine to pursue the life of a sportsman and financier.”
The
Times
hasn’t run social pages in a while and being rich and wellborn no longer entitles you to an obit. At first glance, nothing in Asherwood’s life seemed to justify the paper’s attention, but his death was the hook: “A lifelong bachelor, Asherwood had long voiced intentions to bequeath his entire estate to charity. That promise has been kept.”
The final paragraph listed beneficiaries of Asherwood’s generosity, including several inner-city public schools to which Asherwood had bequeathed a hangarful of vintage automobiles. Western Peds was listed midway through the roster, but unlike the cancer society, Save the Bay, and the graduate nursing program at the old school across town, the hospital wasn’t singled out for special largesse.
Fondness for the nursing school because he remembered one particular RN?
Had ob-gyn skills meant detour to a career as an illegal abortionist? Did dropping out of medicine imply guilt? A legal concession as part of a plea deal?
Lifelong bachelor didn’t mean loveless. Or childless.
Doctor to financier. Moving
big
money around could mean the ability to purchase just about anything, including that most precious of commodities, silence.
No sense wondering. I called the F. Walker Monahans.
A beautifully inflected female voice said, “Good evening, Doctor, this is Grace. Andy told us you’d be phoning.”
No curiosity about a psychologist asking questions on behalf of the police. “Thanks for speaking with me, Mrs. Monahan.”
“Of course we’ll speak with you.” As if a failure to cooperate would’ve been unpatriotic. “When would you care to drop by?”
“We can chat over the phone.”
“About cars?” Her laugh was soft, feline, oddly soothing.
“About a car once owned by Dr. James Asherwood.”
“Ah, Blue Belle,” she said. “You do know that we’ve sold her.”
“I didn’t.”
“Oh, yes, a month ago, she’ll be shipped in a few weeks. Immediately after Pebble Beach we were besieged with offers but refused. Years later, we’re finally ready. Not without ambivalence, but it’s time to let someone else enjoy her.”
“Where’s she going?”
“To Texas, a natural gas man, a very fine person we know from the show circuit. He’ll pamper her and drive her with respect, win-win situation for everyone.”
“Congratulations.”
“We’ll miss her,” said Grace Monahan. “She’s quite remarkable.”
“I’ll bet.”
“If you’d like to pay your respects before she leaves, that can be arranged.”
“Appreciate the offer,” I said. “If you don’t mind, could we talk a bit about Dr. Asherwood?”
“What, in particular, would you like to know?”
“Anything you can tell me about him. And if you’re familiar with a woman he knew named Eleanor Green, that would be extremely helpful.”
“Well,” she said, “this is a person we’re going to discuss and that deserves a more personal setting than the phone, don’t you think? Why don’t you drop by tomorrow morning, say eleven? Where are you located?”
“Beverly Glen.”
“We’re not far at all, here’s the address.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Monahan.”
“You’re quite welcome.”
Board seats and ownership of a multimillion-dollar show car had led me to expect residence in Beverly Hills’ uppermost echelons. A manse at the northern edge of the flats, or one of the mammoth estates nestled in the hillocks above Sunset.
The address Grace Monahan gave me was on South Rodeo Drive, a pleasant but low-key neighborhood well away from the try-too-hard glitz and glassy-eyed tourism of the twenty-four-karat shopping district.
The numbers matched a nondescript, two-story, not-quite-Colonial apartment building on a block of similar structures, shadowed by the white marble monument on Wilshire that was Saks Fifth Avenue.
Monahan: 2A
. A once-wealthy couple who’d fallen on hard times? The real reason for selling the blue Duesenberg?
I climbed white-painted concrete steps to a skimpy landing ringed by three units. The wooden door to 2A was open but blocked by a screen door. No entry hall meant a clear view into a low, dim living room. Music and the smell of coffee blew through the mesh. Two people sat on a tufted floral sofa. The woman got up and unlatched the screen.
“Doctor? Grace.”
Five and a half feet tall in spangled ballet slippers, Grace Monahan wore a peach-colored velvet jumpsuit and serious gold jewelry at all the pressure points. Her hair was subtly hennaed, thick and straight, reaching an inch below her shoulder blades. Her makeup was discreet, highlighting clear, wide brown eyes. The Pebble Beach photo was a decade old but she hadn’t aged visibly. Nothing to do with artifice; smile lines and crow’s-feet abounded, along with the inevitable loosening of flesh that either softens a face or blurs it, depending on self-esteem at seventy.
The duration and warmth of Grace Monahan’s smile said life was just grand in her eighth decade. One of those women who’d been a knockout from birth and had avoided addiction to youth.
She took my hand and drew me inside. “Do come in. Some coffee? We get ours from Santa Fe, it’s flavored with piñon, if you haven’t tried it, you must.”
“I’ve had it, am happy to repeat the experience.”
“You know Santa Fe?”
“Been there a couple of times.”
“We winter there because we love clean snow—have a seat, please. Anywhere is fine.”
Anywhere consisted of a pair of brocade side chairs or the floral sofa where her husband remained planted as he continued watching a financial show on the now muted TV. Still canted away from me, he gave an obligatory wave.
Grace Monahan said, “Felix.”
He quarter-turned. “Sorry, just a second.”
“Felix?”
“A sec, sweetie, I want to see what Buffett’s up to, now that he’s a celebrity.”
“You and Buffett.” Grace Monahan completed the three steps required to transition to a tiny kitchenette. She fiddled with a drip percolator.
I sat there as Felix Walker Monahan attended to stock quotes scrolling along the bottom of the screen. Above the numbers, a talking head ranted mutely about derivatives. Watching without sound didn’t seem to bother Felix Monahan. Maybe he was a good lip-reader. The same tolerance applied to TV reception that turned to snow every few moments. The set was a convex-screened RCA in a case the size of a mastiff’s doghouse. Topped by rabbit ears.
The room was warm, slightly close, filled with well-placed furniture, old, not antique. Three small paintings on the walls: two florals and a soft-focus portrait of a beautiful, round-faced child. Great color and composition and the signature was the same; if these were real Renoirs, they could finance another show car.
The blowhard on the screen pointed to a graph, loosened his tie, continued to vent. Felix Walker Monahan chuckled.
His wife said, “What can you get out of it without hearing it?”
“Think of it as performance art, sweetie.” He switched off, swiveled toward me.
Unlike his wife, he’d changed a lot since Pebble Beach: smaller, paler, less of a presence. Scant white hair was combed back from a
wrinkled-paper visage that would’ve looked good under a powdered wig or gracing coinage. He wore a gray silk shirt, black slacks, gray-black-checked Converse sneakers sans socks. The skin of his ankles was dry, chafed, lightly bruised. His hands vibrated with minor palsy.