Guilt (13 page)

He said, “Jimmy Asherwood, fine man. Better than fine, first-rate.”

“Did you buy the Duesenberg from him?”

He grinned. “Even better, he gave it to us. To Gracie, actually. She was his favorite niece, I lucked out. When I met her I knew nothing about cars or much else. Jimmy’s collection was quite the education.”

His wife said, “I was his favorite niece because I was his only niece. My father was Jack Asherwood, Jimmy’s older brother. Jimmy was the doctor, Dad was the lawyer.”

Felix said, “If Jimmy had twenty nieces, you’d still be his favorite.”

“Oh, my.” She laughed. “I already give you everything you want, why bother?”

“Keeping in practice for when you finally say no.”

“Scant chance—here’s coffee.”

“Let me help you,” he said.

“Don’t you dare be getting up.”

“Oh, boy,” he said. “Starting to feel like a cripple.”

“The difference, Felix, is that cripples remain crippled while you can be up and around soon enough.
If
you follow orders.”

“Hear, hear,” he said. To me: “Had surgery five weeks ago. You don’t want to know the details.”

Grace said, “He certainly
doesn’t
.”

“Let’s just say plumbing issues and leave it at that.”

“Felix.”

He rotated his arm. “They cored and bored me, like an engine. Roto-Rooter wasn’t picking up their messages so I had to go to a urologist.”

“
Fee-lix!
TMI.”

“What’s that mean, sweetie?”

“Don’t play innocent with me, young man. The grandkids always say it when you’re overdoing.”

“Ah,” he said. “Too Many Issues.”

“Exactly.” She brought a silver tray holding three coffees and a box of cookies. “Pepperidge Farm Milano Mints, Doctor. Cream?”

“Black’s fine.”

Pouring, she sat down next to her husband. They lifted their cups but waited until I’d sipped.

I said, “Delicious. Thanks.”

Felix said, “Here’s to another day aboveground.”

“So dramatic,” said Grace, but her voice caught.

I said, “Nice paintings.”

“They’re all we have room for, I don’t like crowding, art needs room to breathe.” She sipped. “In Santa Fe we have oodles of wall space but not being there much of the year we don’t like to hang anything too serious.”

“In S.F., we patronize the local artists,” said Felix. “Nice level of talent but not much in the way of investment.”

“Life’s about more than compound interest, dear.”

“So you keep telling me.”

I said, “Have you lived here long?”

“Ten years.”

“Bought the building fifteen years ago,” said Felix. “Followed it up by buying the rest of this side of the block.”

“There you go again,” said Grace. “Making like a tycoon.”

“Just citing facts, sweetie.” Working to steady his hand, he put his cup down. Bone china rattled. Coffee sloshed and spilled. His lips moved the same way Milo’s do when he wants to curse.

Grace Monahan bit her lip, returned to smiling at nothing in particular.

Felix Monahan said, “The original plan was to tear the entire block down and build one big luxury condo but the city proved obdurate so we kept the block as is and went into the landlord business. The last thing on our minds was actually moving here, we had a fine Wallace Neff on Mountain Drive above Sunset. Then our daughter moved to England and we said, what do we need thirty rooms for, let’s downsize.
The house sold quickly, those were the days, caught us off-guard and we hadn’t found a new one. This apartment was vacant so we said let’s bunk down temporarily.”

Grace said, “We found out we liked the simplicity and here we are.”

“Tell him the real reason, sweetie.”

“Convenience, darling?”

“Walking distance to shopping for someone who’s not me. By the way, Neiman phoned. They’re prepared to offer you a daily chauffeur if strolling three blocks proves too strenuous.”

“Stop being terrible, Felix.” To me: “I buy only for the grandkids. We’re in our post-acquisitional stage.”

I said, “Perfect time to sell the car.”

Felix said, “On the contrary, perfect time to keep it. And all the others. One day the entire collection will go to a deserving museum, but Blue Belle is taking her leave because we believe cars are to be driven and she’s gotten too valuable for that.” His eyes softened. “She’s lovely.”

I said, “Dr. Asherwood was a generous man.”

“
Generous
doesn’t do him justice,” said Grace. “Uncle Jimmy was selfless and I mean that literally. Nothing for himself, everything for others. He left every penny to charity and no one was resentful because we respected him, he’d given us so much during his lifetime.”

“I read about the donations in his obituary.”

“His obituary doesn’t begin to describe it, Dr. Delaware. Well before Jimmy passed he was giving away money and things.”

I said, “I used to work at Western Pediatric and I noticed the hospital on the list of beneficiaries. Did he attend there?”

“No,” she said, “but he cared about the little ones.” Scooting back on the couch, she sat up straight. “Why are you curious about him?”

Her voice remained pleasant but her stare was piercing.

Know the person you want to influence
. The real reason
she’d
wanted a face-to-face.

I said, “Did you read about a baby’s skeleton being dug up in Cheviot Hills?”

“That? Yes, I did, tragic. What in the world would Jimmy have to do with such a thing?”

“Probably nothing,” I said. “The burial date was traced to a period when a woman named Eleanor Green lived in the house.”

I waited for a reaction. Grace Monahan remained still. Felix’s hand seemed to shake a bit more.

He said, “You think this woman was the mother?”

“If we could learn more about her, we might find out,” I said. “Unfortunately, she seems to be somewhat of a phantom—no public records, no indication where she went after moving. Dr. Asherwood’s name came up because his Duesenberg was spotted parked in her driveway on more than one occasion.”

Grace said, “Eleanor Green. No, doesn’t ring a bell.” She turned to her husband.

“Hmm … don’t believe so.”

His palsy had definitely grown more pronounced. Her fingers had stiffened.

She said, “Sorry we can’t help you, Doctor. Jimmy knew lots of women. He was an extremely handsome man.”

She crossed the room to a low bookshelf, took out a leather album, paged through and handed it to me.

The man in the scallop-edged black-and-white photo was tall, narrow, fine-featured, with a downy pencil mustache under an upturned nose and pale, downslanted eyes. He wore a cinch-waisted, pin-striped, double-breasted suit, black-and-white wingtips, a polka-dot handkerchief that threatened to tumble from his breast pocket, a soft fedora set slightly askew. He’d been photographed leaning against the swooping front fender of a low-slung, bubble-topped coupe.

“Not the Duesenberg, obviously,” said Felix Monahan. “That’s a Talbot-Lago. Jimmy brought it over from France immediately after the war. It was decaying in some Nazi bastard’s lair, Jimmy rescued it and brought it back to life.”

Grace said, “He was barely out of med school when he enlisted, was assigned to an infantry unit as a field surgeon, served in the Battle
of the Bulge, raided Utah Beach. He was injured on D-Day, earned a Purple Heart and a host of other medals.”

“A hero,” said Felix. “The real deal.”

Grace said, “Now, would you like to see Blue Belle? She’s downstairs in the garage.”

As smooth a dismissal as any I’d heard. I said, “She’s here?”

“Why not?” said Felix. “A garage is a garage.”

“Is a garage,” said Grace. “To paraphrase Alice B. Toklas.”

I said, “I’d love to see the car but could we talk a bit more?”

“About what?”

“Your uncle’s medical practice.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. After his wounds healed, he delivered babies.”

“Then he quit,” I said.

“No,” she said, “he retired. Quitting implies a character flaw. Jimmy left medicine because his father, my grandfather Walter, was ill and his mother, my nana Beatrice, was terminal. Someone had to take care of them.”

“Jimmy had no wife or children.”

Quick glances passed between them.

“That’s true,” said Grace. “If you ask me why I’ll tell you I don’t know, it was none of my business.”

“Never met the right woman,” said Felix. “That would be my guess.”

“That’s not what he’s after, darling. He’s looking for dirt on poor Jimmy.”

“Not at all, Mrs. Monahan.”

“No?” she said. “You work with the police, they dig dirt—granted it’s generally for a good cause. You’ve been involved in over a score of very nasty cases, have probably come to see the world as a terrible place. But that doesn’t apply to Jimmy.”

A score
. Serious research on her part.

I said, “I’d like to think I keep a pretty balanced view of the world.”

Rosy spots radiated through her makeup. “Forgive me, that was rude. It’s just that I adored Uncle Jimmy. And—I confess to being a bit of a snoop myself, Dr. Delaware. After you called, I inquired about you at Western Peds. We donate there. Everyone had good things to say about you. That’s why we’re talking.” She caught her breath. “If that offends you, I’m sorry.”

“Girl Scout heritage,” said Felix. “Be prepared and all that.”

“Brownie,” she corrected. “But yes, I do respect a logical plan. As I’m sure you do, Dr. Delaware. But trust me, Jimmy led a quiet, noble life and I can’t have his name sullied.”

“Mrs. Monahan, I’m sorry if I—”

“Actually,” Felix broke in, “it’s Doctor Monahan.”

“No, it’s not!” she snapped.

He flinched.

She said, “Sorry, darling, sorry,” and touched his hand. He remained still. “Forgive me, Felix, but all this talk about Uncle Jimmy has made me edgy.”

He said, “Nothing to forgive, sweetie.” To me: “She doesn’t like tooting her own horn but she
is
a doctor. Full M.D., trained and qualified. Women’s medicine, same as Jimmy.”

“Not to be contentious,” she said, “but a doctor is someone who doctors. I never practiced. Got married during my last year of residency, had Catherine, said I’d go back but I never did. There was more than a bit of guilt about that, I felt I’d let everyone down. Especially Jimmy because it was he who’d written a personal letter to the dean, back then women weren’t exactly welcomed with open arms. After I decided to eschew medicine, it was Jimmy I talked to. He told me to live my life the way I wanted. In any event, if you need me to tend to your ills, you’re in trouble. Now, since you probably have no serious interest in seeing Blue Belle—”

“I do.”

“Don’t be polite, Dr. Delaware, we don’t force our enthusiasms on anyone.”

“Never seen a Duesenberg,” I said. “I’d be foolish to pass up the opportunity.”

Felix Monahan stood with effort. “I’ll take him, sweetie.”

“Absolutely not,” said Grace. “I can’t have you—”

“I’m
taking
him.
Darling
.”

“Felix—”

“Grace, I have yet to convince myself I’m a fully functional human being but if you could pretend it would be an enormous help.”

“You don’t need to prove anything—”

“But I do,” he said in a new voice: low, flat, cold. “I most certainly do.”

He walked toward the door, slowly, overly deliberate, like a drunk coping with a sobriety test.

Grace Monahan stood there, as if daring him to continue. He opened the door and said, “Come, Doctor.”

She said, “Hold his arm.”

Felix Monahan turned and glared. “Not necessary. Sweetheart.”

He left the apartment. I followed.

Grace said, “Men.”

I trailed Felix Monahan down the stairs to the sidewalk, sticking close and watching him sway and lurch and intentionally ignore the handrail.

Midway down he tripped and I reached out to steady him. He shook me off. “Appreciate the offer but if you do it again, I might just acquaint you with my left jab.”

Laughing but not kidding.

I said, “You boxed?”

“Boxed, did some Greco-Roman wrestling, a bit of judo.”

“I get the point.”

“Smart man.”

When we reached the street, he continued south, turned the corner at Charleville, and entered the alley behind his building. Six garages, one for each unit, each furnished with a bolt and a combination lock.

The third garage was secured with an additional key lock. Keeping
me out of view, Monahan twirled, inserted a key, stood back. “Slide it up, I’m smart enough to know my limitations.”

The door rose on smooth, greased bearings, curved inward and upward, exposing two hundred square feet of pristine white space filled with something massive and blue and stunning.

A gleaming vertically barred grille stared me in the face. The radiator cap was a sharp-edged V aimed for takeoff.

The car was huge, barely fitting into the space. Most of the length was taken up by a hood fashioned to accommodate a gargantuan engine. Headlights the size of dinner plates stared at me like the eyes of a giant squid. Hand-sculpted, wing-like fenders merged with polished running boards topped by gleaming metal tread-plates. A side-mounted spare matched four wide-wall, wire-wheeled tires. The car’s flanks were fluid and arrogant.

“Supercharged,” said Felix Monahan, pointing to a quartet of chrome pipes looping out of a chrome-plated grid. Thick and sinewy and menacing as a swarm of morays. “We’re talking zero to sixty in eight seconds in the thirties.”

I whistled.

He went on: “She cruises at one oh four in second gear and that’s without syncromesh. Max speed is one forty, and back when she was born you were lucky to get fifty horsepower out of a luxury car.”

“Unbelievable,” I said.

“Not really, Doctor. What’s unbelievable is how a country that could create this can’t come up with anything better than plastic phones that die in six months. Put together by peasants living on gruel.”

I’d come to see the car in the hope that I might pry more info from him. But the Duesenberg’s beauty held me captive. The paint, a perfect duet of convivial blues, was a masterpiece of lacquer. The interior was butter-soft, hand-stitched leather whose pale aqua hue matched the spotless top. More artisanal metalwork for the sculpted dashboard. The rosewood-and-silver steering wheel would’ve looked dandy on a museum pedestal.