W Is for Wasted (23 page)

“What about Ms. White and Mr. Beider?”

“I met them at the same time,” I said. “Dan Singer told me the three of them witnessed the will at Terrence’s request. It was all straightforward and aboveboard.”

“They’re homeless?” Mamie asked. Her tone put them in the same low company as pedophiles.

“Yes.”

She blinked. “Do they have mental health issues?”

“Not that I observed.”

“What about problems with substance abuse?”

I thought,
Oops.
“I’ve only known them a week,” I said, as though that ruled out my opinion.

Evelyn’s turn. “But you can see why we’d question the signatures if these three
misfits
were drunk or mentally impaired.”

“Actually, I think only two witnesses are required, so I’m willing to concede one of them.”

Mamie stared at me. “Is that a joke?”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to be flip. If you want to challenge their competence, you’ll have to hire an attorney and take them into court. There’s no point in our discussing the issue since none of us are qualified mental health professionals. As far as I know,” I added, having eliminated our law degrees in the earlier conversation.

A little knot appeared between Mamie’s brows but her tone remained mild. “All this talk about attorneys. Is that really what you want?”

“All I want is to avoid turning this into a personal debate.”

Evelyn said, “But why bring attorneys into it? We’ll end up paying them the lion’s share and how will any of us benefit?”

“This is not something we can settle among the three of us. This is awkward—”

“It’s not a matter of
awkwardness
. It’s a question of what’s right. Terrence was angry,” Evelyn said.

“Okay, fine. That’s true as far as it goes.”

Sounding slightly more conciliatory, she went on. “I’m not blaming him, I’m only pointing out that if he’d had a chance to calm down, he might have reversed himself.”

“But he didn’t. In point of fact, what we’re left with is what’s spelled out in that document,” I said.

“Here’s what you don’t seem to grasp,” Mamie said. “Terrence loved his children. You’ve been drawn into a drama that goes back many years. I don’t think you appreciate the hardships they endured. I don’t know how Evelyn managed to hold her head up.” Mamie glanced at Evelyn as she said this and Evelyn managed to look especially stricken.

“Look, I can understand how difficult it must have been. That doesn’t change anything.”

Evelyn said, “You know he offered them the money. Are you aware of that?”

“I’m assuming that’s why he came to Bakersfield,” I said.

“That’s exactly right. The minute he had the settlement in hand, he called Ethan, saying he wanted to make amends. He talked about dividing the money equally among the three children to compensate them for their suffering.”

“You keep referring to them as children when they’re fully grown adults,” I said.

She dropped her gaze. “I suppose I’ll always think of them as children. Do you have any of your own?”

“I don’t.”

“Then it might be hard for you to fathom how a mother feels.”

“Off topic,” Mamie warned.

Evelyn gave her a hard look and turned back to me. “What I’m getting at is I may not know how the law works, but in my mind, and Terrence’s as well, his talking to them about splitting the money was the same as a verbal contract.”

Mamie said, “Evelyn, I’m not sure you’re helping matters. I’m guessing Kinsey’s already spoken to an attorney since she’s brought it up so many times.”

“I’m just telling her how I see the problem. Terrence wanted to do right by them, which is why he came back.”

Mamie flicked a look at me. “She might have a point.”

“Thank you,” Evelyn said tartly, and then turned to me. “Surely, you don’t believe the terms are fair. After what they went through? Terrence felt rejected and he rejected them in response, but it’s not unreasonable to imagine him regretting his haste. It’s unfortunate he died before he had a chance to undo the harm. Doesn’t that seem reasonable to you?”

I indicated the papers. “The will is dated July 8, 1988. He and Ethan quarreled in September, ten months before. That’s hardly acting in haste. He had time to think about what he was doing both before and afterward.”

Evelyn went on as though I hadn’t said a word. “You have no idea how much that money would mean to them. This could be a life-changing event,” she said. There was a small tremor in her voice that I thought was entirely manufactured.

“I’m not here to negotiate. I made that clear to Mamie on the phone.”

“Hear me out . . . as a courtesy if nothing else.” She kept her eyes on me as though waiting for my permission to continue.

I gestured her on.

“As executor of the estate, you’re in a position to tip the balance, don’t you think?”

“No.”

“Then how do you see your role?”

“It’s not a
role
. As executor, it’s my job.”

“Your job, then.”

“I’m responsible for seeing that his assets are distributed according to the provisions in the will. I can’t just make these things up. I have to answer to the court.”

“But once this is settled, you do have a say in what happens from that point on.”

“If the judge decides the will’s in order, I’ll see that Terrence’s wishes are carried out. That’s the only power I have.”

“But isn’t this a conflict of interest? You admit you had no relationship with Terrence and yet you’ve managed to insert yourself between the man and his own offspring. Why can’t you give them a chance to accomplish something in life?”

“Let’s not go on with this. Please believe me when I tell you it’s not up to me.”

“That’s not true,” Evelyn said. “All that money’s going to end up in your pocket, isn’t it?”

“In theory, I suppose.”

“What I’m suggesting is that once the money’s yours, you can do anything you want with it. Isn’t that correct?”

I raised a hand. “I want to talk about something else.”

Evelyn said, “I haven’t finished making my point. I’m not saying you shouldn’t have a share, but think about this. If you divided it four ways, you’d each come out with about a hundred and fifty thousand apiece, which seems equitable.”

I was shaking my head, irritated that she was pressing the point.

Mamie interceded. “Would you let Kinsey have a turn? You’ve talked long enough.” She turned to me. “What were you going to say?”

I loved how cranky she was. I said, “I’d like to back up a bit if you don’t mind. Here’s what I don’t get. All this posturing aside, why weren’t Ethan and Anna more charitable when Terrence was exonerated? I know Ellen was out of town when he arrived, but Ethan and Anna both still believe he killed Karen Coffey. Even with all the evidence that came to light. Why weren’t they happy? Why didn’t they rejoice? That’s the crux of the problem, isn’t it? Not that they believed he was guilty, but that they refused to believe he was innocent.”

“You’d have to ask them. I wouldn’t presume to speak for them. After all, they’re adults—as you so aptly pointed out.”

I said, “Can we stick to the point? Terrence cut them out of the will because they mistreated him, yes?”

“I grant you their behavior was unfortunate, but let’s not make matters worse,” she said.

“That’s not where I’m going with this. Do you know why they quarreled?”

“Because Terrence was drunk,” she said.

“No. They quarreled because you insinuated he’d actually had a hand in that girl’s death.”

Mamie waved that aside. “That’s ridiculous. Evelyn did no such thing.”

“Yes, she did.” I looked at Evelyn. “If you hadn’t poisoned the well, your ‘children’ might have been receptive to their father’s overtures. They might have accepted the fact that he was cleared of wrongdoing. If the visit had been a good one, he’d have left them everything, so this is really more about you than it is about me.”

Evelyn lowered her gaze. Color was creeping up her neck, which I considered a thrilling sight. She said, “I don’t think you understand the relationship they had. They worshiped him. He was a hero to them. When this hideous crime came to light, they were devastated. I wanted them to realize that he wasn’t quite the innocent victim he portrayed himself.”

“You think he killed her?”

“I think he had the means, the motive, and the opportunity.”

“What are you talking about? This isn’t a television drama.”

“Karen was Ethan’s friend. She’d been to the house more than once.”

“So what?”

“I could see Terrence took a shine to her. I never had any proof, but I wasn’t at all shocked when the police came to the door and asked to speak to him. He looked terrible. His skin was gray. He was sweating and his hands shook. That’s not the demeanor of an innocent man.”

Mamie looked at her mother-in-law with disbelief. “Are you serious? He shook and turned gray anytime a drink was overdue.”

Evelyn was still focused on me. “I don’t know where in the world you got the idea I turned the children against him. I’d never do such a thing,” she said.

“I heard it from Anna. She told me last night.”

“Told you what?” Mamie asked, annoyed at being out of the loop.

“Nothing,” Evelyn said.

This was beginning to feel like politics, consisting as it did almost entirely of finger-pointing and accusations.

I turned to Mamie. “Anna told me the day her father called to say he’d been released, Evelyn confessed that she lied on the witness stand. She said he went out that night and was gone until the wee hours.”

Mamie looked at Evelyn with dismay. “You did that?”

I said, “Oh, yes, indeed. She also told the three of them not to mention it to anyone for fear she’d be charged with perjury, which is a criminal act. Ask Ethan. He’ll tell you the same thing. Ellen, too.”

Mamie was staring at her mother-in-law. “I don’t believe it. You said he was there at the house when he wasn’t?”

I wagged a finger, correcting her. “It was the other way around. She told the truth on the witness stand and lied about it later.”

“But why would she do that? She’d have to be nuts.”

Evelyn leaned toward me. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Were you there?”

“Of course I wasn’t, but I’ll tell you who was. An hour ago I talked to Lolly Brandle.”

Mamie wrinkled her nose in confusion. “Who?”

“The woman who lived next door to Evelyn and Terrence back then. She was at the Daces’ house the night Karen Coffey disappeared. She says Terrence was home the entire evening except for a brief trip to the store to pick up ice cream.”

Evelyn’s tone was prim. “You can hardly credit her account. She has dementia.”

“She may not remember what happened yesterday, but she remembers that night, right down to the flavor of the ice cream he went out to buy. Here’s a question for you, Evelyn. Who was the president of the United States at that time?”

“I have no idea. How is that relevant?”

“Because Lolly knows. I asked her the same thing and her memory is as clear as a bell. Richard Nixon.”

“I can see you’re determined to take her word over mine,” she said. “I’ve been to visit her twice. She has no idea who I am and I’ve known her twenty-five years. Besides which, how do you know she isn’t lying for reasons of her own?”

“Because the pastor of your church was also there with his wife. I’d be happy to track them down, and I’ll bet you they’ll back Lolly Brandle. Are you going to call them liars as well?”

“I did not commit a crime.”

“I know you didn’t. You told Ethan and Ellen and Anna you lied on the stand when you actually told the truth in court. Later, you insinuated that Terrence went out that night and had a hand in that girl’s death. You didn’t accuse him outright. You undercut his credibility and you did such a fine job of it that Ethan and Anna were completely alienated from their dad. And still are, for that matter.”

“Accuse me of anything you like. You have no proof and there’s nothing you can do about it even if you did.”

“You got me on that one. At least Mamie knows now and we’ll see what she does with it.”

The meeting faltered to a close and we parted company. Verbal clashes seldom come to a satisfying end. They peter out in weak retorts that leave you wishing you’d been as clever in the moment as you are in reviewing the conversation later. I hadn’t scored even one decisive point and none of us had altered our positions in the slightest. I was glad I’d met Evelyn because I had a better sense now of who she was and how she operated.

Poor Dace. I’d formed a ragged picture of his life, joining fragments like a reel of film spliced together with all the big scenes missing. The storyline was there but the point was lost. The meaning of life (assuming there is one . . .) is the glue we use to join events, trying to fill the cracks in hopes the whole of it will make sense. Beginning, middle, and end don’t always add up to much, and, in his case, only an odd note of melancholia remained.

I went up to my room and packed. I took the elevator down and presented myself at the front desk with my duffel in hand. I signed the credit card receipt and returned my key. It wasn’t until I was crossing the parking lot that I saw Ethan Dace appear on the far side of the Mustang. He’d parked his banged-up white Toyota in the slot to the left of mine. At first I thought he’d crouched between the two cars to keep himself out of view, but maybe he’d only bent to tie his shoelace. I was on the verge of asking how he’d figured out where I was, but we all knew by then that my Grabber Blue Mustang was better than a flashing neon sign.

Casually, he turned and opened his passenger-side door. He tossed something onto the front seat before he slammed the door again and turned to face me. He tilted his head in the direction of the hotel entrance. “What was that about?”

“What was what about?”

“I saw my wife and mom leave just now. You call a meeting?”

“That was Mamie’s idea. She had questions about the will. It was a waste of time in my opinion, but I wanted to show what a good sport I am.”

“What else did you talk about?”

“That was it,” I said. Then the light dawned. “Oh, now I’m getting it. You think I summoned Mamie and your mom so I could tattle on you.”

“Nothing to tattle. I was talking to a friend.”

“My mistake. It looked like you were flirting with that redheaded hottie. Anna’s friend, isn’t she? I didn’t catch her name.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Fear not, good sir. My lips are sealed. Now if you’ll step away from my car door, I’d like to get in.”

For some reason, that set him off. He rose up on the balls of his feet, leaning toward me while he jabbed a finger in my face. The fact that he didn’t raise his voice made the underlying anger more sinister than the threat that followed. “You want to make trouble? I’ll make trouble for you and don’t think I won’t.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“I’ll sue. Me and my sisters will sue your ass, you get that?”

“I do. Thanks so much. Is there anything else?”

“You better lawyer up. That’s all I’m saying.”

“I have an attorney.”

“I’ll bet you do. I bet you hired one the second you found out about the money because you knew what kind of hole you’d dug for yourself. My dad was a drunk, which you seem to know all about. So maybe you talked him into cutting us off so you could step into the breach.”

“Let’s not talk about this, okay? You want to hire an attorney, you can go right ahead. I told you to do that the first time we spoke. You have a copy of the will. You have the hearing date, and you can do anything you like.”

He turned without another word and moved around the back of his car to the driver’s seat. He got in and slammed the door.

It took him two tries to get his car started, but then he peeled out with a chirp.

Anna was right. The guy was a drama queen.

I unlocked the Mustang, tossed my duffel into the backseat and my shoulder bag in the front. I got in, started the car, and pulled out of the slot. Such was the thrilling climax of my twenty-four-hour sojourn in Bakersfield.

By 10:52, I was driving west on California Street toward the southbound on-ramp to State Route 99. There were two more delays coming up but I didn’t know that yet, so I was excited about getting home. Bakersfield had been a bust. In the main, I’d accomplished my goals, but in doing so, I’d stirred up a nest of hornets. Two of Dace’s three kids were hopeless. I couldn’t convince them their father had been dealt a bad hand. As far as Ethan and Anna were concerned, his leaving me the money had only fanned the resentment they’d carried for years. How else could it have turned out? Of course they were angry. Of course they responded with more of the same.

There were other elements in play. It would be disingenuous to claim I was above caring about $595,350. I’d never been close to that much money in my life, and while it wasn’t really mine, it was certainly a subject worthy of consideration. Briefly, I fantasized about what would happen if I disregarded the terms of the will and divided the inheritance equally among the three. How far might that go toward healing the rift? Nowhere. Ethan and Anna would blow their portion and then expect Ellen to fork over hers until that was gone as well. Ellen would agree because she felt guilty about the two of them, an attitude they’d fostered in her over the years.

I toyed with the idea of handing over
part
of the money—say, $100,000 divided three ways instead of the half a million plus. The flaw there was that if I thought they were entitled to a
little
bit of money, why not the whole amount? Either it was all right or all wrong. Acting in opposition to Dace’s wishes was clearly wrong, regardless of Ethan’s threats or Evelyn’s maneuvering. Money aside, from their point of view the crux of the problem was Dace’s love affair with hooch and his refusal to give it up. In his children’s eyes, he’d died preferring alcohol to them.

Driving south on the 99, I hadn’t even cleared the city limits when I caught sight of the highway sign for the Panama Lane off-ramp. The name jumped out at me because I’d seen it in my paper search for Choaker Lane where the Millhones had lived in the early forties. When I’d consulted the city map, the address was too far off the beaten path to worry about; at the time, Ethan Dace was uppermost on my mind. Now I was in range of the house where my father had lived and the question was this: did I care enough to delay my trip home?

Nah, not so much. The Millhones were long gone, and getting back to Santa Teresa mattered more to me than exploring sites of historical family significance. I was curious, but going five miles out of my way seemed irksome when all I wanted was to put distance between me and Bakersfield. On the other hand (I was always thinking in terms of this “other hand” horseshit . . .), who knew if I’d ever be here again? Henry would ask what I’d learned and I didn’t fancy telling him I’d jettisoned the search. He wouldn’t chide me, but I’d be chiding myself for not taking advantage of the occasion while I could.

I signaled my intention, took the off-ramp, and pulled over to the side of the road at the first decent opportunity. I was annoyed. Why couldn’t I go back to being an orphan like I’d been all my life? Had I ever once complained about it? No, I had not. I’d taken a certain peevish pride in being without close family. Now my lone-wolf status had been taken away and I resented the loss, even if it had always been entirely delusional on my part. As it turned out, I was embroiled in the same dysfunctional mess as everyone else I knew.

I opened the oversize map, which was thirty-six inches by fifty and printed on slick, heavy-duty paper that was awkward to unfold. Once I wrestled it into submission, I ran my eye down the page and traced Panama Lane both east and west. The delicate lace of intersecting streets defined a succession of neighborhoods. This must have been farmland once upon a time, perhaps much of it still was. The burgeoning city had spread out in all directions as the inhabitants multiplied. Through the windshield I was looking at the same flat landscape that characterized the entire area, which was pockmarked with housing developments that finally gave way to open fields. Choaker Lane was farther east, close to the north-south axis of Cottonwood Road.

As I drove, I kept an eye on the passing street signs. Having committed myself, I could picture my spotting the old homestead. Perhaps I’d park and get out. I might knock on the door to ask the current occupant if I could make a quick tour of the rooms. It was possible the present owner had bought the house from someone who knew when it was built or how many hands it had passed through. I slowed in anticipation of my turn and took a left, checking house numbers as I proceeded from 4800 down to the 4600 block with a mounting sense of dismay. There was no 4602. The entire neighborhood was gone. I pulled over to the curb.

Where the Millhone house had once stood there was a settlement of condominiums; identical six-story stucco structures, arranged in a staunch grid spread over twenty-five or thirty acres. The few trees I saw were young and newly planted. The streets that branched off of Choaker Lane had been named after New England states—Maine, Vermont, New Hampshire, Connecticut, Massachusetts, and Rhode Island. If the colony continued to expand, the Eastern Seaboard might be called into play, starting with New Jersey and running all the way down to Florida.

I pulled away from the curb and proceeded along Choaker until I reached a set of ornamental gates. I turned in and cruised the roads that ran between the monolithic buildings. There wasn’t much to see since they were all identical. My grandparents’ house had been erased, as had the houses on either side—as had the homes extending for six or eight city blocks in every direction. Even the soil had been excavated and carted away, so any relics—arrowheads, sun-bleached bones, the caps from old soda bottles—were gone now as well. I could take a metal detector and scan the surrounding area for two square miles without turning up so much as an old spoon.

This is your reward for denial, I thought. You decide you don’t care and the family home vanishes. The irony wasn’t lost on me. The Universe was having a little tee-hee at my expense. Whereas the Kinsey branch of the family was chockablock with cousins, aunts, and uncles, even an ancient living grandmother, the Millhones had disappeared. As further punishment, I was now saddled with a cluster of second or third cousins related to me tangentially through Rebecca Dace, and I was far better acquainted with that bunch than I wanted to be. I’d also inherited the family corpse, a dead guy whose last rites had fallen to me. The only upside I could see was that the Daces made my mother’s side of the family look like bastions of mental health.

I headed back to the 99 and took up my southbound journey. Forty miles outside of Bakersfield, I checked my watch. It was 11:45 and I was starving. I hadn’t bothered to eat anything before I left the hotel. I’d been more interested in getting the journey under way than in feeding my face. How foolhardy was that? I’d never make it to Santa Teresa without something to eat. I wouldn’t arrive until midafternoon and by then I’d be gnawing my own arm. I pulled my shoulder bag closer and fumbled through the interior, but all I came up with was a sugarfree breath mint of no known nutritional value. At that very moment, I realized I’d forgotten to call Henry to advise him of my estimated arrival time. That did it.

I started scanning for highway signs, looking for the closest rest stop. Of particular interest was the crossed knife and fork, the universal symbol for fatty foodstuffs. Coming up on the Tejon Pass, I took the Frazier Mountain Park Road where the Flying J promised numerous forms of relief: weighing scales, a pump dump, liquid propane, diesel fuel, a travel store, and overnight RV accommodations. The parking area was expansive, probably three hundred spaces, only a small number of which were taken. Most important of all was the Denny’s restaurant rising up in splendor.

I parked two aisles away from the entrance, locked the Mustang, and went in. I availed myself of the facilities and then found an empty booth. A kindly waitress brought me water, a menu, and silverware. Since I’d eaten breakfast a scant three hours before, I skipped that section of the menu and looked at the garish photographs of burgers. Most were alarmingly large; double-meat patties with cheese and all manner of folderol piled up in a bun. Feeling virtuous, I opted for a salad, knowing that before I left I could hoof it over to the minimart and stock up on candy bars.

When I paid my check, I asked the cashier to make change for a five-dollar bill. I’d seen a pay phone outside the service station and I was headed in that direction when a middle-aged man approached from the parking lot and tagged me by the arm.

“Is that your Mustang?”

I turned to him with surprise. “It is.”

“I thought so. I saw you pull in. My wife and I had a booth by the window and she’s the one who called it to my attention. We were just having a closer look.”

“I take it you’re a fan.”

“Yes’sum, but that’s not why I came looking for you. Are you aware you have a flat tire?”

“You’re kidding. Flat as in dead flat or low on air?”

“Come on and I’ll show you. I worried you might not notice it. You get back on the road and first thing you know, you’d be riding on the rim.”

He turned and headed toward the rows of parked cars and I quick-stepped to catch up.

“Where’re you coming from?” he asked.

“Bakersfield. I’m on my way to Santa Teresa.”

We passed through to the second aisle. His wife was standing by the Mustang and she sent me an apologetic smile, as though she felt responsible for the problem I’d been dealt.

He said, “I’m Ron Swingler, by the way, and this is my wife, Gilda.”

“Kinsey Millhone,” I said as we shook hands all around. “I appreciate your taking the time to let me know about this.”

They shared a similar body type, round through the middle with truncated extremities. Easy to see how their shared lifestyle and eating habits had created the symmetry.

“What about you? Where are you from?” I asked.

“Texas. This is our honeymoon. We’ve been married two days.”

There went that keenly observed conclusion.