Breakdown

Chapter 32

The City of Shaker Heights website offered a laid-back summary of public records policy. Personal inspection available during business hours, written requests not required for copies though a detailed description would “facilitate” the process, information provided “within a reasonable period of time.”

Those seeking data were instructed to contact the public records manager for the city department most likely to retain their particular record.

No phone numbers or email addresses listed.

Milo switched to the homepage of the Shaker Heights Police, called the Investigative Bureau, and talked to a sergeant named Anton Bach who said, “So we’re not talking suspects.”

“Just doing some background.”

“If it’s the Smiths I’m thinking about, never heard of any problems from them.”

“The trust is under G. S. Smith.”

“Hold on.”

Moments later: “Yeah, a guy here says those are the Smiths I was thinking about. G. S. stands for George Seward, he started the company back around the Civil War. My grandfather worked for them during World War Two. Smith Machine Works, parts for cranes, suspension bridges, the big stuff. They closed down when the steel industry tanked. I’m not sure any of the family is still around.”

“Would you have any specific names?”

“Hold on.”

Moments later: “My guy says no, can’t help you there. What kind of background are we talking about, Lieutenant?”

“One of their possible descendants is a homicide victim.”

“Possible?”

“That’s what I’m trying to clear up.”

“Ah, got it,” said Bach. “In terms of names, I could see if we can locate that trust.”

“That would be highly appreciated, Sergeant.”

“Andy’s fine. To be honest, I’m not sure where to go with it, never looked for a trust. Give me your number in case it takes time.”

I motioned to Milo.

“Sure, one more question from my partner, Andy. Gimme a sec.”

I said, “If the trust owned real estate, there’d be a record of that in the property tax rolls.”

Milo relayed the message. Bach said, “Hmm, good idea. I’ll put you on hold, if it goes fast, right back at you.”

Dead air.

Milo drummed my desk, pulled a pencil out of a drawer and rolled it between his fingers.

I said, “That went smoothly. Talk about connections.”

“Get me a private deal for an enormous party pad and I’ll start to feel important.”

Andy Bach clicked in. “You were right, real estate was the way to go. Trust owned a bunch of properties, sold ’em all a while back. But I found the same face page attached to some of the transactions and it’s got names on it. City’s been converting to PDF, give me your email.”

“Thanks a heap. You come to L.A., I’ll take you out for a big steak.”

“Last I was in L.A. it was years ago, with the wife and kids. Disneyland, Space Mountain, junk food, those pickles at Disneyland look like they’re made in outer space. God forbid I should have time for a quiet meal. But who knows?”

The information had arrived by the time Milo switched to his departmental email.

The sixteenth iteration of the G. S. Smith Family Trust had been set up sixty-four years ago for the benefit of the children of Oletta Elizabeth Smith and Weston Osmond Smith.

The minor children Weston Abel Smith, fourteen; James Finbar Smith, eleven; Sarah Oletta Smith, eight; Enid Lauretta Smith, six.

A separate page on the seventeenth iteration, four years after that, added another beneficiary: the newborn child of Oletta and Martin Rutherford, Agatha Zina Rutherford.

Milo said, “Enid and Zina. Finally, the gods have had enough random.”

He printed and we went into the kitchen where I made coffee and he scrounged himself a piece of cold roast beef and couple of less-than-optimal bagels that aerobicized his jaws. We’d just sat down when Robin came in with Blanche.

Hugs, kisses, Milo’s fake-grudging stoop to pet Blanche and feed her shreds of beef. She lingered near his trouser cuffs, panted a couple of times, and burped lustily before settling her head atop his shoe.

Robin said, “Someone’s in love.”

“Can’t help myself, kid. Animal magnetism strikes again.”

“I can feel the earth tilting on its axis. What are you guys up to?”

I poured coffee for her, pulled out a chair.

“Thanks but I think I’ll stand, hon. Been at the bench all day.”

I gave her a recap as she stood next to me sipping, her free hand running through my hair.

She said, “Blended family. That can get complicated.”

I said, “A half sister tossed into the mix, ten years younger than the youngest of the full sibs.”

“Baby of the family got displaced?”

“If Mr. Rutherford stole Mommy away from Mr. Smith, there’d be way more reason for hostility than that. It would also give Enid good reason for not wanting to deal with a usurper’s offspring. If Zelda really was Zina’s daughter. Or even claimed to be.”

“Someone shows up out of the blue, declaring herself family,” said Robin. “Not a pleasant surprise.”

Milo said, “Psychology’s fine but money talks. Membership in this family would mean being an heir. What sounds like serious dough, even divided four ways.”

I said, “Even more so if some of the others have died.”

Robin said, “Bigger slice of the pie, more motivation not to share.”

“Easy enough to find out who the current beneficiaries are, now that we’ve got full names.”

Milo looked down at Blanche, rubbed behind her ears. She purred. “You know how to work the Internet, mademoiselle?”

“Not yet,” said Robin. “We’re still on basic math.”

Blanche cocked her head and smiled. When Milo and I returned to my office, she waddled after us and resumed her position near his feet.

Death certificates for Enid DePauw’s three full siblings were confirmed, giving her the entire pie.

I said, “Can’t stop being a psychologist,” and tunneled into a massive for-pay newspaper archive, pulling up the Cleveland Plain Dealer’s society page coverage of the marriage of Miss Oletta Elizabeth Barnaby to Mr. Weston Osmond Smith. Fourteen months prior to the birth of Weston Jr., so everything was by the book in Marriage Number One.

Gala affair, the right orchestra, the right guests, ceremony in the Presbyterian church, reception in the “luxuriant, flower-rich” gardens of the Smith family estate.

Using Zina Rutherford’s birthdate as an approximation, I searched for coverage of the union between Oletta and Martin Rutherford.

Nothing.

I said, “Time for the census rolls.”

Several Martin Rutherfords in Ohio. But narrowing it down to Shaker Heights and estimating the time frame pulled up what I was looking for.

Martin Phillip Rutherford had been twenty-six years old when he switched his residence from the city of Cleveland to the affluent suburb. Occupation prior to that: gas station attendant and automotive mechanic. Afterward: automotive steward and driver.

At the time of the trust revision, Rutherford had been working for the Smiths for six years.

His new wife was forty-five.

Milo said, “Taking up with the chauffeur. In the market for a cliché? Stick with the classics.”

I said, “That explains no attention from the paper. And it sure must’ve thrilled the other kids. Not to mention Husband Number One, if he got thrown over.”

“Traded in for a stud who knew his axle grease... okay, show yourself, Weston O.”

Back to the census. No listing for Weston Osmond Smith during the period after his wife’s second marriage. I scrolled back, finally found him five years prior to Zina Rutherford’s birth.

A year after Martin Rutherford began driving for the family.

Milo said, “Even if he died prior to her conception, there are three hundred sixty-five days’ worth of potential hanky-panky.”

A switch back to the newspaper archives pulled up Weston’s sizable obituary in The Plain Dealer. Manufacturer, sportsman, philanthropist. Aged fifty-four, natural causes.

Milo, “That makes him... fourteen years older than Oletta. Almost the same difference as between her and Martin. Establish your status and moolah by marrying a rich older guy, then go for youth and a masterful stick shift.”

I said, “Toss in a twilight baby and you’ve got serious breeding ground for volatility.”

“Oletta must’ve been some gal. I’m thinking heavy breathing in the backseat of the family Packard. For all we know, Martin and Oletta met before Martin became the chauffeur, when he was still pumping gas. She wheels in for a lube — stop me.”

He swatted hair off his brow, stood and paced, sat back down. “Amazing what you can learn from a bunch of dates. Or are we getting too creative here?”

I said, “Whatever the specifics, it’s easy to see why Zina wasn’t embraced by the bosom of the Smith family. And as we said, her lifestyle choices would have only made matters worse.”

“Problem child comes to Hollywood,” he said. “Okay, shunning I can see. But how could she get foreclosed on and end up scrounging for a living? She was a beneficiary of the trust, had her own dough.”

“That would’ve depended on how the trust was structured. If there was a cutoff clause — spendthrift, moral turpitude — she could’ve been left with nothing.”

“Oletta has a late-in-life kid and allows that kind of vulnerability?”

“If the trustee was a third party — a banker, a lawyer, an old friend of Weston’s who disapproved of Oletta’s choices — the contingency could’ve been inserted without her knowledge. Or it was part of the trust all along. Those kinds of restrictions are pretty standard with irrevocable trusts and we’re talking about a document that goes back generations. For Oletta to change things, she’d have needed to be paying attention to details. In those days, women were often shunted away from financial matters.”

I took another look at the trust’s face sheet. “What’s interesting is that it adds Zina but doesn’t include Martin. Maybe another fund was set up for him. Or he wasn’t around long enough.”

I checked the next census count. As far as the federal government was concerned, Martin Phillip Rutherford didn’t exist.

Neither did Oletta.

Milo said, “Neither of them was around by then?”

Death records confirmed it: The couple had perished on the same day, within months of the trust’s inclusion of baby Zina. No cause listed.

I said, “Could be an accident.”

“Chauffeur cracks up the Packard?”

“Leaving behind five kids, ranging from eighteen to infant.”

“An infant the others resented. Yeah, Zina didn’t have a charmed childhood.”

Back to the newspaper records. No obits for Martin and Oletta Rutherford.

I said, “Same blackout as the wedding. Oletta inherited a fortune but her social status was gone.”

“If it was an accident and local, Shaker Heights might still have a record of it, I’ll try Bach. But first let’s concentrate on what we know about Zina. Left as a baby to the good graces of people who hated her guts. Probably handed off to some servant. Later, maybe a boarding school. I can sure see her wanting to get the hell out of Ohio. So she comes out here and does the reinvention bit.”

I said, “She was a good-looking woman, tried to break into the industry. Instead, she got pregnant and triggered a clause that made her poor.”

“Bye-bye house in the hills,” he said. “So she does what it takes to make a living — uh-oh, hold on. That totally monkey-wrenches the party-house scenario. You see Zina freelancing at Sister Enid’s bash? Who has also moved out west. Which is kind of interesting — maybe she also had Hollywood aspirations.”

“Another tall blonde,” I said. “She was ten years older than Zina but maybe still young enough. Or believed she was. Sure, why not?”

“Neither of them made it in pictures but Enid snagged herself a husband with connections. You think at some point the sisters could’ve had a decent relationship? If they did, Zina could’ve been an invited party guest.”

“It’s a thought,” I said.

“Even if they didn’t get along, Zina could have still been at Enid’s party, as a crasher. And something happened. Or we’re totally off base and she died some other way.”

He got up again, paced longer, remained on his feet. Blanche watched him, then shuffled over. He didn’t notice her until she began breathing hard. “Fine, fine, relax, you’re appreciated... Alex, what I still can’t figure out is how someone in Zelda’s state managed to put any of this together.”

“As I said, we may never know,” I said. “But her mental status may have been less of a factor than I thought. Her breakdown was a process, not an event. When I saw her five years ago, she was acting odd but functioning well enough to do her job. Doing it well enough to be kept on a second season. Before that, she was likely more lucid.”

“You’re saying she mighta been sufficiently together to do the snooping.”

“More likely paying someone to snoop.”

“Fine. But she waited until she was homeless and full-blown crazy to go into action. Breaking into Enid’s place and announcing she was a rightful heir.”

“Maybe that wasn’t her first attempt.”

“She’s been bugging Enid for a while? Look who’s here, Auntie. Your worst nightmare?”

I said, “Expensive nightmare.”

“If Zina was cut off, would Zelda have a claim on anything?”

“The mere threat of going to court might’ve been enough. Beyond the money, there was the issue of Enid’s social standing. Rich aunt in Bel Air, helpless, impaired niece on the streets? Can you imagine if the Times got hold of it?”

He returned to the sofa. “You’re making sense but is any of that a motive for multiple murder?”

“Get someone sufficiently threatened and there’s no telling,” I said. “You’ve seen enough chain reactions, one thing leading to another.”

“True but there could also be something to your fun factor. You want to eliminate complications, there are quicker, neater ways than feeding someone poison and watching them die. That says hatred — oh, man, we still need to find out how Oletta and Martin died. Remember what the paper said about her first wedding? Big gardens, lots of flowers? If the two of them got bad stomachaches after drinking homemade consommé, it’s gonna get way more interesting.”

“Enid was nine at the time,” I said.

“You don’t believe in bad seeds? So to speak.”

“A calculated dual poisoning? That would be very precocious.”

“So one of the other sibs did it. Or all the kids conspired, family that slays together, stays together.”

He phoned Andy Bach.

“That, Lieutenant, I can probably get right here in our records.”

“You’re a prince.”

“Tell my wife, she’s been looking at me like I’m a frog... we’ve got a real good record of automotive accidents, had a federal grant to organize it, so sit tight... yup, here it is, single-car collision, ice on the road, your basic skid-out... hit a mulberry tree. Two fatalities, driver and passenger, Mr. and Mrs. M. Rutherford.”

“Was it a Packard?”

“Nope, a Lincoln.”

“Shucks,” said Milo. “Here I was thinking of becoming a think-tank cowboy!”

He thanked Bach again, hung up, returned to the computer. “Now it’s time for a seminar on Counselor Loach.”

Jarrell Yarmuth Loach was sixty-seven years old, with an occasional penchant for speeding in his Audi but no criminal record. The headshot on his firm’s website showed a square-faced man with snow-white hair and rimless glasses. Squinty eyes behind the lenses, a crooked smile that had probably once been boyish.

Milo had called him Mr. CEO. My first thought was Cary Grant’s plainer brother.

Berkeley undergrad, Hastings law, no problems with the state bar. The summary on the site featured an impressive list of civic organizations and a lectureship at the U.’s law school.

Milo said, “Get this: He’s taught classes on business ethics in estate law.”

“The halls of academe,” I said. “Those who don’t do, teach.”

Loach paid property tax in the State of California for two addresses: a house on Thayer Avenue in Westwood and a condominium at Arroyo Blanco Estates, Palm Springs.

Milo began leafing through his notes. “Thought so. Damn. One of the places I called when I was looking into Enid.” He phoned, used his Nice Guy voice and a mutual need for discretion to get what he wanted from the on-duty manager, hung up looking fulfilled.

“Loach pays for the place but he never uses it. But guess what, Enid has. Her name didn’t come up because they were checking the owners book and guests are entered in the tenant log.”

“Organized,” I said.

“High-security and all that. Guests need to be preapproved by the management. They’ve also got a card-key system that feeds straight into their central computer, so they can tell if someone’s there and exactly when they come and go. Last time Enid clocked in — last time anyone did — was three months ago. By herself, no maid, the place provides housekeeping services.”

“Three months ago is around the time of Rod Salton’s death.”

He frowned, flipped more pages. “Interesting. She arrived two days before Salton’s body was found, departed two days after. Think that’s significant?”

“Gives her somewhat of an alibi,” I said. “Maybe that was the point.”

“Somewhat?”

“She cooks up a batch of aconite and gives it to Loach, her being elsewhere means nothing. Is it certain Loach wasn’t at the condo with her?”

“According to the manager, a hundred percent certain. Every person gets logged in and out at the gatehouse, no exceptions, the residents want it that way. And like I said, Loach is an absentee owner, the manager’s been there two years, hasn’t laid eyes on him.”

“A condo in Palm Springs,” I said. “Enid tweaked reality, Smooth Lying 101. So where are the two of them now?”

“For all we know, back at her place. Or, lacking that, his.”

We drove to St. Denis, pulled up to Enid DePauw’s gate, and pushed the button. No response to three attempts. Searching for a thin spot in the trees behind the stone wall, Milo walked a bit before finding a niche for a foothold. Hoisting himself up, he lost his footing, tried again, and hung on long enough for a brief peek.

“Lights off everywhere. Unless they’re having a slumber party at eight, they ain’t here.”

We continued south, across Sunset, into the section of Westwood that flanks the U. on the east. J. Yarmuth Loach’s house was an unassuming two-story traditional. Audi coupe in the driveway, no mail piled up in front of the door, a smatter of lights on.

Milo eased to the curb. “No sign of Enid’s Porsche or her Rolls and I don’t have a plausible story for showing up at night. Can you think of one?”

I couldn’t.

He said, “I’ll bop by tomorrow morning, try to catch him before he leaves for work. Or the country club or wherever he hangs out, seeing as he doesn’t work much. Let’s collect your wheels and you can go home and kiss both the women in your life.”

He showed up at my front door at eight-thirty the next morning. “Spoke to Loach’s maid. Señor no aqui, left with two suitcases. She had no idea where he was headed but two pieces of luggage says more than an overnight. I called the manager at Arroyo Blanco, asked to be notified if they show up. Just in case they decided to go international, I’ve been trying to reach my contact at Homeland Security, let me give it another whirl.”

Plopping down on a living room sofa, he switched to hands-off and punched a preset number.

Dry croak: “Hello-o.”

“Irene? Finally got you. Milo.”

“You’re calling me at home?”

“Tried the office.”

“Hnh.” She coughed. Cleared her throat.

“Sick?”

“You must be a detective. Yeah, some kind of shitty flu. All last week I was in the arrival hall. Customs had word on maggots trying to smuggle in snakes and birds but it futzed out. Meanwhile, there’s hordes of who-knows-who from who-knows-where bringing in who-knows-what diseases. Should’ve worn a mask but I can’t stand the way they feel.”

“Sorry, Irene. When you do have time—”

“You already interrupted my soup. What?”

He told her.

She said, “Any reason these two would set off our alarms?”

“On the contrary,” said Milo. “Older, affluent, respectable. No problem from your end at all, Irene.”

“So this is a one-way street.” She sniffled. “You don’t like them, huh?”

“Wouldn’t want them on my buddy list.”

“Old and rich,” she said. “That gives me an idea. Give me some time to get the soup down and I’ll see what I can do.”

She coughed again. “That one was to make you feel guilty.”

Ten minutes later, she was back. “Like I thought, they both registered with Global Entry, our Trusted Traveler Program.”

“Paying to avoid long lines.”

“People without jihad affections like it, sir. Sometimes we let them keep their shoes on. Anyway, it makes it easier to pinpoint their comings and goings. Three days ago, Ms. DePauw and Mr. Loach booked adjoining first-class seats on an Alitalia flight to Rome. Round-trip, they’re due back in six days.”

“Thanks a ton, Irene.”

“That’s grazie to you.”

Milo put down the phone. “I’m gonna sort all this out in my mind and see if John Nguyen has any time to chat. He does, I’ll beg and scrape for a warrant to search Enid’s estate.”

“Homeowner out of the country?” I said. “Going to be tough.”

“I’m not after the house at this point, just the grounds and nothing intrusive, a look-see. John’s been known to be creative.”

“You could moonlight with White Glove Cleaning and get in.”

“There you go, me with a dust-mop, whistling while I work.” Gathering his materials, he headed for the door.

I said, “By look-see you mean searching for vegetable and animal matter. As in deceased human animals?”

“Well,” he said, “I don’t see minerals being a problem.”