Guilt

CHAPTER 17

Researching 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 pinon, 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.

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.

Even silent and static, the car managed to project an aura of ferocity and mastery. The kind of queenly confidence you see in a certain type of woman, able to work natural beauty to her advantage without flirting or raising her voice.

I said, “Thanks for giving me the opportunity.”

Felix Monahan said, “You can thank me by dropping the whole notion of Jimmy Asherwood being some sort of criminal. A, he isn’t, and B, I don’t like anything that upsets my wife.”

“No one’s out to-”

He stopped me with a palm. “That woman you mentioned-Green-I can’t tell you about her because I don’t know her and I’m sure that applies to Grace. However, I did know Jimmy and there’s zero chance he fathered that baby or had anything to do with its death.”

“Okay.”

“That doesn’t sound sincere.”

“I-”

“When Grace inquired about you, she was told you’re quite the brilliant fellow, had a promising academic career that you traded, for some reason, for immersing yourself in the lowest elements of society-hear me out, I’m not judging you, as Jimmy told Grace, everyone should live their own life. But now I see you as intruding on Grace’s life and that worries me because of something else your former colleagues said: You never let go.”

I kept silent.

He said, “Close the garage.”

After he locked up, he faced me. His eyes were slits, and the tremor in his hands was mimicked by quivers along his jawline.

“Mr. Monahan, I’m-”

“Listen carefully, young man: Jimmy didn’t father that child or any other. He was incapable.”

“Sterile?”

“Grace doesn’t know. But I do, because Jimmy was like an older brother to me and he could confide in me in a way he couldn’t with Grace because I was able to keep my emotions in check. He and I used to motor together, drive out to where he stored his cars, pick one on a whim and go hit some great, dusty roads. One day we were out in his ’35 Auburn Boattail Speedster. Motoring in Malibu, up in the hills, in those days it was brush and scrub. The Auburn chewed up the asphalt, glorious thing, Jimmy and I took turns behind the wheel. We stopped for a smoke and a nip-nothing extreme, a taste from the hip flask and a couple of fine Havanas at a spot where the ocean was visible. Jimmy seemed more relaxed than I’d ever seen him. Then all of a sudden, he said, ‘Felix, people think I’m homosexual, don’t they? Because I like art and going to the ballet and have never married.’ What do you say to something like that? The truth was he was right. Jimmy was regarded as what was then called ‘sensitive.’ Apart from cars, his interests were feminine.”

“The paper described him as a sportsman.”

“The paper relied on information provided by Grace. The only sport I ever saw Jimmy engage in was a spot of polo in Montecito and not much of that. Now, there’s nothing wrong with liking Die Fledermaus, but combine that with his never marrying-never showing interest in women-it was a reasonable conclusion. But what I said was, ‘Jimmy, that’s rot.’ To which he said, ‘You’re not a fool, Felix. You never wondered?’ I said, ‘Your business is your own, Jimmy.’ To which he replied, ‘So you believe it, too.’ I protested and he laughed that off, stood and proceeded to unbuckle his belt and lower his trousers and his shorts.”

His eyes clamped shut. “Terrible sight. He’d been mangled. Shrapnel flyoff from a land mine on D-Day. Larger pieces and he’d have been sheared in two, fortunately he survived. However, the shards that did find their way into his body left hideous scars on his legs. And nothing much in the way of manhood.”

“Poor man.”

“When I saw it, Dr. Delaware, I couldn’t help myself, I cried like a baby. Not my style, when my mother passed I held myself in check. But Jimmy like that?”

Long sigh. “He pulled up his trousers and smiled and said, ‘So you see, Felix, it’s not for lack of interest, it’s for lack of equipment.’ Then he took a long swallow from the flask-emptied it-said, ‘You drive home.’ ”

Monahan placed both hands to his temples. “Jimmy was a man’s man. And you need to honor that and vow to not repeat this to anyone because if Grace ever learned the truth and that I was the one who told you, it would destroy her and do irreparable harm to my marriage.”

“I promise, Mr. Monahan. But there’s something you need to consider: The lieutenant I work with is honorable and discreet, but he’s also extremely persistent and left to his own devices he may eventually trace the car back to Jimmy, as I did. I have credibility with him and if I’m allowed to give him some basic details, it’s unlikely you’ll ever hear from him.”

“Unlikely,” he said. “But you can’t guarantee.”

“I’m being honest, Mr. Monahan.”

“You’re a psychologist, sir. Your allegiance should be building people up, not tearing them down.”

“I agree.”

“What would you like to tell this policeman?”

“That Jimmy was a good man whose war injuries prevented him from fathering a child. That most of his life seems to have centered around good deeds.”

“Not most,” said Felix Monahan. “All. A purer soul never walked this earth.”

His eyes swept over my face, thorough as a CAT scanner. “I choose to consider you a man of honor.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Show your appreciation by doing the right thing.”