W Is for Wasted

11

I don’t remember the drive home. I kept my emotions on hold, unable to accept what I’d been confronted with in black and white. Before Aaron and I left the bank, the teller made one copy of his inventory sheet for me and a second to be kept in the safe deposit box. She also made a copy of Dace’s will, along with copies of the other paperwork, which she returned to the safe deposit box. Aaron received one packet and I was given the other. Since I was named executor of the estate, she also handed me the original of the will to be submitted to the superior court clerk when it was entered into probate. I intended to contact an attorney as soon as possible because I already knew I was in over my head. I needed legal guidance and I needed help understanding the full impact of this strange turn of events. This was like winning the lottery without buying a ticket. Half a million bucks? Unreal.

Out on the street, Aaron and I shook hands. I have no idea why. There was simply the sense that some agreement had been reached and we’d sealed the bargain with that age-old gesture, denoting courtliness and nonaggression.

He said, “At a totally mundane level, I still have Dace’s sleeping bag. Looks like that belongs to you along with everything else. You want me to hang on to it?”

“No, thanks. I can tell you right now I won’t be crawling into that thing no matter how many times it’s been cleaned.”

• • •

Once on my street, I parked, locked the car, passed through the squeaky gate, and went around to the back patio. I let myself in, dropped my shoulder bag on the counter, and sat down at my desk. I opened the file drawer and took out the folder where I kept the photocopy of my parents’ marriage license application. I knew what I’d find, but I needed to see it again nonetheless.

Four years previously, a piece of my personal history had surfaced unexpectedly. In the course of an investigation, a woman I was interviewing made a remark about the name Kinsey, wondering aloud if I was related to the Kinsey family up in Lompoc, an hour north of Santa Teresa. I dismissed the idea, but something about the comment bothered me. I’d finally gone down to the courthouse, where I searched public records and came up with the information my parents had supplied on the application for their marriage license, which listed my father’s date and place of birth, my mother’s date and place of birth, and the names of both sets of parents.

And there it was.

My mother, whose maiden name was Kinsey, was born in Lompoc, California. I was indeed a member of the Kinsey family, despite the fact that there had been no contact (that I knew of) in the years since my parents’ death. At the time, I’d paid for a copy of the form, which I’d placed in my files. Now I looked at it with new eyes. My paternal grandfather—my father’s father—was Quillen Millhone. My grandmother’s maiden name was Rebecca Dace. Their only son, my father, was Terrence Randall Millhone, who went by the name Randy. He listed his place of birth as Bakersfield, California, which I’d forgotten. Terrence Dace’s full name was Randall Terrence Dace. The two given names had probably been recycled through the family in variations from one generation to the next, going back who knows how far. If Rebecca Dace had brothers, it would explain how the surname Dace remained in play.

Why hadn’t I made the connection when I first heard the name? It’s not as though Dace was a common name like Smith or Jones. The truth was, I’d been raised thinking of myself as an orphan. My Aunt Gin, for reasons of her own, had neatly sidestepped any talk of our family history. While she was intimately acquainted with the facts, she felt no compulsion to advise me of my antecedents. When assorted Kinsey relatives appeared in my life, I reacted as though my world were being invaded by aliens. I was unaccustomed to cousins and aunts, and I chafed at their overtures, which were motivated by goodwill. The existence of my maternal grandmother, Cornelia Straith LaGrand Kinsey, was a shock and not one I received with grace. Over the past couple of years, I’d adjusted (more or less), but I wasn’t entirely reconciled to any of it.

In my defense, when I’d first clapped eyes on the John Doe, cold and gray and still as stone on a gurney in the coroner’s office, I’d had no reason in the world to believe the man was in any way related to me. Now, for all practical purposes, he belonged to me, and I was charged with the responsibility of overseeing the distribution of his assets, which apparently consisted entirely of cash, left entirely to me. Why did this seem so wrong? There was no mention in the will itself as to what he’d wanted done with his remains. I’d make arrangements for his funeral, but his children might want a part in that decision. Despite their rejection of him and his subsequent repudiation of them, he was still their father, and the issue was by no means settled. Whether his death did or did not change the emotional climate in their hearts, it was still my job to carry the news to them and to offer an olive branch. Surely, his kids must have felt relieved when they learned of his innocence. Whatever the nature of their estrangement, at least the specter of their father as a sexual predator and cold-blooded killer had been laid to rest.

The other question that bore consideration was this: if R. T. Dace and I were related, which appeared to be the case, then what was the connection? While it was only speculation on my part, the answer seemed obvious. Dace had come to Santa Teresa because he’d heard that his favorite “Uncle R” had moved here with his family. He’d heard the news of his uncle’s death, but he’d still thought he might contact surviving family members. The slip of paper in his pocket didn’t refer to the personhood of Millhone, the private investigator. It was Millhone, the private citizen. The only conclusion that made sense was that Dace’s favorite “Uncle R” was my father, Randy Millhone. Terrence Randall Millhone and Randall Terrence Dace were related by blood, though I had no way of knowing if their relationship was actually that of uncle to nephew or something more convoluted. If I was correct in tracing a line to my grandmother Rebecca Dace, then Terrence was most likely my cousin somewhere along that branch.

This is what stopped me in my tracks. If I was right, then the four black-and-white photographs of Dace’s “Uncle R” were the only pictures of my father I’d ever seen. I shut the door on that painful notion, which I’d deal with once I had the snapshots in hand. Right now, they were tucked away in Dace’s safe deposit box along with the other documents I could lay claim to once I sorted through legal matters.

I pulled out the telephone book and looked in the yellow pages under “Attorneys.” In the subcategory “Wills, Trusts and Estate Planning,” there were twenty-one lawyers listed and I’d never heard of one. It wasn’t quite noon, so I picked up the phone and called Lonnie Kingman, my attorney of record. He’s my go-to guy at the first sign of legal troubles, which have cropped up more than once in the course of my career. For a period of three years, we’d shared office space, in that he’d accorded me the use of his conference room for business purposes after I left California Fidelity Insurance.

Eventually, his firm had outgrown the space he was in and he’d bought an office building on lower State Street into which he’d moved some two years before. I realized with embarrassment that I’d never even stepped foot in the place. Maybe I should have considered that good news because it meant I hadn’t been arrested, jailed, or legally threatened of late. Instead, I was forced, once again, to acknowledge the gaps in my upbringing. Aunt Gin hadn’t fostered feelings of connectedness and I hadn’t had occasion to develop them on my own. Maybe it was time to at least pretend to be a nicer person than I knew I was. I dialed Lonnie’s office number.

When the receptionist picked up, I identified myself and asked to speak to Lonnie. I didn’t recognize the receptionist’s name. She told me he was out of the country and wasn’t expected back until the following week.

“What about John Ives? Is he in?”

“No, ma’am, he’s not. Mr. Ives has left the firm and opened offices of his own. I can give you his number if you’d like.”

“Martin Cheltenham?”

“He moved to Los Angeles . . .”

“Who’s left?”

“I can put you through to Mr. Zimmerman.”

“What’s his specialty?”

“Personal injury.”

“Do you have anyone who handles estate law? Wills, dead people? Anything like that?”

“Burke Benjamin.”

“Fine. I’ll take him.”

“Her.”

“Right. Could you put me through?”

“She’s not here at the moment but I expect her back after lunch. Shall I set up an appointment?”

“Please. I’m a friend and longtime client of Lonnie’s and I can be there at one o’clock if she’s available.”

“Looks like it to me. I’ll make a note of it.”

“Thanks so much.”

I spelled my name for her. She asked for my phone number and I dutifully recited it. I thought she might ask for a credit card number, like a restaurant hedging against no-shows, but she let it go at that.

I used the time before my appointment to get out my index cards and transfer information from the photocopies of the paperwork in Dace’s safe deposit box: California driver’s license, which included his then address; his social security number; and his son’s street address in Bakersfield. There was no phone number that I could find. There were other incidental bits and pieces I consigned to index cards, which were easier to carry with me than an eight-by-eleven folder. I created a file for him, into which I tucked the photocopies. It looked like there would be much more to follow before I was through with him.

• • •

The three-story building Lonnie’d bought on lower State Street was the original home of the Spring Fresh Ice Cream Company, which had operated from 1907 until it went into bankruptcy proceedings in 1931. The name Spring Fresh and the year 1907 were carved in Gothic-style lettering in the gray stone lintel above the entrance. For twenty-four years, the ground floor was occupied by the Spring Fresh Ice Cream Emporium, after which the space was taken over by a series of food-related businesses—a luncheonette, a candy store, a soda fountain, and a tea shop—while the two stories above it were let as offices. I learned all of this because a plaque mounted to the right of the front door sketched the building’s metamorphosis, including its designation as a historical landmark.

When I pushed through the glass doors into the lobby, I could see that the walls had been taken back to the bare brick. The city had doubtless required Lonnie to do some serious earthquake retro-fitting, but the contemporary infrastructure—steel girders and supports—had been hidden in the walls. I suspected that the materials I was looking at, while old, had been rescued from a teardown elsewhere in town. The ceiling had been removed and an atrium now extended from the ground floor to a lofty third-floor dome. Light poured in through the curved glass with brass ribs, which resembled a giant umbrella overhead.

The second and third stories opened onto the atrium, ringed with circular wrought iron balustrades. A continuous stretch of offices was visible on each floor. Below, the reception area was so large that it dwarfed the sixty-inch glass table in the center with its collection of antique milk canisters and churns. Instead of art, the walls were hung with old black-and-white photographs of Santa Teresa in the early part of the century. Two gentlemen in bowler hats and three-piece suits posed in front of the building with a mule-drawn milk wagon at the curb. In the photo taken just after the 1926 earthquake, the buildings on either side had been reduced to rubble while the Spring Fresh headquarters had escaped with only minor damage.

The marble floor was white tile with a pattern of black insets; probably new but mimicking the original. I will swear to you that the air smelled like vanilla ice cream. I checked the directory and located the office number for Burke Benjamin, 201, which I assumed was on the second level. An ancient-looking cage elevator with polished brass doors was still in operation. I entered, slid the retractable metal gate shut, pressed the brass 2 button, and went up. My ascent was slow and curiously entertaining as the facing walls, just outside the cage, had been plastered with a collage of vintage Spring Fresh posters and circulars.

When I stepped off the elevator on the second floor, the receptionist looked up and smiled pleasantly. She was a woman in her fifties with unrepentantly gray hair and a gray sweater-dress that looked handknit. Far from washing the color from her complexion, the overall palette generated a vibrant aura, which was both striking and soft.

The name placard on the desk indicated that the receptionist was Hester Maddox. “I’m Hester. You must be Kinsey.”

“I am. Nice meeting you,” I replied as we shook hands across her desk.

Hester glanced at the old-fashioned wall clock. “Ms. Benjamin should be here shortly. Why don’t you have a seat? Can I get you anything? Water or coffee?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

I settled on a camelback sofa upholstered in a caramel velvet that looked good enough to lick. On the small brass-and-glass coffee table in front of me there were copies of Forbes magazine, the ABA Journal, the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, five law-related publications, and three issues of People magazine, a guilty pleasure of mine. I skipped the issue devoted to Mike Tyson’s latest difficulties and bypassed the lengthy coverage on caring for aging parents and the painful decisions attendant thereon. Given my orphan status, the problem wasn’t one I’d have to face. Henry and his sibs might be octogenarians and nonagenarians, but they had always been self-sufficient, and if one of them suffered a medical malfunction, the others would rally with unfailing support.

I picked up the October 10, 1988, issue and turned to the story about Jersey Girl Patti Scialfa replacing actress Julianne Phillips in Bruce Springsteen’s heart. The article detailed the development of the romance, which surfaced a scant three years after Springsteen and Julianne Phillips were married. The story moved from Patti Scialfa’s early career to her current state of bliss and ended with gushings of the “they were clearly meant for each other” variety. Oh yeah, right. Like that marriage would last.

I heard the elevator doors open and looked up as a curly-haired adolescent boy emerged in bicycle shorts and running shoes. He had no helmet that I could see and I wondered if his mother knew. His shirt was plastered to his back with sweat and his blond hair was a mass of dripping ringlets. As he passed, he glanced at me. “Are you Kinsey?”

“That’s right.”

“Burke Benjamin,” she said. She wiped her right palm on her pants and then held it out. As soon as we shook hands, she moved on, saying, “Come with me.”

I set the magazine aside and followed. She held open her office door for me and then closed it behind me.

“Have a seat. I’ll be right with you.”

I chose one of her two leather-upholstered visitor’s chairs, thinking she’d excuse herself and retire to the ladies’ room to shower. Instead, she opened her bottom desk drawer and pulled out a dark red terry- cloth bath towel. She kicked off her running shoes, peeled off her gym socks, and crossed her arms so she could pull her soggy T-shirt over her head. Shirt dispensed with, she peeled out of her bra and bike shorts. “Hester says you’re a friend of Lonnie’s.”

“I am,” I said, eyes averted. She wore thong underpants. This is a sight that doesn’t inspire confidence when consulting an attorney in the matter of half a million bucks.

She was completely nonchalant as she toweled sweat from her neck and underarms. She wadded up the damp shirt and tossed it in her bottom desk drawer, simultaneously taking out a clean bra, which she hooked into place, followed by a white T-shirt that she slipped over her head. She removed a neat navy blue skirt from a hanger and zipped herself into it, then slipped on heels without hose. From another drawer, she pulled out a hair dryer that was apparently permanently plugged in. She bent from the waist and blew her hair dry with a protracted blast of hot air that riffled papers on her desk. By the time she returned the dryer to the drawer, she looked completely put together and her manner was properly professional, including the ringlets, which offset her no-nonsense air.

“What can I do for you?”

“I find myself in a peculiar situation and I need help.”

“Well, you came to the right place. What’s up?”

I removed Dace’s will from my shoulder bag and passed it across the desk to her.

The document was only four pages long. She took her time, leafing back and forth through the pages until she grasped the whole of it. She placed the document on the desk in front of her. “Nice. I take it the two of you were close.”

“We’re related, but I never met the man,” I said.

“Well, I guess that pretty much eliminates any claim by his three kids that you exercised ‘undue influence’ over dear old Dad,” she said. “What’s the nature of your relationship?”

“I’m guessing we’re second cousins, though I haven’t had that confirmed. I know my grandparents’ names, but aside from that I know nothing about my father’s side of the family. This has come as a complete surprise.”

I gave her an abbreviated version of the story, which sounded just as preposterous in summary as it would have if I’d stopped to spell it out. I gave her a thumbnail account of his conviction for felony murder and his subsequent exoneration, the $600,000 settlement, and his falling-out with his kids. Fortunately, Burke Benjamin was smart and she’d doubtless been exposed to stories just as bizarre. Toward the wrap-up, I said, “I don’t know what happened when Dace last saw his kids. According to Dandy, who was one of the three witnesses to the will, Dace showed up at Ethan’s door shortly after he got out of prison. He thought he could make amends, but he was stonewalled.”

“So he got his back up and disinherited all three of them?”

“That’s what he told Dandy. Again, I don’t know them and I have no idea what the family dynamic was.”

“He was a Santa Teresa resident?”

“As I understand it, yes. He lived in Bakersfield for years before he went to prison. After his aborted reunion with his kids, he headed to Santa Teresa in hopes of finding me. Apparently, he loved it here. He told Dandy this was it. He had no intention of living anywhere else.”

“Homeless though he was,” she said.

“Homeless though he was,” I said back to her with a smile.

“Which would make the Santa Teresa Courthouse the proper place of probate administration,” she said. She picked up the will again and glanced at the last two pages. “I see an address for Ethan Dace. What about the other two kids?”

“I don’t have contact numbers for them. I’ve been thinking I’d be smart to drive to Bakersfield to deliver the news in person. I’m hoping Ethan can put me in touch with Ellen and Anna.”

“I’d put that item at the top of the list. You’re required to give proper legal notice to the children. That’s essential. They can be served by mail or by personal delivery with the notice of hearing. In fact, I’d send the full package—the notice and the petition for probate with all attachments, including the will.”

“Even if I’m sole beneficiary?”

“Especially if you’re sole beneficiary. The will states he’s deliberately omitting his three kids, but that’s subject to challenge. The notice gives them the opportunity to attend the hearing and assert their rights, should they choose to do so. You’ll also have to publish the notice of petition to administer estate in the Santa Teresa Dispatch. That’s something you can mail to the legal publication department of the paper. Even though he states he has no debts, the notice of petition will advise any other interested parties that they can serve the representative of the estate with a written request of special notice when the inventory, appraisement, and petition for final distribution are filed.”

I held up a hand. “You mentioned a hearing.”

“Good point. Let me back up and talk you through this. Where’s the body currently?”

“The coroner’s office.”

“Have him moved to a mortuary and they’ll provide you with six to ten copies of the death certificate so you can wind up his affairs. You’ll also have to notify the Social Security Administration, but that’s not pressing at this point. You’ll want to go over to the superior court and pick up a couple of forms, the first of which is a petition, which asks two things: to have the will entered into probate and for a representative to be appointed. You, in this case, since that’s what Dace specified in his will.”

“The guy didn’t do me any favors,” I said. “What else are we talking here?”

She shrugged. “He says he has no other assets aside from the settlement money, but you’d be smart to verify that instead of taking his word for it. He might have community-property interest in stocks or bonds or some other item of value he’s forgotten about.”

“I’m assuming that was all divvied up when got his divorce. I know the house he owned in joint tenancy with his wife was quitclaimed over to her.”

“Take a look at the divorce agreement. For all you know, the decree could require Dace to provide for his three children in his estate plan. Better yet, you might call his divorce attorney, who’d be a particularly good source of information. Income tax returns are another good place to look.”

“Speaking of which, am I going to have to pay income taxes on this money?”

“Nope. You’re clear on that score. Federal estate tax exemption was raised to six hundred thousand dollars just last year. That’s one more reason to make sure he has no other assets that might boost the estate over the six-hundred-thousand-dollar threshold. California inheritance taxes were repealed in 1982 by voter initiative.”

“Well, hallelujah.”

“I’m not done yet,” she said. “You need to look for retirement accounts—IRAs and the like—and life insurance policies, though those proceeds, if any, would be paid to the beneficiaries identified in the policy itself.”

“You think his kids will come after me?”

“Are you kidding? Why wouldn’t they? Not only did he disinherit them, but he left all his money to someone he never met. Plus, he was homeless in the last stage of his life, which suggests instability. Those kids have nothing to lose. There’s no bequest to them—at least not as far as I can see—so any no-contest clause would be out the window. Then you have the witnesses . . .”

I said, “Oh, man. Will they have to show up in court? I should warn you, the three aren’t exemplary citizens.”

“You know them?”

“I do. They’re currently residents of Harbor House and at least one of them has an issue with alcohol.”

“All we need are two witnesses anyway, which gives us a one-drunk margin. The will is self-proving. When the witnesses signed, not only did they declare Dace was of sound mind and memory and not acting under duress, menace, fraud, or undue influence, but that the facts were true and correct under penalty of perjury. It helps that this was signed, sealed, and delivered, so to speak, before you were pulled into the equation.”

“This already sounds too complicated,” I said. “Can’t I hire you to take care of it?”

“Absolutely. The clerical work isn’t the issue here. Where you’re going to need representation is in the event that these kids show up in court with a phalanx of attorneys. Now, that would be fun.” She opened a desk drawer and took out two printed sheets stapled together in one corner. “Here’s a couple of pages of instructions you can keep for ready reference. It’s a lot to take in and you’ve probably blanked out half of what I’ve said.”

I glanced at the pages she gave me, but all of it seemed to be gibberish. “I must be having a mental breakdown. None of this makes sense.”

She stood and peered across the desk. “Oh. That’s the Spanish version.”

She held out a hand and I returned the pages. She substituted the English-language version, which I couldn’t bring myself to read.

“How soon will you be driving to Bakersfield?” she asked.

“I’d like to go tomorrow morning.”

“Why don’t I meet you at the Superior Court Clerk’s office at eight o’clock? We can get this process under way and then you can hit the road.”

“Great. That sounds good,” I said. “Do I pay as we go or will you bill me?”

She waved the issue aside. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll bill you. You’re a friend of Lonnie’s and that’s good enough for me.”