by Susan Kandel
32
Cece? Can you hear me?”
There was a row of Burnetts leaning over me, so pretty.
“Her eyes are open, Mr. Burnett! Look!”
There were many small men with garden shears fanned out next to him, like Victorian paper dolls.
“Cece, do you remember what happened? You fell when the balcony collapsed. Mr. Esposito here found you. You landed on a pile of leaves he’d been raking.”
“The ground is so hard, miss,” Mr. Esposito said. “Thank goodness my leaves made a cushion for you. You were lucky today!”
I struggled to get up.
“You stay right there,” Burnett said. “I’m calling an ambulance.”
“Don’t be absurd,” I managed. “I’m perfectly fine.” As I rose to my feet, every joint in my body creaked. Mr. Esposito looked concerned.
“Don’t worry. Nothing’s broken. See?”
I twirled around with what little grace I could muster. I wanted to throw up. Everything hurt. Oh, the bruises. They were going to look just great with my sarong. Well, it was no big deal. I brushed some plaster off my pants, which had ripped at the knee, and plucked some green things from my hair. I had to get out of there.
“I had no idea the balcony had rotted so badly,” Burnett said. “The wood was ancient. It should’ve been taken care of years ago. God, I’m sorry. What a mess.”
It looked as if someone had stage-designed a demolition site. There were leaves and branches strewn all over the place, scraps of wood and chunks of plaster. All that was missing were some hard hats and squashed beer cans.
“I thought you had fallen,” I said, still a little confused about what had happened. “The railing was smashed. That’s why I went out there.”
“No, no. I never even went into that room. You were napping, so I decided to go down to the kitchen to get something to eat. I didn’t hear a thing until Mr. Esposito called me.”
Burnett looked miserable. I looked at my watch. It was already one P.M. If I didn’t dither around trying to make him feel better, I could make it back to the title company in less than an hour.
“Listen, I’ve got to go,” I said, heading across the grass. This was too weird for me.
“Slow down, Cece, please!”
“I have some more research to do this afternoon, and then I’m going to relax at the hotel. And we’ll see each other on Sunday, right?” I gave him a reassuring smile.
“Right,” he said, nodding. “Are you sure you don’t want to have a doctor look you over?”
“Stop. I’m fine. Look at this gorgeous garden,” I said, changing the subject.
Mr. Esposito rode up next to us on his lawn mower. “I hear you talking! I am good at my job! Please tell the lady of the house I need a raise. Ha-ha!”
He deserved one. Javier needed to see this. The garden was long and thin, but ingeniously planted. Distractions made the eye swerve and pause: a painted table tucked into a formal arbor, a magnificent spiky yucca. Even the stripes produced by Mr. Esposito’s lawn mower drew the eye to the edges of the vista, where there were lush spills of bougainvillea and webs of golden foliage climbing the walls of the house.
Burnett took my arm as we walked down a flight of steps, through a somber arcade of cypresses, then into the brilliant light of the automobile court.
“Wait, wait,” shouted Mr. Esposito. I turned around and saw him chasing after us. I also caught a glimpse of something else, parked behind Meredith Allan’s Bentley. It was a black SUV. Just like the one that had followed me.
Mr. Esposito handed me my purse.
“You can’t leave without your keys, miss.”
“Thank you,” I said, stepping into my car. Burnett kissed me on the cheek and I drove off in a trance. Had the SUV I’d just seen been black or dark blue? Or dark green? I had no idea. The sunlight had been blinding. My god, had Meredith Allan been the one tailing me the other day? And what the hell was her Bentley doing there anyway? She was supposed to be taking a drive up the coast. Damn it. I couldn’t be sure of anything anymore.
Except that I was now officially a felon. I merged onto the freeway heading back to Ventura, looking mighty fine in Meredith Allan’s matching gold bracelets.
They ran a tight ship over at that title office. Two P.M. means two P.M., and not 1:47. I took a seat and waited. I felt like I was riding the subway in New York City. All the people there looked a little crazy, like they might spit on me for no good reason.
Maybe it was the bracelets. They were awfully showy. I pulled my sleeves over them as best I could, but they stuck out all over the place. I’d return them at Burnett’s party. How mortifying. It was that woman’s fault. If her balcony hadn’t collapsed, none of this would’ve happened. Well, that wasn’t true, but blaming her made me feel a little better.
I stared at the clock over the counter. It was 1:54 P.M. I picked up an old copy of Esquire. I used to read that magazine when I was in high school. I thought it would help me understand the male of the species.
The man in the next chair over was staring at me openly. My hand flew up to my hair, which must’ve looked like a bird’s nest, but there were no leaves left. I gave him a nasty look. He stuck his head back into his Reader’s Digest. An article about prostate health, no doubt.
I plucked a copy of The Case of the Lonely Heiress from my bag. Those Pocket Books editions from the fifties were the best. This one had a sexpot with a blond bouffant and a bored expression on the cover. She was sticking her long legs through the inside of a huge letter “Q,” which started the sentence “‘Quite obviously,’ Perry Mason said…” Yeah, it was always so obvious for Perry Mason.
“Cece Caruso?”
For whom it wasn’t always so obvious.
The clock read 2:00 P.M. on the nose.
“Here you go, honey. Have a good one.”
By the time I got out to the sidewalk, I was already deep into the report. East-West Title Company. Property Profile. Although care has been taken in its preparation, the company assumes no liability for its accuracy or completeness. Blah, blah, blah. Please note that concurrent trust deed information may not show all encumbrances of record, nor all liens, defects, and/or restrictions. Well, for god’s sake, what was I paying these people for?
I sat down in the car and opened the windows to let in some fresh air. June 17, 1944. Morgan Allan assumed title to Parcel 66 of Lots 11 and 13, Buenaventura Palisades Tract, no encumbrances on the property. The seller was Ava Anderson Albacco, Joe’s mother. I knew that part already. I wanted to know when Joe’s father bought the land, and from whom. October 22, 1928. Joseph Albacco Sr. took sole title to the property in the form of a transfer. A transfer? Was that the same as a sale? I didn’t think so. I kept reading. October 17, 1921. Here it is. Prior title to the property was held by Joseph Albacco Sr. and a partner, as tenants-in-common. A partner? Joe’s father had had a business partner? I read his name, then read it again. Oh, man. This was the return of the repressed, or divine justice, or Greek tragedy, or something.
Joseph Albacco Sr.’s partner had been Morgan Allan.
I closed the window and started up the car, my mind reeling. Joe’s father and Meredith’s father. It wasn’t possible. The two of them, partners, back in the day. Did Joe know about this? How could he have?
“Lady, watch it!” I’d almost run over a man pushing a shopping cart. At my local Gelson’s, they’re rigged so you can’t take them off the lot. Very fascistic. I saw a parking space and decided to pull over.
Morgan Allan and Joseph Albacco Sr. I shut my eyes and imagined how it might have happened.
It was the early 1920s. Both of them were roustabouts, the oil boom was beginning, they had nothing. But Morgan was a fast talker, they were buddies, and maybe they conned some people into investing in a get-rich scheme. Maybe. According to Burnett, the old guy could get anything out of anyone. All that hokum about red grass, and the oil just waiting to bubble up.
They raised some money,
they bought some land, some tidelands, and they waited. They must have had some leases; maybe they were getting ready to expire. Or not. Those were lawless times. It was the frontier. Then Morgan received word from somebody working in the legislature that tidelands property was going to be worthless. That was the letter Jean had found. Legislation was about to be passed that would prohibit drilling. Whoever owned the land and/or leases would be stuck with a bunch of nothing. So Morgan gives his share up to Joe’s father. Why does Joe’s father want it? Does he know what’s about to happen? I guess he doesn’t. Maybe he thinks he’s getting a great deal. But what does he give up in return?
Joe’s father winds up killing himself. And years later his wife sells the supposedly worthless property back to her husband’s former partner, who’s become an oil billionaire in the meantime. But the property isn’t worthless, never really has been. After World War II, offshore drilling explodes. Morgan gets richer. But somehow, somewhere, sometime, Jean Albacco gets ahold of the letter that set the whole plot in motion. She blackmails Morgan. And he kills her.
He kills her. Morgan Allan was the one. The father, not the daughter. His initials were M.A., too, after all.
But why exactly? Why does he have to kill her? To protect…what? What did Jean actually know? What had he actually done?
I needed to look at that letter again. The answers had to be in there, somewhere. But first I was going back to the historical society. I had a hunch. And for once I was going to make a librarian happy.
33
Here’s the last box, Cece,” Mr. Grandy said, setting it down on the floor with a grunt. Sweat was pouring off his brow, but he didn’t mind a hoot. The man had finally triumphed.
The big boss, Mrs. Murphy, looked like a punk-rock mother hen. Her auburn hair was organized into plumes. Actually, that made her more of a rooster.
“What happened to you, dear?” She gaped at my ripped pants and multicolored bruises.
“I had a little fall,” I said. “Nothing to worry about.”
She made some clucking noises.
“Well, let us know if you need new pencils or an eraser. Promise?”
“Oh, Cece’s going to be here for a long time,” Mr. Grandy said with an evil smile.
The boxes formed a barricade. I was surrounded. I wasn’t out of there until they decided I was. And that was fine with me, because I had no intention of leaving the job unfinished. I was going to go through every scrap of paper in every one of those twenty boxes until I found what I was looking for.
ESG’s legal files. Mr. Grandy was right. This was a treasure trove. None of the other biographers had had access to this kind of material.
I bent over the first box and pulled out a file. Arnetta Hillv. Oxnard. Sounded official. I skimmed the pages. Gardner’s firm had been hired by a little old lady who was royally pissed at the City of Oxnard. In 1880, she’d planted fifty-five walnut trees along a road on her own land. When she donated the road to the city years later, she stipulated that they not touch the trees, a promise on which they were preparing to renege. After losing the case the first time around, ESG saved the trees on appeal. Noticing that three of the jurists were elderly, he played on their sympathies for sweet Arnetta. It worked brilliantly. My mother swears up and down this is the Century of the Senior. She and ESG both.
Magby v. New York Life Insurance Company. Now here was a guy who really wanted to off himself. He ingested poison, slashed his throat with a bedspring, and was finally found dead in his garage with the motor of his car running. The family hired Gardner’s firm to prove it wasn’t suicide because the insurance company would pay out only in the case of accidental death. Gardner produced a weather report which indicated that on the day of Magby’s demise there had been a brisk wind, strong enough to blow the garage door shut and inadvertently do the guy in. The jury bought it. Actually, I remembered this one. Gardner pulled out the same argument in the A. A. Fair novel Double or Quits.
Brown v. Becker. Joseph Becker agrees to sell a tractor to his neighbor, Benjamin Brown. Later, the tractor turns out to have been in poor repair. Becker claims he knew nothing of the problems with the machine, and the contract is voided because of a mutual mistake in fact. But Brown is not satisfied. He feels duped. He has been delayed in planting his fields and is convinced Becker knew the truth about the tractor all along. He hires ESG’s firm and sues. Notes in the file indicate that the five requirements for fraud, all of which must be present, are: 1. Misrepresentation of a material fact; 2. Made knowingly; 3. With intent to defraud; 4. Justifiably relied upon; 5. Causing injury to the other party. ESG finds a neighbor who overheard Becker’s wife gloating to the post-mistress about her husband’s business acumen. Apparently, that was enough to satisfy the jury. Wonder if ESG handled the Beckers’ divorce?
I had to get serious here. I had to keep my eye on the prize. I needed to go further back, back to the teens. Gardner had first hung out his shingle in 1911, in Oxnard, when he joined I. W. Stewart’s law office. In 1916, he formed the law firm of Orr and Gardner in Ventura, which became Orr, Gardner, Drapeau, and Sheridan, and later Benton, Orr, Duval, and Buckingham, and who knows what else in between. The papers that had been donated to the historical society dated from 1912 to 1926, which was when Gardner’s law offices had moved to the new building on the corner of California and Main. What I was looking for was in there, I knew it.
More files. Divorce cases, petty thefts, slander trials, property disputes; 1924, 1917, 1925, 1920. The files were in no particular order. Not chronological, not alphabetical. These people could’ve used a crack secretary like Allison. I looked up at the clock. It was after five P.M. Not much time left.
Mr. Grandy tiptoed over. “How’s it going, Cece?”
“Fine, I guess, but I’ve only gone through one box and you’re about to close and I haven’t found what I’m looking for.”
“Do you have a date?”
“Oh, not tonight. But I’m busy tomorrow and Sunday,” I said quickly. I could’ve sworn Mr. Grandy was gay.
“No, no,” he said. “I’m spoken for, silly. I meant, do you have a date you’re looking for? And/or a name? I forgot to give you this.” He handed me a slim folder. “It’s an index we put together.”
I grabbed it and tore through the pages. And there it was. Box 16. Mr. Grandy helped me hoist it onto the desk. My hands were trembling as I began to page through the files. “Abbot,” “Ackerman,” “Anderson.” Shit. It wasn’t there. How could this be? I flipped back to the front and started again, more calmly this time, as if I did this sort of thing every day. And then I found it, right where it was supposed to be, a thick file bearing the name “Albacco,” typed onto a yellowed label. The “c” key must’ve stuck a little. The letters floated above the others like a pair of lovebirds.
I opened the file. City of Ventura v. Albacco, November 1916. Joseph Albacco’s grandfather, William, is accused in an assault. The incident occurs around ten P.M., in an alleyway not far from his place of business, Elvie’s Trophy Company, on Main. The victim, who suffered a broken arm and a concussion, identifies William Albacco in a lineup. There is no corroborating evidence. Albacco maintains his innocence throughout. During the trial, Gardner asks the victim to remove his glasses and to identify his wife in the courtroom. He cannot. Gardner then produces evidence that the victim had lost his spectacles the week before the incident and was still waiting for a replacement on the day the assault took place. How could a nearsighted person make a positive ID? Good question. Albacco was acquitted. A classic Perry Mason gambit.
One year later, October 1917. William Albacco’s son, Joseph Albacco, gets in touch with Erle Stanley Gardner, the lawyer who’d exonerated his father. Here it is. I knew it. I knew this family’s relationship to ESG was complicated. Joseph Sr. hires ESG to set up a limited-partnership agreement between himself and his friend Morgan Allan. Oh, this was amazing. Erle Stanley Gardner got the two of them together. ESG, the lawyer of choice “of all classes except
the upper and middle classes.” He was there from the beginning. No wonder Jean’s murder rang a bell.
The agreement was executed the following month, in the city of Ventura, state of California. The documents noted that each of the limited partners was free from any liability beyond what they had contributed to the partnership. Joseph Albacco contributed five hundred dollars; Morgan Allan, five hundred. Their assets consisted of two pieces of property. Two? I kept reading. There were two parcels of land. Each man owned a 50 percent interest in each parcel as tenants-in-common. One was the tidelands parcel I already knew about. What about the other one? Parcels 17–22 of Lots 8 and 9, map of the Ventura Avenue Field, filed January 11, 1902, Map Book A, page 33, Ventura County Hall of Records. That was the legal description. But what did it refer to?
The Ventura Avenue Field. I remembered that name. It was a famous oil field. It was the oil field where records were broken in the mid-twenties, ten thousand barrels a day, fifteen thousand, extraordinary numbers like that. Jesus. The most valuable piece of land in the state. They owned that? No wonder Morgan Allan became a billionaire.
But why didn’t Joe’s father become a billionaire, too?
34
Ellie, it’s Cece Caruso, I’m calling from my car. How are you?”
“Oh, god. I can’t talk to you now. My daughter’s here, and she doesn’t know anything about what went on back then, and that’s the way I want to keep it.”
“You were a kid, Ellie. He took advantage of you.”
“It was a little more complicated than that. Ever read Lolita?”
“Listen, I don’t care about your relationship with Bill Winters—I really don’t. That’s your business. But I need to know about something else. Please. It’ll only take a second.”
