W Is for Wasted Page 14

  “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.”

  12

  I did as Burke Benjamin had
suggested and stopped by the records department at the courthouse after I left her office. I paid the fee for the proper forms, which I would complete and return to the Superior Court Clerk’s office next door when I submitted the original of Dace’s will. I went back to my office and scrutinized the petition as though studying for a test. The format was straightforward, providing a number of boxes that could be marked with X’s or left blank according to the dictates of any given case. I flipped the page over and saw that there was another full set of questions on the back that I’d get to in due course. I rolled the first page into my typewriter and spent far more time than necessary making sure the paper was properly aligned.

  When faced with a tedious questionnaire, which is essentially what this was, the only remedy is to tackle the job one line at a time. In the top box, I typed in my name and address. I typed in Dace’s full name. Put an X in the box indicating the petition was for Probate of Will and for Letters Testamentary. I could see now that this was closer to a multiple-choice test where the answers had to be debated one by one to decide which seemed closest to the facts. I’d been taught to tackle the easy answers first and then go back to the tougher ones. I patiently X’d my way down the page until I reached the question about the estimated value of the estate. I wasn’t sure what to say. I typed in the sum in Dace’s savings account. Under “real property,” I typed “none,” which might or might not be correct. When I reached the bottom of the page, I scarcely had the heart to plow on, but I forced myself to persevere. I did pause at the line that read, “Proposed executor is named in the will and consents to act.”

  I thought, really, consents? I had a choice here? It hadn’t occurred to me that I could abdicate my responsibilities as representative of the estate, but there was actually a box I could mark if I decided to refuse. The idea was tempting, but what justification could I supply? There were no boxes to be marked declaring that I was insane, incompetent, or stupid. I couldn’t picture simply piping up in court, telling the probate judge I didn’t feel like doing it, but thanks so much. That half a million bucks was going to end up someplace and I had to accept the fact that it was my job to escort it through the system.