Jonathan Kellerman - Breakdown

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?”