The new murders had nudged the first set of bones off Milo’s screen. But I couldn’t let go of the baby in the blue box. Kept thinking about Salome Greiner’s tension when I’d asked about a Duesenberg-driving doctor.
DMV kept no records of old registrations but a car that rare and collectible couldn’t be hard to trace.
Back home, I went straight to my office. The Auburn Cord Duesenberg Club in Indiana had a museum, an online store, and an energetic members forum.
A woman answered the phone, sounding cheerful. I told her what I was looking for and she said, “You’re in California?”
“L.A.”
“The top Duesenberg expert is right near you, in Huntington Beach.”
“Who’s that?”
“Andrew Zeiman, he’s a master restorer, works on all the serious cars, here’s his shop number.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Was a Duesie involved in a crime?”
“No,” I said, “but it might lead to information about a crime.”
“Too bad, I was hoping for something juicy. Lots of colorful characters owned our babies-Al Capone, Father Divine, Hearst-but nowadays it’s mostly nice people with money and good taste and that can get a little routine. Good luck.”
A clipped voice said, “Andy Zeiman.”
I began explaining.
He said, “Marcy from ACD just called. You want to locate an SJ for some sort of criminal investigation.”
Statement, not a question. Unperturbed.
I said, “If that’s possible.”
“Anything’s possible. Date and model.”
“We’ve been told it was a ’38 SJ, blue over blue.”
“SJ because it had pipes, right? Problem is you can put pipes on anything. Real SJs are rare.”
“Aren’t all Duesenbergs?”
“Everything’s relative. Total Duesenberg production is four hundred eighty-one, SJs are less than ten percent of that. Most were sold on the East Coast until ’32, then the trend shifted out here because that’s where the money and the flamboyance were.”
“Hollywood types.”
“Gable, Cooper, Garbo, Mae West, Tyrone Power. Et cetera.”
“How about we start with the real SJs. Is there a listing of original owners?”
“Sure.”
“Where can I find it?”
“With me,” said Zeiman. “What year does your witness think he saw this supposed SJ?”
“Nineteen fifty, give or take.”
“Twelve-year-old car, there’d be a good chance of repaint, so color might not matter. Also, it wasn’t uncommon to put new bodies on old chassis. Like a custom-made suit, altered to taste.”
“If it helps to narrow things down, the owner may have been a doctor.”
“Give me your number, something comes up I’ll let you know.”
Seven minutes later, he called back. “You might have gotten lucky. I’ve got a blue/blue Murphy-bodied Dual Cowl Phaeton ordered by a Walter Asherwood in ’37, delivered November ’38. Murphy body with later enhancement by Bohman and Schwartz. Both were L.A.-based coachbuilders.”
“The car started out on the West Coast.”
“Yup. Walter Asherwood held on to it until ’43, when he transferred ownership to James Asherwood, M.D. Nothing else in the log fits, so it’s either this one or your person didn’t see a real SJ.”
“Where did the Asherwoods live?”
“Can’t give you the address because for all I know family members are still living there and we respect privacy.”
“Can you give me a general vicinity?”
“L.A.”
“Pasadena?”
“You can fish but I won’t bite,” said Zeiman. “You’ve got a name, that should be sufficient.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “Can you tell me who owns the car, now?”
“One of our members.”
“Did he or she buy it from Dr. Asherwood?”
“There’s a complete chain of ownership but that’s all I can say. Why do you need the current owner, anyway?”
“We’re trying to trace a dead baby’s mother.”
“What?”
“The car was seen parked in the driveway of a house where an infant was buried decades ago. The bones were just dug up.”
“Dead baby?” said Zeiman. “So we’re talking murder.”
“That’s not clear.”
“I don’t get it, either it’s murder or it’s not.”
I said, “Depends on cause of death.”
“Hold on,” he said. “My wife mentioned something about that, she’d heard it on the news. Made her cry. Okay, I’ll make some calls.”
“Thanks for all the help.”
“Most interesting request I’ve had since two months ago.”
“What happened two months ago?”
“Shifty Mideastern type walks into my shop, flashing cash, wants me to build a Frankencar out of retools that he can sell as genuine to a sucker in Dubai. I said no thanks, phoned the Huntington Beach cops, they told me intent’s no felony, until a crime was committed there’s nothing they can do. That felt wrong to me so I tried the FBI, they didn’t even return my call. At least you do your job. So I’ll help you.”
It took just over an hour to hear back from Zeiman. By then I’d made progress on my own.
A search of
Candidate number two, a black beauty, due to go on the block in Amelia Island, Florida, had accumulated a slew of awards during a pampered life. Five owners: New York, Toronto, Savannah, Miami, Fishers Island.
Bingo came in the form of a car that had taken first place at the Pebble Beach Concourse d’Elegance ten years ago, a gleaming behemoth benefiting from a six-year frame-off restoration by Andrew O. Zeiman.
Program notes from the award ceremony noted that care had been taken to replicate the car’s original cerulean/azure paint job as well as the “precise hue of its robin’s egg blue convertible roof, now replaced with modern but period-reminiscent materials.”
The proud owners were Mr. and Mrs. F. Walker Monahan, Beverly Hills, California. A winners’ circle photo showed them to be mid-sixtyish, immaculately turned out, flanked by a burly, white-bearded man. Andrew Zeiman was clad, as was Mr. Monahan, in a straw Borsalino, a navy blazer, pressed khakis, conservative school tie.
I had my eyes on Zeiman’s photograph when the phone rang. “It’s Andy again.” Low-tech Skype. “You must be one of those fortunate sons, maybe we should hit the blackjack tables.”
