by Janet Dawson
Casebook
By Janet Dawson
©1996-2008 Janet Dawson.
“Little Red Corvette” was originally published in the anthology Lethal Ladies, Berkley Prime Crime, January 1996; and reprinted in the short story collection Scam and Eggs, Five Star First Edition Mysteries, 2002.
“Blue Eyes” was originally published in the anthology Murder Most Feline: Cunning Tales of Cats and Crime, 2001.
“Slayer Statute” was originally published in the September/October 2003 issue of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.
“Candles on the Corner” originally appeared in the November 2008 issue of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.
Cover by Julia Turner.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Table of Contents
“Little Red Corvette”
“Blue Eyes”
“Slayer Statute”
“Candles on the Corner”
Little Red Corvette
“Isn’t she a beauty?” Acey Collins asked, admiration in his eyes and voice. “A ’61. Cherry.”
I looked at him, exasperated. We were standing on the corner of Thirty-Sixth and Broadway, in the heart of Oakland’s Auto Row, just after noon on a blustery March day. Acey gazed at the repair shop on the corner with a look he usually reserved for his wife, his kids, or his Harley-Davidson. I followed the direction of his eyes and finally figured out that “she” was a car, a cherry red Chevrolet Corvette convertible, the car I associated with Tod and Buz and all those black-and-white reruns of Route 66.
“I wonder what the insurance would run on a car like that?”
My companion glared at me as though I’d committed heresy. He shook his head in disgust and folded his tattooed arms over his stringy chest. “You got no soul.”
“What I do have is a limited amount of time, Acey. It’s chilly, the wind is blowing. You brought me here to look at a car?”
“You got anything better to do?”
“It’s lunch time, Acey. Eating comes to mind.”
“So I’ll buy you a hot dog.”
“Yech. What’s the gig, Acey?” I looked at my watch. “I have an appointment in thirty minutes. I’m a private investigator who drives a six-year-old Toyota. Why did you drag me away from my office to show a me a little red Corvette?”
“The Toyota could use a tune-up, you know.” Acey tossed his head, setting his long gray-blond ponytail moving. He gave me a sly look, pale blue eyes glittering in his bearded face. “I heard it knocking when you pulled up. Those brakes were squealing some too.”
“Is this leading somewhere?” I tapped both my foot and the face of my utilitarian Timex.
“I’m a good mechanic, Jeri. You do this for me, I’ll work on your car.”
That got my attention. The Toyota needed new shocks and I didn’t like that sound the brakes made. I’d put off having any major work done because at the moment I had a cash flow problem. Acey’s trade-off sounded good to me.
I pushed away seductive thoughts of new points and plugs. “What do I have to do?” I asked, suspicious.
“You’re an investigator. I want you to investigate.”
“A car? Back up and start at the beginning.”
Acey took my arm and nudged me away from the corner like a border collie taking charge of a wayward sheep. “Come on, I don’t want Musetta to see us.” We moved back down Thirty-Sixth to where my Toyota was parked. I looked at its grimy paint and promised myself a trip to the car wash. After Acey worked on it.
“I’m in Musetta’s shop a couple of days ago, looking to buy some parts,” Acey said. “I see the Corvette. It’s beautiful, a classic. Only 800 miles on it.”
“A car that old?”
“Yeah. That’s one anomaly.”
Hearing the word “anomaly” come out of the mouth of this aging biker took me by surprise. “There are others?”
“Plenty. I know Del Musetta, from way back. His brother was at Folsom the same time I was doin’ that stretch for receiving stolen property. The criminal gene runs deep in this family. I know what I’m talking about here.”
“So how did Musetta get the Corvette in the first place? You think he stole it?”
“Maybe.” Acey jerked his bearded chin back toward the repair shop. “He tells me the Corvette was left at the shop to be repaired, five years ago. Says nobody ever came to claim it. Says he got tired of it sitting around his shop so he decided to sell it.”
“How much is he asking?”
Acey named a figure, several times what I’d paid for my Toyota, that made me wince. “That’s a bundle.”
“No, it ain’t.” Acey spoke with authority. “Not for that car. I could turn around and sell that Corvette for twice what he’s asking. If Musetta is telling the truth, it’s a good buy. But before I lay out that kind of money for that car, I want to know the deal is on the up-and-up.”
He patted my trusty Toyota on the fender, tilted his head and squinted at me and smiled like a fisherman who’d just hooked a big one.
“You do this for me, Jeri, I’ll fix this car so it purrs like a cat.”
“You’ve got yourself a deal.”
I returned to the repair shop that afternoon, after a spin through the California Civil Code. If the Corvette had been left at Musetta’s for repairs and never claimed, the shop owner had what was called a possessory lien on the car. He was entitled to compensation for making repairs, performing labor, furnishing supplies and storing the vehicle. The lien dated from the time a written statement of charges for the completed work was presented to the Corvette’s registered owner.
First question. Did Musetta ever try to find the owner?
The owner could extinguish the lien on the car by presenting the repairman with a cashier’s check for the amount owed. If that didn’t happen, Musetta could go to court or apply for authorization to conduct a lien sale within thirty days after the lien had arisen.
Second question. Had Musetta obtained authorization within the legal time limit?
For that he had to go to the Department of Motor Vehicles. It should be easy enough to check whether he’d made the request and paid the filing fee.
Acey said the garage owner told him the Corvette had been sitting at the garage for five years. That brought me to the third question. If Musetta had the legal right to sell the car, why had he waited so long?
The Corvette stood to one side of Musetta’s shop, under an overhang. Seen this close, I had to agree with Acey. It was a beauty. Paint like a fat ripe cherry, glossy and shiny, complemented by gleaming chrome. Not a mark on it. I circled the car slowly, then I heard someone behind me. I turned and saw a bulky dark-haired man. He was about six feet tall and he carried a lot of excess weight around his middle. He wore a set of grimy blue coveralls with the name “Del” stitched in red above the left breast pocket.
“I couldn’t resist a closer look,” I said. “What a gorgeous car. Is it for sale?”
“Yeah, it is.” He grinned. “You interested?”
“Well, that would depend on the price.”
He named a figure, considerably higher than the one Acey had mentioned. First anomaly, I thought. Of course, Acey knows more about cars and what they’re worth than I do, and the garage owner knew it. I looked like a better mark, someone who’d pay more for this flashy car.
“You don’t normally sell cars, do you?” I looked around, then focused on Del, giving him a flirtatious smile. “How did you happen on this one?”
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Del laughed, a big belly-rumbling sound. “There’s a story about that. The guy just left the car here, coupla years back, for a tune-up and a brake job. I told him he could pick it up the next day. He never picked it up.”
“How long ago was this?” I asked, frowning. “I mean, doesn’t this person still own the car? How can you sell it?”
He rubbed a stubby fingered hand across his bristly chin. “Oh, yeah, I got a lien. Unless the owner shows up and pays me what he owes me, the car belongs to me. Damn thing’s been sitting here for three years.”
Anomaly number two, I thought. He had told Acey he’d had the car five years.
“I thought about keeping it myself, but . . .” Del stopped and slapped his considerable girth. “It ain’t my kinda car. I can’t get this belly behind the wheel of a little sports job two-seater. Besides, I looked it up in the Blue Book. It’s worth quite a bit. I’d just as soon sell it and get the money.”
“It’s my kind of car,” I said, running a finger over the bright red finish, dangling the possibility that I might be willing to whip out my checkbook this very minute. “Didn’t you ever try to find the owner?”
Now Musetta backpedaled. “Well, I called the phone number he left. Buncha times. Even went by his place but there wasn’t anyone there.”
I had a feeling the garage owner’s efforts to find the Corvette’s owner had been somewhat desultory and limited to right after the car was left at the garage. I let a bit of this show on my face. “Do you still have the work request?”
Musetta looked surprised. “Well, yeah. It’s in the filing cabinet somewheres. Why?”
“Let me take a look at it.”
“What you want to do that for?”
“I’m really interested in buying the car,” I said, stroking my handbag as though it contained a large wad of cash. “But I’d feel much better if I tried to contact the owner myself.”
Musetta frowned. “I told you, I called his place. Even went by there.”
“Just for my own peace of mind.” I flashed him a bright smile. “I really couldn’t buy the car unless I was sure everything was legal.”
“I’m telling ya, I got a lien on this car,” Musetta protested. I sighed, shook my head and turned to go back to my Toyota. “Wait a minute. I guess there’s no harm in letting you see it. Just proves my point.”
I followed him into the grimy office of the repair shop, where the decor ran to calendars featuring flashy cars and naked female body parts. He opened the second drawer of a brown metal filing cabinet and rummaged through the contents. Finally he pulled out the work request and held it out for me to examine. He looked dismayed when I gently plucked it from his hand.
I quickly glanced at the total for the work performed. It was a hefty repair bill, but a fraction of what Musetta hoped to get by selling the Corvette. The date was smudged but it looked like April, three years ago. The person who left the Corvette to be repaired was one Raleigh Lambert. He lived at an address on Sea View Avenue in Piedmont, a small city completely surrounded by Oakland, where big well-tended houses hold court on the hills that rise above the city flatlands.
I wrote down the address and phone number. Then I handed the work request back to Musetta, gave him a big smile and told him I’d be back.
Whoever had named the street Sea View wasn’t kidding. Big bucks, I thought, to go with the spectacular panorama of San Francisco Bay visible from the front porch of Raleigh Lambert’s gray stone house. I rang the bell. No answer. What had once been a well-tended English garden needed some work, I thought as I walked back down the steps to the curved driveway that led to a detached double garage. No cars, no movement behind the curtains on any of the big glass windows. It didn’t look like anyone was home. The place had an aura of neglect.
I repaired to the Alameda County Courthouse for a stroll through the assessor’s records. For the past two years, the property taxes on the Piedmont address had been paid by one Harold Baldwin. Three years ago they’d been paid by Raleigh Lambert. Had Lambert sold the house to Baldwin? When I went to the recorder’s office to take a look at the real estate transactions, I didn’t find one for the Sea View address.
I looked up from the microfilm reader and thought for a moment. Maybe Baldwin inherited the house from Lambert. I switched my search to the probate records. That’s where I hit paydirt. Raleigh Lambert was dead, and among the beneficiaries listed on his will was a nephew, Harold Baldwin.
Now I had the date of Lambert’s death to compare with the smudged date on Musetta’s work request. Lambert left the Corvette for repairs a week before he died. When I called the Department of Motor Vehicles, there was no record of any authorization issued to the garage owner to conduct a lien sale. Musetta had no right to sell the car. In fact, he could be charged with conversion. Harold Baldwin was the legal owner of that little red Corvette.
It was past five when I parked on the street outside the house on Sea View, with a clear view of the porch and garage. Fifteen minutes later a silver Jaguar approached and turned into the curved driveway. By the time the driver was out of the car and walking toward the house, I was there to intercept him.
“Harold Baldwin?”
He was medium all over, height, weight and age, with short brown hair and brown eyes, wearing gray slacks and a blue sweater, both of which looked expensive but didn’t fit him very well. He smiled politely and looked a bit wary at being accosted by a strange woman in his own driveway. “Yes?”
“It’s about your uncle and a car,” I began. Then I stopped.
There had to be some reason for the look that flickered in the man’s eyes. Maybe it was my imagination, or a trick of the light on this March evening. But I was sure his expression had migrated from polite disinterest to something else. Could it be panic?
Right now Baldwin had masked whatever it was and gone back to the polite smile. “My uncle and a car?” he repeated.
I did a quick edit on my words. “Your uncle is Raleigh Lambert?”
“Was. Uncle Raleigh died three years ago.”
“Well, that explains it,” I said cheerfully. “He left a car at a repair shop on Broadway. A red Corvette. And he never picked it up.” Harold Baldwin looked blank. “You didn’t know?”
“My uncle was something of a collector.” Baldwin frowned. It made him look sulky. “He had so many cars. I do seem to recall a Corvette. I assumed he’d sold it. Who are you?”
“Jeri Howard.” I decided not to mention I was a private investigator. “I saw the car at the repair shop and the owner told me it was for sale. He claims he owns it because it was left there and no one picked it up. The work request gave me Mr. Lambert’s name and address. So I guess you really own the car, as long as you pay the repair bill.”
I smiled again and hoped Harold Baldwin wouldn’t ask how I’d figured out he was Raleigh Lambert’s nephew and heir to the red Corvette. As it was he seemed preoccupied by what I’d just told him.
“How did your uncle die?” I asked. “It must have been quite unexpected.”
“An accident.”
I made a sympathetic noise and looked at Baldwin expectantly, waiting for details. With any luck I’d unnerved him to the point that he would say almost anything, just in the hope that I’d go away.
“Yes, right here at the house.” He peered at his gold Rolex. “I really must go, Ms. . . . ?”
“Howard.”
“Yes, uh, where is this repair shop? I’ll have my attorney look into the matter.”
I gave him Musetta’s name and address, regretting a bit that the cat was out of that particular bag. But since I’d already mentioned it at the outset, there didn’t seem to be any way to avoid it.
The next morning I left my Adams Point apartment and headed for the Oakland Public Library where copies of the Oakland Tribune were available on microfilm. I backtracked to April, three years ago, hoping that whatever tragic accident had taken Raleigh Lambert’s life had rated a mention. If it hadn’t I wou
ld be reduced to poring through the obituary notices.
I was saved from that fate by a front page headline informing me that the previous owner of the red Corvette had met the Grim Reaper at the wheel of another of his classic cars, this one a ’65 Mustang. But he hadn’t been on the streets of Piedmont. Instead, the 72-year-old Lambert had driven the car into the garage, lowered the door and died of carbon monoxide poisoning.
Lambert was described by the Tribune as a retired Oakland businessman. From what I read, he was considered quite the man-about-town. He collected fine porcelain and classic cars. On a Thursday evening in early April, he’d attended a dance at the Claremont Hotel with Mrs. Patricia Wong, described as an old family friend. The body had been found Friday morning by another friend, Teo Martinez. Nephew Harold told the police that his uncle had recently been diagnosed with liver cancer. Lambert’s physician confirmed this.
Accident or suicide? I wondered. I moved the microfilm forward but didn’t find any other articles about Lambert’s death, just the obituary notice which gave the time and date of his funeral.
Small as it is, Piedmont does have own police force. Sergeant Fleming, the officer who’d investigated Lambert’s death, looked like a yuppie lawyer rather than a detective. He was quite bemused when I told him I was a private investigator.
“Most of my time I deal with burglaries and nuisance complaints,” he said. “Don’t see many dead bodies up here.”
“I read the initial report of the incident in the Tribune. There seemed to be some question whether it was accidental or suicide.”
“We finally ruled that an accidental death. There was alcohol in his system, he was elderly, coming home from a dance, so he may have been tired and less alert that he normally would have been. Lambert had one of those gizmos that opened and closed his garage door. It looked like he’d hit it before he got out of the car and had been overcome by the carbon monoxide. I think he probably hit that garage door button by mistake and didn’t even realize what was happening.”
“But the nephew, Harold Baldwin, thought it might be suicide.”