Dr. James Walter Asherwood had passed away of natural causes at his home in La Canada-Flintridge, age eighty-nine. That placed him at forty or so during the period Ellie Green had lived at the house in Cheviot Hills. Easily feasible age for a relationship. For unwanted fatherhood.

Asherwood’s bio was brief. Trained at Stanford as an obstetrician-gynecologist, he’d “retired from medicine to pursue the life of a sportsman and financier.”

The Times hasn’t run social pages in a while and being rich and wellborn no longer entitles you to an obit. At first glance, nothing in Asherwood’s life seemed to justify the paper’s attention, but his death was the hook: “A lifelong bachelor, Asherwood had long voiced intentions to bequeath his entire estate to charity. That promise has been kept.”

The final paragraph listed beneficiaries of Asherwood’s generosity, including several inner-city public schools to which Asherwood had bequeathed a hangarful of vintage automobiles. Western Peds was listed midway through the roster, but unlike the cancer society, Save the Bay, and the graduate nursing program at the old school across town, the hospital wasn’t singled out for special largesse.

Fondness for the nursing school because he remembered one particular RN?

Had ob-gyn skills meant detour to a career as an illegal abortionist? Did dropping out of medicine imply guilt? A legal concession as part of a plea deal?

Lifelong bachelor didn’t mean loveless. Or childless.

Doctor to financier. Moving big money around could mean the ability to purchase just about anything, including that most precious of commodities, silence.

No sense wondering. I called the F. Walker Monahans.

A beautifully inflected female voice said, “Good evening, Doctor, this is Grace. Andy told us you’d be phoning.”

No curiosity about a psychologist asking questions on behalf of the police. “Thanks for speaking with me, Mrs. Monahan.”

“Of course we’ll speak with you.” As if a failure to cooperate would’ve been unpatriotic. “When would you care to drop by?”

“We can chat over the phone.”

“About cars?” Her laugh was soft, feline, oddly soothing.

“About a car once owned by Dr. James Asherwood.”

“Ah, Blue Belle,” she said. “You do know that we’ve sold her.”

“I didn’t.”

“Oh, yes, a month ago, she’ll be shipped in a few weeks. Immediately after Pebble Beach we were besieged with offers but refused. Years later, we’re finally ready. Not without ambivalence, but it’s time to let someone else enjoy her.”

“Where’s she going?”

“To Texas, a natural gas man, a very fine person we know from the show circuit. He’ll pamper her and drive her with respect, win-win situation for everyone.”

“Congratulations.”

“We’ll miss her,” said Grace Monahan. “She’s quite remarkable.”

“I’ll bet.”

“If you’d like to pay your respects before she leaves, that can be arranged.”

“Appreciate the offer,” I said. “If you don’t mind, could we talk a bit about Dr. Asherwood?”