While I was at the courthouse, I asked about DBAs, those being a record of applications for fictitious business names, hoping to pick up a tidbit or two about how they’d taken ownership. Unfortunately, an application expires five years from the date it’s filed and those files are purged after ten years; 1953 had long been relegated to the shredder. I tried the tax assessor’s office across the street, again hoping for information related to the Blue Moon, but the clerk told me the basement of the courthouse had flooded and any records prior to 1962 were lost. Some guys have all the luck. Here I was trying to pry into Jake’s business and I was having no success.

I left the courthouse and returned to the title company, where I picked up a manila envelope full of photocopied documents. I went back to my car and sat in the parking lot, leafing through my little pile of treasures. I started with the information related to Tom Padgett. There was an Affidavit-Death of Joint Tenant, in which Cora’s name was removed from the deed to the house. Over the next several years, Tom Padgett had bought numerous properties on money borrowed from a Santa Maria bank, but most had been paid off according to the Full Reconveyances on file.

I gave a cursory look at the grant deeds in the names of Calvin and Rachel Wilcox, all of which seemed unremarkable, and then moved on to Jake Ottweiler. He and BW McPhee had purchased the property on which the Blue Moon was situated on December 12, 1953, for the sum of twenty-two thousand dollars, a figure I calculated from the line of tax stamps pasted along the left margin. I remembered BW mentioning the “couple thousand dollars” he’d thrown into the pot, which meant that Jake had come up with roughly twenty thousand dollars. There had to have been a hefty additional sum to cover the liquor license, expansion, and remodeling they’d done.

I sat and thought about what I’d found, then started the car and backed out of the slot. Time to hit the road.

29

As soon as I reached Santa Maria, I pulled into a gas station and filled my tank, then parked to one side of the service bay and used the pay phone. I put a call through to the hospital where Daisy worked and asked for the Medical Records Department. Once she was on the line, I told her I was back in town. “Is there any way I can park myself at your place? I’ve got notes to type up and some calls I want to make.”

“Sure, no problem. There’s a house key hidden under the flowerpot sitting on the porch.”

“That’s not such a keen idea, Daisy. Everyone hides the key under a flowerpot. Burglars know that and it’s the first place they look.”