“August 7, 1940.”

“What about a social security number?”

“She never had a job, as far as I know. She wasn’t even out of high school when I was born. Why do you want to see her death certificate?”

“In the interest of being thorough.”

“About what? She took an overdose. End of story, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know if it is or not. What if her death was accidental?”

“Oh. That never occurred to me. Good point. That would be amazing, wouldn’t it?”

“Seems like it’s worth looking into. I’m not sure I’ll learn anything, but I think I should make the effort.”

“You’ll let me know?”

“Of course.”

She leaned forward and turned the key in the ignition.

I opened the car door and then turned and looked at her. “You won’t tell your father you came to see me?”

“Oh, man. Not a word. He would blow.”

32

By the end of the workday, my alarm system was in and fully operational. Cullen taught me the basics and told me to come up with an arming and disarming code that didn’t consist of my address, a variation on my birthdate, or any string of numbers such as 1-2-3-4 or 0-0-0-0. He said I’d also need a one-word response code so if the alarm went off and the S.O.S. operator called, they’d know I was the one answering and not a burglar. I settled on Henry’s birthdate—February 14, 1900—which translated to 2-1-4-0 for the numerical code. My response code was “Ed.” I wrote Cullen a check and he handed me an instruction manual longer than the California Penal Code.

Once he left, I located a file that contained various forms published by the California Department of Public Health; in this case, I was looking for an application for a copy of a death record. I wasn’t entitled to a certified copy since I wasn’t related to her, wasn’t a member of law enforcement, had no court order, and had no power of attorney. Now that I had Lenore’s date of birth, I could request a Certified Informational Copy of her death certificate, which would be a duplicate, but printed with a legend on the face of it stating that it was “informational” and therefore could not be used as documentation to establish identity.

I hauled out my portable Smith Corona and set it up on my desk, then rolled in the blank form and filled out the section asking for my name, address, and phone. I typed in Lenore Redfern Lowe’s name, sex, city and county of death, date of birth, state of birth, and date of death, including her mother’s name and Ned Lowe’s name where indicated. In the heading for that portion of the form to be completed was the phrase “to the best of your knowledge,” which I hoped would cover any errors. When I was finished, I made a copy of the form, wrote a check to cover the fee, and put the whole of it in an envelope addressed to the California Department of Public Health Vital Records in Sacramento. I applied the proper postage stamp and set it aside to drop in a mailbox on my way home.