I called the Lake Arrowhead Library and asked if anyone there recalled speaking to a Briana Maguire within the last month. I was politely told that the library received many phone inquiries in a given month, but the librarian was kind enough to ask other staff members anyway. No one recalled speaking to her. I asked if someone named Travis had visited the library recently. That got a laugh. I mentioned that he might have been selling children’s books; no, the library did not buy children’s books from traveling salesmen.
She transferred me to someone in acquisitions, who went on to give me a brief explanation of the library’s acquisitions procedures. They involved a complex decision-making process that made me feel a new respect for children’s librarians, but left me no wiser about Travis or Briana’s call.
I drew a blank with the other libraries as well.
I decided to look up the DeMont murder. I knew the year, but couldn’t recall the month. I called Mary and asked her if she remembered.
“Of course I do. It was summer. July or August. Hotter than Hades. Are you making any progress?”
I told her what I had learned so far.
“Hmm. I expected more by now, I’ll admit.”
“Your faith in me is inspirational. Do you know what Travis does for a living?” I asked.
“No idea.”
The DeMont story was too old to be indexed on the computer, which meant I’d have to look it up on microfilm in the library-the place formerly known as the morgue. This type of search was much slower, but it would have the benefit of letting me see the story in a context, next to other stories.
I asked for the appropriate roll of film and threaded it through a reader. Context. Gwendolyn DeMont had been murdered a month before Elvis died, in one of the years I had spent in Bakersfield as a green reporter, years away from Las Piernas by much more than a fixed distance. I hit the forward switch and stopped the reel on an early July issue. I adjusted a few knobs and the images of old news came into focus. The late seventies.
Nostalgia wasn’t going to get me anywhere, so I ruthlessly hit the forward switch again. Eventually, I found the headline I was looking for. It was an Orange County story, so the Express didn’t give it big play on the first day. It ran on the inside of the B section.
“Heiress Found Slain.” About a twenty-four-point headline. Beneath it, in slightly smaller type, “Husband Missing.”
Husband missing. Not, I supposed, for the first time.
9
The story was told in a straightforward fashion. The previous morning, a Monday, Gwendolyn DeMont Spanning had been found dead of multiple-stab wounds. The body of the sixty-two-year-old heiress to the De-Mont sugar beet fortune was discovered in her bed by her housekeeper, Mrs. Ann Coughlin. No weapon was found at the scene. Time of death was uncertain, but Detective Harold Richmond of the Los Alamitos Police Department told the reporter that police estimated Mrs. Spanning died late Friday night or early Saturday morning. The home, which was surrounded by strawberry fields-the only crop now raised by the family-was somewhat isolated. Nothing appeared to have been stolen and the motive for the murder was unknown.
Police were trying to locate her husband, Arthur Spanning, who was apparently out of town on business. According to the housekeeper, Mr. Spanning had been home when she left the house on Friday. However, she told police, he traveled frequently. She was unable to say where he might have gone on his most recent trip.
The Spannings had no children; Mrs. Spanning was survived by an uncle, Horace DeMont, and three cousins, Leda DeMont Rose, Douglas DeMont and Robert DeMont, all of Huntington Beach.
I glanced at my watch. I needed to leave soon to get home in time to walk the dogs before dark. I raced through the issues that followed, seeing the stories about the murder getting more and more play. I made copy after copy of articles I told myself I could read at home, and tried not to be lured by lurid headlines:
Murder of Reclusive Heiress Stuns Quiet Community
Spanning Alibi Is Bigamy: Husband of Slain Heiress Admits He Led Double Life
Bigamist Not Charged with Wife’s Slaying
DeMont Family Brings Suit: Seek to Prevent Bigamist from Inheriting
I thought of shy Briana, suddenly the object of this type of scrutiny. Of Travis, at eleven, certainly old enough to read these headlines. I rewound the reel of microfilm and shut the machine off.
Later that night, I sat on the living room floor, surrounded by the boxes from Briana’s house. Cody, my cat, was eyeing the piles of paper with twitching tail; I tensed as he tensed, and saw him ready to pounce. As on all his previous forays, I was able to shoo him off before he did much damage, but the scuffle woke the dogs. Worn out from a long run on the beach, Deke, a big black Lab, quickly went back to sleep, but Dunk, the shepherd, decided to gently sniff at all of the boxes again. Apparently satisfied, he lay down with a paw across my ankle and went back to sleep. This show of possessiveness was oddly comforting. Technically, he’s Frank’s dog, and like his master, he was soon snoring.
I stretched a little, then went back to work. The phone calls to Briana’s former neighbors hadn’t been of much use; only two of the neighbors remembered her, and neither knew what had become of “Mrs.” Maguire or her son. They told me that she and her son had kept to themselves, had been polite but very private. After reading the headlines, it was easy to understand why Briana and Travis had sought privacy.
I made notes based on the articles I had copied, recapping what I had learned, putting the information in chronological order.
As Mary had remembered, Gwendolyn DeMont was raised by her grandfather after her mother’s death. Gwendolyn’s father, who died a hero’s death in World War I, was one of two sons, but apparently her grandfather had quarreled bitterly with his surviving boy, Horace DeMont. When the old patriarch died, this son was left only a small monetary bequest; the bulk of the estate, including all the DeMont lands, was left to Gwendolyn.
At the time of her grandfather’s death, Gwendolyn was forty-five years old. Within a month of his death, and to her uncle Horace De-Mont’s shock, she married one of the few men who had ever made her acquaintance: the estate’s sixteen-year-old gardener, Arthur Spanning.
In the articles, her uncle made much of the fact that throughout her life, Gwendolyn seldom ventured outside the family home. She was shy of strangers, especially male strangers. It was Horace DeMont’s contention that Arthur Spanning had connived his way into the household and then taken advantage of her grief. That Arthur bore no real affection for her was now proven by his illegal second marriage. Greed and impatience, DeMont said, had led Arthur to murder his rich wife.
This was vigorously denied by Arthur’s older brother, a man named Gerald Spanning. Gerald Spanning had once been Arthur’s legal guardian-like Gwendolyn, Arthur had lost his parents at an early age. He speculated that this might have been one reason Gwendolyn felt drawn to Arthur, who had worked on the estate from the age of twelve. Perhaps she took advantage of a young man’s first crush, but Gerald Spanning had consented to the marriage of his underage brother because Arthur’s heart was set on it.
However set Arthur’s heart had been at sixteen, it roved by the time he was twenty-two. Briana, who was then working in a nursery and landscaping supply company, was courted by and married the charming young man she knew as Arthur Sperry. His landscaping business required frequent absences.
The articles in the Express supplied few details about this business, but apparently Gwendolyn had indulged her young husband’s whim to have his own business, to earn his own money. If this business required him to travel, she did not seem upset by her days alone.