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,
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,
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