“Andy, no one from the TV news stations have called about discovering a dead body in the basement last night.”
“The newspapers haven’t called either, not even any websites!” Andy said. “Two neighbors stopped by to ask if all was well. I stood there and stared them both down. They got the message that the conversation was over.”
Andy went to the police station and asked to see the police report. All it said was “Domestic Call.”
“Oh, I remember that call. We don’t have much to say on calls that we turn over to another agency,” the dispatcher told him
Catherine telephoned Deputy Sanchez.
“We have yet to file a report,” Sanchez said.
“Whatever do you mean that there’s a dead body in my basement? Whatever do you mean?”
“Andy, everything my family feared would happen did not happen,” Catherine said. “They all knew that their basement hid a grave. They were so afraid people would find out.”
“Yes,” Andy said. “You know how Alameda is. What will the neighbors say when they find out that a family had a dead body buried the basement? Here on the Island City? Whatever will that do to property values?”
“Oh,” Catherine laughed. “Whatever do you mean that there’s a dead body in my basement? Whatever do you mean? How many, many times I heard my grandmother say that. Let’s put this behind us and find Alice.”
“I have a theory,” Andy said. “I think that the man who killed Judge Wexlar didn’t take his victim into the hills but followed him there.”
“OK, but what was the Judge doing there?”
“I think he was visiting Alice at her resting place. He had to keep all this quiet. He had planned to bury her in the basement, but found he couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“He loved her. That elaborate stone-lined grave was not meant for Christopher Rutland, but for Alice.”
“But he changed his mind.”
“Exactly. He just couldn’t bring himself to bury Alice where his young daughter was living.”
“And there was at least one other person living in the house. I remember talk about the housekeeper.”
“The Judge planned to rid himself of Rutland’s corpse someplace else, maybe just take him out to the woods and dump him. Instead, he prepared a similar grave for Catherine in the hills and took the easy way out by burying Christopher Rutland here.”
“If we find where James Paul Rutland shot the judge in the hills, we might find Alice’s grave nearby. I’ll give Deputy Sanchez a call and ask if her office has any information about where they found the Judge’s body.”
Later, the deputy texted Catherine back. “I have your information. Our records didn’t show anything. This didn’t happen in the Oakland Hills. On a hunch, I contacted the Contra Costa County Coroner. Sure enough. They found him in 1903, “in a small ravine on Old Thorne Road above Pinehurst. Knowing the year really helped.”
“On a hunch,” Catherine whispered.
She showed the message to Andy; minutes later, he produced a map on his smartphone.
“Let me guess,” Catherine said. “You googled it.”
“Yes. I even got directions to the place. The site I found says that Hiram Thorne built a road from his mill along San Leandro Creek to where Pinehurst takes a sharp turn, then up to over the hill where Skyline Boulevard is now and on into Oakland. Here. Look.”
Catherine took the smartphone and stared at the map.
“I doubt if Skyline was there back in the day—or that huckleberry place on the map,” Andy said. “But that old road was. That was pretty isolated when that guy shot the Judge
“Let’s go find Alice,” Catherine said.
“We have something to do first,” Andy said.
“The basement,” Catherine said.
“Yes. I called the hardware store. They have some canvas. I want to buy some and use it to cover up that…” Andy paused.
“Grave,” Catherine finished.
They returned from the store with the canvas to find a truck backed into their driveway.
“My God. Dad’s movers,” Catherine said. “They weren’t supposed to come until tomorrow.”
“Give me the key to the basement,” Andy said. “You go in the front door. I’ll get to work downstairs.”
Catherine leaned against a tree, closed her eyes, and took three deep breaths. She stood straighter than she was ever taught to stand with that book on her head. She walked confidently through the open front door. Three men in white company coveralls stopped what they were doing.
“I am Catherine. Mr. Stuart’s daughter,” she said.
Catherine looked to the basement door. It was closed. She heard Andy open and close the downstairs door.
“We beg your pardon, ma’am. Your father gave us the key,” one of the men said, showing Catherine his company identification. “We came for part of the load. We had to start a day early. We only have the small truck to use. We’ll be back tomorrow for the things downstairs.”
“So, you haven’t been in the basement yet?”
“No, ma’am.”
Relief spilled over Catherine. “I have to see about something down there,” she said.
She turned away from the men with a sigh that sent tears trickling down her cheeks.
Judge Wexlar took Alice’s body into the hills. He knew just the place to put her to rest. He loaded the stones he had ordered and wept as he took Alice’s body from the house.
“One last ride together, my darling.”
The judge knew the road well; he had ridden it so many times to the courthouse in Martinez. He arrived at the ravine where he would bury his beloved wife. He dug her grave, lined it with stones, and lovingly placed her body where it would rest forever. Covering the hole was difficult. He could scarcely see what he was doing through his tears. At last, he was done. He took the small holly tree from the wagon and planted it over her grave.
He missed her so. On all the Fridays he went to court in Martinez, he visited her. He rode back with friends who live in the Canyon. He walked up Thorne Road to see Alice, then spent the night with them.
Christopher Rutland’s family knew this.
That day, James Paul Rutland lay in wait with his shotgun. When the unsuspecting judge arrived at Alice’s grave, Rutland kicked him from behind, and aimed his shotgun at him.
“This is for my brother,” he said as he emptied the gun into the judge.
“He killed my wife,” were the last words Judge Alexander Wexlar ever spoke.
Catherine parked near Pinehurst’s sharp turn. Andy got a shovel from the trunk. They walked up the trail and investigated two ravines.
“Catherine, look,” Andy said. He pointed to another, larger ravine with a holly tree in its midst.
A man dressed in black was kneeling near the tree, busily tending to the bare earth.
“Hello,” Catherine said.
The man stood and faced them.
“Catherine and Andy, you’ve come at last,” the man said.
He smiled, bowed his head, and disappeared before their eyes.
Andy stood, petrified. Catherine came to him. “She’s here isn’t she?” she said.
“He was killed here, wasn’t he?” Andy answered.
Andy cleared the duff from in front of the tree. He dug the first hole, then the second.
“Stone. Just like in the basement,” he said. Andy shook as he took his smartphone from his pocket. “I have to sit down.”
He composed himself, opened Google maps, and tapped on “Share location.” He asked Catherine, “What’s that deputy’s number?”
The folks at Mountain View Cemetery recommended a small coffin. The mortician laid Alice’s remains atop the taffeta dress, the veil, and the gloves that Catherine and Andy had found in the trunk in the attic. They had a quiet ceremony in the Main Mausoleum where they placed Alice in the Wexlar vault next to her husband.
Catherine and Andy returned home to find that Alice had filled their home with the wonderful scent of roses.
This time, the discovery hit the news. People and cars—too many to count—filed by the house. Catherine’s stomach sunk. One of them was her father carrying two packages. She watched him walk through the gate looking so solemn. Angus opened the screen door and handed her the packages: a very large box of Dandelion truffles, Catherine’s absolute favorite, and a bottle of Henry McKenna Single-Barrel Bourbon, the best on earth.
“Thank you both for doing what we were all too frightened to do,” her father said.
“Whatever do you mean?” Catherine said, dramatically imitating her grandmother.
“Ah, my mother-in-law,” Angus said. “What did you do to make the house smell so wonderful?”
That’s a long story, Catherine thought.
Dennis Evanosky is the award-winning Historian of the Alameda Post. Reach him at [email protected]. His writing is collected at AlamedaPost.com/Dennis-Evanosky.
