“Dr. Butterfield died last night,” my secretary Laurie announced as she entered the coffee room of my office, where I was pouring my third cup of the morning, and Laurie was fixing her first.
“I heard he was in the hospital,” I replied with a shrug of my shoulders. “It had to happen sometime.” Now this may seem callous to you, a rather cynical view of life on my part, but in truth Dr. Herman Butterfield was one hundred and eight years old, and had outlived two wives, three of his five children, and at least two dozen of his former mistresses. Not to mention a string of twenty or so German Shepherds, all of them named Champ.
“Should I get the file for you?” Laurie asked as she poured far more sugar in her cup than Dr. B would have ever allowed.
“No, I got it out last week when he was admitted to the hospital.” I always believed in being well prepared, especially for a client with whom I shared a nearly four decade relationship. “When Bob Samuel calls, put him right through,” I added as I headed down the hall to my corner office. I knew Bob would be calling, because A. Robert Samuel, JD, had been the attorney for Herman B. Butterfield, MD, Ph.D., for at least as long as I had been appraising the property for them.
My name is Steve Larson by the way. I am a professional real estate appraiser, which other professionals such as doctors, lawyers and accountants sneer at, especially when they have to pay one of us. I suppose I could add the initials of my college degrees after my name, like the attorneys and doctors do, but BS and MBA aren’t really all that impressive in those circles. The only initials that matter are the ones that do appear after my name on my business cards: MAI. No, that doesn’t stand for ‘missing in action’, look again, it’s not in the right order. Some real estate developers think (or hope) it stands for ‘made as instructed’ and choose appraisers who fulfill that promise. I’ve always tried to maintain my integrity. The initials stand for Member of the Appraisal Institute, which is the top designation that a real estate appraiser can get. It is issued by the Appraisal Institute, which oddly enough used to have a longer name before it merged with a rival professional organization. But I won’t bore you with those details. What it really means is that I get to charge more money for my appraisal reports that my competition can get. It also means that I’ve been around long enough to know my shit. Excuse me, I should say that it means that I demonstrate an exceptional level of knowledge in the area of real estate valuation.
The call that Laurie put through about fifteen minutes later was a bit of a surprise, but not too much of a shock. Byron Jacobs, CPA, was a senior partner of the accounting firm that handled the books for The New Canaan Wellness Center, which was Herm Butterfield’s brain child as well as his pride and joy. Byron explained that Bob Samuel had called him from Logan Airport in Boston, Massachusetts. Byron told me that Bob had been in Boston (Cambridge actually, but Byron was an Ohio State graduate, like me, and didn’t really know exactly where Harvard University was located) and was heading back to New Canaan after seeing his grandson’s college graduation. They were hoping to get together first thing in the morning, the day after tomorrow. Dr. Butterfield would be buried tomorrow, and Byron also correctly assumed that he would see me at the service. I try to avoid as many funerals as I can, especially Catholic, or, as in this case, Jewish ones, but it’s getting increasingly more difficult as I get older. Too many good friends and long time acquaintances have been dying lately. Besides, Dr. Herman Butterfield was a full-blown legend in this little corner of Ohio, a truly remarkable visionary, and I suppose I really wanted to make sure that the crazy old bastard was really dead.
After I ended the conversation with Byron, I sipped my now lukewarm coffee as I stared at the huge file on my desk. I don’t like to throw things away. There’s often some old piece of information hiding in an appraiser’s files, and as soon as you clean out your files, someone calls looking for data from the 60’s or 70’s in order to do some crazy ass assignment that calls for a value from half a century ago. They’re rare, to be sure, but if you get one, you can charge an arm and a leg for it, because even with the Internet, the kids just don’t have the relevant information. Anyway, my file on the New Canaan Wellness Center was in one of the biggest expandable folders you can get. There were at least thirty full blown appraisal reports in there, along with some older letter updates, and other stuff that we appraisers just don’t do anymore, either because of federal regulations, professional standards, or since we hate to get sued as much as anybody. Sadly, there’s far more licensed attorneys than there are certified commercial property appraisers. The reason there were so many reports is that Herm Butterfield operated the NCWC as a general partnership. He refused to incorporate, thus new partners that were brought into the constantly expanding practice were forced to buy into the real estate as well, and since the facility itself was constantly expanding, new valuations were needed at regular intervals. I thought it was a bit crazy, but it paid my bills for too many years. Who was I to argue?
The funeral went as I expected, long and boring, with a ton of praise for the dear departed, who was remembered as a visionary. There were lots of folks I recognized, and many more that I didn’t. Included in this second set were a group of attractive women, with a wide range of ages, from around mid-forties to well past eighty. They seemed to know one another, or just congregated together because they sensed their connection to each other. They had all been Dr. Butterfield’s mistresses. Herm Butterfield’s philandering was a widely known, yet oddly, seldom discussed secret in New Canaan. Apparently, you get a little more slack if you’re considered a genius. I’m sure I wouldn’t be so lucky, not that I’ve ever really been tempted. I’m very happy with my wife. She’s a keeper.
Unlike the funeral, the meeting of the ‘old pros’ the next morning had a few surprises. The meeting was held in the large conference room at the New Canaan Wellness Center and started early, at 7AM. This was the reason I traveled alone. Normally I would bring one of my associates, since they mostly did all of the work anyway. For important clients such as this one, that would typically have been my son, Ryan, who is very talented in the field of appraisal, and is also a terrific schmoozer, which really isn’t one of my strong suits. I’m much too old and too blunt to care much about being tactful these days. Ryan got his start in a large corporation before he was forced out in some power play and decided that it wasn’t a bad idea to be your own boss. Unfortunately, Ryan is not noted as an early riser. He wouldn’t be in the office for another couple of hours, but to his credit, he would be the last one to leave. I didn’t really need his help right now anyway. We wouldn’t be covering any new ground here. Just more of the same old stuff for the old pros.
I entered the room and noticed the new face immediately, well not a new face, but one that didn’t usually congregate with the old pros. Dr. Jack Butterfield was sitting along the side of the table, talking with Byron and Martin Curtis, a senior VP and member of the Board of Directors for the bank that had provided Herm his initial funding to start the clinic, and had prospered along with the rest of New Canaan and the Wellness Center over the years. Marty had surpassed the bank’s mandatory retirement age last year, but he had proved so indispensable that the bank had to alter their official policy for him. Jack Butterfield was Herm’s son from his second marriage, and the only child that ever followed the famous father into medicine. Apparently, he was also the only one of Herm’s children able to function in society. He was talented and very intelligent, but utterly lacking in social graces. Following me into the meeting was Bob Samuel, the lead attorney for NCWC, and Daniel Bernstein, the managing partner of the Wellness Center. I don’t know why, but Dan didn’t like me. Probably hated paying my fees. Most doctors do. Unlike Jack Butterfield, Dan had tons of social grace, he just preferred not to use it. He’s a jerk.
Dan Bernstein took a new position for him at the head of table, Herman Butterfield’s usual seat. I suppose he wanted to make it clear who was now in charge. It was just his typical sort of power play. I would have left the seat vacant, to pay a last bit of respect for Dr. Butterfield, but that wasn’t how Daniel Bernstein operated. He nodded to everyone around the table. It was a mostly familiar group of faces. The old pros were together again.
“I assume you all know Jack?” Dan asked, nodding in young Dr. Butterfield’s direction. Brief smiles and accompanying nods in Jack’s direction conveyed what would pass as condolences from the group for the moment. “Is Todd Jackson joining us?” His question was directed to Jack, and his overt glance at his watch told us all what he thought of the young attorney’s tardiness.
“Yes,” Jack replied, “he should be here soon.” Jack Butterfield then explained to the group who they were waiting for. “Todd is my father’s personal attorney. He’s handling all the personal matters for the estate.” Just then the conference room door was opened by a young man who looked completely out of place in this room. From his crisp and conservative suit he was clearly a lawyer, but his puffy eyes and disheveled hair told us that he was not accustomed to such early meetings.
“Sorry I’m late,” he explained to the room, as Dan Bernstein waved him toward an empty chair with a look of utter contempt. Dan liked lawyers even less than real estate appraisers. The young man sat as he searched the room for a coffeepot, which he didn’t find. Most of us had brought our own with us. We knew that Bernstein didn’t give anything away for free. Have I mentioned that he’s a jerk?
As Bernstein made introductions for the benefit of the tardy young attorney, I did some quick calculations in my head. At our last meeting with Herman Butterfield, the average age in the room had been just over 71 years. Taking away Herm and adding Jack (41) and Todd (about 31, I guessed correctly) to the mix had lowered the average age to just shy of 56 years. I felt younger already.
Dr. Bernstein then got down to the heart of the matter at hand. The purpose of the meeting was to undertake all necessary steps to convert the partnership that owned the Wellness Center to a corporation. He turned to me with a cruel smile. “Sorry, Steve,” he snarled, “but I’m afraid we’re killing your golden goose. No more appraisals after this one.” He seemed to take genuine pleasure in the statement. Personally, I thought it was a great idea. Herman should have done it years ago. It’s just that I couldn’t let the remark pass without comment.
“Dan,” I smiled with just the proper hint of sarcasm in my voice and a smirk on my face, “not that I don’t enjoy seeing most of you on a regular basis, but you don’t think I really enjoy this assignment do you?” Like most of the old pros at the table, I was becoming a bit weary of my chosen profession, and was looking forward to a well-earned rest as my career slowed down.
“Well if that’s the case, I’m sure we can find a new appraiser to take on the job.” Dan thought he could intimidate me, but he didn’t. I really don’t need the money. I noticed Byron Jacobs, the firm’s long time accountant, and my old college roommate at OSU, stiffen uncomfortably in his chair.
“Uh, Dan,” Byron never liked to challenge authority, but he was gifted at saving money. “If we bring in a new appraiser at this point, the fee’s likely to run into five figures. I’m sure Steve’s fee will be, what,” he looked across the table at me with a hopeful raise of his eyebrows, “a quarter of that?” I nodded my acceptance. Of course I would add at least a thousand dollars to my normal fee. I called it my ‘Daniel Bernstein jerk surcharge’. It was non-negotiable.
Bernstein grumbled his reluctant acceptance. He was beyond merely gifted at saving money. It was an obsession for him. Young Todd Jackson seemed to need to throw me a bone at that point. “Our firm is going to need to have you do some additional appraisal work on Dr. Butterfield’s personal real estate as well, Mr. Larson.” He seemed to think of something important for a moment, then added, “assuming that wouldn’t cause any conflict of interest?”
“Not as long as everyone agrees,” I smiled at the earnest young man. He seemed like a nice kid. “Can I assume that’s the case here, Dan?”
Jack Butterfield fielded the question, earning himself a glare from Bernstein. “Oh, I’m sure that’s OK. You can even send a copy of the report on the Wellness Center to Todd at no charge.” I’m sure Bernstein had planned to charge the estate a marked-up fee. Dan smoldered at the head of table.
“You three can discuss that at your own convenience, after we’re done here,” Dan included Jack and Todd in his contempt for me. “Now let’s get this thing over with.” The meeting progressed along its usual lines. Each member was assigned the appropriate task for his profession. It wasn’t really necessary for all of us to be privy to everyone else’s assignments, but as experienced professionals, we were often able to point out a requirement from the point of view of our area of expertise that added to the assignments, or even in a few cases, made our jobs easier. It was a group dynamic that had worked well over the years, and continued to function as it should. After all, we were the old pros.
After the meeting, Todd, Jack and I walked together to the parking lot, discussing the next part of my assignment relative to Herman Butterfield’s estate. He owned various medical office buildings, strictly as an income source, as well as a few apartment buildings. I had already appraised most of them at one time or another. As we gazed back toward the Wellness Center, Jack asked a valid question. “So why would a new appraisal of this facility cost so much more to complete than what you’re willing to charge, Mr. Larson?”
I explained all of the unique aspects of the property, including its size, layout and other features that made finding comparable properties so difficult. A new appraiser would have to recalculate square footage, reanalyze the various highest and best uses of the component parts, and spend considerable time and effort on the task, while I already had most of data in my files. We turned to behold the hillside rising behind the parking lot, where dozens of lilac bushes were in full bloom, while the rose bushes between them were just beginning to show signs of budding. “And then there’s ‘The Contemplation Garden’,” I smiled as I extended my arms to encompass the flowering hillside. “Most appraisers would be stymied to come up with a value for that. What kind of value does a parklike garden covering more than an acre that includes a gazebo, restroom facilities and a state-of-the-art garden shed add to a medical facility?” I asked the question rhetorically. No one, including myself, knew the answer.
“Dad was always so proud of the garden. He planted most of that himself, you know.” I nodded and smiled at Jack. I had many conversations about the garden with Herman. He never liked what I had to say. “In fact, that’s why we had to put in the restroom facilities. As dad got older, he hated to be too far from a restroom. Probably had something to do with all of the baby food he ate.” Jack then had to explain to Todd about his father’s unique diet that consisted mainly of over-steamed vegetables and jars of baby food. It might have been weird, but it was hard to argue with the results. Did I mention that Herman Butterfield was 108 years old when he died?
“So how do you handle putting a value on ‘The Contemplation Garden’?” Todd asked. I shrugged. “It’s really just excess land. Can’t really divide it and sell it off separately, or it would be surplus land, and have a higher value. The improvements don’t really add to the value, so they’re considered to be merged with the land. Herm always argued the point with me. He considered meditation in the garden to have healing properties. He told me there was one at his own home, and said that I’d be surprised to find out how much his garden was really worth.”
“We added complete wi-fi coverage so that the doctors can take their laptops up there and work now,” Jack added, thinking that the change must have added some value, since it added cost. It didn’t, of course. Jack was about to stick up for his father’s vision of the garden, and Todd saw a time-wasting argument brewing. He deftly changed the subject. “I know an attorney in Columbus named Larson, Andrea Larson. Any relation to you, Steve?”
I smiled. Thinking of my Andy always made me smile. “My daughter, Andrea, is an attorney in Columbus. She kept her maiden name for professional purposes. She works in family law. Is that who you mean?” Todd had worked with her in the past, and spoke highly of her abilities. I basked in the warm glow of paternal pride while we discussed my older child for a few minutes, and Todd revealed a few details of his own practice.
“I’m what’s known as a ‘wealth-keeper’ in my profession. My firm transferred me up here because there’s still quite a bit of old money in this area from some of the old manufacturing concerns.” While many of those old manufacturing facilities were now gone, or relocated to other parts of the world, many of the original family members remained in the area. Thank goodness there were competent young professionals like Todd to look after their money for them, or they might do something foolish with it, like spend it. “Of course, that’s assuming that we find all of the money in the first place, right Jack?” Jack Butterfield nodded glumly at Todd’s remark.
Todd and Jack then took turns explaining that while Jack’s father had left a sizable estate, it wasn’t nearly as large as they thought it should have been. I was wondering if perhaps Herm’s mistresses had taken a larger portion of his wealth than the younger men realized was possible. I’m sure it wasn’t Herm’s sparkling personality or physical prowess that had captivated his string of mistresses, especially during the last four decades or so. Although the man was charismatic, there was no denying that.
“What about your half sister,” I asked, “did she receive a large inheritance when your father’s first wife died?”
“No, Arlene got a modest trust fund when her mother passed away,” Jack replied. “About the same as I did when my mother died. Dad believed that we should make our own way in this world. Something that my brother never seemed to grasp.” Jack’s older brother died young, from a self-administered overdose of heroin. No one was ever able to determine if it was intentional on his part, or whether he had simply tried to take too much. The remark seemed to linger too long in the air. What could you say after that? Thankfully, Todd managed to change the subject again.
Todd told me that he had files on Herm’s assets that he needed appraised for the estate, and asked how soon we could get together. I told him that I had time right now, if he wanted to follow me over to my office, which was just about a mile up the road. I then made arrangements with Jack to tour the entire property again and take pictures the following evening. I planned to bring Ryan along, since he would be doing most of the work. I’ve pretty much had my fill of the New Canaan Wellness center.
Laurie was flirting with Todd as she showed him into my office, even though she was at least 15 years older. The term ‘cougar’ flashed through my mind as Laurie wiggled her still shapely form from the room, while smiling at the handsome young attorney, who was blushing as he took his seat. We settled into the small conference table in the corner of my spacious office, and were joined by my son Ryan, who was delighted to renew his acquaintance with Todd. They had both prepped at Phillips Academy Andover, and hadn’t seen each other since graduation. Disney was right; it’s a small world after all. We went over all of the properties, gave Todd a list of information that we would need in order to complete the assignments, and got the name of the person to contact at the property management company in order to schedule physical inspections. It was an impressive list of properties, worth millions of dollars. I pointed the fact out to Todd.
“I know you said you thought there was money missing from Herman Butterfield’s estate, but this is a pretty valuable group of properties. I’m sure he had other financial assets as well. He was a very wealthy man.” Todd nodded his agreement. “Surely, Herm’s…attraction to the ladies…must have cost him a healthy chunk of money over the years?”
“Oh, I’m sure it did,” Todd agreed, “but not as much as you might believe. We’ve done some investigative work already. I’ve been able to interview five or six of the mistresses so far. Their stories are pretty similar. Seems that the good doctor never really gave them much in terms of material goods. He seemed to offer them more of a…how would you put this…a supreme physical satisfaction? They got nice places to live, in Herman’s apartments, which didn’t cost him much. Some of them got cars, but mostly inexpensive used ones. Things like that. I have some expertise in forensic accounting, and I’m sure there’s a good deal of money missing.”
“How about jewelry?” I was no expert, but a few diamonds here and there would add up quickly, I thought.
“Well, that’s the strangest part. Jack has an older cousin, Saul, who’s a diamond merchant with offices in Amsterdam and New York. Saul says that he, and his father before him, had been selling Herm investment grade diamonds for years. Seems the Butterfield family lost some of their money in banks during the Great Depression, and Herm didn’t entirely trust them. But we haven’t found any diamonds. Well, that’s not entirely true. We found a baby food jar in his safe deposit box that had two nice diamonds in it. But that’s all. When I asked the mistresses if Herman ever gave them diamonds, they laughed. Some of them were very insulted. They said it was never about money with Herman. One of the old broads actually slapped me, and asked me ‘What kind of woman do you take me for?’”
We wrapped up the meeting, and I wished Todd luck with his search for the missing diamonds. Despite their protests, I still suspected that the mistresses must have ended up with some pretty baubles over the years. I’m sure that they were just engaging in some self-denial concerning the exchange of sex for money. Not that I’m an expert in these things. I’m a happily married man.
The next evening, Ryan and I took a tour of the New Canaan Wellness Center. Ryan had a copy of the floorplans and descriptions from the most recent report, and made few, if any notes. We then adjourned to the outside after Jack had excused himself so that we could take a few photos for the report. We didn’t need as many as we would typically put in a report that would be used for financing purposes, just a few wide angle shots from the four corners of the main complex, plus street views to show what type of development was located around the subject property. As we were heading to my Lincoln SUV for the short drive back to the office, I noticed two men digging up a lilac bush on the hillside at the edge of the ‘Contemplation Garden.’
I motioned for Ryan to follow me as we strolled the short distance up the hill. We were surprised to find Dan Bernstein and his son, Doug, a junior physician’s assistant at the center, furiously digging around the roots of the bush, which now lay on its side. Dan was mostly directing his son’s work, as they used a rake to knock dirt from the plant’s roots. Dan exhorted his son to be careful. They seemed to be searching for something in particular as they poked and prodded the lilac’s roots.
I knew that the pair hadn’t noticed our approach. “Did that bush do something to piss you off, Dan?” I asked loudly as we walked up behind them. The look on his face as he turned around included the rage of a man who didn’t like to be trifled with, combined with the guilt of a little boy who had just been discovered with his hand in the cookie jar. I savored the moment for a few seconds before Bernstein could work up a plausible explanation.
“These damn bushes have been aggravating my allergies for years. I can hardly breath outside around here this time of year when they’re in bloom,” Dan explained to me, looking remarkably clear-eyed for someone who claimed such an affliction. “I’m thinking of ripping them all out.” My bullshit detector is in excellent working order, and has served me faithfully for years. It was now ringing loudly in my head.
“I see,” I said, allowing my voice to reflect the fact that I didn’t believe a word that he said. “Might save yourself some aggravation if you call Roger’s Nursery and have them do it for you. They’ve got the right equipment, and all of those strong, young, illegal immigrants to do the work.” Roger’s had the landscaping contract for the Wellness Center for the last 30 years or more. They were the best firm in town, and charged accordingly. Herman Butterfield insisted that they were the only landscapers ever used on the property. I could see that changing soon, too. I quickly grew tired of annoying the Bernstein family, and turned toward my car with Ryan in my wake.
I was laughing softly as I climbed into the driver’s seat. “What the hell was that, Dad?” Ryan asked as he fastened his seat belt. “I mean you don’t often find a doctor doing landscaping work after hours, do you?”
“Well,” I reflected on Herman Butterfield’s career, “Dr. Butterfield planted most of the lilacs in The Contemplation Garden, or so I’ve been told. But I think he was the exception to the rule. My guess is that they were looking for diamonds.” Ryan’s expression told me that more of an explanation would be required, so I explained to him about the possibility that Butterfield may have converted large sums of money into diamonds. “Todd thinks he may have hidden them somewhere. I guess Dan Bernstein found out, and had a good idea where he might find them. Look in folder there, and see if I stapled Todd’s card to the flap of the file. I think we should give him a call and let him know what Bernstein is doing.”
Ryan, of course, being younger and more tech savvy than his old man, already had his old buddy’s number programmed into his iPhone. By the time we made the short drive back to the office, Ryan and I had reported our suspicions, and left the next move to Todd. From what I understand, he blasted straight over to the Wellness Center in his Porsche, followed closely by Jack Butterfield, and the after hours gardening was abruptly terminated. Roger’s Nursery was called-in to restore the damaged lilac to its proper place.
Several weeks had passed and we had made all of the inspections of Herman’s real estate investments. I had divided the properties between Ryan and my other two associates, and the reports were beginning to trickle in for my personal review. I would wait until they were all done, then categorize them by property type, and make sure that we were being consistent in our observations about the current real estate market. Appraisers typically drag their feet when it comes to doing estate work. It’s not like the property owner is going anywhere at that point, since they’re dead. Dan Bernstein had called rather early in the process, anxious for the report on the Wellness Center, since he had a different purpose for the report than estate valuation. He wanted to establish the corporation. His only real obstacle was Jack Butterfield, who was going to inherit his father’s share, and end up as the majority stockholder.
Todd had also called several times. I had assumed that like most lawyers, he needed to add some notations to his own file that proved he was working on it, and could rack up some billing. However, it became clear that he liked bouncing ideas off of me relative to Dr. Butterfield’s missing diamonds. I have some career-related experience, since researching real estate often involves some detective work. He told me that he suspected Bernstein might have been on to something when he dug up the lilac bush. When the landscapers showed up to repair Dan’s damage, he and Jack actually had them dig up a few others, ostensibly to give the bushes some more growing room, but in reality they were searching the roots for buried treasure. The diamonds remained missing.
The month of June progressed. The firm had mostly finished up its assignments with regard to the Butterfield Estate, and we were preparing the final reports. Andy and her husband had come up from Columbus for the day. I took my wife Jill, Ryan and his wife Melissa, and Andrea and her husband Justin, out to dinner at an expensive new Japanese steak house that had recently opened. We had a delightful dinner. The conversation drifted to Herman Butterfield’s life and times. Ryan and I expressed our outrage at Herm’s many mistresses. It was the prudent thing to do in this situation. I explained to them that the good doctor had once confided in me that he ‘had married for procreation, but fornicated for recreation.’ Apparently, his choice of wives made sense to him, but I don’t think that it produced the caliber of offspring that he had initially sought.
His first wife was a brilliant woman, a talented musician, and a Catholic as well. The marriage was considered quite scandalous at the time, since Herm was Jewish (not that he was ever very religious). That union had produced two sons and a daughter. The children were raised as Catholics, and the oldest boy became a priest, where he drank himself to death before the age of forty. The middle child, the second son, entered college with the intent of studying medicine, but had switched to a major in English Literature early on. He managed to kill himself in his brand new 1951 Lincoln Convertible as he was driving around New Haven one rainy evening, very drunk. The daughter, Arlene, was a local artist of some talent, but minimal ambition, and was considered to be eccentric. Had she been poor, she would have likely been called crazy. Thankfully, she abstained from the consumption of alcohol, but reportedly smoked marijuana, which was most unusual in the early 1950’s. She was still alive, and lived in a retirement home near Santa Fe, New Mexico. Their mother’s mental health had declined over the years, and eventually Herm had her institutionalized, where she died several years before her oldest son.
Herman remarried shortly after his first wife died, when he was already 64 years old. This time he chose a nice Jewish girl, not that anyone really cared by then. She was 35 years younger than he was, perhaps a bit more unstable than the first, and produced two sons in rapid succession. Benny Butterfield made it to college, but soon dropped out, becoming a drug addict. The new Mrs. Butterfield committed suicide shortly after Jack’s tenth birthday. He was sent off to boarding school in New England, which may have saved his life, or at least his sanity. Herman was a very wealthy doctor by that time, and was also a world-class philanderer.
In the late 1960’s, Butterfield established the Wellness Center at the outskirts of the small city called New Canaan. He developed a holistic approach to medicine, which was considered cutting edge thinking at the time. He prospered, taking care of the medical needs of almost half of the community. Jayne Baughman, daughter of one of the city’s premier families, sang his praises, and he became the fashionable doctor of the well to do. Shortly after the NCWC was built, Butterfield planted his first lilac bush, along with some roses, and the Contemplation Garden was born.
My wife became fixated on the Contemplation Garden, and pointed out that aromatherapy has gained widespread acceptance and use in some areas of the medical community. Andrea pointed out that eastern philosophies have recognized the health benefits of meditation for thousands of years. Melissa added that Herman had combined the two, and could be considered a visionary. I just love smart women, especially the three at my table.
After dinner, we said our good-byes to Andy and Justin, who were driving back to Columbus, and to my son and his wife, who were on their way to catch a late movie. Jill and I were heading home when she asked if we could see the Contemplation Garden. The Wellness Center was just down the street, and it was a lovely evening, the sun beginning its final decent as a golden orb amid purple clouds and pink sky. What the heck, I always indulge my wife’s wishes whenever possible.
We turned into the driveway of the NCWC, and headed to the back of the almost empty parking lot. A single car, a newer Buick sedan, was parked at the rear edge of the lot, near the northern path that led to the garden. We gave it plenty of space, and parked close to the southern path. The lilacs had faded, but the roses were in full bloom, deliciously scenting the warm evening air as Jill and I strolled into the garden, and wound our way along the path that led to the gazebo near the center.
We were smiling and holding hands, and contemplating using the gazebo for the same purpose that Herm Butterfield had reportedly used it for on numerous occasions, when we caught sight of an elderly woman in the distance. She was bending over a bush full of white rose blooms, cradling a large flower, and deeply inhaling its scent. She sensed our approach, stood up, and gave a very warm, welcoming smile. We walked over and introduced ourselves.
Her name was Elizabeth Sanders, and was a strikingly handsome woman, with a certain grace to her movements. I told her that I thought she looked familiar, but couldn’t quite place her. She asked if I had been at Herman’s funeral, which I had, and then it hit me. She had been among the group of Herman’s former mistresses. She saw the spark of recognition in my eyes, and smiled, slowly nodding her head.
“Yes,” she said, “I was one of Herman’s girls. Long before I was married, of course. He was a widower at the time.” She bent again toward the rose bush, cradling the huge white flower in her slender fingers. “This one was my rose bush.” Jill and I exchanged questioning glances, and she graciously elaborated. “Herman planted a rose bush for each of ‘his girls’, as he referred to us.” I looked around toward the dozens of rosebushes that covered the garden, trying to quickly do the math. Elizabeth noted my gaze, and gave a soft laugh. “Yes, I’m afraid it was a rather large club.”
We sat together in the gazebo, where she shared her story with us, and I explained my own involvement with the late doctor. After she left Butterfield’s employ, she married a young doctor and had relocated to Chicago, where she had raised a family and had a very wonderful life. Her children were all grown, and her beloved husband had passed away several years ago. She was in town, enjoying an extended visit with her sister, when she read of Dr. Butterfield’s demise. Like dozens of other members of her sorority, she had gone to the funeral to say goodbye to her dear friend, Herman.
During the course of our conversation, I had noticed a large diamond ring, glittering on the finger of her right hand. She wore a smaller engagement ring and wedding band set on her left ring finger. I searched for a tactful opening to question her about the ring, but tact has never been my strong suit. I’m a real estate appraiser, and we spend all day prying into other people’s business. Finally, I took the opportunity of a slight lull in the conversation, and asked her about it. “That’s a beautiful ring, Elizabeth,” I observed with a smile. “That wasn’t by chance, a gift from Herman was it?” I felt the sharp kick against my left ankle from Jill’s size seven sandal, and ignored the daggers from her gaze.
Ever gracious, Elizabeth held out her hand and gazed wistfully at the ring. Sighing with a slight smile on her lips, she told us that the ring had been an anniversary present from her husband, David. She was still smiling at me as she raised her head to meet my gaze. “It was never about money, or gifts, or that sort of thing with Herman,” she explained. “He was a very kind and considerate man.” She blushed slightly as she continued, “Herman was also the most extraordinary lover that I’ve ever had.” She seemed to shudder in a pleasant sort of way as she made that last statement.
We walked Elizabeth back to her car, and wished her well as Jill and I strolled together across the parking lot toward our Lincoln. Jill quietly told me that my question about the ring had been totally inappropriate, then I explained about Todd and Jack’s concern about the missing diamonds. She forgave me on the ride home. It seemed that she was always forgiving me for one thing or another. That’s another reason that she’s a keeper.
That evening, I had a thought. Herman had planted a rose bush for each of his mistresses. Maybe Dan Bernstein was on the right track when he dug up the lilac bush. Maybe he just had the wrong plant. The next morning, I telephoned Todd Jackson.
Todd explained to me that when they had examined the lilac that Bernstein and his son had dug up, they also examined a few other lilacs, as well as a few of the rose bushes. There was nothing buried in the Contemplation Garden other than Herm Butterfield’s fond memories. We agreed to meet for lunch the next day, where I would provide him with all of the reports, along with a summary sheet of values, which was something that I had put together for my own benefit, but thought might be of use to Todd as well.
As Todd, Ryan and I were walking out of the restaurant the next day, we bumped into Elizabeth Sanders and her sister, as they were waiting in the foyer for their table. I made introductions all around and Elizabeth’s eyes brightened when I introduced Todd as the lawyer for Herman’s estate. She took Todd and I aside.
“I know it might sound strange to you,” she asked with obvious embarrassment, “but I was wondering if it would be possible to dig up my rosebush, to take with me back to Chicago? I’ll have it replaced, of course,” she added. “Either the one at the clinic or the one he planted at his house would be fine with me.” Todd took her telephone number and promised to ask Jack Butterfield about her request. I vaguely recalled having to appraise Herm’s personal residence several decades ago, when the clinic was still a relatively small enterprise. I remembered the extensive rose garden in back of the house. Butterfield had referred to it as his contemplation garden.
After she left, I asked Todd about Herman’s house. He had kept an apartment at the clinic for the past twenty years or so, and I had forgotten all about the stately old Victorian home that sat on a separate, heavily wooded parcel next door to the Wellness Center. We hadn’t appraised the property as part of Herman’s estate.
“The house is owned in the name of a family trust,” Todd explained. “It passed to Jack at the time of Herman’s death without having to go through probate. Jack’s planning a massive renovation of the place. In fact, I believe he’s meeting with a group of architects and contractors at the house right now.” I sent Ryan back to the office in my vehicle and squeezed into Todd’s Porsche as we raced over to the house.
We arrived at the house as Jack was standing outside, bidding farewell to the architect. He looked crestfallen. The property had been barely maintained over the past two decades and the experts he had just met with had been ballparking cost estimates for the renovations that he wanted. Planting areas were choked with weeds, paint was peeling, and the house looked like no one had touched it for a long time. “Do you know that the paint job for just the exterior of the house is going to cost more than Dad paid for the entire house and all of this land back in the ‘50’s?” he asked. Doctors, even those facing substantial inheritances, hate to spend money. I asked him about the rose garden. “Yes,” he nodded his head, “Dad had a rose garden way out back, where you can’t see it from the house. He called it his original meditation garden.”
We hurried around the back of the house, explaining the reason for our visit as we walked. There was a large detached garage structure out back, with a shed addition where we found a set of garden tools, all lovingly preserved, along with pots, gloves, wheelbarrows, and a box of small metal signs, often used in Victorian gardens to identify plant species. With tools in hand, we set off down the overgrown path to what was left of the rose garden. Nature was slowly working to completely conceal all of Herman Butterfield’s gardening efforts. Weeds were plentiful, and small maple trees grew everywhere.
We could still identify most of the rosebushes. They all had a little metal sign in front of them, although the signs did not indicate the species of each bush. Instead, each sign simply had a girl’s first name, hand painted in a flowing black script. I saw two or three that were labeled “Elizabeth,” but only one of them had white flowers. I sunk my spade into the ground around the base of the bush, and continued around until I had an adequate root ball available. I used the shovel to pry the rosebush from the ground, and laid it carefully on its side. Then I used a spud bar to scrape away chunks of dirt from the root ball. As I reached the center of the roots, I heard the tinkling noise of metal striking glass. I reached my gloved hand into the root system, retrieved an old baby food jar, with a black cloth stuffed inside, and handed it to Jack.
Jack’s hands trembled as he opened the jar. He pulled out a small piece of black velvet, carefully unfolding it in the palm of his hand. Resting in the middle of the cloth were five very large cut diamonds that sparkled in the sunlight, and took our breath away.
Everyone grabbed a shovel. Rose bushes were quickly unearthed and more and more baby food jars were revealed. Several hours later, with three dozen or so jars resting in a pile, we paused from our frenzied search. I took the opportunity to get a pot from the shed, filled it with dirt, and planted the white rosebush in it, adding the sign that said “Elizabeth” to the dirt. I would make sure that she got it before she returned home. Jack went to the house and poured us a pitcher of water, and brought out three glasses. It’s supposed to be bad luck to make a toast with water, but we were feeling immune from bad luck at the moment, and toasted our success.
I typically dress casually in the summer, usually chinos and a cotton shirt, but I was very dirty and sweaty after our excavation project. Todd was wearing a very nice suit, with the jacket removed, and his expensive tie loose around his neck. Jack looked at him and laughed. “You’re going to need a new suit, Todd,” he observed correctly, and tossed him one of the baby food jars. “Probably new shoes, too,” he added, tossing him another. He turned to me. “Steve, Dad always told me that I’d never regret working with the most experienced professionals. He advised me to ‘stick with the old pros.’ He always trusted his group of advisers to come up with the best solutions to whatever problems he faced. I see now that the trust was well founded. I can’t thank you enough.” There were tears in his eyes as he handed me two of the jars.
We put off digging up the rest of the roses until the weekend. The jars had remained safe where they were for many long years, and we had no doubt that they would be waiting for us to return on Saturday. As I rode back to the office with Todd, I recalled the conversation that I had with Herm Butterfield in 1968, after he had planted the Contemplation Garden at the Wellness Center. I told Todd the story as we drove. Herman read my appraisal report and noted correctly that it did not include any additional value for the garden. He demanded an explanation.
“Doctor Butterfield,” I told him, “gardens at medical facilities add little or no value to the property. I have data that basically supports that position. Of course, I can’t find any comparable properties that have a garden as extensive as yours. But from my experience, as well as the opinions of more experienced colleagues that I have consulted with, gardens just aren’t worth much. I’ve learned to trust the old pros in these situations.” Sitting in the passenger seat of Todd’s car, I smiled at the thought of just how young I had been at the time, and how sure I was of myself.
Herm just shrugged, acquiescing to my professional opinion. What else could he do? I was the professional in that case, and it was my opinion that carried the weight. Then he cocked his head and gave me a crooked smile. “Mr. Larson, you’re going to be surprised to find out just how much my garden is worth.” OK, now I finally get what he meant. Todd was laughing at my story as I extracted myself from his car.
“See you on Saturday,” he said as I closed the door and watched him drive off. I guess the old pros have some room for a little new blood. I waved goodbye as I stuffed my baby food jars in my pocket, and headed for home.
Note to readers: The Old Pros is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity of the characters to persons alive or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental, and not intended.
