One afternoon in August 1984, a young fellow hesitantly stepped into Clive’s warehouse. Keith Lowden, a recent arrival from Ohio, was working as a fleet mechanic for a tree service company located in an industrial park adjacent to the warehouse. “These amazing cars were always coming in and out of that ordinary looking building,” Lowden says. “My curiosity finally got the best of me, and I had to see what was going on in there.”

Clive’s collection had expanded to thirty-five vehicles and Lowden, who owned several collector cars of his own, was soon spending his lunch hours working with Esbenson in the warehouse. Two years later, Esbenson suggested Lowden quit his job and work full-time for him. “I had to think about it,” Lowden says. “But in the end, the beauty of the collection won out.”

On the evening of July 8, 1987, Clive and Barbara were watching television when they received a phone call. “It was Moyne Esbenson,” Clive remembers. “All she said was, ‘Bob is dead.’” Clive found out later that Esbenson had complained earlier in the day of not feeling well and had suffered a heart attack. Esbenson’s death at fifty-four was a devastating blow for Clive. “Bob was special. We were extremely close, and I’ve never met anybody like him, before or since.” Clive delivered the eulogy at Esbenson’s memorial service, an obligation he describes as, “the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”

The day after Esbenson died, Lowden drove to the warehouse. “I sat down in a chair in the middle of the shop,” he says. “I was really torn up. Clive and Bob had a close relationship, but I didn’t know Clive that well. I was just the guy who worked on the cars and figured I’d be looking for a new job.”

An hour later, Lowden was still sitting in the chair when the door opened. Clive walked in, grabbed a chair and sat down next to Lowden. “We talked for a while about Bob,” Lowden says. “The auctions, the jokes, the cars, everything. Then Clive told me I was the guy he wanted to oversee the collection. He knew I was scared to death, but Clive convinced me I could do it. The way I look at it, the day Bob died, one chapter ended, and another began. I truly believe discovering Clive was my destiny.”

Now attending the auctions with Clive, Lowden would often take along his wife, Coleen. “I like cars,” Coleen says, “but nothing like Keith or Clive. They have always had their relationship, but Barbara was my special friend. Keith and I would stay in their home after they moved to Phoenix and she was so gracious - a great hostess and a fabulous cook. When we got bored at the auctions, the two of us would check out the vendor booths. Barbara would always offer to buy me things, but I always refused because I didn’t want to ruin our friendship.”

Dirk was at the Kruse auction when his father bought his first Duesenberg - a 1929 convertible sedan, with a winning bid of $472,000. Duesenberg Automobile & Motors Company’s sales had dried up during the Depression, and production had ceased in 1937. Ranking among the world’s most desired collectible cars, close to 600 of the approximately 1,200 Duesenbergs originally manufactured still exist. The phrase “It’s a duesy” is still used to describe something important.

A master storyteller is naturally drawn to cars with a colorful history. “I don’t usually look for cars in the classifieds,” Clive says. “But one Sunday I came across an ad in the Denver Post for a 1948 Packard Custom convertible, a car I always liked. Although the guy on the phone said it hadn’t run for twelve years, I decided the car was worth looking at. It was snowing, but I convinced Keith and his brother, Ron, to pick me up. They brought along a gallon of gas, several cans of starting fluid and a big battery. We were surprised to find the Packard in such great shape after sitting for twelve years, managed to get the car started and took it for a test drive.”

When Clive questioned the car’s owner how the vehicle ended up in his garage, he explained the Packard belonged to his deceased father who purchased the car in 1948, at a Denver dealership. He wanted a black car, but the dealership only had a yellow one in stock. As he was walking out the door, a salesman stopped him and led the way to the basement. There, covered by a large tarp, was a black 1948 Packard Custom convertible. When the salesman explained the car belonged to a notorious Denver prostitute who, unfortunately, was murdered in the car’s back seat, the customer said he didn’t care and drove the car home. “After hearing that story,” Clive recalls, “I almost pulled a muscle reaching for my check book.”