Mollified, Dodson says, “You’ve always been straight with me, too. I hope we’ll continue like that. I’ve got to get over to the court now, so was there anything else?”
I think my backpedaling allows us both to save face. It’s a strange, symbiotic relationship between the press and law enforcement. If the media doesn’t push a little, people accuse us of helping the cops cover up or reporting, “just whatever the cops said.” Push too hard, and law enforcement cuts off the communication.
I’m typing a note to Roberts as Clarice rounds my doorway, already in mid-sentence. At first, Clarice’s stream-of-consciousness conversations threw me but now I’m careful about interrupting. I realize she’s full-bore on the Terry murder as she says “Of course if his daughter hadn’t...”
“Hadn’t what,” I ask, more to slow her down than to get an answer.
I’ve pulled out some of my coolest summer clothes today and Clarice has, too. She’s wearing a scoop-neck cotton top, denim skirt and sandals. The top is coming untucked from the waistband and she’s spilled something, maybe the remains of a latte, on the right side of her skirt, just about where she has to use her car’s shift lever. Tendrils of hair are sweat-pasted around her hairline and her face is glistening.
“Hadn’t invited that scum to move in with her and her dad,” Clarice says. “The cops just arrested him, the scum boyfriend, for Terry James’ murder.”
“Where, when, why,” I ask, my attention smack in the present.
“Funny thing is,” Clarice only pauses to let my questions into her flow of words, “it wasn’t the Monroe police who found him, it was the Highway Patrol. They pulled over a car for erratic driving headed north on I-5, ran a check, found out that the car was a BOLO, stolen in Monroe. The driver gives them a license that doesn’t match his description; the CHP starts searching. They find some of the stuff stolen from James’ house and the driver admits he’s Orison Beach, Jetta James Forth’s boyfriend.”
“Where is he now?”
“The arrest was a couple of hours ago. The CHP called the Monroe Police in on it and Beach is still at the Monroe Police Department, being questioned. My source says he hasn’t confessed yet, but the cops are looking for a judge to sign warrants for hair and blood samples for DNA testing and Beach’s fingerprints are being compared to those found at the scene.”
“But if Beach was living at James’ house, his fingerprints would be all over the place,” I say.
“I know, but I’ll bet there are prints on things and in places where they shouldn’t be. Maybe the murder weapon. I’m sure they found blood at the house and in James’ car. And for all I know right now, James could have hurt Beach in some kind of a struggle. You know the cops won’t let all that info out. The first we’ll hear about it, if at all, is gonna be from the prosecution at Beach’s trial. Still, it feels good to know that they’ve caught him.”
I am quiet, mulling over how much we can print. For sure not Clarice’s suppositions.
“O.K. Clarice, you’ve got page one. Get as much as you can, get Beach’s background. Where did he grow up? How did Jetta meet him? What did he do for a living?” I always run through the obvious stuff, even with a solid reporter like Clarice.
She’s making squiggly marks in her notebook and seems subdued. She nods and pulls herself to her feet slowly. Not Clarice.
“Are you alright?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she says, but her mouth is a grim line. “I guess it’s the heat though; it’s really getting to me. I didn’t sleep very well last night.”
I know how much Clarice makes, and it isn’t much. She lives in an apartment in one of the sketchier areas of town, probably without air conditioning. Both Redding and Fresno get hotter and stay hotter than Monroe but even here the heat leaves houses and bedrooms stuffy and too warm to be comfortable.
Southern California doesn’t heat up like the Valley but it wasn’t too hard for me to get acclimated. Clarice was born and raised near Seattle. She’s now way out of her comfort zone.
“Do you have to go out again? Can’t you do most of this by phone?” Motherhood is always just under my surface.
“I’m going to do as much as I can by phone right now,” she says. “If I can get an hour or so to cool off, I’ll tackle the neighborhood once more when people get home from work, and that should be good.”
I shift gears and call Gwen, the city hall reporter.
“What’s going on with the prezoning or rezoning or whatever is going to happen before the city approves the new church site?” I’m trying to keep this story front and center because there’s a lot of tax money at stake.
Her tone is surprised. “I thought you wanted Don to cover that for the religion beat.”
“I do but I haven’t heard rumblings and a project this size will have NIMBYs up in arms over traffic or habitat preservation or noise or something. Have you heard anything?” The minute any development is mentioned, the Not-in-my-back-yard groups gather their forces, begin petition drives and get themselves on city meeting agendas. This should be bringing them out of the woodwork.
“Well,” Gwen says with a frown, “it’s been quiet lately. You know, two of the city council members are members of that church. Do you think there’s conflict of interest?”
Next to conspiracy theories, nothing stirs community blood like a conflict of interest. Everybody knows that all politicians are on the take.
“Maybe not conflict, but the perception can be there. I’d like you to do a hard look at what is conflict-of-interest. If it blows up at a hearing, I want us to be ready.”
If Gwen is miffed, or thinks she’s being asked to do a co-worker’s job, she doesn’t show it.
Next up, Sandy, a copy editor originally from the Czech Republic who lobbies for more space for world news. My answer is no. I like Sandy, but there aren’t very many people in Monroe who give a rat’s ass about small European countries—or even know where they are.
I start reading stories already filed by the reporters and send them back for rewriting. When I’m finished, I get a water out of the fridge in the breakroom and step outside. It’s edging into evening now and the heat has turned itself down from blast to simmer.
Too hot. I go back in and see Clarice has come in.
“I actually got some stuff.” Her voice is ragged from the heat. “Beach went to school here and worked at some of the packing sheds. He met Jetta at a bar. They went boating and water-skiing with friends, went camping, lots of wholesome stuff at the beginning. Some friends bought their boats and cars by dealing drugs, so our boy Orison thought that might be a nifty way to make money, looked a whole lot easier than working at a day job. Trouble was, he wasn’t very good at it. Most of his friends were already dealing so he didn’t have a very big clientele and what profits there were weren’t covering his debts. This is all background; we can’t run any of it. I really couldn’t find anyone today in his corner. I’m snagging a high school yearbook for a picture of him. You’ll have a medium, maybe 15-inch story if that’s OK.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It isn’t cool and it isn’t dark when Clarice and I come out of the Press.
“What are you doing this evening?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I didn’t have anything planned. I might go to a movie to get cool,” she says. Her voice has the oomph of wilted lettuce
“Why don’t you come on over for a swim and dinner.” I can’t help myself when Mom appears. Clarice is just a few years older than Heather and I’d like it if someone helped her out sometimes.
“Great. I’ll see you in about half an hour?” Clarice’s voice had regained some of its lilt and her body seemed lighter, more buoyant.
Maybe the heat is getting to her. The heat and prospect of going home to sit alone and swelter in an apartment with no air-conditioning would be enough to make a cheerleader cranky.
I’ve lived alone for close to four years now, but I still seem to shop for a houseful so I know I can always f
ind something to fix. No doubt I have issues about the future. I have a friend in Southern California who harbors a fear of ending up as a bag lady and buys pieces of silver—a spoon, a dessert fork—when she’s stressed. I can’t afford silver, so I stockpile groceries.
Maybe I should overcome it. Or maybe not.
I stick stuff on skewers for ka-bobs and light the outside grill. Mac’s barking announces Clarice and she says, “Hello there Mac, how’s my pal?”
I pour us an iced tea and we walk to the edge of the pool.
“I don’t know why, but I always stick my foot in first, I guess I’m too chicken for immediate immersion,” I say standing on the first step.
“Guess that’s one more difference between us, then,” Clarice says and dives into the deep end.
Keeping the house after Brandon left was expensive. Living here eats up most of my income but, in practicality, the house is a solid asset, about the only thing I have that continues to appreciate.
“There was another reason I asked you to dinner tonight, Clarice,” I say when we’ve finished our meal. I waited until full dark before bringing up my forays into Marshalltown and my search for links between the murders. I’m concerned Clarice will feel it’s a slap at her and her abilities.
I fiddle with the spoon in my iced tea glass. “Something just doesn’t feel right. I haven’t come across anything specific, but it’s as though there’s a riptide under the surface. I found an old photo of the Calverts on the verandah of the hotel when Robert announced his first campaign. There was a guy with them, an Army buddy of Robert’s.
“And I met him Saturday night in San Francisco.”
Clarice sits up. “You met him? He’s still alive?”
She smacks herself in the head. “Well, duh. That’s one of my better ones.”
I’m smiling in the dark. “I know, I almost said the same thing to him. But yep. He looks good for his age; money helps that. He owns an art gallery and runs with the high-priced crowd.”
Clarice is quiet for a heartbeat then says, “See, this is just weird. When I came back from Marshalltown the first time I told you there were strange things. Too many coincidences, too many secrets. Do you think it’s the town, or the hotel or the family...?”
“It could be any of those. Well, I don’t think the town because so many new people have moved in. I’m not sure there’d be time for all of them to learn about and hide secrets. The rest?” I shrug.
I take a deep breath, let it out, stand up and walk over to flip the pool lights on. The pool glows turquoise, the light and color shifting as a breeze finally kicks in and runs over the surface of the water.
Part of my unease comes from not having any idea of who or what was hidden. Did the old town know and cover up? Did the Calverts do something? Or is it the hotel itself? Does Jim Dodson know and won’t share all his information with the press?
“I don’t know, I just don’t know,” I say. “Do you remember when the Monroe cops came in just before Christmas and asked for help with finding that missing woman, what was her name?”
“Oh, God yes, her name was Sharon Smithers,” Clarice says. “Her husband reported her missing. The cops brought us a family Christmas portrait to run, hoping somebody had seen her. They found her car in a bank parking lot, but no sign of her.”
“That’s the one. Remember, we all were sure that the husband killed her and got rid of the body before he reported her missing, but the cops were playing it straight as a missing persons case.”
“It was only a few weeks until the cops finally arrested the husband,” Clarice says. “There are times when I think we do know more than the cops. It turned out that the guy’s first wife ended up dead after falling down a flight of stairs, and we uncovered that as well.”
“Yeah, but they have a different burden of proof,” I say.
“I guess we can’t just go to court and say we have a gut feeling,” Clarice laughs. “Well that’s sort of the same feeling I’m getting now. Not that I think there’s a suspect, but that there’s more there than we know. Possibly a lot more even than Dodson knows.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
To: Phil [PEtange]
From: AHobbes
Hi...
I’m going to look into Robert Calvert’ s financial support. He started his career using his war hero status, but he still had to have a lot of big-money backers. Even in the 1960s he had to spend for name recognition....television and radio ads, billboards and all that is steep, way beyond somebody whose parents owned a small hotel in a tiny town.
Could you find out 1) where Nevell’s financial backing came from
2) where was he before he surfaced in San Francisco
3) what was his war record
4) what does he primarily handle
5) how well known is he outside of San Francisco or California
6) has he traveled much
7) what’s his private life (married, kids. gay.....).
I really had a great time....again?
The email to Phil moves to the top of the agenda with the Terry James murder wrapped up. I want as much information on Ben Nevell as Phil could dig up, true. Do I want more from Phil?
I sent the email from home. By the time I set my purse down in my office, I have an answer. And more questions
To: AHobbes
From:Phil [PEtange].
Ben showed up in San Francisco in the late 1950’s. He was from the East Coast; consensus says the New York-New Jersey area, but his prewritten obit says Long Island. Doesn’t have any living relatives listed. Not much on his war record; served in the Army from 1943 to ’45, stationed in Europe. Honorable discharge in late 1945. Nothing between then and his arrival in San Francisco. He seemed to have enough money to begin getting well-known at the fringes of the art crowd. He opened his first gallery in 1963 and was handling limited edition prints, primarily Europeans. Over the next ten years he took on some Op and Pop work, had some Warhol advertising stuff. For the past 25 years, he’s expanded his stable and moved the gallery a couple of times. He moved to Maiden Lane four years ago and seems to be doing well. He still carries a few Picasso prints, some Lechtinstein sports prints, some contemporary West Coast prints like Wayne Theibaud and about once a year does a show for an emerging Bay Area artist, almost all two dimensional work. Over the years I’ve only seen half a dozen sculptures and three or four assemblage pieces; his stock and interests are considered fairly conservative.
One odd thing, he’s always talked about an interest in lost artwork. Not only the Van Gogh that shows up in somebody’s attic (don’t you wish for one of THOSE) but pieces that haven’t been seen for years. Stuff like the Klimt piece that just sold.
I’m good to go again. Just whistle.
The Klimt piece. What’s the Klimt piece?
I close my eyes, and wish my brain could just go buy some plug-in memory.
Ha! Klimt was that Austrian artist, worked around the turn of the 20th Century, used gold in a style that looked like exotic tiles, painted “The Kiss” ....
Oh my God, I finally make the connection. A Klimt piece looted by the Nazis in Vienna had been found. It was returned to the surviving family and just recently sold for the highest price ever paid for any painting.
I log on to Google and a string of hits come up. In 1907, a wealthy Viennese commissioned Gustav Klimt to paint a portrait of his young wife, Adele Bloch-Bauer. She died in 1925. Ferdinand Bloch-Bauer fled to Switzerland in 1938, just ahead of the Nazis, but the Klimt work had already been looted.
In 1998, Austria enacted a law forcing museums possessing art looted by the Nazis to return them to the heirs or families of the original owners. Maria Altmann, a Bloch-Bauer heir living in Los Angeles, spent seven years fighting to regain possession of the portrait. She won and earlier this year sold the piece to Ronald S. Lauder for $135 million—the highest price ever paid for a painting. Lauder planned to display it at his New York gallery.
Is Phil intimating Nevell t
rades in works of art stolen during World War II? Nevell certainly can’t have had anything to do with the Klimt piece; his gallery and life style don’t reflect that kind of money or acquisitions. Or is Phil pulling my leg with his comment about the Klimt. Does he mean Nevell is trying to get publicity by discovering previously unknown or lost art works? Maybe Phil watches too much “Antiques Roadshow.”
Since I have Google open, I type in “looted Nazi art” and get more than 95,000 hits.
Good God, I can spend all day on this.
I pick up on one hit from “Art Talk” about an Egon Schiele painting that also sold this year for $21.7 million at a Christie’s auction in London. The Art Talk story says this is “almost double the estimated price for the painting, which was feared destroyed after being seized by the Nazis during World War Two. According to Christie's, the painting was confiscated by the Germans in Strasbourg and was auctioned in 1942. The picture, considered to be one of Schiele's masterpieces, then disappeared. The painting was among a collection of about 50 paintings owned by Austrian art collector Karl Gruenwald that was confiscated by the Nazis in France and sold at auction in 1942. Gruenwald unsuccessfully tried to find his collection after the war. He died in 1964 and attempts by one of his sons to locate the paintings were also unsuccessful. But in late 2005, Christie's was contacted by a person who had acquired a painting along with an apartment he had bought in France a few years earlier. The price tag makes it the second most expensive Schiele painting after the landscape ‘Krumauer Landschaft’ which sold for $23.2 million in 2003.”
I wonder why 2006 is such a hot year for finding and selling stolen Nazi paintings. It’s fascinating history, but isn’t getting me answers to Robert Calvert’s financial background. I’d like to spend some time on this, but I need to get work sorted out first.
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