by Janet Dawson
Not unless she’d fractured her own skull, I thought.
Sylvia Jasper was a bit player, small fry, insignificant, her life and death mostly unremarked. End of story, I thought as I closed the file. Jerusha seemed to think so. “I guess this puts an end to it,” she’d written on the newspaper clipping she sent to Ted Howard, her new husband. But there was a hint of unfinished business in the air. Who had killed Sylvia, and why?
I had several hours before I had to catch my flight back to Oakland, so I drove back to the Hollywood Division. Nacio Lopez was back, and he let me take another look at the Tarrant file. Then I reconnected with Liam Cleary and offered to buy him another cup of coffee. He insisted it was his turn. We left the division and walked to the coffee shop I’d visited earlier. I grabbed a corner table and Liam joined me a few minutes later, bearing our java jolts, a couple of plastic forks, and a plate containing a brownie and a lemon bar.
“Sugar and caffeine,” I said. “You’re a man after my own heart.”
“I was feeling a bit peckish.” He used a fork to split both the pastries and went for the brownie.
I took a bite of the lemon bar and my mouth puckered as sweet warred with tart. “What do you know about a guy named Charles Makellar? Otherwise known as Chaz. Tall, thin, dark hair, in his late forties. He’s got a criminal record, most of it obtained down here.”
“Chaz?” Liam laughed. “Don’t tell me he’s moved north.”
“He has. He and his wife own a movie memorabilia business in Alameda, specializing in stuff from Hollywood’s Golden Age. The classics, thirties up through the sixties, I’d say. They have a shop located right across the street from the Alameda Theatre, which has been restored to all its Art Deco glory. I take it you do know him. What’s the scoop?”
“Well, well.” Liam took a sip of his mocha. “That’s quite a change for an Angeleno like Chaz. I wonder what prompted that move. He got married a few years back and the story was, he’d cleaned up his act. But I’m not sure whether to believe that. You know me, I’m a suspicious old cop.”
“Middle-aged, surely,” I said.
“Thank you, darlin’. I’ve still got most of my hair, even if it’s turning gray. Anyway, I figure the leopard doesn’t change his spots.”
I sampled the brownie. It was so rich it made my teeth hurt. “Tell me about Chaz and what kind of spots he has on his record.”
Liam took a bite of the lemon bar. “Whew, that’ll make you pucker up. Well, now, I first ran into Chaz Makellar when I was working at the Wilshire Division, I guess it’s about twenty years or more. He’s a small-time hustler, always had some sort of a scam going. First time I encountered him he already had a record for passing bad paper.”
“Yes, I saw that in the background check I did on him. He got probation. Then later he was arrested for petty theft and spent some time in jail.”
“And in between the two, I arrested him,” Liam said. “Also for theft. But the charges were dropped. Problems with the chain of evidence. Not my doing, I might add. I kept an eye on Chaz over the years. He got more sophisticated with his scams, good at avoiding the law. He works in some kind of legitimate business and then bends the rules until they almost break. Once a hustler, always a hustler, as far as I’m concerned.”
“He’s been sued a couple of times,” I said. “The first was over some plans for a restaurant, the second time over some alleged fraud with some movie memorabilia. Both lawsuits settled out of court.”
“So what prompts your interest in Chaz Makellar?” Liam asked.
“It’s not so much him as it is an old man who works in the shop. His name is Henry Calhoun.”
Liam nodded as he polished off the rest of the brownie. “Movie memorabilia, and files on a couple of unsolved murders of actors from way back in ’forty-two. I’m all ears, darlin’. What gives?”
I told Liam about my encounter with Henry Calhoun and how he linked my grandmother to the murder of Ralph Tarrant. “I couldn’t resist investigating.”
“Can’t say as I blame you,” Liam said. “It’s piqued my interest, too.”
“I’ve been itching to look at that Tarrant file ever since. And the file on Sylvia, ever since I found that clipping about her murder. When my client wanted me to come to LA on business, there was my opportunity. I confirmed that my grandmother was interviewed by the police, but they certainly didn’t consider her a suspect.”
Liam chuckled. “Now my Granny Cleary was a sweet old soul, wouldn’t hurt a fly. But my Granny Hallinan, I could see her killing someone. She was a tough old broad, for sure.”
“I’m not sure how Chaz Makellar figures into this,” I said. “But something about the shop and the people feels a bit off. Particularly since I did a background check on Henry Calhoun and didn’t find much of a background. That’s unusual for someone who must be eighty-plus. I overheard Raina Makellar talking and she said Henry used to work for her father, whose name was Wallace Simms, who had a shop on Melrose Avenue, near La Brea. Evidently one thing that prompted the move from Los Angeles to the Bay Area was that the rent on the shop went up after Simms died. Henry scouted and bought merchandise for the Melrose shop, and he’s doing the same thing for the Makellars, in addition to working behind the counter. He also lives in an apartment at the house they’re renting in Alameda.”
“Melrose has changed a lot over the years,” Liam said. “It definitely skews to a younger crowd, and I’m not sure any of them would be interested in movie memorabilia, let alone anything older than they are.”
“I’m just curious as to how Henry Calhoun, whoever he is, knew my grandmother had been interviewed by the police in connection with Ralph Tarrant’s murder.”
“Good question,” Liam said. “Maybe he has firsthand knowledge.”
“That’s my theory. But right now I don’t have anything to back it up.”
Liam finished his coffee and looked at his watch. “I’ve got to get back to work. Tell you what, I’ll nose around a little bit, see if Henry Calhoun has ever come onto the LAPD radar. He might not have a police record, but someone may remember him.”
I thanked Liam and we parted outside the coffee shop. I had a couple hours before catching my flight back to Oakland, so I drove over to Melrose Avenue near the intersection of La Brea. Liam was right about the much-younger patrons of the shops and restaurants. I located the former site of Wallace Simms’s movie memorabilia shop and starting asking questions. I didn’t find anyone who remembered the shop, let alone Henry Calhoun or the Makellars. I was just about ready to leave for the airport when a shop on a side street caught my eye. It was a vintage clothing store with a window display of cocktail dresses from the forties and fifties. I went inside, past a twenty-something woman who was trying on a jacket, and saw on the back wall a large photo of Gloria Swanson as Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard. A display case full of costume jewelry served as a cash register counter, staffed by a middle-aged woman. I approached and showed her the photograph of Henry Calhoun.
She nodded. “Yeah, I know who he is. Henry something-or-other. He worked at that poster shop on Melrose. It’s gone now. The owner died, I think, and his daughter and her husband closed it.”
“His last name is Calhoun,” I said. “What do you know about him?”
She ruminated for a moment. Then we were interrupted by the younger woman who had been trying on the jacket. Now she wanted to examine a bangle bracelet inside the display case. While I waited, I picked up the proprietor’s business card and learned her name was Maria Cortez. Finally the customer left, after purchasing both the jacket and the bracelet.
“Henry was a strange little guy,” Maria Cortez said, taking up our conversation where we’d left off. “I think he was off the grid, you know, paid under the table. Knew his Hollywood stuff, though. I’m always on the lookout for vintage clothes from the forties and fifties. Henry was good at finding things, steering me toward them. He had some sort of connection with the family, the man and his daughter w
ho ran that movie shop. Wallace was the father’s name. And her name was Raina. I always thought that was a pretty name. Let’s see. Henry lived somewhere in Hollywood, in an apartment building they owned. No, wait a minute. It was the aunt that owned the apartment building. What was her name? Dorothy? Dolly?” She shrugged as two more customers entered the store. “Sorry, I’m not clear on the name, just that it started with a D.”
I thanked her and consulted my watch. Past time for me to get on the road to LAX. I had to turn in my rental car and catch a plane.
Chapter 14
On Wednesday I unlocked my office and tossed that morning’s edition of the San Francisco Chronicle onto my desk. I made a pot of coffee, planning to glance at the front section while I drank my first cup, but I got a call from the attorney who’d sent me to LA to interview that witness. She was eager to get my notes so I sat down and wrote the report right away. After I e-mailed the document to her, I began digging for information about Jerusha’s roommates in that Hollywood bungalow long ago. I knew from the letter and photo I’d found at Caro’s house that Anne Hayes had married a man named Lemuel Sanderson. In 1947 they had been in Boulder, Colorado, where Sanderson attended the University of Colorado on the GI Bill, working on his master’s degree in geology. I discovered that Sanderson eventually got his doctorate, specializing in sedimentology, and wound up on the CU faculty, at one time serving as chair of the Department of Geological Sciences.
I did a search on Anne Hayes Sanderson and discovered that she, too, taught at the University of Colorado. She had a doctorate in history, focusing on women and the West. In addition to teaching, she’d written books and won awards. She sounded like a thoroughly interesting woman. Unfortunately she had died three years earlier. I would have liked to talk with her.
Even so, I certainly wanted to talk with one of her children. I made some calls to the history department, where Anne had taught for so many years, but I came up empty. Either the people I talked with didn’t have the information I sought, or because of privacy concerns they didn’t want to part with it. Initially I had the same result in CU’s Department of Geological Sciences, where Lemuel had taught.
Then the woman on the other end of the phone said, “Wait, I just remembered something. A woman named Campbell who works here on campus, at the Center of the American West. It seems to me she has some connection with Dr. Sanderson.” In the background I heard another phone ringing. “I have to get that. You can find the center’s phone number on the CU website.”
I pointed my Internet browser to the Center of the American West, a research unit at the University of Colorado, devoted to the West, both past and present, with a publications program and an extensive roster of events and conferences. On the web page listing the center’s staff I found a program administrator named Elisa Campbell. I reached for the phone. My call went into her voice mail. I left a message with both my office and cell phone numbers, explaining that I was seeking contact information for the family of Dr. Lemuel Sanderson and that I’d been referred by the geology department.
I turned my attention to finding Pearl Bishop, who was evidently still alive. The Internet Movie Database showed that Pearl had worked in movies and TV as late as the mid-eighties. Her last three credited performances were on the TV series Cagney and Lacey, Hill Street Blues, and Remington Steele. Unfortunately the database didn’t include any biographical information that would help me trace her.
The Screen Actors Guild, I told myself. I should have thought of that the day before, when I was in Los Angeles. But the guild had a website, and they might know where Pearl Bishop was. I wasn’t sure how it worked, but I knew that there were payments called residuals, and actors got them.
Through more detailed research I learned that residuals were paid to creators of performance art, or performers of the work, for subsequent showings or screenings of the work. So writers and actors got residuals when a movie was shown on television, or when a television program was rerun. Actors got residual payments as a result of a long fight by the Screen Actors Guild, which resulted in a 1960 agreement with movie studios that paid residuals for movies produced after that date. Initially television residuals were limited to six rebroadcasts, but in the mid-seventies the agreement was altered so that residuals were paid on an unlimited basis for programs produced after that date. The TV production company retained the lion’s share, eighty percent, while the remaining twenty percent was divided among performers and crew. Now, with the advent of DVDs and streaming video, a new battle over residuals was looming.
But that wasn’t my concern. All I knew was that Pearl Bishop had worked in TV during this period and was eligible for residual payments. If Pearl was getting residuals, those checks had to be mailed to a current address.
I explored the Screen Actors Guild website and finally found an 800 number for their “Actors to Locate” hotline. “Pearl Bishop,” I said. “She’s a bit player and extra, worked steadily from the late thirties through the mid-eighties.”
“I can look her up and give you the name of her agent,” said the woman on the other end of the line.
“Do bit players typically have agents?”
“Some do,” she said. “And if she doesn’t, it’s up to her to keep her contact information current. Let’s see...Bishop, Pearl. Yes, she has an agent.”
She gave me the name of the agency that represented Pearl. I thanked her and ended the call. I looked up the agency online and reached for the phone. That’s where I ran into a snag. The agent had died. I explained the situation to an administrative assistant. “I’m trying to locate someone he represented. Her name is Pearl Bishop. I believe she’s retired, since the mid-eighties.”
“I’ll have to do some research on this, and get back to you,” she said. I gave her my contact information and made a note to call her back in a few days.
I got up to pour myself another cup of coffee. My cell phone rang and I looked at the display. The caller was in the 303 area code. That was Colorado. I answered the call.
“Hi,” said the voice on the other end. “I’m Elisa Campbell at the Center of the American West. You left me a message, asking about Dr. Lemuel Sanderson.”
“Yes, I did. Thanks for getting back to me. I know that both Lemuel and Anne Sanderson are dead. But I’m trying to get in touch with their children. A woman I talked with in the geology department seemed to think you might be able to help me.”
“What is this about?” Elisa Campbell asked, sounding intrigued.
“My grandmother,” I told her. “Her name was Jerusha Layne. She and Anne Hayes Sanderson were roommates back in Hollywood in the early forties. I hope you can help me.”
Elisa Campbell laughed. “Okay. You’ve got the right person. Anne was my grandma. You want to talk with my mother. She lives in Denver. But she and Dad are away right now. I’ll call her on her cell phone and tell her what you’ve told me. I’m sure she’ll get in touch with you. Will that work?”
“That works very well indeed. Thank you.” I gave her my numbers, wondering how long it would be before I heard from Anne’s daughter.
By now it was past noon and my stomach was growling. I left my office and walked to a nearby deli, ordering my usual pastrami on rye. I carried lunch back to the office and ate at my desk, reading the front section of the newspaper. I finished my sandwich and balled up the paper it had been wrapped in, tossing it into the wastebasket. Then I picked up the local news section and unfolded it. A headline just below the fold read NO LEADS IN HEALDSBURG SLAYING. With growing disbelief I read the article. Mike Strickland had been found murdered at his home on Monday, two days earlier—just two days after the opening of the gallery show displaying his Hitchcock memorabilia.
Damn, I thought, remembering the tall, amiable man with white hair, and how much I’d enjoyed talking with him Saturday evening.
There were few details in the Chronicle, so I went online to the Santa Rosa Press Democrat website and learned that Strickland had been shot
twice in the chest. His body was discovered by his daughter, Victoria Ambrose, who lived in Santa Rosa. She’d been unable to contact him on either his home or cell phones. Concerned, she drove up to Healdsburg after work that Monday evening to check on her father at his home, located off Dry Creek Road, northwest of town. She found him dead in the foyer, lying in a pool of blood.
What had happened? I wondered. Was this a robbery gone sour? According to the article, Strickland’s house was located outside the Healdsburg city limits, so the Sonoma County Sheriff’s Department was investigating Strickland’s murder. I had no contacts in that department. But an old friend of mine, Joe Kelso, was the police chief in Cloverdale, a town at the northern edge of Sonoma County. He could steer me in the right direction.
Joe was in his office. We spent a few minutes chatting about our respective lives, then I came to the point. “Hey, what do you know about a murder in Healdsburg on Monday? The victim’s name was Michael Strickland, found dead at his home on Dry Creek Road. He’d been shot.”
“Yeah, I heard about that,” Joe said. “Two slugs in the chest, at close range. One of them went right to the heart. It’s a county case. What’s your angle? You got information?”
“Not sure at this point,” I told him. “Possible connection to something I’m working on. Who’s the investigating officer?”
“Detective Sergeant Marty Toland, Violent Crimes Investigations Unit at the Sonoma County Sheriff’s Department. Mention my name.”
“Thanks, I owe you one.”
“Hey, next time you’re in Cloverdale, I’ll collect. Come on up. Brenda and I would love to see you.”
I looked up the address and phone number for Sergeant Marty Toland. She was in her office and she wasn’t very forthcoming when I identified myself as a private investigator. She warmed up a little when I told her Joe Kelso and I went way back. I found out the coroner estimated Mike Strickland had been killed four or five hours before his daughter found his body, which put the time of death in the early afternoon. At this point, Sergeant Toland didn’t have any leads, and I assured her that if I turned up anything, I would be in touch.