by Janet Dawson
“Your clothes will be covered,” she said, nibbling on her cookie.
“It’s just cat hair. It’ll brush off.” I sipped my tea. “So tell me about Mrs. Cook.”
She stroked the calico cat. “We were good friends. She was two years younger than me. I’m eighty-one. Both widows. My husband passed on six years ago and hers had been gone ten years. He was a lot older than she was. Anyway, she was getting on, but she wasn’t doddery, if you know what I mean. Very independent, like me. We did lots of things together, playing Scrabble, going for walks, driving over to the library. She was a big mystery fan, too. We’d go to the Cinnabar Theater here in Petaluma, if they were showing something interesting. We both loved old movies. We’d have a DVD night, watching movies on my big screen, with a big bowl of buttered popcorn.”
“What kind of movies did Mrs. Cook like?” I asked.
Mrs. Espinosa smiled. “Anything with Joan Crawford. Roberta liked film noir and those women’s pictures from the forties. Barbara Stanwyck, Bette Davis, and Greer Garson: three-hankie pictures, you know. Now me, I love Westerns. Give me Randolph Scott, Joel McCrea, and Audie Murphy. So we’d mix and match. Oh, and we’d watch a lot of those BBC miniseries. Upstairs, Downstairs and Poldark, that sort of thing.”
“Sounds like fun.”
Mrs. Espinosa sighed. “Yes, I miss it. I still watch the movies and pop the corn, but it’s not the same without her.”
“Tell me what happened the day you found her body.”
“It was cold and rainy. A big storm blew in early that morning and it rained like the dickens, coming down hard and sideways. It was a good day to stay indoors. I built a fire and sat here drinking tea and reading.” Mrs. Espinosa indicated the fireplace between us. A wicker basket full of books sat at the base of her recliner, all mysteries, I saw, recognizing titles and authors’ names.
“It rained off and on all afternoon, sometimes hard, then there’d be a lull. I had some stew cooking in the Crock-Pot, so I called Roberta about one o’clock, to invite her over for an early dinner and a movie. She said she’d come over at four. The mail comes around three, maybe a little before. I saw the carrier go by but I didn’t notice the time. I went out to check my own mailbox. I didn’t see Roberta then, so she must have been inside. It started raining again, not as hard as before, just sprinkling off and on. Four o’clock came and went and Roberta didn’t come over. I called and she didn’t answer the phone. So I went outside. There she was at the bottom of the porch steps.”
Mrs. Espinosa compressed her lips into a tight line. “There was blood on her head. I had my cell phone with me. I always carry it in my pocket. So I called nine-one-one. The paramedics came, and the police. I told that detective it wasn’t an accident, but nobody listens to little old ladies.”
“What was the detective’s name?”
She screwed up her face, trying to remember. “Harper, Hooper, something like that. He gave me his card but I don’t know if I kept it. I’ll look for it, and let you know.”
“Thanks, that would be helpful. My cell phone number is on my business card. What makes you so sure Mrs. Cook’s death wasn’t an accident?”
“She was careful. You saw the fall-prevention stuff on her porch and mine. Grab bars and non-skid, inside the house, and out. We had that done several years ago, at the same time, both of us doing whatever we could to prevent falls. She wanted to stay in her own home as long as she could, just like me.”
“Accidents do happen.”
“Not to Roberta,” she said stubbornly. “The steps weren’t that wet. The porch overhangs them. She always held on with both hands whenever she went up and down those steps. I just don’t see how she could fall and hit her head. I think somebody pushed her down the steps, or hit her on the head and tried to make it look like an accident. I told the policeman that, but he said I’d been reading too many mysteries.”
“I understand Mrs. Cook collected movie memorabilia.”
“Yes, and it was valuable, too,” Mrs. Espinosa said. “She had a lot of things from Joan Crawford movies, including a poster from Mildred Pierce, in really good condition. And Sudden Fear, that movie from the fifties. The most valuable piece, I think, was the poster from a movie called Rain, because that one dated back to nineteen thirty-two, before the Hollywood Code. Roberta called that poster a three-sheet. It was pretty big. Anyway, she said the poster was in mint condition because it had never been folded and didn’t have any tears. She also said it was linen-backed, whatever that means. Anyways, she told me that poster from Rain was worth ten thousand dollars.”
“I imagine she had dealers contacting her all the time.”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Espinosa said. “Dealers were always after her to sell her stuff, either pieces or the whole collection. She’d turned down several offers over the years. I told her she really should make an inventory, get an estimate on the value from a reputable dealer, and put the inventory in her safe deposit box. She said that was a really good idea and she would do that. But I don’t think she had when she died.”
“So what happened to her collection?”
Mrs. Espinosa frowned. “Her son sold it to the first person that made him an offer. I’ll bet he got taken. It serves him right. He’s so greedy. All he could think about was the house. He couldn’t wait to clear out her things and put that house on the market.”
“Do you have any idea who bought Mrs. Cook’s collection?” I asked.
“I do, because I saw them loading it into a rental truck,” Mrs. Espinosa said. “It was the dealer who visited her earlier, back in February. She asked me to be at her house for the appointment, just to be on the safe side. She didn’t want to be alone with the pair of them. In fact, she told me she didn’t want to sell, but this dealer was very persistent. He kept calling her, asking to see the collection. She finally agreed to let him look. He made an offer, but she turned him down. That was the end of it, I thought.”
“There were two men?”
“Yes. A younger man, maybe in his forties or fifties. But the other fellow, why, he was as old as me. Had to be eighty if he was a day. I saw them twice, when they looked at the collection, and later, when they took it away. And in between, before Roberta died, I saw the old man. Where was it? I know. It was in Copperfield’s bookstore downtown. Roberta had ordered a book. I was with her the day she picked it up.”
I asked Mrs. Espinosa to describe the men and the vehicle they’d been driving the day they made an offer to Mrs. Cook. The younger man was tall and skinny with dark hair, she said. The older man was short and slight of build. Her response left me no doubt that the dealer who’d visited Mrs. Cook was Chaz Makellar, accompanied by his elderly employee, Henry Calhoun. I had printed several photos of Chaz and Raina Makellar and Henry Calhoun, the pictures I’d taken with my cell phone camera that day in Alameda when they’d unloaded merchandise from the SUV. Now I took those from my purse and handed them to Mrs. Espinosa. “Would you please take a look at these photos and see if you recognize any of these three people?”
She examined the snapshots closely and then nodded. “Yes, that’s them. The men, anyway. I’ve never seen that woman before. But the men, definitely. I particularly remember the old man, since I saw him in the bookstore.” She returned the photos to me.
“When did the dealers come look at the collection?” I asked.
“Must have been early February. Yes, it was. Before President’s Day weekend.”
“And when did you see the older man in the bookstore?”
She had to think about that for a moment. “You know, I think it was a week before she died. Late February or early March. But I’m not completely sure.”
Before I left Mrs. Espinosa’s house, I asked if she had contact information for Mrs. Cook’s son. She did. He lived in San Mateo, on the Peninsula south of San Francisco. I wrote down his name and phone numbers. I wanted to talk with him as well as the detective who’d investigated Mrs. Cook’s death, but both interviews would h
ave to wait. I had a funeral to attend. I thanked Mrs. Espinosa for her hospitality, brushed orange cat hair from my gray slacks, and left Petaluma, driving north towards Healdsburg.
Chapter 17
Mike Strickland’s funeral was at two o’clock Saturday afternoon, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Healdsburg. It was a traditional white church with a steeple and it was very crowded when I arrived at one-thirty. The crowd skewed older, given Strickland’s age, but I saw a smattering of middle-aged and younger people. A closed casket bedecked with flowers stood below the pulpit, with photographs of Strickland on a nearby table. I walked up the aisle and looked at the photos, one of them showing a very young Strickland in a Navy uniform. Given his age, that must have been the early fifties, the era of the Korean War.
The first few pews, on my right, were reserved for the family. I turned and walked back down the aisle, past groups of people who knew each other, talking quietly among themselves. I took a place on the aisle of a pew near the back, and studied the program for the service, as well as the obituary I’d found online. I’d met Strickland’s daughter, Victoria—he’d called her Tory—Ambrose the night of the gallery opening. He also had a son and daughter-in-law, Dennis and Melinda Strickland, who lived in Carson City, Nevada. The surviving family members included six grandchildren and assorted nieces, nephews, and cousins.
A woman began playing Bach on the church organ. Conversations ceased as people sat down, waiting for the service to begin. Then the family filed into the church sanctuary. Tory Ambrose, somber in a black dress, was the first to walk up the aisle. As she neared the pew where I sat, she glanced to her left and saw me. She frowned, as though trying to place me. Then she continued up the aisle, followed by a teenaged girl, about fifteen, who dabbed at her tear-stained face with a tissue, and two younger boys, about ten and twelve, looking subdued in their suits. Then came the man I assumed was Dennis Strickland, accompanied by his wife and three children, two girls and a boy. Behind them was an assortment of relatives. Once the family was seated, the organist stopped playing and a minister in vestments stepped up to the pulpit.
After the service was over, I waited near the entrance to the church sanctuary, watching Mike Strickland’s family as they stood in the building’s foyer, accepting the condolences of the people who filed by. I needed to talk with Victoria Ambrose but now didn’t seem like the time. I was pondering how best to approach her when she saved me the trouble. She walked up to me, a no-nonsense look on her face.
“I recognize you,” she said. “You were at the gallery opening last Saturday, chatting with Dad about your grandmother, the bit player.”
I had a feeling she didn’t miss much. “Yes, I was.”
Her voice turned icy. “You didn’t know my father. You just met him that night, didn’t you? Why did you come to his funeral?”
“To pay my respects. I really enjoyed talking with him at the gallery opening. But there’s another reason.” I took a business card from my purse and handed it to her.
She frowned as she looked it over. “A private investigator?”
“I don’t normally come to funerals and hand out business cards,” I said. “However, I wonder about the circumstances of his death. A random murder doesn’t fit. There must be a connection.”
“With what? One of your cases? Why did you come to the gallery opening? To meet my father?”
“Yes. Your father had a large collection of movie memorabilia. And a buyer approached him recently.”
“He was always being approached by buyers,” she said with a wave of her hand.
“This was a specific buyer, the week before the gallery opening.”
“How do you know about this?”
“I overheard a conversation.”
“Someone mentioned Dad’s name?”
“No. The conversation concerned a man in Sonoma County who collected movie memorabilia and had some valuable Hitchcock items. When I saw the article in the Press Democrat about the gallery opening and the Hitchcock memorabilia, I figured it must be the same man. So I decided to check it out.”
“And you met Dad and talked with him. That story about your grandmother being a bit player in Hollywood, is that phony?”
“No, it’s true. That’s what led to my own interest in movie memorabilia. Just like your father became interested in collecting because his sister was a bit player.”
She frowned again but this time it was different. She was no longer annoyed with me, and my intrusion into a time of grief. She was putting the pieces together. “The collection? Or someone wanting to get their hands on the collection? Does this have something to do with my father’s murder?”
“I’m not sure. There are threads but I’m not certain where they lead right now.” One thread was Strickland and the other, I was sure, was Roberta Cook, the collector in Petaluma. “Right now I’m just operating on my gut, which tells me that your father’s murder and another death are related.”
“Is your gut usually accurate?”
“Frequently. I’ve been in this business for years and I have a good track record.”
“Fine.” Tory Ambrose tucked my business card into her pocket. “My gut tells me I want to hire you. We have to talk. But it can’t be today. I have all these relatives here for the funeral. Even my ex-husband showed up. He always did like Dad.” She sighed as her brother beckoned to her. “Anyway, they’re all gathering at my house. I can’t leave without getting a lot of questions. You know how it is when people die: Sit around, drink coffee, and eat. People bring food. I’ve got enough food to feed an army.”
I nodded. “Yes, I know how it is. Is tomorrow a possibility?”
“My brother and his family are staying with me, and they’re heading back to Carson City tomorrow morning. So late morning, let’s say eleven o’clock. I’ll meet you in Railroad Square in Santa Rosa, at Flying Goat Coffee.”
“I know where it is. I’ll see you there. My cell phone number is on my card, if you need to get in touch with me.”
I left the church. The day before, I had called Sergeant Marty Toland, the Sonoma County sheriff’s detective who was investigating the Strickland murder. She told me she’d be at the funeral and we agreed to meet after the service. Now I looked around and spotted a woman who fit the description Toland had given me on the phone. I walked over and introduced myself.
“What’s your connection with all of this?” she asked. “Please tell me you’re not trolling for clients.”
“I’m not, although I will disclose that Tory Ambrose has expressed an interest in hiring me. She and I will be having coffee tomorrow morning.”
“Just so you share information,” she said. “I checked you out, and Joe Kelso vouches for you.”
“If I find out anything that will help you clear this case, I’ll be on the phone. As I told you yesterday, I’m curious about a movie memorabilia dealer named Charles Makellar. I believe he visited Mike Strickland the week before Strickland was killed, trying to purchase items from the Hitchcock collection. This morning I found out Makellar visited an elderly woman in Petaluma. She also collected movie memorabilia, and Makellar tried to buy her collection. Then she died.” I outlined what I’d learned from my talk with Sadie Espinosa.
“That’s a stretch,” Toland said after I’d given her what details I had. “But if you can connect the dots and give me some evidence I can use, I’ll take it.”
We parted, and I walked back to my car. I had more than twenty hours until my appointment with Tory Ambrose. I’d made arrangements to spend the night in Graton, with Aunt Dulcie and Cousin Pat.
As soon as I arrived I changed from my gray slacks into something more comfortable, and sat on the floor in Dulcie’s room, with boxes of letters around me. Up until now the correspondence I’d read had been in chronological order, but this latest batch was mixed up, with letters from 1942 stuck in with those from 1941. I sorted them and then began reading letters postmarked in the fall of 1941. I hadn’t found out anyt
hing more about Sylvia Jasper or Ralph Tarrant. But I did get a sense for the ups and downs of Jerusha’s relationship with Ted Howard. They dated steadily during the summer and fall of 1941, sharing a love for long walks and Glenn Miller’s music. Ted was sure Jerusha was the woman he loved and he wanted to get married. In fact, Ted had given her a sort of pre-engagement, I’m-serious-about-you present, a heart-shaped locket, gold set with a big amethyst. On the back it was engraved with their initials. I knew it well. That particular item was in my jewelry box at home, with pictures of Grandma and Grandpa inside. My grandmother had given it to me before she died.
But the road to marriage was strewn with obstacles, and one of them was big, labeled “Jerusha’s career.” She wasn’t ready to give up on Hollywood, as so many others had before her. She was sure, even after four years of bit parts, that the next job would be that bigger part she hoped for, the role that would get her noticed and elevate her to the ranks of featured players.
After all, Jerusha argued in a letter to Dulcie, look at Susan Hayward, who had also arrived in Hollywood in 1937. She played bit parts, too. And now she was featured as the second lead in Reap the Wild Wind, with John Wayne and Paulette Goddard.
Between the lines she wrote, I sensed Jerusha’s soul-searching. She had done so well in Babes on Broadway, in that scene with Mickey Rooney at the drugstore, and singing and dancing in the elaborate “Hoe-Down” number, hoping to come to the attention of director Busby Berkeley.
But... There’s always a but. And Jerusha was asking herself questions. If her career was progressing, wouldn’t she be getting those second-lead parts now? But no, she was back to bits, just one line of dialogue in a scene with Rosalind Russell, in a movie called Design for Scandal.
I understood Jerusha’s aspirations, I thought, leafing through the pages of the letters. We all need our dreams. Many people who wind up successful must pursue those dreams despite naysayers and doubts. How many women have given up what they wanted to do to get married? But I also understood the feelings of urgency Ted felt. Their letters to one another mentioned the war in Europe and the darkening mood of the country that autumn.