by Janet Dawson
A widescreen TV hung on the den wall, above a stand holding audio-visual equipment. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls on either side, full of DVDs, videotapes and books. French doors led from the den to the backyard.
“He really enjoyed this house, and living up here in Healdsburg.” Tory hung her purse on the back of a kitchen chair. “My brother and I, we grew up on the Peninsula, in Palo Alto. Dad was a lawyer. After Mother died—that was eight years ago—he sold that house and moved up here. I’d just gotten divorced and he wanted to be near me and the kids. I’ve been living in Santa Rosa for fifteen years. I work for the city.”
“So did my uncle,” I said. “Neil Lowry. He retired recently from the Planning Division of the Community Development Department.”
Tory laughed. “You’re kidding. I’m in the Building Division, same department. I know Neil and his wife, have for years. What a small world.”
“My Aunt Caro, Neil’s wife, is my father’s younger sister.”
“Who knew they had a private investigator in the family,” she said, then, “Dad’s office is one of the bedrooms.”
I followed her from the kitchen to the other section of the house. The bedroom that looked out on the backyard had been turned into an office. The walls in here were bare as well, save for the picture hangers that had held posters, and a framed diploma telling me that Mike Strickland had a Juris Doctor degree from Boalt School of Law at my alma mater, UC Berkeley. In one corner was a computer table, next to a four-drawer filing cabinet. To the right the computer setup was an old wooden office desk. The phone on the desk was also an answering machine. It blinked numbers, showing that there were eleven messages.
“I don’t know where he would keep any business cards from dealers, if he kept them at all,” Tory said. “He might not have, since he wasn’t planning to sell any of his collection. But go ahead, look through the desk, the filing cabinet, for that matter. Maybe you’ll find something that can help pin down his killer.” She took a letter opener and picked up the blue recycling bin next to the wastebasket. “I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got to deal with the mail.”
After Tory left the office, I walked to the filing cabinet and opened the drawers, looking at file labels. I found the sort of things most people keep in filing cabinets—bank statements, insurance policies, investment paperwork, tax returns.
The bottom drawer of the cabinet, however, contained files on his Hitchcock collection. I scrutinized these more closely, looking at documents showing he’d insured the collection. There were also photocopies of sales receipts from purchases of memorabilia, from shops, galleries and dealers all over the U.S., and some from Europe. The invoice copies were in reverse chronological order, with the most recent purchases first. I flipped through the pages, wanting to know if Mike Strickland had ever purchased anything from the memorabilia shop on Melrose Avenue in Los Angeles, the one owned by Raina Makellar’s father, Wallace Simms, and later by Raina and Chaz. Indeed, Mike had. I found two receipts for purchase from that shop, both fairly old. One was dated in April, nine years ago, when Mike bought a title card from Hitchcock’s Strangers on a Train. Twelve years ago, in September, he bought an insert from Psycho.
A correspondence file contained recent letters about the gallery exhibition. Farther down the pile of papers I found letters from dealers offering Mike items for sale, and dealers inquiring about purchasing specific pieces from the collection. Clipped to these were Mike’s responses. In the case of inquiries about selling, he’d written that he wasn’t interested.
I moved to the old wooden desk and sat down in the gray office chair. There was a weekly desk calendar illustrated, appropriately enough, with art from old movies. I opened the desk drawer to the right of the knee hole and found a stash of letters that looked very much like the ones I’d been reading, only these were from Mike’s wife, written to him while he was in the Navy during the Korean War. Another bundle contained letters from an address in San Diego. The name on the return address label was Molly Ransom—his sister Molly Strickland who’d been a bit player—and the letters ranged from the mid-forties, when she had married, up until a few years ago, presumably when she’d died. I was tempted to read the earlier letters, to find out if she said anything about her years in Hollywood, but I didn’t want to look at them without Tory’s permission.
I pulled out the shallow center drawer and smiled. This was the junk drawer. We all have one, the repository for everything else that doesn’t fit anywhere else. In contrast with the neatness and order I’d found in the other drawers, this was a jumble. And here, at the back of the drawer, were business cards.
I spread the cards out on the desk, separating them into categories. Lawn services, plumbers, contractors, insurance brokers, wineries, restaurants, several galleries, an architect and a couple of attorneys—and people who dealt in antiques and collectibles, including a card from one Charles L. Makellar, who listed himself as a dealer in movie memorabilia, with the address and phone number of the shop in Alameda.
So Chaz had indeed paid a visit to Mike Strickland. I turned over the card and saw something written in blue ink—a large question mark and a date. Why the question mark? What did it mean? I consulted the desk calendar. The date was the Wednesday before the gallery opening, the Wednesday before Mike was murdered. That was the same day I’d gone to the shop in Alameda, where I’d overheard Raina Makellar tell her companion that her husband Chaz and their employee, Henry Calhoun, had gone to look for and possibly buy merchandise. That was the day I’d first heard about the man in Sonoma County who had a Hitchcock collection.
I got up from the desk and went to the kitchen. Tory sat, wielding the letter opener over the contents of the basket of mail, now dumped onto the table surface. She kept a steady rhythm, slitting envelopes and pulling out the contents for quick examination. Some papers she set aside for further action, but most she tossed into the recycling bin, already half full of paper, including catalogs and magazines.
“Did you find anything?” she asked.
I showed her the business card and the notation on the back. “This dealer visited your father the Wednesday before he was killed. I assume your father wrote the question mark and the date on the back. But that’s just a guess.”
“Wednesday, Wednesday.” Tory frowned. Then she dropped the envelope and letter opener she held and reached into her purse. She took out a smart phone, the kind that keeps a calendar and a contact list. She punched buttons and consulted the screen. “You know, my kids spent the day with Dad that Wednesday. He came and picked them up in the morning and brought them back in time for all of us to go out to dinner. So my kids were here when that dealer visited Dad. Of course, the boys could have been roaming around, playing. And if I know my daughter, she was holed up somewhere with her nose in a book.”
“Maybe they saw or heard something,” I said. “I need to talk with them, ask them some questions about that day. Before we do that, though, there are eleven messages on the answering machine in your father’s office. I’d like to listen to them.”
We walked back to the office. She sat at the desk and grabbed a pencil from the mug and the notepad from the basket. Then she punched the button on the answering machine. The first call, date-stamped the day after Mike’s murder, was from a friend of his in LA, saying he was going to be in San Francisco later in the week, and he wondered if Mike was available for lunch. Tory wrote down the number he left. “I’ll have to call him and let him know Dad’s dead.”
The next call was from a roofing contractor, and after that were several hang-ups. The roofing contractor called again, wanting to discuss his estimate. Then there was a call from a memorabilia dealer in Chicago, saying he had a Hitchcock poster for sale, something that might interest Mike. A couple more hang-ups, then three messages from dealers expressing an interest in buying the Hitchcock collection, now that the owner was dead. The last message was from Chaz Makellar, saying he’d discussed a possible sale with Mr. Strickland before his death, and n
ow he was interested in further discussion with Strickland’s heirs.
Tory looked up, pencil paused over the notepad. “That’s the guy whose name is on that card, the one who was here that Wednesday,” Tory said.
I nodded. “Let’s see if your kids remember anything about his visit.”
Chapter 20
As we left Mike Strickland’s house, Tory rearmed the security system. Outside on the front porch, she gave me directions to her home in Santa Rosa. Then we both headed back down Dry Creek Road toward Healdsburg and the freeway on-ramp for southbound U.S. 101. Half an hour later, I parked at the curb in front of a two-story house in an older residential neighborhood, just south of Guerneville Road. Tory led me into the living room, where flower arrangements with sympathy cards attached sat on the fireplace mantel and the end tables on either side of the high-backed sofa. A basket on the coffee table held more cards.
I followed Tory into the kitchen, where the counters held plastic containers of food. More containers were stacked on top of the refrigerator. Bringing food to bereaved families is an old custom, much appreciated. There is so much to do when someone dies that the surviving family members often forget to eat. And when they do need a meal, shopping, planning and cooking are the farthest things from mind.
A counter separated the kitchen from an area that served as dining room and family room. Next to the counter six chairs surrounded an oval table. On the opposite side were a sofa and two chairs. In the grassy backyard, a tree, its branches laden with little green apples, shaded one section of the lawn. Two boys were in the garden along the back fence, dressed in shorts and T-shirts, pulling weeds and lobbing them into a pail.
Tory opened the sliding door, stepped out onto the patio, and called to her sons. “Hey, guys, come here, please. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
The taller boy stripped off a pair of gardening gloves and tossed them on the grass. The younger boy hadn’t bothered with gloves and his hands were stained from contact with the dark, wet soil. Both her sons had Tory’s brown hair and slim, wiry build. She put an arm around each boy’s shoulders.
“Thank you for pulling all those weeds,” she said. “That was really nice of you and I appreciate it. Now, I’d like you to meet Jeri Howard. These are my sons. The older one is David. He’ll be thirteen later this year.”
“It’s nice to meet you, David.” I shook his hand.
“And this is Jason, who is ten,” Tory said. “And who really needs to wash his hands.” She pointed the younger boy in the direction of the kitchen sink and turned to her older son. “Where’s Serena?”
David sounded subdued. “Upstairs. I tried to get her to come outside, but... She’s been crying again.”
Tory sighed. “Okay, thanks.” She left the kitchen and I heard her footsteps going up the stairs. I engaged David in conversation, learning that he was in middle school. Jason joined us in the family room, drying his somewhat cleaner hands on a dish towel. He would be in the fifth grade come the fall, he informed me.
A big black-and-white tuxedo cat ambled into the kitchen and came over to inspect me. “That’s Tux,” David said.
“I can see that.” I knelt and stroked Tux’s back, and was rewarded with a big rumbling purr. Then the cat jumped onto one of the chairs and began washing himself.
Tory returned, accompanied by the teenaged girl I’d seen at the funeral on Saturday. She’d been crying again, as her brother said, her eyes red and swollen. Dressed in shorts and a flowered camp shirt, the girl was fair where her mother was dark. Perhaps she resembled her father. She looked me over, then turned to her mother, a question in her eyes as to who I was and why I was here.
“This is my daughter Serena. She’s fifteen. Serena, this is Jeri Howard. I’d like all of you to talk with Jeri. It’s very important and I want you to answer all of her questions.” Tory walked into the kitchen. “I’m hungry. I’m going to make us some lunch. Ham sandwiches all around. Does that sound good?”
The boys reacted enthusiastically and I chimed in. “Thanks, it sounds great.”
“Lemonade first,” Tory said, taking a pitcher from the refrigerator. She filled glasses with ice and lemonade and I handed them around. She pulled the lid off a plastic container on the counter that separated the kitchen from the family room, revealing a mound of chocolate chip cookies. “Here, help yourself. I’ll make the sandwiches.” She removed a platter of sliced ham and cheese from one of the shelves, then rummaged around for condiments and bread.
I offered the kids cookies. The boys each took one, but Serena shook her head. I sipped lemonade and set the glass on the table, pulling out one of the chairs. I sat down and looked at the curious faces of Tory’s children. The boys were on the sofa. Serena picked up Tux and sat down cross-legged in the chair the cat had occupied. She settled him on her lap and stroked him under the chin. The cat purred loudly and rubbed his head against her hand.
“My name is Jeri. I’m a private investigator,” I said.
“Cool.” David’s eyes widened, sparkling with interest. “Are you gonna find out who killed Grandpa?”
“If I find out any information that will help solve your grandfather’s murder, I will turn it over to the sheriff’s department investigator.” Serena looked interested as well, but she didn’t say anything. “I hope I can help. I met your grandfather at the gallery opening and I really liked him. For now I have some questions. Your mother tells me you spent the day with your grandfather, the week before he died. I’d like you to tell me about that day. It was a Wednesday.”
“We went on a picnic,” Jason said. “To Lake Sonoma.”
“That wasn’t the beginning,” David said. “We should start at the beginning, right?” I nodded. “Okay. Grandpa picked us up early, before Mom left for work. Serena didn’t want to go.” David and Jason exchanged glances with their sister. She ducked her head and took a sip of her lemonade. “But Mom said she had to go. She didn’t want Serena hanging out here by herself, because she’d be, like, going to the mall and all.”
“David,” Tory said from the kitchen counter, where she was constructing our sandwiches. “Just stick to the facts.”
“Like Dragnet. That old TV show in Grandpa’s DVDs.” Jason laughed and gave his Jack Webb impersonation. “Just the facts, ma’am.”
“We worked in Grandpa’s garden,” David said. “I like to garden. I think it’s cool. You plant seeds and stuff and later in the summer you’ve got lettuce and cucumbers and tomatoes. And it was just fun to spend time with Grandpa.” He frowned, as though remembering that his grandfather was gone now.
“We fixed our picnic,” Jason said. “Sandwiches and cookies and fruit. We went to Lake Sonoma and ate, and hiked around and looked at birds and stuff. We saw an osprey flying over the lake with a fish in his claws. That was really cool.”
“What happened when you came back to your grandfather’s house?” I asked.
David swallowed a mouthful of cookie and brushed crumbs from his mouth. “We were hanging out with Bobby Miller. He lives next door to Grandpa. We were looking at pictures of ospreys and hawks in this bird book he has. Bobby told us all about this big vacation the Millers are going on and he showed us their tent camper. They’ll be gone a couple of weeks. They’re gonna visit all these great parks along the way. Glacier, Yellowstone, Grand Teton, Dinosaur, and they’re coming back by the Great Salt Lake. What a cool trip. They were going to leave on Saturday.”
“But they delayed their trip, just a day,” Tory said. “So they could go to Dad’s funeral. I think they left today.”
That was too bad, I thought, because I probably needed to talk with the Miller boy as well, just in case he had seen anything.
My stomach growled. Tory handed each of us a plate and a napkin, but Serena shook her head. The boys bit into their sandwiches. I picked up mine, ham and Swiss on whole grain, took a bite, and wiped a stray bit of mustard from my mouth.
The cat on Serena’s lap roused himself, jumped d
own, and came over to rub against my legs, enticed by the prospect of food. “No, Tux,” Tory said. “Leave Jeri alone. Here, I’ll put some ham and cheese in your bowl. Come on, kitty.” The cat perked up and headed for the kitchen. Then Tory came out to the family room, pulled up a chair and sat beside me.
“Is this about those men?” Serena asked. Up until now she’d been silent, but her body language told me she’d been hanging on every word. “Those two men who came to see Grandpa?”
I swallowed a mouthful of my sandwich and chased it with some lemonade. “Tell me about them. When was this?”
“It was the middle of the afternoon, about half an hour after we got back from the lake. I was in the tree, reading.”
“The oak tree in the front yard? With the bench underneath?”
Serena nodded. “I like to climb up in the tree. I get on that bench and then there’s a low branch. I can get up pretty high, and the afternoon sun makes it nice. And I can see the driveway and the front porch, or some of it anyway. The roof kind of hangs over.”
“What did you see?”
“I heard a car come up the driveway,” Serena said.
“It wasn’t a car, it was an SUV,” David said. “A brown one.”
Serena looked annoyed at her brother’s interruption. “Car, SUV, what does it matter. Anyway, it was brown.”
I nodded and glanced at David and Jason. “So you boys saw it, too? Where were you when the SUV got there?”
“Yeah,” David said. “We were by Bobby’s garage. He was showing us the camper, ’cause it was parked in their driveway. We saw that SUV.”
“It parked behind Grandpa’s car,” Jason added.
“There’s those bushes between Grandpa’s driveway and the Millers’ driveway,” David said. “But there’s space between them and we could see the SUV and the guy on the driver’s side that got out. I couldn’t see the guy that got out of the passenger side.”
“Well, I could,” Serena said. “Because I was up in the tree. I saw two men get out. I got a good look at them.”