by Janet Dawson
He shook his head. “As for why those guys were there in the first place, I don’t know that I buy the story about a still. It could have been gambling. They liked to play poker. So did I. We played poker, pinochle, blackjack, bridge, gin, you name it. But hell, none of us had any big money. We were boot recruits on Army pay, and not much of it. We played bridge for a penny a point, and when we played poker, it was nickel-dime stuff. Whether those guys were gambling or making hooch, it’s a mystery to me. Why would they be doing it in civvies?”
“Civvies? Why do you think they were in civilian clothes?”
“Because Byron’s uniform was still at the barracks.” Sal wagged his finger at me. “Remember, I had the bunk across from him. And I was the one the corporal grabbed a couple of days later, after the powers-that-be decided he died in the fire. The corporal said we had to inventory the stuff in Byron’s footlocker. He handed me some paper and a pencil, and told me to write down everything he found in that footlocker. The corporal jimmied the lock, so I was right there as he took Byron’s stuff out. I noticed right away that all his uniforms were there. And some things were missing. Byron had a pair of gray pants and a blue shirt he liked to wear out in town of a Saturday night. Those were gone, along with his civvy shoes. The jewelry was gone, too.”
“What jewelry?” I asked.
“A pair of fancy gold cufflinks, with a ring to match,” Sal said. “You can’t really see them in this picture I took the night of the dance. But Byron was wearing them. He always wore them in civvies. First time I saw them I thought they must be worth a lot of money, and that he was crazy to bring something valuable like that to camp, where somebody might steal them. Things got stolen all the time. He kept that ring and those cufflinks in a little wooden box at the bottom of his footlocker. The box was there, but it was empty. That fancy gold jewelry wasn’t with the rest of his stuff, the pockets or the bottom of the footlocker, when we took that inventory of his things. I figured he must have been wearing them. I remarked on it to the corporal, but I don’t think he paid me any mind. I wondered if that jewelry melted in the fire.” He frowned. “But the dog tags didn’t melt, so how do you figure that? Hmmm. Maybe that’s how they knew it was Byron, because of the jewelry. But something doesn’t make sense.”
“What did the ring and cufflinks look like? Round, square? Were they plain, did they have initials?”
“They looked heavy,” he said. “The design, it was a cross with a circle, and engraving inside the arms of the cross. A Celtic cross, that’s what they call it. I remember because my granddaughter had a necklace with the same kind of cross. She got that on a trip to Ireland and she told me what it was.”
Henry Calhoun had been wearing a gold ring and cufflinks the first time I’d seen him, at the shop in Alameda, with a Celtic cross design, the arms of the cross slightly wider at the ends, with a Celtic knot engraved inside. And he’d been wearing them in the six-year-old photo Raina Makellar had at the shop. But were they the same gold ring and cufflinks that Byron Jasper had at Camp Roberts? I needed something that linked Byron to Henry, and I didn’t have it yet.
“You mentioned a photo album, with pictures you took at Camp Roberts,” I said. “Any chance that you might have another picture of Byron Jasper somewhere, wearing the jewelry?”
“You know, I just might. Let’s go look.”
Sal and I took the elevator up to his apartment on the seventh floor. It had a dining-kitchenette area with a small refrigerator and microwave, and beyond that a long living room with bookshelves and a large-screen television. Through a doorway I glimpsed the bedroom. On the walls I saw framed photographs, some of them taken in familiar locations. Here were Half Dome and El Capitan at Yosemite National Park, and a view of Mount Shasta in Northern California. I paused in front of a shot of some craggy rocks. “This is very good.”
“Thanks. I took that at the Pinnacles, down by Hollister,” Sal said. “Even printed it myself. I had a darkroom at the house, way back when. These days with digital photography, it’s really different.”
He was standing by the bookshelves, squinting as he looked at their contents. “Here it is. I cleared out a lot of stuff when I moved to this assisted living place. But this I kept. Lots of memories here.” He picked up the photo album and carried it to the round dining table, where he pulled out a chair and sat down. I joined him. The album was brown imitation leather, cracked and worn. His gnarled fingers caressed the edges. Then he opened it. I saw black-and-white photos affixed to the beige pages with adhesive photo corners, some loose. Sal leafed slowly through the pages. He pointed at a picture of a dark-haired young man with his arms around a girl, both carrying Ping-Pong paddles. “That’s Tito, the guy I was telling you about. We were at the USO in Paso Robles. That’s his girl, his sweetheart from high school.” He turned the page. I saw three young men with goofy smiles, dressed as women. Sal chuckled. “And that was a talent show. These fellas are supposed to be the Andrews Sisters. As I recall, they did a pretty good ‘Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree.’ ”
As Sal turned the pages, he commented on the pictures he’d taken. Among them were photos of training, of young soldiers in fatigues, with helmets and rifles, crawling under wires. Here were some shots taken at USO touring camp shows, one showing singer Frances Langford, and another with comedian Jack Benny. He’d also taken photographs of the scenery of Camp Roberts, the coastal mountains to the west, and the banks of the Salinas River. Mostly, though, they were pictures of the guys, the soldiers going through training at the camp, playing volleyball or Ping-Pong at the USO or the recreation halls, drinking sodas or dancing with local girls, queuing up for a movie at the post theater.
Sal turned over another page and pointed. “There. That’s Byron. I took this at the recreation hall. We were playing cards, but it’s a close-up, so you can’t see the table or the other guys.”
I pulled the album closer and examined Byron Jasper, circa 1943. He looked like the chameleon Pearl said he was, nondescript, the guy you wouldn’t give a second glance. His hair was neither dark nor light, just in-between, and he had an expression on his thin face that was somewhere between a smile and a frown. He held a bottle of Coca-Cola in his right hand, as though saluting the camera. His left hand was raised as well, in a loose fist, with the thumb pointing over his left shoulder, as though he were hitching a ride. He wore a long-sleeved shirt fastened with square cufflinks, both visible, and a ring on his left hand. I could see that there was a design on the jewelry. It looked like a Celtic knot. But the photograph itself was small, about three-by-five inches.
“Is there any chance you have the negatives?” I asked. Sal had been an amateur photographer most of his adult life. He just might have retained the negatives from the pictures he took at Camp Roberts, but it was an extreme long-shot. Even now he was shaking his head.
“Back that far? I doubt it. But I’ll have a look.”
“I would appreciate it. In the meantime, let me take some digital photos of this picture.” I got out my camera and framed a few shots, taking in Byron’s face, arms and hand. Sal said he’d look through the negatives that he had to see if he could find this one, and that he’d contact me if he remembered anything else about Byron.
I thought about the scar on Byron’s right arm as I drove back to my office. After I’d downloaded the photos onto my computer, I enlarged them, hoping I could see the design on the jewelry Byron was wearing when the photo was taken at Camp Roberts. The ring had a pattern of Celtic knots. And the cufflinks, roughly square, had a Celtic cross in the center. But it wasn’t enough only to prove a link between Byron Jasper and Henry Calhoun. I wanted a link between Byron Jasper and Ralph Tarrant as well. I remembered the crime scene photos taken at the actor’s home the night he was murdered in 1942. He had been dressed to go out, wearing a long-sleeved shirt, but his cufflinks had been removed, so hastily that the cuffs themselves had been torn.
I logged onto the Internet and did a search through the directory of
one of my professional organizations and located a private investigator in Mobile, Alabama. His name was Barry Taft and he was happy to take on my assignment.
“The name is Byron Cade Jasper,” I told him. “He left Mobile late in 1941. He was seventeen or eighteen at the time. The census data from 1930 shows him living in Mobile with his parents and three siblings. I want to know if Byron was injured in a fire in Mobile and if so, the details.”
“I’ll check the city directory first,” Taft said. “Then I’ll go over to the University of South Alabama. They’ve got the Mobile Press-Register on microfilm back to the eighteen-twenties. I should be able to find something.”
My next call was to Pearl Bishop. “I hope I haven’t interrupted a poker game,” I told her.
“I’m getting ready to go to Bridgeport for a doctor’s appointment,” she said. “At my age I have to get my body parts checked out from time to time. Did you get my picture?”
“Yes, I did. I found out Binky supposedly died in a fire at Camp Roberts, but I don’t believe it. There are a couple of photos of Binky taken at the camp, by a man who was in his company. He says Binky always wore long-sleeved shirts, frequently with gold cufflinks that had a Celtic cross design. Binky also wore a matching ring. He’s wearing the ring and the cufflinks in the photos. One of my grandmother’s letters mentions Sylvia buying cufflinks for Tarrant. When we were talking last week, you said when you and the girls met Tarrant, he was wearing a ring. Later, Sylvia had the same ring on a chain around her neck, and she claimed Ralph Tarrant had given to her. Do you remember what the ring looked like?”
“I just remember the inscription inside the ring, with Tarrant’s initials and the date,” Pearl said. “The ring was wide and it had some kind of design on it, I don’t remember what, but I thought it was kinda busy. Not something I would have picked for myself. But a man’s ring, definitely. I’m not familiar with the Celtic cross, but I’ll look it up on the Internet so I can picture it.”
“My source, the man from Camp Roberts, says Binky had a burn scar on his inner right arm. Do you recall ever seeing a scar?”
“I don’t,” Pearl said. “But he did wear long-sleeved shirts all the time.”
“What about a fire? Did he or Sylvia ever say anything about a fire in Mobile? I’m wondering how he got the scar.”
“No, I don’t think either of them said anything about a fire. But when they trashed the house after we kicked them out, they did start a fire in the kitchen. They tore out pages from cookbooks, put them in the sink and torched them.”
“It’s pure speculation on my part,” I said. “But the fire is a recurring motif. The fire at the house after you and the others moved them out. Whoever killed Tarrant tried to cover up the murder by starting a fire. And now there’s this Camp Roberts fire.”
“Binky’s not dead,” Pearl said. “That was him I saw on the set of Lou Grant in nineteen seventy-nine.”
“The authorities found Binky’s dog tags on the body. At the same time, a soldier named Harold Corwin disappeared. If Binky didn’t die, he took Corwin’s identity, and turned up years later, using the name Hank Calvin, which is close enough to Harold Corwin. I’d like to find a picture of Ralph Tarrant wearing the ring and cufflinks. Maybe a publicity shot would show them in detail. Do you still know anyone in Hollywood?”
“I sure do,” Pearl said. “He’s retired now but he used to work in publicity at Metro. I’ll call him later. But now I’ve got to get going to my doctor’s appointment.”
I’d just hung up the phone when it rang again. I discovered Sadie Espinosa, Roberta Cook’s neighbor, on the other end of the line. “Jeri, you’ve got to come up to Petaluma. I’ve got a witness for you.”
Chapter 32
A couple of hours later I was in the living room of Sadie Espinosa’s Victorian house on Liberty Street near downtown Petaluma. Sadie passed around a plate of homemade oatmeal raisin cookies to go with the iced tea she’d already poured. Her two cats were very much in evidence. Poppy had claimed Sadie’s lap, and Ducks had designs on my cookie. “I don’t think cats are supposed to eat cookies,” I told him as I shooed him away. He snuggled next to me on the sofa and purred.
“That cat will try anything once,” Sadie said. “Now, Melita, you tell Jeri what you told me.”
Melita Wong was short and sturdy, and she wore khaki shorts, a white T-shirt and tennis shoes. She swallowed a mouthful of cookie and washed it down with some iced tea. “I clean Sadie’s house twice a month. Usually on a Thursday, like today. But in March I was here on a Friday, the same day that lady next door died. Not my usual day. I had to change my schedule in order to go on a class field trip with my son.”
“I didn’t remember that,” Sadie added. “Then Melita came to clean earlier this afternoon. After she was finished, I took the calendar off the wall so I could write down the date of our next appointment. And Melita said something about needing to change the date, like she did back in March. So I looked at that page and realized she was here the day Roberta was killed. After I heard what Melita had to say, I called you and asked her to come back so you could talk with her.”
“I can’t stay long,” Melita said. “I have to pick up my son. He has a soccer game tonight.”
“Tell me what you remember about that Friday,” I said.
Melita reached for another cookie and took a bite. “It was raining off and on all day. I got to Sadie’s house about two o’clock and finished cleaning around three. I was taking my gear out to my car.” She pointed out the front window at the blue hybrid SUV I’d seen parked at the curb when I drove up. “I bring all my own equipment when I clean houses, it’s better that way. Sadie’s car was parked in the driveway, and my car was behind her, hanging over the sidewalk just a little bit. Anyway, I saw the mailman go by. Then I noticed this dark red sedan parked down the street.” She waved her hand in the direction of downtown Petaluma. “Maybe two houses down. It had one of those Fas Trak toll gizmos on the windshield. There was a man inside, just sitting there.”
She finished off the rest of the cookie and took a sip of iced tea. “After the mailman went by, that man got out of the car and walked up the street, past me. I got a good look at him because my vacuum cleaner was kinda blocking the sidewalk and I apologized and moved it out of the way. He said, think nothing of it, and kept going. He was whistling. So I finished loading the vacuum cleaner into my car and then I looked back and saw him climbing up the steps to Mrs. Cook’s front porch. He rang her doorbell. Just then it started to rain really hard. So I got in my car, backed it out and drove away.”
“Do you remember what time it was?” I asked.
“I know exactly what time it was,” Melita said. “A quarter after three. I looked at the clock on my dashboard because I didn’t want to be late for my next appointment, which was at three-thirty out west of town.”
“What did the man look like?” I asked. “How was he dressed?”
“He was about as old as Sadie.” Melita looked from me to Sadie and I recalled that she’d told me she was eighty-one. “A few inches taller than me, and I’m five three. He was wearing a tan raincoat and a hat. And gloves. Brown gloves. The hat was covering his hair but I got a really good look at his face.”
Sadie chimed in. “It sounds like that man I saw at Roberta’s, one of those dealers, the one I saw later at Copperfield’s bookstore downtown. Did you bring those pictures you showed me?”
“I did.” I reached for my purse and took out the photos I’d shown Sadie on my earlier visit, the ones I’d taken with my cell phone camera, of Henry Calhoun in front of the movie memorabilia shop. I handed the printouts to Melita.
She examined the pictures, frowning, looking from one shot to the next. Then she nodded. “That’s him. I’m pretty sure that’s him.”
“Tell me about the sedan,” I said.
“Wow, I’m not sure what I remember about that. Just the color, dark red, maroon, I guess. I couldn’t tell you the make. Late model,
though.” Melita looked at her watch. “I really have to go now, and pick up my son. I hope this helps. Sadie seems to think it’s important.”
“I do, too, very important. Thanks. I appreciate you taking the time to talk with me.” I gave her my business card. “If you remember anything else, call me.”
Melita gathered up her oversized purse and made for the front door. Then she turned. “You know, that sedan had vanity plates. Something that started with an R.”
I smiled. Raina Makellar had a maroon Lexus with vanity plates that read RNAMAK. And I wouldn’t be surprised if Henry Calhoun borrowed it from time to time.
Sadie insisted that I stay for dinner, so I did. Then I drove back to Oakland, missing the worst of the evening rush hour traffic, and mulling over what I’d learned. I now had a witness who could place Henry Calhoun at the scene of Roberta Cook’s murder. He’d made it look like an accident—the elderly woman had fallen down her front steps—and most people assumed it was an accident, except Sadie. Henry’s motive for killing Mrs. Cook was evidently to gain access to her collection of movie memorabilia, purely financial.
But why would Henry kill Mike Strickland? I remembered what Mike had said when we talked about the dealers who were constantly trying to purchase his Hitchcock collection. The two men who’d visited him the Wednesday before, observed by Mike’s granddaughter, were Chaz Makellar and Henry Calhoun. Mike thought one of the men looked familiar.