by Janet Dawson
Then they broke up. Specifically, during Thanksgiving dinner at his uncle’s home in Chatsworth. Jerusha and Pearl had made the trek to the San Fernando Valley in Pearl’s old car, the Gasper. They left before the pumpkin pie. Jerusha’s subsequent letter to her sister said she’d tried to return the locket to Ted but he wouldn’t take it.
I tucked that letter back into its envelope and reached for the next one. A chill crept up my back when I saw the postmark next to the three-cent stamp.
December 8, 1941.
I unfolded the letter and saw that it had been written the day before it was mailed. The date at the upper right corner was in Jerusha’s handwriting. But the voice I heard in my head was that of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, saying, as I had heard so many times on the preserved recordings, “Yesterday, December seventh, nineteen forty-one, a date which will live in infamy, the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.”
Then, as I read the words written on paper, I heard my grandmother’s voice.
Dear Sis,
I don’t know where to begin. So I’ll start with breakfast. I didn’t eat much, just a piece of toast. Everything else seemed to stick in my throat. Then I went for a walk. All I could think about was Ted. I don’t know when I first noticed something was wrong. But it was in the air, like vibrations. Maybe it was when I saw that man running down the sidewalk. Why would a man be running on such a quiet Sunday morning?
Chapter 18
Los Angeles, California, Sunday, December 7, 1941
The man looked agitated, his face red, as he ran down the sidewalk. He was too old and too fat to be running that hard, Jerusha thought. The man ran across the lawn of the house on the corner, up the steps onto the porch, and began pounding on the door. As a woman answered and pulled the man into the house, Jerusha felt a chill run down her back. She stopped, standing very still. Something was wrong. She could feel it in the air, vibrating. Then she whirled and headed back down the hill, quickening her pace until she, too, was running.
As she went up the court’s sidewalk toward their bungalow, she heard the radio, blaring loud from the living room. Inside, Anne and Pearl had pulled up chairs on either side of the radio, both leaning toward it as though seeking warmth. Jerusha tried to make sense of the words pouring from the radio.
Pearl looked up, her face grim. “The Japs have bombed Pearl Harbor, in Hawaii. They sank a lot of ships.”
“Pearl Harbor? That’s where Ted’s brother is stationed. On one those big battleships, named for a state.” Jerusha felt cold as she searched her memory for the name of the ship. What was it? “The Oklahoma. What happened to the Oklahoma?”
Pearl shook her head. “I don’t know which ships. They haven’t said.”
They listened to the radio in silence, as the news came over the wire. All eight of the battleships in the fleet were sunk or damaged. The announcer read the names of the ships, his voice tolling like a bell. The Pennsylvania, the Maryland, the Tennessee, the Nevada, all damaged. The West Virginia and the California, sunk. The Arizona, sunk, a total loss. And the Oklahoma, sunk, total loss.
Jerusha stood up, shaking. “Oh, God, I’ve got to talk to Ted.”
“You need some privacy,” Pearl said, switching off the radio. “And I need a stiff drink. I’ve got a bottle of Scotch in the bedroom.”
“I’ll join you. Get the bottle and meet me in my room.” Anne collected a couple of glasses from the kitchen and followed Pearl out of the living room.
Jerusha reached for the phone and dialed the number. She knew it by heart. There was no answer at Uncle Walt’s house. She hung up the receiver and stared into space as she thought about Ted, how they met back in May, and how they’d argued on Thanksgiving Day. The amethyst locket he’d given her was still in her jewelry box. He wouldn’t take it back. Now she didn’t want to give it back. I still love him, she realized.
She tried the number again. This time Uncle Walt answered. “He’s on his way home to Oakhurst. Packed up as soon as we heard the news about the Oklahoma. He left an hour ago.”
“When will he be back?” Jerusha asked.
Walt sighed. “I don’t know that he will be back. He’s going to join the Navy.”
Jerusha felt tears starting in her eyes. “What’s the address in Oakhurst? I’ll write to him.”
He gave it to her. As soon as she hung up the phone she went back to the bedroom she and Pearl shared. She took the amethyst locket from her jewelry box and hung it around her neck. Then she took out pen and writing paper and started her letter.
Chapter 19
The Flying Goat coffee shop was located in the old Western Hotel building, constructed around the time the nineteenth century gave way to the twentieth, by the same folks who’d built other still-standing buildings on the square, including the Santa Rosa railroad depot featured so prominently in Hitchcock’s Shadow of a Doubt. I arrived at ten forty-five and joined the line of java junkies ordering coffees. I eyed the pastries but I certainly didn’t need any, not after another one of Cousin Pat’s sumptuous weekend breakfasts.
With latte in hand, I found a table near the front. As I sipped coffee I thought about the correspondence I’d been reading. Jerusha had written several letters to Dulcie after Pearl Harbor. One of them mentioned a letter she’d written to Ted after learning that the battleship Oklahoma had been sunk during the attack, killing Ted’s older brother, Tim. I’d wondered if that letter was among those preserved in the correspondence kept by Aunt Caro, the letters Jerusha and Ted wrote to each other during their courtship and after they were married. So after that Sunday morning breakfast in Graton, I’d driven back over to Santa Rosa for a look at those letters.
Jerusha wrote to Ted on December 7, 1941. The envelope that had held that letter was long gone. Aunt Caro had put the single sheet of paper in a clear protective sleeve. I had not removed it, fearful of tearing it further. Through the clear plastic I read the lines written in now-faded blue ink, front and back of a single sheet of paper. Jerusha told Ted how sorry she was that his brother, Tim, had been killed at Pearl Harbor. Then she told him that she still loved him. “If there’s a chance for the two of us, in spite of this war,” she wrote, “I’d like to take that chance.”
Ted kept that letter, folding it many times, until the creases were fragile and torn in places. I imagined him taking that letter from his wallet, reading it over and over again while his ship plowed through the restless waves out in the Pacific.
The next few letters were also in protective sleeves. Ted had responded to Jerusha’s letter, telling her how much it meant to him. He had joined the Navy and he was going to basic training in San Diego. And yes, he still wanted to marry her. He wanted to ask her in person as soon as he could, and he did, en route from Oakhurst to San Diego right after Christmas. That was when he’d given her the engagement ring, the little gold circle with a diamond that she wore, along with her wedding ring, until the day she died. Ted and Jerusha agreed to marry as soon as he finished basic training in the spring of 1942.
Someone else got an engagement ring in December—Anne Hayes. Jerusha mentioned this in her letters to Ted. I had gleaned more detail last night while reading Grandma’s letters to Dulcie. The young man Anne had dated in college, Lemuel Sanderson, was now an officer assigned to Camp Roberts, the big Army training base in central California. The two of them had been corresponding and Lemuel, en route to the camp in December, had marriage on his mind. He proposed and Anne accepted, making plans to marry in the spring or summer.
By February of 1942, Jerusha had already made her last movie, the Norma Shearer film Her Cardboard Lover. As I read through the correspondence, I learned that she and Anne had been cast as bit players in another film at Metro, one that had been shelved and never completed. Both Jerusha and Anne were finished with the movies. The old gang was breaking up, the war changing everything. Movie careers didn’t seem as important as they once had. R
eal life had intruded on the fantasy. All that was left was cleaning up the details and finishing projects.
Nowhere in the letters I’d read last night and this morning did Jerusha mention Ralph Tarrant, the actor who’d been murdered on February 21, 1942.
Tory Ambrose entered the coffee house at eleven o’clock, casually dressed in khaki slacks and a T-shirt, a leather purse hanging from one shoulder. She had dark smudges under her eyes, as though she hadn’t slept well for several nights running.
“What can I get you?” I asked when she joined me at the table. I’d finished my latte and I wanted another.
“A double-shot latte,” she said.
I walked to the counter and ordered. Then I carried the coffees back to the table and sat down. “How are you holding up?”
She sighed. “I found Dad’s body, you know, in the entry hall. That’s a picture I wish I could erase from my mind. But I can’t. I called him from work that day, about two in the afternoon. He didn’t answer the phone, so I left a message. I thought he was outside, or running errands. But he would have returned my call when he got home. I called later, around four. He still didn’t answer the phone. I just knew something was wrong. So instead of going home after work, I drove up to Healdsburg. His car was in the driveway and he didn’t answer the doorbell. I let myself in with my key. I thought maybe he’d had a heart attack. I didn’t expect to see him lying on his back in a pool of blood.”
I reached for Tory’s hand and squeezed it. Words didn’t seem adequate to assuage her feelings, or blot out the image imprinted in her brain.
She shrugged. “So how am I holding up? As well as can be expected, I guess. For the past week I’ve been dealing with the sheriff’s department investigators, making funeral arrangements, notifying people about Dad’s death, and coping with the family. We’re all taking this hard, especially my kids. They loved their grandpa, and they spent a lot of time with him. My brother Dennis and his family left for home first thing this morning. But he’ll be back later in the week. We have a meeting with the attorney. We have to deal with all that stuff around the will and the estate. Thank God, Dad put everything in a trust so it’s all spelled out.”
“A death in the family is rough under any circumstances, and it’s worse when it’s a murder. You look exhausted, Tory. You need to take care of yourself.”
“I know. Or I won’t be any good to anyone.” She wrapped both hands around her latte, blinking back tears. “It takes a lot of effort to be strong and put on the capable, comforting front. I’m all wound up and running on adrenaline, and tired at the same time. I finally had to take some pills, a sleep aid, last night. I did sleep, but I felt dragged out when I woke up this morning. So now I’m ingesting caffeine to stay awake.” She flashed a crooked smile as she raised the coffee cup to her lips.
“To lose Dad like that, it’s devastating,” she said. “Now I feel like an orphan. My mother died of cancer. That was tough, too. Because it was slow. But it was expected. We knew she was going to die. Mom and I had our problems, but I was Daddy’s girl. He was like a rock, always there for me, so supportive. I never would have made it through my divorce without him. In the back of my mind I knew Dad would die eventually. That’s something I thought about from time to time after Mom died. Dad was in his seventies, but he was so active and vigorous. I just can’t believe he’s gone. Especially like this. He was the nicest guy in the world. Why would anyone murder my father?”
I considered the mortality of my own parents and how much I still miss my grandmother. “I don’t know. But I’d sure like to find out.”
“How does this work, me hiring you?”
“You give me a retainer check. Then I’m working on your behalf.” I explained the business details and gave her a copy of my standard contract and an overview of how I worked.
She reached for her purse and took out a pen and a checkbook wallet. “Let’s do the business first. I’m not going to tell my brother about this, for now anyway. I know how he’ll react. He’ll say, let the cops handle it. But they don’t have any leads.”
“Your brother’s reaction is common. I usually work in conjunction with the authorities. Believe me, if I turn up any leads, I’ll go to the sheriff’s investigator who is handling your father’s murder.” I took the check she’d written and tucked it in my own wallet.
Tory ran her hands through her hair. “So where do you start? At the funeral, you told me you’d overheard a conversation, someone talking about a collection of Hitchcock memorabilia in Sonoma County. That must have been Dad’s collection. A lot of people know about his stuff, because of the ties to Santa Rosa, with Shadow of a Doubt filmed in town. Right here at the depot.” She glanced out the window at Railroad Square. “You also said another death might be connected.”
I nodded. “That’s where I start, with the possibility that your father’s murder is somehow connected to his movie memorabilia collection. As for the other death, I learned of the death of an elderly woman who lived in Sonoma County. It happened a few months ago. She supposedly fell down her front steps, hit her head, and died as a result of the injury. She also collected memorabilia, primarily Joan Crawford items.”
“That sounds like an accident,” Tory said with a frown. “Dad was shot.”
“Maybe the woman’s death was an accident, maybe not. I’m looking into it. Not long after the woman died, her son was contacted by a dealer, wanting to buy her collection. It may be too soon after your father’s death, but I’m sure you’ll get calls from dealers wanting to buy his collection.”
Tory grimaced. “It’s not too soon. I’ve already gotten a few calls, right after Dad’s death hit the news, because the stories mentioned the collection and that exhibit in the gallery. Ghouls. I just hung up on them.”
“In the future, don’t hang up,” I said. “If anyone calls asking about the collection, I want to know who those people are, where they’re located. Would your father have kept any business cards or notes about dealers who contacted him?”
“Possibly. If he did keep any cards, they’d be at his house.” Tory sighed. “That’s another big item on my to-do list. My brother and I have to go through his things. I haven’t even been able to think about that. I’m working up to it.”
“Takes time,” I said. “For now, I’d like to look at the house, to see if I can find any cards or other information about dealers who may have contacted him.”
“You think someone killed Dad to get the collection? That seems far-fetched.”
“Maybe. But stranger things have happened. I have pieces that don’t fit that theory. If it was just the collection, it would be better to make your father’s death seem like an accident, like the elderly woman I told you about. But he was shot. Definitely murder. That seems personal. I wonder if there’s another reason, something besides the collection. When I spoke with your father during the gallery opening a week ago, I asked him if he recalled the names of any of the dealers who approached him. He said he might have some business cards. He was trying to recall some names when you joined us.”
“I remember,” Tory said. “So now what?”
“I’d like to go to your father’s house, take a look around, and see if I can find some of this information.”
She nodded and pushed back her chair. “Let’s go.”
I followed Tory’s silver Prius onto northbound Highway 101 and we drove to Healdsburg, taking the exit that led us onto Dry Creek Road, which angled north toward Lake Sonoma. The road wound through meadows and hillsides planted with rows of wine grapes. About three miles out of town, Tory signaled a right turn at an intersection. I followed her onto the side road, where blackberry bushes crowded a redwood fence and pines shed needles onto the blacktop. A hundred yards beyond the corner, she slowed and turned on her right blinker. Then she pulled over to the side of the road and stopped, just this side of a row of mailboxes on posts. I did the same. Tory got out of her car and approached one of the mailboxes, using a key to unlock it
. She removed the mail and returned to her car. On the other side of the mailboxes were two driveways leading up a hill. Tory turned right into the first driveway. I followed her up the sloping driveway to a double garage, parked, and got out of my car.
The one-story ranch-style house, yellow with green trim, looked as though it had been built in the sixties. The front yard was landscaped with native plants and grasses. A weathered redwood bench sat under the mature oak tree that spread its branches and shaded the yard. Tory unlocked the front door, stepped inside, and disarmed the security system. A poster from The Man Who Knew Too Much—the Doris Day-Jimmy Stewart version—hung over a long narrow table in the hall. Framed lobby cards and title cards ranged along the walls on either side of the hall. In the living room, furnished with a comfortable sofa and chairs, were family photos of Mike’s adult offspring and their spouses, with lots of pictures of the grandchildren. The living room walls had been decorated with Hitchcock posters, but now just one remained, a poster from Lifeboat. The rest were with the memorabilia on display at the gallery in Healdsburg.
“What will you do with his collection?” I asked.
Tory sighed and ran her hands through her hair. “I don’t know. I just can’t think about that right now. There’s so much to do. The house, his safe deposit box. The collection is just part of it. Most of the larger posters are at the gallery. That’s where they’ll stay for the time being.”
The kitchen was painted a cheery yellow. At one end of the oak trestle table a basket overflowed with unopened mail addressed to Mike Strickland. Tory tossed the mail she’d taken from the mailbox onto the pile.
