by Janet Dawson
There was one more loose end, the murder of Harold Corwin, and that was why I was here this morning. I knew it was important for Thelma to clear her brother’s name, to remove the stain of Harold having been listed as a deserter. With the evidence that Byron Jasper was alive, not buried in that cemetery near Camp Roberts, she could set the wheels in motion to correct the Army records. And she planned to claim her brother’s body, she told me, to bring Harold back to Oakland, the city he’d left so many decades ago, to have a proper memorial service and inter his remains in Mountain View Cemetery, near those of his mother and father.
When I left the tennis courts I drove to downtown Alameda. The movie memorabilia shop was closed, even though it was Wednesday, when it would normally be open. It was a legitimate business, built from the enterprise started by Raina’s father. But Chaz Makellar was facing some hard questions about his purchase of Roberta Cook’s collection. Lewis Cook, chagrined to learn that his mother’s “junk” was worth a lot of money, was threatening legal action against the Makellars. “Serves him right,” Sadie Espinosa said when I told her the news. “I knew Roberta had been murdered.”
I went back to my office and worked on my final report for my client, Tory Ambrose. She was relieved to have some closure concerning her father’s death, pleased that his killer was in jail.
When I finished the report I closed and locked my office door, walking down the hall to the law firm where my friend Cassie is a partner. I said hello to the receptionist and headed back to Cassie’s office, where she sat, leaning back in her office chair, feet propped up on a stool. She looked up from the document she was reading and patted her pregnant abdomen. “Baby is being really active today. Thumping and jumping. Two more months to go. You look cheerful.”
“I am. I just closed the case of the Hollywood murders from nineteen forty-two, and helped find a killer responsible for two murders up in Sonoma County.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re kidding.”
“Have lunch with me and I’ll tell you all about it.”
She swung her feet off the stool and rose from her chair. “Let’s go over to Le Cheval. I’m craving Vietnamese food.”
We walked to the restaurant, a few blocks from Franklin Street, where our building was located. Over Singapore-style noodles with chicken, I told her about Binky Jasper and his homicidal ways.
“You pieced together quite a puzzle.” Cassie picked up broccoli with her chopsticks. “He would have been better off if he’d never said anything to you that day at the shop.”
“But he couldn’t resist one last dig at Grandma. That’s what started all of this.” I scooped up chicken and chopped bell pepper. “It was Grandma’s letters that really gave me the bigger picture. They’re fascinating. I’m so glad Aunt Dulcie kept them. The other result of all of this is that Dad is now reading the letters. He’s decided to write a book. I knew he wouldn’t stay retired long.”
After lunch we walked back to our building. I worked in my office a couple of hours. I was getting ready to leave when my cell phone rang. The number was in the 510 area code, the East Bay.
“Jeri, this is Dan Westbrook.”
I smiled. Pearl’s grandson, the man I’d been attracted to when I met him a couple of weeks ago in Lee Vining. I’d given him my phone number, hoping he’d call.
“I talked with your grandmother this weekend.” I had called Pearl to let her know that I’d finally run Binky to ground. Pearl’s assistance had been crucial, especially her memories of what happened back in the forties. She had provided physical evidence, the photo of Binky working as a bit player using the name Hank Calvin in the late seventies. And she’d contacted her friend in Hollywood, who’d provided the publicity still of Tarrant wearing the cufflinks before he was murdered. I liked Pearl a lot, not only because she was a link to my grandmother. I wanted to see her again, and I was contemplating another trip over the Sierra to Lee Vining and the stark and beautiful landscape around Mono Lake.
“I know,” Dan said now. “Grandma is excited about you finding that guy Binky. She told me about that old murder case. I’d like to hear more details.”
Would he? And I’d like to see Dan. I was attracted to him when we met in Lee Vining earlier in June and I thought I’d picked up a hint that the feeling was mutual. “Well, maybe we can get together,” I said.
“That’s why I called. When I saw you a couple of weeks ago, you said you really like Point Reyes. I’m going over there on Saturday, to hike the Coast Trail. I’d like some company, if you’re interested.”
“Yes, I am. Very much.”
My smile stayed on my face the rest of the afternoon. I left my office an hour or so later and drove home. I had one stop to make first, though. I parked at the curb on College Avenue and fed a few coins into the meter. Then I walked half a block to a shop where framed posters and photos hung on the walls. Inside, near a rack holding frame samples, a woman looked up from a work table, where she was fitting a blue mat around a color photo of a field full of lupine blooms.
“I’m here to pick up an order,” I said, handing her a slip of paper.
She glanced at the notation and nodded. “Oh, yes, those. They really turned out great.” She turned and picked up two frames that were leaning against the wall and propped them on the work table.
No more buyer’s remorse, I thought, looking at the title cards from The Women and We Were Dancing. No matter how much they cost, the purchase was worth it. I’d been right about the colors, yellow and red, to go with the yellow backgrounds on the cards and the red lettering. I had picked out the yellow mat for the wider outside edge, with a narrow red edging inside, just for contrast. Both frames were bronze. I held each frame up in turn, looking at the faces of Norma Shearer, Joan Crawford, and Rosalind Russell in The Women, then gazing at Shearer in her red satin gown from We Were Dancing.
“Yes, they look wonderful.” The picture framer gave me the invoice. I looked it over and took out my credit card, thinking about the afternoon I’d bought the title cards and how they’d sent me on a journey into my grandmother’s past.
* * *
About the Author
Janet Dawson’s creation, Oakland PI Jeri Howard, has sleuthed her way through ten novels. Kindred Crimes won the St. Martin’s Press/Private Eye Writers best first PI novel contest, also earning Shamus, Macavity, and Anthony award nominations. Dawson has also written a number of short stories, including a Shamus nominee and a Macavity winner. She lives in the East Bay region of the San Francisco Bay Area, and welcomes visitors at www.janetdawson.com
Also by Janet Dawson
Kindred Crimes
Till the Old Men Die
Take a Number
Don’t Turn Your Back on the Ocean
Nobody’s Child
A Credible Threat
Witness to Evil
Where the Bodies Are Buried
A Killing at the Track
Scam and Eggs (short stories)
Praise for the Jeri Howard Mystery Series by Janet Dawson
“A welcome addition to this tough genre.”
—New York Times Book Review on Kindred Crimes
“Dawson writes believable dialogue, creates quickly realized and appealing characters, and has a particularly nice atmospheric touch.”
—San Francisco Examiner on Till the Old Men Die
“Intelligent and determined, Jeri holds her own among the ranks of impressive female detectives.”
—Publishers Weekly on Take a Number
“Mother/daughter feuds, family solidarity, an ecological mystery: Dawson blends these familiar ingredients with a chef’s elan.”
—Kirkus Reviews on Don’t Turn Your Back on the Ocean
“A rich plum pudding of a story sprinkled throughout with memorable characters.”
—Washington Post Book World on Nobody’s Child
“Thoroughly satisfying... As usual, Dawson offers a well-constructed plot and smoothly polished writing.”
/> —Booklist on A Credible Threat
“Jeri combines V.I. Warshawski’s social conscience with Kinsey Millhone’s bad-ass attitude and snappy narrative voice.”
—Washington Post Book World on Witness to Evil
