California Redwoods

By Jim Sargent

It's the winter of 1945 and Christmas is just around the corner, but Mickey Matthews cannot yet celebrate. A phone call sends him to solve another mystery - a cold case located in California. But when Matthews discovers that two actresses vanished under similar circumstances more than a decade apart, he must

• Language: English
• Publisher: Doce Blant Publishing
• Release date: Sep 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781955413114

Jim Sargent

Jim Sargent is a retired professor of American History. His accomplishments include an undergraduate degree from Eastern Michigan University, followed by his masters and PhD in US History at Michigan State in 1970. Jim taught history for forty years, mostly at Virginia Western Community College. After years of writing historical articles for journals, as well as interview articles about sports history, Jim turned to writing fiction. He first penned a baseball novel but soon switched to mysteries. Creating a series of books in The Mickey Mathews Mysteries, Jim added his historical expertise about 20th Century America to his fictional plots and characters to write The California Redwoods.

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CALIFORNIA REDWOODS

by Jim Sargent

Copyright ©2022 by Jim Sargent

All rights reserved.

This book or part thereof may not be reproduced in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or otherwise, or by any information storage and retrieval system, except as may be expressly permitted in writing from the publisher as provided by the United States of America copyright law. Requests for permission should be addressed to Doce Blant Publishing, Attn: Rights and Permissions Dept., P. O. BOX 7903, North Port, FL 34286

Published by

Doce Blant Publishing, North Port, FL 34286

www.doceblant.com

Cover by Fiona Jayde Media

Layout design by The Deliberate Page

Paperback ISBN: 978-1955413107

Hardbound ISBN: 978-1955413091

ePub ISBN: 978-1955413114

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022914786

Printed in the United States of America

www.doceblant.com

This is a fictional work. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, including events and locations, is entirely coincidental.

Contents

1

California, Here I come

2

The Tale of Sara Clarkston

3

The Back Bay and Alibis

4

Witnesses to the Thirties

5

All Around Town

6

The Back Bay and Blackmail

7

The Plot Thickens

8

Tracking the Truth

9

Secrets Along the Pacific

10

On to Eureka

11

Eureka, the Clarkston Family, and the Investigation

12

Women in Hiding

13

On Humboldt Bay

14

Death in Eureka

15

Searching for Gold

16

Who Killed Sara?

17

Ending the Case

1

California, Here I come

The strangest things happen in life when you least expect them. When Patty told her husband Mickey Mathews about the family mystery on the Sunday before Christmas in 1945, he never thought about the redwood forests of California. The couple finished eating, and the kitchen clock said 7:35. Patty was washing dishes when the phone rang. Sitting on the maroon davenport, Mickey was reading Kenneth Millar’s mystery, The Dark Tunnel.

Moving to the end table, Patty scooped up the black receiver. Listening to the operator, she whispered, It’s Chet…my cousin, Chet Clarkston. Can you talk?

When Mickey’s face registered a blank, she covered the mouthpiece. He’s the son of my mother’s older brother, Jeb Clarkston. You haven’t met my cousins, Chet and Lydia. They grew up in a town called Eureka. That’s about 300 miles north of San Francisco. My Aunt Sara, who always wanted to be an actress, liked staying in San Francisco.

Mickey dog-eared his book. A part-time history professor at Michigan Normal College and a full-time novelist, he studied his wife’s blue eyes. What does he want?

Chet says there’s new information about Sara, who disappeared at the end of 1933. Wrinkling her brow, she added, I was seventeen at the time.

Mickey took the receiver. The words from California sounded hollow like they came through a tunnel: Hi, Mickey! This is Chet Clarkston. Mickey held the receiver away from his ear, and Patty leaned close to listen. Patty tells me you know plenty about investigating.

Chet paused. Can I fill you in about our mother Sara?

My wife may have exaggerated, Chet, but sure, I’d like to know about your family.

Looking out the window facing Normal College’s campus, Mickey watched the snow flurries. The report on the radio at 6:00 said the temperature overnight would dip below 20 degrees, a prediction hardly unusual for Michigan in the winter.

Chet rattled off highlights. Sara Clarkston was last seen at her favorite hotel, the Capitol, in San Francisco, late on December 31, 1933. Twelve years later, she still had not turned up. The police had long since discontinued actively searching.

A friend, Chet continued, "Gene Haley, editor of the Eureka Gazette, recently found an unsigned letter under the office door. The letter might help find what happened to Mom."

He cleared his throat. This is short notice, but we want to invite you and Patty to spend the New Year’s holidays with us. Patty hasn’t been to California since 1939, when her father, Admiral Gilbert, was sent with his destroyer to Pearl Harbor. Patty told Lydia that you two met in early 1941 when she worked at the library of the University of Hawaii.

Chet seemed to search for words. "Mickey, I’d like to meet you. I spent three years with Patton’s Third Army in France. I came home last June. Patty says you wrote a book called Still Fighting, about combat fatigue. Later, you wrote two murder mysteries set in Michigan during the war years."

He followed up on Mickey’s vocation. "Guess what? I read your Warm Springs Mystery, about FDR and the death threats against him in early 1945. Man, it’s really good!"

Mickey grinned, and Chet continued: We live in northern California near the redwoods. Those giant trees, some of ‘em 300 feet tall, those trees are one of the world’s natural wonders. You guys could see the sights, stay with our family, get to know Lydia, too.

Hearing no reply, Chet added, "Okay, I would also like you to help me check on this letter. For years I’ve been determined to solve the mystery of our mother’s disappearance. You might be the one guy who could get the job done. Patty says you can figure out anything!"

Mickey lifted his eyebrows, and Patty blushed. Nodding, he visualized rolling waves turning into whitecaps and pounding on Pacific beaches.

Chet, we’ll come for a visit. It’s winter in Michigan, so this is a good time to get away. I do have two classes starting at Normal College in the first full week of January, so we’d have a deadline.

"Hey, that’s okay! I’m a reporter for the Eureka Gazette, so I set my own schedule. My father and his wife, well, I’m sure they’d like to meet you. They would like to see Patty too."

Mickey told her quietly: I’ll tell him we can travel a day after Christmas, depending on…

Patty knew he was in the middle of writing a new novel, The Frightened Physicists, about two physicists from Buffalo, New York, who reportedly passed atomic secrets to the Russians after working at Los Alamos in 1945.

Turning his focus to Chet, Mickey said, We can leave after Christmas and be there through New Year’s weekend. I’ll fly first, and Patty will follow a couple of days later.

"Geez, that’s great, Mickey! Chet sounded excited. I’ll tell my father you and Patty will be coming for a visit. Pausing, his tone changed. I’ll try to see Lydia, too, and tell her."

They spoke about details of the trip such as Mickey and Patty would fly into San Francisco International, and Chet would meet them. Moments later, the two rang off.

Mickey gazed at his wife. Patty’s eyes sparkled like Lake Huron on a sunny summer day. She planted a lingering kiss on his cheek.

He kissed her softly on the lips. What’s the story about your aunt and her disappearance? I don’t recall you mentioning anything about an unsolved mystery in the family.

Patty leaned back on the couch. Kicking off her slippers, she let her mind wander west where California beckoned like a buried treasure. "I’ve heard certain details from time to time about Aunt Sara disappearing. Really, it’s one of those painful subjects that’s usually avoided when family matters come up. You know, my father is a straight-laced naval officer. My uncle is a wealthy self-made man who made a fortune off his company, Redwood Lumber.

I understand Sara was kind of an eccentric, you know, a beautiful woman with an oddball personality. I think she had one role in an old silent movie. After that, she hob-knobbed with the movie set whenever she stayed in San Francisco at some plush hotel.

Sighing, she reflected on her family’s past. We grew up in Toledo, before moving to Honolulu in 1939, and the Clarkstons lived in California. Lydia’s the oldest; she and Chet, the younger one, grew up in Eureka. We last visited them in 1938, when Chet graduated from high school.

Patty gazed at Mickey’s thin face, hazel eyes, sandy hair, and easy smile. "I can write to Mom about this trip. I know she misses all of the Clarkstons."

Reflecting on his wife’s tale, Mickey thought, what are the odds Sara Clarkston is alive after being missing for twelve years? What he said was, We can check on flight reservations tomorrow.

II

On Christmas night the skies were dark, the ground white with snow, the temperature remained below freezing, and Mickey appeared happy to be inside with friends. Downstairs, in the Tuttles’ half of the cozy bungalow on Emmet Street, the clock in the kitchen showed the time: 8:10. After the two couples enjoyed a turkey-and-trimmings dinner, Mickey and Patty relaxed on adjacent chairs at the white table. Frank and his wife Norma Jean sat across from them. The Mathews sipped rum mixed with Coca-Cola, and the Tuttles held bottles of Stroh’s.

Sure, we’d like to fly to California, Frank observed, except next Tuesday, I’m supposed to start my new position, head of Campus Security here at Normal.

Frank downed a swallow of beer, his blue eyes focused like twin beacons on Mickey. The former Army officer, who retired in the spring of 1941 as a major, had spent the last three years of his thirty-year hitch serving with G-2 at Pearl Harbor. Strong and agile at six-two and 190 pounds, the Baltimore native didn’t look like a man of fifty-five. Mickey came to know the fearless officer in Honolulu in 1941, when he moved from a hotel into Frank’s duplex.

The two became best friends as Mickey wrote his third novel, The Final Secret, about Japanese and German agents and the memorable events leading up to the Pearl Harbor attack on December 7, 1941. Frank moved to Ypsilanti in mid-1942 when Michigan’s governor named him major in the newly-created State Troops. Mickey arrived in Ypsilanti in August 1943. He had returned to his alma mater to help President Yancey White deal with a blackmail threat that broadened into a probe of Nazi espionage. By the end of 1943, Mickey had turned the experiences into yet another novel, The Long Pursuit.

The two friends married their fiancées in a joint ceremony in Ypsilanti on July 29, 1944. Since then, Mickey and Patty lived upstairs in the bungalow. After being married, Mickey and Frank had collaborated on other investigations. The sojourn to California would be Mickey’s first attempt to unravel a mystery without the longtime officer as his partner.

Taking a swig of his drink, Mickey said, I know you need to be here, and I understand. You don’t want to get off to a shaky start with the college.

Still, if you need him, Norma Jean said in her deep voice, Frank can fly to San Francisco.

A longtime waitress, the five-foot-six, blue-eyed blonde still worked at Heart’s Delight, downtown on Michigan Avenue. She had the eye-catching charms and the good looks of an aging Hollywood beauty. The two just clicked, but Frank didn’t figure on marriage, until Mickey renewed his engagement to Patty in 1943.

Glancing at Patty, Mickey, with his trademark smile, moved his eyes from her to Norma Jean to Frank. If I find the going gets too tough, I’ll call you. Meanwhile, how about a refill?

Mickey hoisted his glass. To California and the redwoods! I hate to leave you two in this cold and snow, but I’ll get over it!

Laughing, they enjoyed their drinks. The song Let It Snow! ran through Mickey’s mind. He would be in California in two days, but tonight he was with the three people who meant the most to him. Already his editor had offered a contract if Mickey could find material for a good novel set in California, and American Geography had contracted him to write about the Redwoods.

The onetime Normal College football and baseball star figured on looking into Sara’s long-ago disappearance as well as enjoying a vacation. Little did he know that reopening the unsolved mystery would not only involve family conflicts but also danger and murder.

III

Mickey’s flight left Willow Run Airport at 7:30 on the morning of Thursday, December 27. After stops in Chicago and Denver, and a layover in Salt Lake City, the expected arrival time at San Francisco was 7:20 Pacific Time. He gazed out the small window of the DC-3 as the twin-engine craft climbed slowly into the blue sky above Utah, leveling off at the cruising speed of 300 kilometers per hour. The vibration and the drone from the piston-driven engines had a dulling effect on the senses. From his window seat, Mickey peered down at railroad tracks angling west like a long metal snake. The snow-capped, purple peaks looked like colorful additions to a never-ending model train layout.

As the sun sank slowly in the western sky, Mickey checked his watch. It was 5:30. A steward and two stewardesses walked the aisles as if they were navigating an automated sidewalk. Working as an airline pilot, Mickey concluded, lay beyond his skill level.

Sitting in the aisle seat beside him, a passenger attired in a gray suit stored his Homburg on the overhead rack. Above a trim mustache, he wore wire-rimmed glasses. His skin looked as pale as if he had caught an airborne disease.

Hi, I’m Mickey Mathews. Grinning, the Michigan writer offered his hand.

The seat partner shook Mickey’s hand once, releasing it like it felt too hot to handle. Nodding, he flashed a tight smile. I’m Harry Gentry, from Denver. Wiping his forehead, he looked around the cabin. This airplane seems to be flying rather well.

Mickey paused, watching him fidget. What do you do for a living, Harry?

He replied by offering a stick of gum. I find chewing gum makes these flights more tolerable. Harry eyed Mickey like he had found a long-lost friend. It’s hard to breathe at these altitudes.

Mickey smiled. Two rows ahead he noticed a blonde stewardess. She had blue eyes ringed with mascara, full red lips, and a figure that stretched her blue uniform. Wearing a matching cap with a silver insignia, she carried a drink tray. One by one she greeted passengers with bottles of soda or glasses with mixed drinks.

The stewardess stopped, looking down at the gray-haired Gentry. She leaned over, touching his shoulder with her arm. Drink, sir? She stared at him like he was the most coveted passenger aboard flight 234.

Harry darted his eyes from her face to the tray. How about a whiskey and water?

Certainly, sir! Her frozen smile melted, and she gazed at him. Hooking the tray to the arm of the seat, she mixed the drink. Placing it and a napkin in Harry’s hand, she winked.

Focusing on Mickey, she leaned over. Can I help you, sir? Her smile turned electric, her eyes danced, and she winked slowly.

He couldn’t help but grin. How about a Coke?

Certainly, sir. Do you wish it mixed with rum?

Why not?

She mixed the drink, handed the glass with a napkin to Mickey, and smiled. She jotted on a pair of business cards, handing one to Harry and another to Mickey. If you two need anything more, just wave. Another electric smile followed. Mickey checked the card. Candy Jones wrote Capitol Hotel below her name.

With a flourish, Miss Jones turned to passengers across the aisle. Mickey watched her repeat the routine. He tasted his drink. Weak, he thought. Thinking ahead, he knew in three hours the airliner would cross the Central Valley and the Sierras and begin the descent to San Francisco.

He turned to Harry. I gather you fly for your business.

After a swallow of whiskey, Harry’s smile broadened. Yes, I’m in farm implements. You don’t look like a farmer. He studied Mickey. You look like a major league ballplayer.

Clad in tan khakis, a light blue dress shirt, and a blue striped tie, Mickey had placed his blue sports jacket above on the rack. Grinning, he thought, glad he didn’t say private eye.

Harry remarked, I’ll bet you have friends who need to upgrade the machinery, which our tillers of God’s soil employ. Let me update you about the complete line of implements from Washington Farms. Smiling, he signaled to the stewardess. Another one!

IV

By the time the DC-3’s tires settled on the tarmac of San Francisco International, the sun had vanished beyond the Pacific, the passengers were flight weary, and the stewardesses had less sheen on their smiles. Mickey felt stiff from being confined to his seat for most of the trip. He preferred travel by train, but the rail journey would have taken two days, not just one endless day. Next to him, Harry dozed, wiped out by the drinks and his spiel.

Mickey studied Chet Clarkston’s two-page letter, the one he airmailed to them on December 20, before deciding to call them. Chet wrote about his memories as a teenager without a loving mother and under the thumb of a no-nonsense father. Turning to the war, he shared some details of his Army service. His most memorable award was the Silver Star for gallantry in action at the Battle of the Bulge.

When the aircraft’s door opened, Mickey noticed it was 7:35 Pacific Time. Passengers stood up, yawning, stretching, and retrieving bags. The Michigan writer and his traveling companion shook hands, and joined others in the narrow aisle.

When Mickey passed the pilot and stewardesses at the door, Candy Jones clutched his hand, smiled, and appealed to him with her eyes. The Capitol is the best place you can stay!

Flashing a smile, he stepped onto the airstair and descended the steps, his hair blowing in the breeze off the bay. He followed the line trekking along a red carpet to the waiting room.

The building was a long two-story structure with a low peaked roof of red tile. Inside, a line of friends and relatives flanked two thick ropes hanging on standards. A few held up signs with the name of a relative or friend. At the end of the walkway, Mickey saw the face of a grinning young man, likely Chet Clarkston.

Hey, Mickey! I’m your cousin, Chet!

The Michigan Normal alum smiled. Chet looked an inch shorter than Mickey’s six feet. He had sandy hair styled in the crewcut popular with military and ex-military men. Patty had told Mickey that Chet was twenty-five, a former football player, and a graduate of Eureka High in 1938. He worked for a couple of years as a reporter, attended the University of California in Berkeley, and served in the Army during World War II.

Chet’s grin brightened his round face and blue eyes. Man, am I glad to see you!

He embraced Mickey like a long-lost brother. Hey, you gotta be tired! I did my flying during the war on those big C-47s. Geez, I can do without any more air time!

Chet’s voice sounded rushed but strong. His demeanor was pleasant but hesitant, and his smile wide and quick. His eyes were shining like spotlights on Mickey. He shook hands vigorously. Let’s get your luggage! How many suitcases did you bring?

Just the one, plus this green carry bag. Let’s get mine and head for the Capitol. I reserved a double. Patty will arrive in a couple of days. I have a magazine story to write about the California redwoods, so I’ll check around for a day or two. Did you drive?

"Nope. I took a taxi. The airport traffic can be terrible. I booked a room at the Capitol too. That place is the Ritz. You know, our mother used to keep a suite there…"

When he said mother, a dark look crossed his face. Recovering, he said, Let’s grab your bag.

Retrieving the suitcase, Mickey accompanied Chet down a hallway filled with travelers of every size, shape, and description, most of them dressed like they arrived from colder climates. Men wore suits or sports coats, mostly blue or gray, and carried coats. Women were attired in dresses, high heels, and coats, wore their hair fashionably styled.

Emerging through a set of double doors onto a sidewalk, Mickey saw a line of cabs waiting. Many of the drivers were lounging on the passenger side, beckoning to possible customers.

Standing outside the door in the shadows, Mickey noticed a big man with a flat nose and a jutting chin in a black suit. A Stetson pulled over his eyes barely exposed the stare he directed at him. When Mickey looked again, Black Suit was striding to the end of the taxi stand. There he boarded a black four-door Oldsmobile.

Chet pointed to a muscular man in a peaked cap beside a yellow taxi. He crossed his arms. That’s Ted Barnes. He usually works the Capitol. He’s a nephew of the doorman, Eddie Ballenger. They’re good guys. Ted fought in France. Let’s go!

At the prewar Checker, Chet bubbled with enthusiasm. My cousin, Mickey Mathews, from Michigan. Mickey, this is Ted Barnes. I’ve ridden his cab all over town.

Barnes, an inch taller than Mickey, had dark eyes, kinky close-cropped black hair, and a scar on his left cheek. His wide smile said welcome. How are you, Mister Mickey?

Mickey nodded, shaking hands. He and Chet slipped into the back seat, and Ted hurried around to the front, sliding behind the steering with its blue knob. Chet said, We’re going to the Capitol. He glanced at Mickey. Later, we’re going to investigate about…my mother.

Grinning, Chet added, Mickey’s a writer. He writes murder mysteries!

Ted peered at Mickey through the rearview mirror. "You a detective, or something?"

Mickey chuckled. Or something. He looked at Ted. You work out of the Capitol, Ted?

Yessir, I do. Uncle Eddie, he’s the doorman. He lines me up with business. I can carry you anywhere you want in the city, the peninsula, Oakland. He grinned. I know my way around.

Ted pulled into the traffic. He drove recklessly at times, weaving in and out of the stream of vehicles. Turning right on California 101, Ted announced they would be downtown in a half hour. As they made the turn, Mickey looked behind them. One car back, he saw a black Oldsmobile. He figured the man in the Stetson was in the Olds.

Leaning forward, he said, We may have picked up a tail, Ted. There’s a black Olds one car back. Check on it from time to time. See if he’s still with us at the hotel.

Yessir, the cabby replied, his eyes shifting to the sideview mirror. Excited to have Mickey with him, Chet rambled about what his friends did for a living in San Francisco as well as in Eureka.

In no time they arrived downtown, where lights of many colors sparkled and blinked. Street lights, flashing signs, and billboards fought to dissolve the darkness. Soon, Ted parked at the cab stand in front of the Capitol on Market Street. He said quietly, He’s back there, Mister Mickey, a block behind us. Ted switched off the engine.

Mickey and Chet climbed out, and Ted retrieved the suitcase from the trunk. Mickey said, Let me carry the suitcase. Placing a ten in Ted’s hand, he turned his back to the