Sentimental Journey: A Mike Lander Mystery Read online

  Sentimental Journey

  A Mike Lander Mystery

  Aaron H Oliver

  Aaron H Oliver

  Copyright © 2020 Aaron H. Oliver

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 9781234567890

  ISBN-10: 1477123456

  Cover design by: Art Painter

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

  Printed in the United States of America

  To my wife for her persistent encouragement, and my beta readers for their support and suggestions.

  Cover Design

  Photo by Dr-MasterMind from Pixabay

  Pixabay License for Image

  Free for commercial use

  No attribution required

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Cover Design

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  Afterword

  About The Author

  Books By This Author

  1

  The man set fire to a cigarette and then went to the window. He puffed and stared intently through the slits between the blinds in thought. Just as I was about to nudge him into action, he walked over and dropped in the lounge chair across from my desk and began.

  “On the afternoon of the murder, tensions were high among the guests. During our picnic, we had witnessed an unsettling confrontation between our host and his best friend. So, when someone suggested we call it a day, there was a rush to gather our belongings. Then, the shot rang loud and clear,” the narrator stated. He had a square face with a pointed chin, a stubby nose, and small lips. His brown eyes were slender, and his eyebrows thinned a tinge toward the end.

  He continued, “The noise caused everyone to freeze, staring up at the house. It lasted only a second, then in mass, we dashed across the lawn and up the steps. We became muddled about where to look when Miss Jenson blurted “the pool.” I am not sure how I got in the lead,” the speaker frowned as he crushed his cigarette out in the glass ashtray on my desk, “but I reached the scene first. The others hurried behind me.”

  Nolan Cartwright was a prospective client who had seen my name in the newspapers. It had been a short column, from a few years ago, about a kidnapping case that I’d resolved with success. The reporter was generous and painted a nice outline of my skills. Cartwright felt the man featured was just what he needed to handle his case. He showed up at my office without an appointment.

  The story he spilled connected to a forty-eight-point front-page murder case that had everybody talking. One of the nation’s prolific producers of radio drama was dead. The prospect had paused his tale to notice if I was taking notes. I was, so he continued, “Michael Waldstein, Jay’s best friend, stood between us and the pool. His head hung low, and we followed his gaze. There was a faint, timid movement of the water as a breeze furrowed the surface. There a body wafted on the ripples as a red blot discolored the liquid.”

  The newspaper lay on my desk and I glanced at the banner:

  The Great Gadsden Murdered–Lawyer Shoots Radio Tycoon at Poolside

  I looked up and saw the square face locked on the headline. The penetrating stare melted into an ethereal gaze. “I embraced the jazz age lifestyle,” Cartwright mused and then smiled at the statement adding, “a sentimental journey; a form of chemical madness, Fitzgerald called it.”

  I replied with a contrite chuckle, “I don’t understand?”

  He lit another smoke, took a drag, and blew a cloud above his head. He peered up into the haze as he said, “My father worked for the Council on Books at Wartime, and he pushed through the inclusion of his book as an Armed Forces Edition.”

  Puzzled I said, “You have me a little confused. Are we talking about a book or something else altogether? Is someone named Fitzgerald involved in this case?”

  “Sorry,” he replied, “the exchange got me thinking about how the situation reminds me of a book I read.”

  I replied with a contemptuous attitude, “Does this book have anything to do with the murder? Some mystery novel?”

  “No, it doesn’t. I am here because I believe Waldstein is innocent. He did not kill Gadsden.”

  I adjusted my pencil and notebook. “You should start from the beginning. You also tossed out a name, and I need to have a clear picture of who’s who.”

  Nolan Cartwright leaned back in his chair and began with events from a month earlier. By profession, he was a freelance writer. New Egg publishing had hired him to update several Zane Grey novels for a modern line of western paperbacks they wanted to launch. Since the war, the paperback market had boomed, and the publisher hoped to get in on the action. Cartwright had done additional work, including ghostwriting for people who had published with the company.

  To help ensure he got the job done without interruption, the owner of New Egg had arranged a bungalow for Cartwright to work from at Big Bear Lake. It thrilled the writer. The place was one of the first mountain recreation areas in Southern California. Resorts and cabins in the area had attracted vacationing Hollywood celebrities starting in 1921. Early summer in the city was just ahead with its unbearable sweltering days making lake life sound perfect for the scribe.

  His bungalow was part of a three-unit complex on the estate of Jamison Gadsden. Gadsden was a big-league west coast radio producer of shows such as Danger Is My Calling, Dealers Double, and Morse Code of Love. He and the New Egg owner were friends and business associates. The executive had licensed the publishing company’s works for use as radio shows. There had even been talk of Gadsden branching out into the dynamic medium of television, which was hungry for material.

  Cartwright with mirth said, “To be honest, I just couldn’t believe my luck.”

  The mountain reservoir was peaceful. The first days there, he set up a chair and a table under an oak tree outside his unit. With manuscripts in hand, he began editing the old stories. New Egg had purchased the author’s earliest works from 1910, and they required major revisions to fit into the updated format for the paperback market.

  Each day of that inaugural week was perfect, and Cartwright edited two novels. On Tuesday of the second week, as the writer was reviewing his notes, a new neighbor moved in. He was a tall, firm faced man with a receding hairline, with a disciplined feel about him. This was Michael Waldstein, Gadsden’s attorney, and longtime friend. Cartwright found the lawyer likable, and he talked with him under the shade of the oak.

  “Your marvelous tranquility will soon end,” the counselor had submitted

  The remark had perplexed Cartwright. “What’s about to happen?”

  “Jamison and his posse are about to descend on the estate,” the lawyer replied, and added, “However, there is a single perk. That third bungalow,” Waldstein gestured to the unit as he spoke, “is about to gain a very attractive occupant. Jennifer Bailey is a good friend of Gadsden’s wife. She is a dark-haired, curvaceous beauty.”

  Waldstein had not been wrong on eith
er account. That weekend the residence was a blazing beacon in the night, filled with the sounds of music and laughter.

  “I tell you, Mr. Lander, it was Fitzgerald’s Great Gatsby come to life.” He purred, “Men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars.”

  Cartwright fell silent as he mused. Then, “Waldstein's depiction of Jennifer Bailey was also on the mark,” he confirmed. “Her blue eyes, buxom figure and deep sultry voice enchanted me.” He gave an uncertain smile. “I hate to say it, but I got caught up in the gayety of life on the lake at the estate,” Cartwright admitted. “Waldstein became an exceptional friend, and Jennifer, well again my luck.”

  All work ended that weekend as people flocked nonstop to the site. Gatherings featured lavish catered dinners, while nights included a jazz combo for dancing, and a special evening featured a live radio broadcast of Playhouse of the Stars with William Conrad as Sam Spade in The Maltese Falcon.

  “Jennifer and Waldstein opened doors for me to the inner circle,” the writer’s tone elevated. “They introduced me to Gadsden’s wife Bella. She has a voluptuous figure, and...,” he tapped the corner of his eye, “feline green eyes that could mislead you.”

  “Anything else?” I injected.

  He dragged on his cigarette, then exhaled. “She acted affably, but she oozed a shallow attitude toward life. Then there was the medical man of the group, Dr. Howard, Tim to all his friends. He is a wiry, good-looking fella. The Doctor rents a small cabin on the opposite side of the lake for his residence and office. Dr. Howard always had a lady on his arm.”

  My fingers cramped as the list of other members of the entourage flowed. They included associates connected with Gadsden’s enterprise. Radio director Beck Chester, scriptwriter Webster Hornbeam, musical coordinator Isaac Caffery, and his personal secretary Catherine Jenson. New to the lot was Belmont Matthews, who had joined the family unit to collaborate with Gadsden on branching out his operations into the television medium. Then there was the Great Gadsden himself. Cartwright spoke with admiration about the producer.

  “During the early evening,” Cartwright reminisced, “before the parties started, I’d find him standing alone along the lake. He’d be there, staring across the water at the lights blinking on the far side. Sometimes we would talk about money and power, mingling with the famous and infamous, and the hard work behind remaining wealthy.”

  “Sounds as if you liked the guy?”

  “I did,” my prospect lamented. “He learned about radio during the Great War and used that knowledge when he returned to the states to build an empire. Jay…” Cartwright paused, then added, “that’s what his friends called him. Jay Gadsden was an impressive person.”

  The pause allowed me to glance at my notes. “You said, Waldstein was likable.”

  “He was.”

  I faced the gazette toward him. “The newshawks report Waldstein as having an affair with his friend’s wife. In my book, they call that motive.”

  Cartwright paled. “Look, there is a lot more to the story, just let me finish.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Cartwright continued to recount the events of that month along Big Bear Lake. Most days started at noon because they filled their nights with drinking, dancing, playing cards, or twilight cruises in Jay’s motorboat. Every day was a party.

  On one unforgettable and enchanted evening, the millionaire arranged a private dinner get-together. He sent out personalized invitations for the exclusive bash. With Jennifer at his side, the writer had ranking at the black-tie social. It was a modest gathering of businessmen and their wives who all vacationed around the lake.

  “There was a couple, Joe and Maisie Brennan, whose presence instigated a minor whisper campaign among the guests. He was a husky brute,” Cartwright stated. “One of those unrestrained types, who tell crude jokes, slaps you on the back all the time and calls you chum. The undertones said they were from Chicago. That he had made his money as a member of the North Side Gang.”

  This interested me, as gangsters always did. “What about the wife?” I asked.

  “No similarities in the slightest to her husband,” exclaimed Cartwright. “Quiet, almost timid, with a wholesome curious mesmerizing beauty. She enraptured Gadsden, and he spent hours with her. Much to Bella’s dismay.”

  “He already knew her?”

  Somewhat startled, Cartwright answered, “Yes,” then wondered, “But how did you guess?”

  “Call it professional instinct.”

  As Cartwright would learn during a twilight conversation with the millionaire, Maisie Brennen was his true love. They were together in Ohio. Her father owned the grocery, while his was a poor factory laborer. Maisie’s parents had plans to send their daughter to an upscale women’s college nullifying their relationship.

  Heartbroken, Gadsden used the war as a way of escaping. Although he never got replies, he wrote to Maisie during those years overseas. In the aftermath, his dreams of working with radio took hold, and memories of his lost love faded. Then during a business trip to Chicago, a picture in the Tribune of Maisie resurrected old feelings. He hired an investigator to learn about her life and her marriage.

  “So, he knew the Brennan’s were staying across the lake.”

  “I reckon so,” the man agreed. “When I reflect on it, I don’t think he was clearing mental cobwebs during those evenings at the water’s edge. I imagine he was dreaming of lost love just out of reach.”

  “Very romantic,” I snorted. “Do you believe this infatuation connects to the crime?”

  “Brennan is a hood. If he suspected that Gadsden was striving to…” he paused in a stutter saying, “woo his old sweetheart and rekindle their passion, he might have taken measures.”

  “Was he trying to win her affections?”

  Annoyed, he stubbed out his second smoke in the brass ashtray on the desk. “He was,” he mumbled.

  “What?”

  “He was," Cartwright declared. "The pair met for a lunchtime rendezvous. They used my bungalow,” he faltered. “It was an innocent scene but an event that roused feelings in both for bygone times. Maisie’s marriage was stormy, her spouse was cruel. While Jay's union to Bella, his second, was a lifeless experience. In this, their crepuscule of life, they both felt this was their chance to be sincerely happy."

  “Did Brennan know about the lunch?”

  “How or if Joe Brennan suspected something was unclear,” Cartwright pressed down in the chair. His account seemed to agitate him, and he drummed his fingers. “But I can tell you he never left Maisie’s side again after that meeting. Except for the…”

  “Go on.”

  Gadsden needed to visit his production facilities in Los Angeles, so he invited the crew to join him. He called it a fun field trip. Most considered it work. In truth, all he wanted was for Maisie to see his offices, his studio, and the empire he had built.

  The group formed a car caravan to travel the forty minutes to the workspace in Hollywood. After the tour, the crowd headed over to the Sunset Strip for drinks, dinner, and dancing. Cartwright's impression was that things were going well. Then Joe became enraged, striking Maisie. Gadsden jumped to her defense, ushering her out of the restaurant.

  “Waldstein and Tim pushed Brennan into a corner, calming him down,” the writer remembered.

  “That’s Dr. Howard?”

  “Yea. Then Bella and Jennifer dashed after Jay and Maisie. When the crowd reassembled, we heard that Jay was driving Maisie home.”

  That puzzled me. “Whose idea was that, and what did the wife have to say about the arrangement?”

  “I don’t know. But moments later we were all returning home.”

  “What was the conversation during that excursion?”

  “I had Jennifer and the Doctor in my vehicle, and Bella was riding with Waldstein. Nobody with me was talking. The rest of the staff had their own ride.”

  I looked up. “Where was Brennan?”

 
“He drove his car and followed behind on the main road until it forked at the Electric Catfish. It’s a year-round establishment for fishermen. They have motel rooms and some furnished cabins, even some kind of diner attached. I can’t recall all the details. You’d never know the joint is there, albeit for the neon sign.”

  “Big fish outlined in blue,” I reflected, “with an oblong gigantic yellow eye that stares down at passersby?”

  “That’s it. Police had brought traffic to a slow crawl on the main roadway, blocking our fork to the high-side of Big Bear. Brennan’s branch to the opposite side was unimpeded, and he sped on. Twenty men and a handful of women stood on the roadside in a bunch. As we inched forward, we saw them grouped around a body lying on the ground. We rolled to a stop to make inquiries from the deputy directing traffic. He informed us a passing car had run over a woman. The driver of that vehicle whizzed away.”

  “The victim. Could anyone identify her?”

  “We didn’t get a name or any more details; we just drove on to the house.”

  “Did you hear whether the person struck had bad or life-threatening injures?”

  “Tim had offered his services, but they said she was dead.”

  Cartwright was perspiring and had become fidgety, making infinitesimal movements with his body, such as recurrent shifts of his feet. As he continued, I understood the reason for his discomfort. It was late when they reached the estate, and the doctor parted company for his cabin. Inside, the rest of the group encountered Gadsden in an agitated state. The millionaire said that Maisie had still been nervous after they crossed the county line. She thought driving would help her relax. The switch gave all indications of working until they approached the lake and she became overexcited. Gadsden said there had been somebody, a woman, standing, waiting on the curb, and he swore she rushed out at them.

  “He stated, Maisie turned away at first, but then…” Cartwright trembled as he talked. “The auto bounced with the encounter, and he knew she was dead.”