"S" is for Silence (33 page)

At first, the notion of Liza having lunch with Violet was absurd. Where'd he get that? She knew he said it to be mean, but he didn't usually make things up. Then she caught his mistake. “Very funny. Ha ha. And where's Daisy all this time? Did you forget about her?”

“She was sitting right there with a big bowl of buttered noodles she was slurping through her lips.”

That was the line that clinched it. Her father had never even been around Daisy. How could he know about her slurping her noodles unless he'd actually seen her do it? She'd protested, arguing the point, but only because she didn't want him to see he'd gotten the best of her. Her mother's feeble attempt to intervene only made it worse.

By the time her father left the house, Kathy was taking the steps two at a time, on her way to her room. She slammed the door and locked it. Weeping, she threw herself across her bed. This was the worst day of her life! She'd never felt so betrayed. Liza had lied about everything. On her very own birthday, she'd chosen to be with Violet Sullivan. They'd spent the whole entire day in a fancy restaurant, eating shrimp. All Kathy had ever wanted was to be with her friend and now look what she'd done.

She wasn't sure how long she'd been crying when she heard a little tap at her door and her mother calling her name. She knew her eyes were swollen to the size of Ping-Pong balls and her nose was so snotty she wondered if she was coming down with a cold. “Go away!”

“Kathy, I brought you something. Do you mind if I come in?”

“Just leave me alone.”

“I have a little treat for you.”

“What.”

“Open the door and you'll see.”

Reluctantly Kathy blew her nose on a hankie and wiped her eyes with the hem of her T-shirt. She got up and unlocked the door.

Her mother stood holding a glass of milk and a plate of brownies. “I made these for my canasta club, but I have plenty. They're your favorite—double chocolate with walnuts and pecans.”

“I don't feel like eating.”

“Not even one? You hardly ate your supper so you must be a little hungry. Can I come in? Just for a minute?”

“I guess.”

Kathy went back to her bed and sat down. Her mother put the glass of milk and the plate of brownies on the bed table. She could tell the brownies were still warm because she could smell the chocolate, as heady as perfume. She couldn't remember when her mother last offered her something to eat. Usually it was the other way around. Yet here they were, Kathy with her heart broken, her mother sitting on the other twin bed, her expression filled with concern. “Are you feeling better?”

“No.” Without looking at the plate, Kathy reached out and took a brownie and held it in her hand.

Her mother said, “I can see how upset you are.”

“So.”

“I can understand why you're mad at Liza for lying, but is there anything else?”

“Like what?” She broke off a corner and put it on her tongue. She could feel tears sting her eyes.

“I don't know, Sweetie. That's why I asked. I get the impression there's more here than meets the eye. Is there anything you want to talk about?”

Kathy couldn't figure out what her mother was getting at. “Not really.”

“Kathykins, I don't want us keeping secrets. That's not what a mother and daughter do when they want to feel close.”

Her mother hadn't called her “Kathykins” since she started her menstrual periods a year and a half ago. Her mother had already bought supplies—a box of sanitary napkins and this strappy elastic-belt thing you had to wear around your waist to hold the pad in place. Demonstrating how to stick the long, gauzy part of the pad in the fastener, she'd had the same worrisome look on her face, like maybe Kathy was suddenly vulnerable in ways she couldn't bear to explain. Her mother went on in that same loving tone. “I know you're withholding something. Can you tell me what it is?”

“I'm not withholding anything.” She broke the remainder of the brownie in two and put half in her mouth.

“You know I'll always love you, no matter what you've done.”

Kathy looked up with astonishment. “Muuther, I didn't do anything! How can you think such a thing when I don't even know what you're talking about.”

“Then what? I want you to be absolutely honest. Whatever you tell me will never leave this room.”

Kathy was silent, staring at the floor. She didn't exactly have a secret but she did have something that seriously concerned her. She knew her mother would have good advice, but she wasn't really sure she could trust her with this. “You'll tell Dad.”

“No, I won't. As long as it doesn't have anything to do with your health or safety. Short of that, this is just between us.”

“It's not about me.”

“Then who? Liza? Did she say something ugly about your weight?”

“No-oo.” Two syllables. Something ugly about her weight? What ugly thing could her mother possibly have in mind? She was the one who talked about inner beauty.

“But it has to do with her?”

“Sort of.”

“Has her mother's drinking gotten worse?”

Kathy shook her head, avoiding her mother's gaze. “I'm just worried, that's all.”

“Oh? And why would that be?”

Kathy had vowed to herself she'd never utter a word of it. Once she figured out how to get Liza to confess, she pictured the two of them in long, heartfelt conversations, sitting up half the night the way they'd done in the past. They'd roll their hair in bobby pins and smear Noxzema on their faces so they wouldn't get zits. Gently, she'd help Liza see the error of her ways and guide her to safer ground.

Her mother studied her. “I don't understand what could possibly be going on with Liza that you're too ashamed to say.”

Kathy felt she was under a certain amount of pressure here, torn between her loyalty to her best friend and her longing to throw herself into her mother's arms. “I promised I wouldn't tell.”

“Does this have anything to do with Liza touching herself?”

“Touching herself with what?”

She saw something shift in her mother's face. “Oh my lord. Is she letting Ty Eddings have his way with her?”

Kathy could feel a little mustache of perspiration forming on her lip.

“Answer me.”

Kathy murmured a reply, keeping it as vague as possible to keep from lying to her mom.

“Speak up.”

“She let him touch her boobs and put his hand…” She managed to mumble that last.

“Where?”

“Down there.”

Livia looked at her, aghast. “She told you that?”

Kathy shrugged one shoulder.

“Are you absolutely sure?”

Kathy said nothing, but she moved her mouth in a way that suggested she was sure. After all, she'd read about it with her very own eyes.

Her mother's gaze was searching. “You wouldn't lie about a thing like this to get back at her?”

“No.”

“How far have they gone?”

“Not very. Just petting.”

“Petting? Is that what you call ‘petting'—when he puts his hand on her privates? That's disgusting. Outside of her clothing or inside?”

She hadn't expected her mother to probe for this kind of detail. The diary hadn't been specific and Kathy didn't like having to commit herself. Outside, inside. Pick one. “Out.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she would have told me if he put his hand inside.”

“Well, thank heaven for small favors. You wait right here. I'm going to take care of this.”

“What are you doing?” Kathy wailed. “You can't tell anyone. You promised.”

“Don't be ridiculous. Ty Eddings was sent here to shape up after the unfortunate situation he created in Bakersfield. If Dahlia York ever found out I knew about this and didn't go straight to her, she'd never speak to me again, and rightly so. I've entertained her in my own home and I owe her that much.”

“But what if Liza finds out?”

“She's not going to find out. Trust me. Your name won't come into it.”

Kathy listened with something close to horror as her mother went downstairs to the phone in the lower hall. Kathy hadn't meant to tell on Liza, but her mother just seemed to jump to the right conclusion before Kathy even said a word. She heard Livia give the operator Dahlia York's number and then there was a silence while she waited to be connected.

Kathy's stomach felt queasy, like she might have to go to the bathroom and do number two. The situation had gotten out of hand, but it wasn't her fault. She couldn't lie to her very own mother, could she? What kind of person would that make her? Besides which, if Liza'd been honest to begin with, she never would have breathed a word of it because that's what best friends do. Petting was wrong. The pastor said it created temptation, that kids might lose their self-control and go all the way. So maybe it was just as well she'd spoken up when she did. She couldn't stand by and let something that horrible happen to her friend. It was like her mother said to Dahlia, her voice drifting up the stairwell: “That boy is sure to take advantage if the situation isn't nipped in the butt.” Her mother's voice went on and on until Kathy tuned her out.

Anyway, how would Liza ever know where Ty's aunt got the information?

My conversation with Ty Eddings was polite and to the point. I gave him a brief synopsis of the situation—the discovery of Violet's body buried in the Bel Air, the speculation about the hole and how long it would have taken to dig. I also repeated what Liza'd told me about the man she and Ty had seen at the Tanner property on Friday night. “Do you remember anything about the make or model of the car? Liza thought it was dark-colored, but that's the extent of it. She says she was so scared she didn't really look.”

“It wasn't a car. It was a late-model black Chevrolet pickup truck.”

“It was? I'm amazed. How do you remember things like that?”

“Because my dad had one like it, only his was a '48. This one was newer.”

“What about the guy? What did he look like?”

“I don't remember him. Old.”

“Like what? You were seventeen.”

“Thirties, forties, something like that. In other words, he wasn't a kid.”

“No one you recognized?”

“I'd been in town for all of three months. I didn't know anyone to speak of except my high school classmates.”

“Good point.” I asked a couple of other questions, but he wasn't any help.

I was moving into my wrap-up tone of voice, not wanting to waste his valuable lawyerly time, when he said, “How's Liza doing?”

“Great. I'm so glad you asked. She's divorced. She bakes cakes for a living. She's just become a grandmother for the first time, but you'd never guess by looking at her because she's gorgeous. Too bad you didn't keep in touch.”

“Don't blame me. That was her decision. I wrote six or seven times, but I never heard back. I assumed she wasn't interested.”

“That's not what she says. You disappeared the same weekend as Violet. She was devastated. Even now she says you were the love of her life. ‘A bad boy, but so adorable.' Her words.”

“Are you
matchmaking
?”

I laughed. “I don't know. Are you available?”

“Actually, I am. My wife ran off with my secretary eighteen months ago. Talk about a loss. The wife, I don't miss. My secretary was the most efficient woman I ever met in my life.”

“Liza's married name is Clements. She's in the phone book. If you remember anything else, I'd appreciate your giving me a call.”

“Will do,” he said, and clicked off.

I tried Liza's number. She was either out or screening her calls, so I left a message on her machine, asking her to get back to me. My purpose had nothing to do with her erstwhile boyfriend. She'd lied to me about Foley and I wanted to know why. I glanced at my watch. It was 4:35, and at best I owed Daisy another hour and a half. It's not that I was punching a time clock, but I felt honor-bound. The problem was there was almost no point in confronting anyone else because who'd be dumb enough to volunteer the truth? You'd have to be a fool to admit anything when most claims couldn't be proved or refuted after thirty-four years. The best I could hope for was to encourage folks to rat each other out. Even then, the answers wouldn't be definitive. A clever killer would make it his business to implicate someone else. In any event, the problem wasn't mine to solve. The sheriff's department was handling the homicide, mustering all the authority, expertise, and technical advances at their disposal. All I needed to do, with Daisy's permission, was to pass along my report, which might or might not help.

However.

Ty Eddings had given me one small lead to pursue. If anyone was going to know who once owned a black Chevrolet pickup it would be the man who sold them. I'd talked to Chet Cramer twice and he'd struck me as a nice enough man. He knew his inventory and his customers, and he was passionate about both. What harm would it do to run the question by him? For the second time that afternoon, I picked up my jacket and shoulder bag and went out to my car.

 

As I'd anticipated, Cramer was on the premises. In the interest of snagging business, the dealership stayed open until 9:00 every night. Chet told me that at the end of a hard day's work (and a couple of stiff drinks), many a man found himself in the mood to look at new cars. What better reward for a job well done than to sit in a red-hot Corvette, with a salesman fawning over you, demonstrating all the bells and whistles, offering to cut you a deal. You might pretend you were window-shopping until you realized you could actually drive a new car home.

Cramer was schmoozing with a married couple when I walked in. He was such an old hand at selling that I doubted they even realized what was happening. He had Winston fetch the keys and he watched with something close to parental pride when Winston went off with them on a test drive. He caught sight of me and greeted me warmly, perhaps thinking I was finally in the mood to buy.

I said, “I'm here to test your memory. I'm trying to find out who owned a black late-model Chevy pickup truck back in 1953.”

He smiled. “Half the men in town,” he said. “Let's go up to my office and I can check.”

“Glory be. You still have records from that era?”

“I have records dating back to 1925, the year I got into the business.”

I climbed the stairs behind him and followed him to his office. He opened a door and led me into a storage area easily as large as his office. File cabinets lined the walls on three sides, each drawer neatly labeled with dates and vehicle types.

I said, “I don't believe this.”

“Well, I'll tell you why I keep these. Every vehicle I sell represents a future sale. Customer comes in, I can talk about the cars he's owned and every servicing he's had. I can compare last year's model to this year's, compare this year's model to the one he was driving six years ago. Good points and bad. He knows he can trust me because I have the facts at my fingertips, and I've taken the time to look them up before he walked in the door. Guy dies, I talk to his son, reminisce about the old man, and maybe sell him a car as well.”

Without mentioning Ty by name or detailing the circumstances, I told him what I knew.

Cramer regarded me with interest. “So you're saying this fellow would have recognized the truck because his father had the 1948 model.”

“Right. And it couldn't have been later than 1953 because the '54 models wouldn't have come out as early as July.”

“You're correct on that point. So a span of five years. That shouldn't be too hard. Have a seat and I'll pull what I have. There's a tin of chocolate chip cookies on my desk if you want to help yourself. My wife made them. Caroleena. She's a fabulous cook.”

The cookies were incredible, so I treated myself to another while I waited for him. Five minutes later he emerged from the room with an armload of files, saying, “I keep these cross-referenced. Customer's name with the type of vehicle he's bought from me before. I don't go so far as to color code, but I can lay hands on the contract for every vehicle I've sold. What I have here is the Advance Design Series, 1949 through 1953.”

He handed me a scratch pad, pen, and two of the files while he took the other three. We sat and went through them contract by contract, checking the color of the pickup, noting down the names of anyone who'd bought a black one. Twenty-five minutes later, we each had a list, though mine wasn't at all enlightening. He got up and made copies of both lists and gave them to me.

I ran my eye down the names on his list. “No one I recognize.”

He shrugged. “The truck might have been repainted.”

“In that case, we'd have no way to find the owner.”

“Another possibility, the fella might have borrowed the truck. In those days, nobody locked their doors, and half the time people left their keys in the ignition.”

“I've heard that before and it actually makes sense. You go out to dig a grave, you don't want use your own truck complete with California plates. Well. I'm sorry I wasted your time.”

“I guess every lead you get isn't going to pay off.”

“That's for sure. Mind if I pick your brain about something else?”

“I'll help if I can. It's not like I have total recall of anything much beyond this dealership.”

“Understood. I've been digging and I've come up with something quirky.”

“That being?”

“Hairl Tanner's will.” I went on to tell him what I'd discovered about the terms.

“I hadn't heard about that. Sounds like the old man had a mad-on about something. Wonder what it was?”

“I think Jake and Violet had a fling and he found out.”

Some of the complacency faded from his eyes. “I don't believe it.”

“What, that they had a fling or that Tanner found out?”

“Violet and Jake. I can't imagine such a thing.”

“Why not? Jake must have been handsome. I mean, he's not bad-looking now, and I can just imagine how he must have looked back then. His wife was dying of uterine cancer so his sex life couldn't have amounted to much. If he ran into Violet at the Moon, what with all the drinking that went down, it wouldn't be surprising if the two of them stumbled into a relationship. From what I've heard, she went after just about every man she saw.” I was so intent on persuading him that I hadn't paid attention to his reaction. Now I caught a glimpse of his face and I flashed on the fact that he was married to a bloated Violet Sullivan clone. He had access to any number of pickup trucks and I had no idea what he'd been doing with his time in the days before she died. How dumb could I get? Here I sat, about to lay out the evidence I'd gathered, when for all I knew, he was as capable of killing her as anyone else.

“Go on,” he said.

I backpedaled. “That's about it. I don't have any proof. I was hoping you might've heard a rumor to that effect.”

“I did not and it would grieve me to learn it was true. Mary Hairl was a lovely woman, and if Jake fooled around on her he should be ashamed.”

“Well. I trust you'll keep the notion to yourself. It's pure speculation on my part and I wouldn't want him to suffer your ill-opinion if he's innocent.”

He straightened up abruptly, dismissing me with a wave. “I best get back to work. I've got things to do.”

“Sure. Sorry to keep you. I appreciate your help.” We shook hands across the desk. As I was leaving his office, I glanced back and noticed he hadn't moved.

I went down the big staircase to the ground-floor showroom. I wanted to have a conversation with Winston to see if he had any reason to believe there was a link between Violet and Jake. He was in his office but so deeply engrossed in a telephone conversation he didn't look up. I went out to the parking lot, where I unlocked my car and slid under the wheel. I was reaching for the ignition when the penny finally dropped. For days I'd been convinced I was missing something obvious, but the more I tried to pin it down, the more elusive it became. Now, without warning, I finally
got
what it was.

The dog.

 

Daisy's car was in the drive when I arrived at the house. I'd returned the key to its hiding place beneath the flowerpot. Rather than walk in unannounced, I rang the bell politely and waited on the porch until she opened the door. I took one look at her and knew something was wrong. She was still wearing her work clothes. The pallor in her complexion had shifted to the gray end of the spectrum and her eyes were pinched with tension. I didn't think she'd been weeping, but she'd suffered a shock.

“What is it?”

She put a hand against her mouth and shook her head. Like a sleepwalker, she crossed to an upholstered chair and sank down on the edge. I closed the front door behind me. I moved to the sofa and sat down with my knees nearly touching hers. “Can you tell me what it is?”

She nodded, but said nothing. I had to wait her out. Whatever it was, she'd been hit hard. A minute passed and she sighed. Was her father dead?

Another minute passed.

When she finally spoke, her voice was so low I had to lean close to hear. “Detective Nichols was here. He left a few minutes ago, and when you rang the bell, I thought he'd come back.”

“Bad news?”

She nodded and fell silent again. “They found two brown paper bags filled with my mother's clothes in the trunk. It's clear she was leaving us or at least she believed she was.”

“You must have guessed as much,” I said.

“That's not it.”

I put a hand on her arm. “Take your time. It's fine. I'm not going anywhere.”

“He said if there was any way to avoid telling me he would, but he was worried word would leak out and he didn't want me to hear it from anyone else.”

I waited.

“The techs went over the car.”

I waited.

She took a deep breath and exhaled with an audible sound. “When the pathologist peeled the curtain away from her body, they realized my mother's hands were bound behind her back. They think she was alive for some time. It looks like the dog was killed with a shovel they found in the bottom of the hole once they got the car out. It's possible the guy knocked her out and he put her in the car, thinking she was dead. At some point she must have come to and realized what was going on.”

She stopped, fumbling in her pocket for a tissue. She blew her nose. “Even tied up, she'd tried to claw her way free. Her fingernails were broken off and some were caught in the upholstery fabric. There were tiny shards of glass embedded in the bones of her heels. She managed to kick out the window, but by then he must have started filling in the hole.”

She paused, struggling. All I could do was look on, allowing her to take whatever time she needed. The air felt heavy, and I could sense the weight of the darkness Violet must have known. Why scream for help when the silence would have been profound, thick yards of soil muffling any sound? The blackness would have been absolute.

Daisy went on, addressing her remarks to the crumbled tissue. “I asked him. I asked…what it would have been like for her. How she died. He said carbon dioxide poisoning. I forget some of it…the technical stuff. He said basically, how deeply you breathe is regulated by your arterial oxygen pressure and carbon dioxide tension, some kind of pH that controls the reflexes in your lungs and chest wall. If there's not enough oxygen in the mix your breathing picks up. Your body has to have oxygen so it's compelling…this instinctive drive to take in air. Her heart would have started racing and her body heat would have spiked. She'd sweat. She'd be having chest pains that would only get worse. She'd breathe faster and faster, but every breath she took would use up more oxygen and produce more CO
₂
. She'd start hallucinating. He said her systems would shut down, but eventually there might have been a kind of peace…once she resigned herself to her fate.