"S" is for Silence (34 page)

“Can you imagine dying like that? All I can think is how scared she must have been, how cold and dark it was, and how hopeless she felt.”

I found myself veering away from the images, searching for safety. I could understand the bind Nichols had been in. Once he laid out the facts, that's the picture she'd carry for the rest of her life. But if word ever reached Daisy from an unofficial source, she'd be reeling anyway. Adding his betrayal to the horror would only confound any healing she might hope for in time.

Daisy blew her nose again and moved on to something else. I could see the shift. There was only so much she could process. Little by little she'd assimilate the information, but it was going to take a very long time. She picked up six round black circles that were lying on the table. She said, “He gave me these.”

“What are they?”

“My mother's bracelets. Sterling silver. I'll polish them and wear them, the last thing I'll ever have from her.” She set them back on the table. “I thought you'd be gone by now.”

“Me too.”

“Are you finished?”

“Not quite. Let's go sit in the yard. We need space.” I'd nearly said “air” but I'd caught myself in time. Daisy must have heard the unspoken word because she winced.

We sat together on the back patio in the waning light of day while I laid out my reasons for concluding that Foley was in no way connected to her mother's death.

“That's some comfort,” she said.

“Not much, but it's the best I can do. The rest of it—what happened to your mother—makes my blood run cold.”

“Please let's change the subject. Every time I think about it I feel like I'm suffocating myself. What's left to do? You said you weren't quite finished.”

“I'm wondering where your mother got the dog?”

The question wasn't anything she expected. “It was a gift.”

“From whom?”

“I never heard. What difference does it make?”

“Did the dog have papers?”

“You mean, was she pedigreed? I think so. Why?”

“Because a purebred Pomeranian must have cost a fair penny, even in those days. I think the guy—the mystery lover—bought her the pup. That's why she doted on the little bugger, because the dog came from him.”

She thought about it. “Yes, I can see that. You have anyone in mind?”

“I've got a feeling about Jake sitting in the middle of my gut. We know she took him to small-claims court because a dog of his killed hers.”

“I remember that. A toy poodle named Poppy. Mom had taken her outside. Jake's pit bull attacked her and killed her on the spot. Mom was beside herself.”

“So maybe he thought giving her the new pup was a way of making it up to her.”

“Are you going to ask him?”

“I think not. There's no way I can force him to tell the truth. I'd like to track down the breeder and find out who paid for the dog. I may not have any luck, but I think it's worth a few calls. There are still lots of people around who were part of the picture back then.”

“I'll make supper. We have to eat.”

While Daisy puttered in the kitchen, I sorted through my file and pulled the photocopies of the Serena Station and Cromwell business listings for 1952. There were no breeders. Damn. Nothing's easy in this world. I did count two pet hospitals, five veterinarians, and three pet-grooming shops. I hauled out the local phone book and did a second search, coming up this time with still no dog breeders, six pet hospitals, fifteen grooming shops, and twenty-seven veterinarians. By comparing addresses, I could see that none of the earlier pet-related enterprises had survived to the present day. I didn't picture a grooming shop being passed down tenderly from father to son, but I did think a profitable business might be bought and sold over the years and still retain the original name. Not so here.

I decided to fold pet stores into the mix, and I started making calls, telling my story until I had it down pat. I couldn't think of a reason why anyone would want information about the sale of a pedigreed Pomeranian in the spring of '53, so I was forced to tell the truth. Geez, I hate that. “The dog was killed some years ago and for reasons too complicated to go into, I'm looking for the breeder. This would have been the spring of 1953. Do you know if someone was breeding Pomeranians in the area back then?”

The responses varied from curt to conversational, long stories of much-loved dogs and how they perished, tales of cats crossing state lines to reconnect with owners after long-distance moves. There were more succinct replies:

“No clue.”

“Can't help.”

“Sorry, the boss is gone for the day and I've only worked here three weeks.”

“You might try Dr. Water's Pet Hospital out on Donovan Road.”

“I already talked to him, but thanks.”

“What makes you think it was someone around here. Pomeranians are bred and sold all over the country. The dog could have come from another state.”

“I'm aware of that. I was thinking along the lines of an impulse buy. You know, you pass a pet store, you glance in the window, and there's the cutest little pup you've ever seen.”

I chatted with veterinarians and vet's assistants, pet-store owners, clerks, and dog groomers. I felt as though my tongue were starting to swell. I was on call number twenty-one when the receptionist at a twenty-four-hour emergency facility dropped the first helpful suggestion I'd heard:
“If I were you, I'd try Animal Control. They might keep records going back that far, especially if you're talking about a puppy mill and there was ever a complaint.”

“Thanks. I'll do that.”

As it turned out, Animal Control kept no such files. The man who answered the phone was apologetic, and I thought for a moment that would be the end of it, but he said, “What's this about?”

I went through my truncated account at the end of which there was a moment of quiet. “You know who I think you're looking for? There was a woman who operated a boarding facility about six miles out Highway 166, right where it intersects Robinson Road. I believe she got into breeding Pomeranians in the early fifties, though it didn't come to much. Rin Tin Tin was the popular dog in that day.”

“Is she still in business?”

“No, the kennel shut down, but I know she still lives there because I pass her house two and three times a month when I go to visit my grandkids in Cromwell. House hasn't changed—same bright blue wood frame and the yard's a mess. If the place sold, I should think the new owner would have the good taste to clean up and repaint.”

“You have her name?”

“Daggone it, I sure don't and I knew you'd ask. I was just trying to think. I can't say for sure, but I'd say Wyatt…Wyman…something along those lines.”

“You're my new best friend,” I said, and blew him a kiss.

I went back through the phone book and within thirty seconds I was talking to Millicent Wyrick, who sounded old and cranky and not all that happy to be hearing from me. “Hon, you have to speak up. You want
what
?”

I raised my voice a notch and repeated my spiel, hoping I sounded winsome and sincere while I was yelling at her. “Is there any chance you might have the information?”

I listened to a silence that seemed to bristle with aggravation. “Mrs. Wyrick?”

“Hold your horses. I haven't gone anywhere. I'm setting here trying to think. I know I have it. Whether I can find it is another matter.”

“Is there any way I can help?”

“Not unless you want to dig through my shed. I'm fairly certain I can lay hands on the litter record, but not right this minute. I'm setting down to supper and then I have my shows to watch. Call back at nine and I can tell you if I've had any luck.”

“I'll do better than that. I'll drive out to pick it up.”

Daisy and I finished supper a little after 7:00—salad and pasta with a sauce that came out of a can. Neither of us had much appetite, but the normality of eating seemed to lift her spirits. I left her to read the paper while I rinsed our few dishes and put them in the machine. I heard the phone ring. Daisy picked up and then called into the kitchen. “Hey, Kinsey? It's Liza.”

“Tell her to hang on. I'll be right there.”

I closed the dishwasher and dried my hands on a kitchen towel before I went into the living room. Daisy and Liza were chatting away so I waited my turn. I wanted to ask Liza why she'd lied about Foley, but I didn't think I should raise the subject with Daisy in the room. She might have had a good reason, and there was no point in jeopardizing their relationship if what she had to say made sense. Daisy finally surrendered the phone.

“Hey, Liza. Thanks for returning my call.”

“I didn't mean to be short with you earlier. Violet's death has been hard. I know I should have seen it coming it, but I guess I was holding out that one small hope.”

“Understood,” I said, knowing she didn't know the half of it. “Listen, can you spare me half an hour? There's something we need to talk about.”

“That sounds serious. Like what?”

“Let's don't go into it now. I think it's better in person.”

“When?”

“Now, if possible. It shouldn't take long. I have an appointment at nine, but I could swing by in the next half hour.”

“That sounds okay. Kathy's coming over in a bit, but I suppose that would work. Can you give me a hint?”

“I will when I get there. It's really no big deal. See you shortly.”

I signed off before she had a chance to change her mind.

 

I leaned against the counter in Liza's kitchen, watching her decorate a cake. She wore an oversize white apron over her jeans and white T-shirt. A scarf was tied around her head to keep her hair out of her eyes and off the cake. I could see one curve of the silver locket visible under the apron bib.

“How's your granddaughter?”

“She's great. I know everybody says this, but she really is gorgeous. Big eyes, little pink bow mouth, and this fine brown hair. I can't wait to get my hands on her. Marcy let me hold her for a half a minute, but she was hovering the whole time so it was no fun at all.”

She'd smoothed on the first two coats of frosting before I arrived and she was now piping an elaborate design on the top. “This is for a kid's birthday party. Actually, a thirteen-year-old who's into Dungeons and Dragons, in case you're wondering.”

She'd set up a series of parchment-paper cones, each filled with a different vividly tinted icing, each capped with a metal tip cut to produce a specific effect—leaves, shells, scrolls, flower petals, and rope bordering. With a practiced hand and steady pressure, she created a dragon with a strange dog-shaped face. Switching cones, she defined its arched body in vibrant lime green and orange frostings, and then added strong red frosting to detail the flames that twisted from the dragon's mouth.

“I've seen that dragon. It was on a kimono hanging on the back of Daisy's bathroom door.”

“That was her mother's. I've got the image burned indelibly on my brain.”

I felt myself tripping backward to the notion of Violet buried alive, as though I were in the car instead. Given the size of the Bel Air, there would have been sufficient oxygen to last for a while. The suffocation would have been slow, shutting her down by degrees. Anyone with asthma or emphysema would identify with her panic and suffering. I could only guess. Still, I found myself breathing deeply for the pure pleasure and relief.

When Liza finished decorating the cake, she opened the refrigerator door and tucked it on a shelf. She untied her apron and tossed it over the back of a kitchen chair. “What's this about?”

I'd hoped to be subtle, working my way around to the subject by some delicate route, but I'd been sidetracked by the image of the dragon and came right out with it. “I think you lied about Foley.”

“
I
did?” She seemed taken aback, her tone tinged with surprise, as though falsely accused. Thousands might have lied about Foley, but surely not her. “About what?”

“The time he came in.”

She picked up and then put down the tube of bright blue icing she'd used to form the ground on which the dragon writhed. Apparently my approach wasn't that persuasive because she didn't 'fess right up.

I tried again. “Look, Liza. His story's been consistent for the past thirty-four years. He may have omitted an item or two, but most claims he's made have been verified.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I did the work myself and I'm here to testify.”

“I don't understand what you're getting at.”

“Liza, please don't play games. It's too late for that. My guess is he got home when he said he did and your account was just bullshit.”

“What do you want me to say, that I'm sorry?”

“No point apologizing to me. He's the one you wronged.”

“I didn't
wrong
him. Everything that's happened to him he brought on himself.”

“With a little help from you.”

“Excuse me. Did you come over here to lay shit on me? Because
that
, I can do without. I've got a lot going on.”

I raised my hands. “You're right. I take it back. Life is tough enough as it is.”

“Thank you.”

“Just tell me what happened. Look, I'm sorry about Violet, but I don't understand what went on that night. Were you in the house or not?”

“Kind of.”

“Meaning what? Somewhere in the neighborhood?”

“Don't be a shit or I won't say another word.”

“Sorry. I forgot myself. Please go on.”

There was a pause and then, reluctantly, she said, “Ty came to the house. He parked his truck in the alley and we necked. I was less than twenty feet away so if anything had happened, I'd have been right there. Violet knew he was coming over because we talked about it and she said it was fine.”

“Good. That helps. How long was he there?”

“A while. When I finally came in, the bedrooms were dark. I looked in Daisy's room and knew she was okay. I never thought to check their bedroom. He was probably there if he said he was. Afterwards, I couldn't admit I was irresponsible so I made up a story about the time. Next thing I knew, this deputy was pressing me for answers so what was I supposed to do? By then, I'd painted myself into a corner and I had to stick to my guns.”

“Got it.”

“Good. So now you know.”

There was a moment wherein she was thinking that the subject was closed and I was thinking we were finally going to get some place. I had a theory and I was gingerly feeling my way. “You went to live with your dad in Colorado, didn't you?”

“Yes.”

“I hear that arrangement didn't work out so hot.”

“It was short-lived. A failed experiment, but such is life.” She crossed to the kitchen faucet where she dampened a sponge so she could wipe down the counter. Preoccupied, she scooped a few crumbs into her palm and tossed them into the sink.

“Is this painful to talk about?”

She smiled briefly. “I don't know. I've never had occasion to talk about it.”

“The first time we met, do you remember what you said?”

“About what?” She moved her decorating tips aside, wiping under them as well.

“Losing Violet and Ty. You said, ‘You play the hand you're dealt. There's no point in dwelling on it afterwards.'”

“I must have been waxing philosophical. It doesn't sound like me.”

“Did you get pregnant?”

Her eyes sought mine. “Yes.”

“From that night?”

“First and last time with the guy and boom.”

“What happened to the baby?”

“I put her up for adoption. Would you like to see a picture?”

“Please.”

She set the sponge aside and reached for the heart-shaped locket, pulling it out from under the bib of her apron. She opened it and leaned forward, holding it so I could see. There was a black-and-white photograph of Violet. She flipped the inner rim, revealing a second frame hidden behind the first. In it there was a photo of a newborn. The baby looked frail and wizened, not one of the worst I'd ever seen but certainly not the best. Liza looked down, her expression wistful and proud. “She was so tiny. I couldn't believe it when I saw her, how delicate she was. Know what Violet said when she gave me this? She said, ‘That's for your true love. I predict within a year you'll know exactly who it is.' And so I did.”

“Did you get to hold her?”

“For a while. The nurse advised against it, but I knew it was the only time I'd ever get to spend with her. I was fourteen years old and my father wouldn't consider my doing anything else. I should have stayed with my mom. Despite her problems, she was a good egg and would have found a way to make it work.”

“You have no idea where the baby is?”

“Probably in Colorado. A few years ago, I wrote her a letter and left it with the agency so if she ever wants to reach me, she'll have my name and address.”

“Ty never knew?”

“I'd have told him, I think, if I'd ever heard from him.”

“I talked to him.”

“I know. He called me right afterward and said you'd given him my name and number.”

“Only your married name. He looked up your phone number on his own, which I think should count in his favor. He said he wrote to you. Did he tell you that as well?”

She nodded. “His mom probably intercepted his mail. Or maybe the letters reached my mom and she never sent them on.”

“Or maybe she sent them to your father's house and he decided not to let you know.”

“That would fit. What a shit-heel he was. I've scarcely spoken to him since. I'm sure he thought he was doing what was best. God save us from the people who want to do what's best for us.”

“What happens now?”

“I guess we'll wait and see. Ty said he'd call again and we'd find a way to get together. Wouldn't that be strange after all these years?”

“Will you tell him about his daughter?”

“Depends on how it goes. In the meantime, are the two of us square?”

“Totally.”

She flicked a look at the clock. “Your appointment's at nine?”

“It is. I'll hang out at Daisy's until I have to hit the road.”

“Why don't you stick around? Kathy should be here any minute. You could wait and say hello.”

“To tell you the truth, I'm not all that fond of her, but thanks anyway.”

Liza laughed. “What about Winston?”

“Him, I like.”

“Well, he's apparently on the warpath and she's furious. That's what she's coming over to discuss.”

“Wow. I'm surprised. I'd love to hear about that.”

As though on cue, the doorbell rang and then Kathy opened the door and banged in with a bottle of white wine in hand. She tossed her purse on a chair, saying, “That guy is such an
ass
hole!”

She was wearing heels and hose, a T-shirt, and a floral cotton skirt that was slightly too short for the shape of her legs. She stopped when she saw me. “Sorry. I didn't realize you had company. I can come back later if you're tied up.”

“No, no. Not a problem. Kinsey's met Winston, but I'm sure her lips are sealed.”

I raised my right hand, as though being sworn in.

Kathy was in motion again, coming into the kitchen, where she placed the bottle on the counter. “Well, shit. I don't care who knows about the prick. It serves him right.” She went about the business of opening the wine—cutting the foil, augering out the cork. She crossed to one of the kitchen cabinets and removed three wineglasses, which she lined up on the counter. I declined, so she filled the other two and handed one to Liza.

It was odd to see the contrast between the two blondes. Liza's features were delicate—straight nose; fine, flaxen hair; and a wide mouth. She was slender, with small hands and long, narrow fingers. Kathy's hair was thick, with a slightly frizzy wave that probably got worse when the humidity went up. She was built along sterner lines, with the look of someone who has managed to lose weight but will surely gain it back.

Liza said, “So what's he gone and done?”

“He hired a divorce attorney. That guy, what's-his-butt, Miller, the one whose brother got killed.”

Liza wrinkled her nose. “
Colin
Miller? Kathy, that's bad news. He's horrible when it comes to women. I don't know how he gets away with it. He must have an in with the judges because his clients do great and all the ex-wives end up screwed. Joanie Kinsman wasn't awarded enough support to cover the mortgage. She was forced to live in her car until Bart came along.”

“Perfect. That's just what I need. I don't know what got into him. He must have been burning up the phone lines because the jerk got me served. Can you believe it? I get home from my tennis lesson and there's a process server on my doorstep, shoving all this shit in my face. I felt like a criminal. And get this. He's refusing to leave. Last week I talked him into finding his own apartment and everything was set. Now he won't budge. He says he's paying for the house and he intends to live there and if that doesn't suit me, I can move out myself. Where does he get off? You know what else he said? He says if I give him any guff, he'll default on the loan, quit his job, and take off.”

“Geez,
that's
extreme. Have you talked to your dad?”

“Of course! I called and told him everything.”

“What'd he say?”

“He said I should keep my mouth shut and get a good attorney of my own. He says Winston's a great manager and as much as it would grieve him, he'd have to hang with him.”