26
We drove back to Daisy’s house. My impulse was to have her drop me off so I could pick up my VW and head for home, but she asked me to go with her to tell her father about the discovery of Violet’s body. I wasn’t sure she’d fully absorbed the impact of her mother’s death. Under the surface calm, she had to be in a fragile emotional state. She’d longed for closure, but surely not this kind. Though she hadn’t said as much, she’d probably had her hopes pinned on the notion that Violet was still alive, which would have afforded them the option of reconciliation. The certainty about Violet’s fate created more questions than answers, and none of the options seemed good.
In the meantime, ever practical, I made a quick dash inside and moved the clothes from the washer to the dryer so I could have my jeans back before I hit the road. We drove to Cromwell in Daisy’s car, and when we pulled up in front of the rectory, we could see Foley sitting on the porch in a wooden rocker, his hands in his lap. In the aftermath of the assault, his face looked painfully swollen. His cheeks and eye sockets had ballooned up as though tight with air, and his bruises were a deeper shade of dark blue and more widespread. He’d showered and his clothes were fresh, but the packing in his nostrils and the splint on his nose had precluded washing his hair. A residue of dried blood matted the strands. Watching us approach, Foley had to know the news was bad, in the same way you know you’re in for a jolt when a somber-looking state trooper comes knocking at your door.
Daisy stopped a few feet short of the porch. “Has anyone told you?”
“No. Pastor said there was a call, but I refused to take the phone until I heard from you.”
“They found her buried in the car. ID hasn’t been confirmed, but the dog was buried with her and there’s no doubt as far as I’m concerned.”
“How was she killed?”
“They won’t know until the autopsy tomorrow or possibly the day after.”
“At least she didn’t leave us. I take comfort in that.”
“Not in the way we thought.”
“Do you think it was me that harmed her?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“I did love her. I know you don’t believe me, but I loved her with all my heart.” A tear trickled down each side of his face, but the effect was odd, like he’d suddenly sprung pinhole leaks. Personally, I thought it was the wrong time to try defending himself. Daisy didn’t seem receptive and she sure wasn’t interested in seeing him play victim. We all knew who the real victim was in the overall scheme of things.
“That’s no way to love, Daddy. With a fist? My god. If that’s what love is about, I’d just as soon do without.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“So you say. All I remember is your punching her out.”
“I can’t argue the point. Sometimes I hit her. I don’t deny the fact. What I’m saying is you can’t fix on one part and think you understand the whole. Marriage is more complicated than that.”
“You better hire yourself another lawyer, Daddy, because I’ll tell you what’s complicated. She was wrapped in a lace curtain and the dog’s skull was crushed.”
In the car driving back to her place, I kept my mouth shut, sensing she was in a dangerous mood. Finally she said, “I swear to god, if he killed her I want you to nail his ass.”
“I wish it were that simple, but it’s not up to me. This is a homicide investigation and believe me, the sheriff’s department doesn’t need my help or interference. I may be a licensed PI, but that cuts no ice with local law enforcement. The quickest way to alienate the cops is to tromp on their turf.”
Daisy’s face seemed set. “You owe me a day. I gave you a twenty-five-hundred-dollar retainer. Five hundred a day for five days and you’ve worked four.”
“Well, that’s true.”
“One day. That’s all I’m asking for.”
“Doing what?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something. I understand what you’re saying about the sheriff’s department, but at this point you know more about the case than they do.”
“True again,” I said. I had my own curiosity to satisfy, and I was already thinking of ways to do it that wouldn’t entail stepping on their toes. In times past, I may have been a teeny tiny bit guilty of crossing the line, but I was feeling virtuous this round. So far, at any rate.
When we reached her house, I slipped my jeans on hot out of the dryer, gathered my toiletries and the few remaining articles of clothing, and shoved it all in a plastic bag. I grabbed my shoulder bag, tossed both bags in the backseat of my car, and backed out of the garage. It was Saturday afternoon. Government offices were closed, but the Santa Maria public library was open and might be worth a look-see. I drove into town, heading north on Broadway as far as the 400 block, where I pulled into the parking lot.
The library is housed in a two-story Spanish-style structure with the ubiquitous red-tile roof. Santa Teresa architecture shares certain similarities with Santa Maria, though much of the latter looks less than twenty-five years old. I hadn’t seen an “old town” or anything resembling the mix of Spanish, Victorian, post-Victorian, Craftsman, and contemporary houses that Santa Teresa boasts. Many neighborhoods, like Tim Schaefer’s, date to the ’50s, ’60s, and ’70s, decades in which single-family residences were miraculously charm free.
Once inside, I asked for the reference department and was directed to an elevator that took me to the second floor. My first job was to pull the roll of microfilm for the Santa Maria Chronicle covering June 1, 1953, to August 31, 1953. I threaded the film through the machine and scrolled day by day, looking for anything of significance.
On a national level, June 19, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg were executed at Sing Sing. There was apparently new hope for a truce in Korea. On the local scene, according to the advertisements, gas was selling for twenty-two cents a gallon, a loaf of bread cost sixteen cents, and a sixteen-ounce jar of Kraft Cheez Whiz cost fifty-seven cents. Livia Cramer had given a home-demonstration party, whatever that was, and the ladies who’d been awarded prizes were listed. Cecil B. DeMille’s Cleopatra, starring Claudette Colbert and Warren William, was playing at the local theater, along with a 3-D movie called Bwana Devil. Approaching the Fourth of July weekend, I saw that the Santa Maria Indians had a game scheduled with the San Luis Obispo Blues at 8:30 in the Elks Field, and the 144th Field Artillery Battalion was having a Fourth of July Reunion BBQ. As I’d surmised, while many businesses were open on Friday, banks and government offices were closed. Eventually I came across the article about Violet’s disappearance, a copy of which Daisy had tucked in her file. I started printing out pages, beginning with June 30 and continuing into the following week.
I went into a room devoted to genealogy and local history. I checked the volumes on the left-hand wall and located the county directory for 1952. The 1953 edition was missing, but I thought the 1952 data would be more useful in any event. I set my shoulder bag on the floor and took a chair at one of the tables.
In going over my notes, I’d come across the map I’d sketched on my first trip to Serena Station. I’d met many people who’d been intimately connected to Violet, but I hadn’t talked to those on the periphery. In a murder investigation, anyone with something to hide could lie, obfuscate, or point a finger at someone else. A disinterested observer was a better source of information.
Serena Station was accorded two pages in the city-county directory: roughly sixty families listed by address, name, and occupation. I counted forty-seven homemakers, eleven oil workers, a nurse, a bartender (BW McPhee), a ranch hand, four railroad workers, eight laborers, a postmaster, and a teacher. Foley was calling himself a construction worker in those days, and Violet was listed as a housewife, not a homemaker, I noted. The Blue Moon, a Laundromat, and the auto-repair shop were the only three businesses in town. The Sullivans’ neighbors to the left were Jon and Bernadette Ericksen, and on the street behind them, backing up to their rental house, was a couple named Arno
ld and Sarah Treadwell. One house down from the Ericksens, there was a family named Hernandez. I made notes, not knowing at this point what information would be worth pursuing. I spotted Livia and Chet Cramer’s names, but no family named Wilcox or Ottweiler. I checked the five pages devoted to the small town of Cromwell, spotting both sets of names. Businesses there were more numerous but still covered only eight additional columns. I photocopied all the pages on the off chance I’d need to look at them again. No point in being forced to make a return trip.
I put that volume back and pulled the 1956 city directory, checking for the same three names—Ericksen, Treadwell, and Hernandez. Two of the three families were gone, which indicated death, divorce, or a simple move to another town. I noticed that after 1956, the county directory had been converted to a city directory that covered only Santa Maria and Lompoc, with no mention of Serena Station at all. I pulled the 1986 telephone book and searched again, hoping to find a trace. The Hernandez family was a wash, there being so many listed I knew I’d never track down the one I wanted. I had slightly better luck with Ericksen. I didn’t find a “J” or a “B,” but there was an “A. Ericksen” in Santa Maria, possibly Jon and Bernadette’s offspring. A family named Treadwell was living in Orcutt, and though the husband’s first name wasn’t a match, I thought there might be a connection. I wrote down both sets of phone numbers and street addresses.
At the desk, while I paid for my photocopies, I spoke to one of the librarians and explained what I needed. “Where else can I get information about Serena Station in 1953? I’ve gone through the old directories.”
He said, “You might want to look at the Index to Precinct Registers for Santa Teresa County. I believe we have ’51 and 1954.”
“Great.”
Or not great, as it happened. We returned to the shelves and he found me the requisite volume from 1951. Again I sat down and looked up the community of Serena Station. The listings included names, addresses, occupations, and party affiliation (more Republicans than Democrats, for what that’s worth), but all the addresses listed were post office boxes, which didn’t do me any good. I flipped back to the pages devoted to Santa Maria, running a finger down page after page of residents. I gave up after ten minutes because the numbers were overwhelming, and I was hoping I’d already snagged what I needed. I gathered my notes and took the elevator to the ground floor in search of a pay phone.
I tried the Treadwells’ number first and bombed out big time. The Mrs. Treadwell who answered had never lived in Serena Station, had never known the Sullivans, and couldn’t be any help at all when it came to tracking down the former Serena Station Treadwells. She suspected I was trying to sell her something and declined any further questions.
I tried A. Ericksen and got a machine, on which I left the following message: “Hi, my name is Kinsey Millhone. I’m a private investigator from Santa Teresa and I’m wondering if you’re the same Ericksen who lived in Serena Station in 1953. I’d appreciate a call back when you get this message.” I recited my Santa Teresa phone number and repeated my name. Then I went out to my car and headed for the 101.
I unlocked my apartment door at 5:15. I’d been away since Thursday morning, and the living room was stuffy, smelling of old cleaning products and hot dust motes. I put my portable typewriter on the desk. I had two messages from Cheney, asking me to call him when I got home. I tried his number and got a busy signal. I didn’t have a duffel, but my newly purchased clothing was folded and packed in a handsome plastic bag. I trotted up the spiral stairs and unloaded the bag.
I fired up the kettle and made myself a cup of tea, which I sipped while I sat at the kitchen counter and sorted through my notes. I thought it was entirely possible that I’d already spoken to Violet’s killer. The motive might have been anything—jealousy, hatred, greed, revenge—but I knew the killing itself was cold-blooded because the hole had been dug well in advance of the burial. The killer couldn’t have been sure the necessary equipment would be on the scene unless he’d set it up that way. When Violet disappeared, her money had disappeared as well. Ostensibly, she’d taken possession of the fifty thousand dollars in her safe-deposit box. She’d also borrowed two thousand from her brother and five hundred dollars from her mother, in addition to the jewelry she’d stolen. So where did all the money and the jewelry end up? It was always possible the stash would be found in the car, but if the killer knew she had it, why not help himself to the money before he bulldozed the dirt back into the hole?
He had to be someone she knew and probably a local, since he was sufficiently familiar with both the Tanner property and the building of New Cut Road to feel assured he’d have privacy. He must have had a cover story to account for the time he’d spent digging the hole. That meant he was either his own boss, in which case he could take all the time he needed, or if he was a nine-to-five kind of guy, he was off on vacation or he’d called in sick. With the holiday weekend, he might have had the time off.
Foley Sullivan was still at the top of my list. Granted, I’d found the man sympathetic, but he’d had years of practice declaring his innocence. I believed him when he spoke of his love for Violet, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t killed her.
I went back to the notes I’d taken after talking to Chet Cramer. I couldn’t see what he had to gain, but I didn’t rule him out. He didn’t strike me as a fellow with much experience operating heavy equipment, but I’d jotted down an offhand remark he’d made. He’d said you could always hire somebody to do your dirty work.
I thought about Winston Smith, who’d been fired because of Violet. While Cramer had rehired him the following week, he hadn’t known about that when she vanished. I was iffy about him. He was convinced she’d ruined his life, which in some ways she had. If he’d gotten the education he’d planned, he wouldn’t be selling cars and he might not be married to the woman who now proposed booting his butt out the door.
I knew little about Tom Padgett, but he was worth checking out. Steve Ottweiler? Nah. I put a tick by his name, but only in the interest of being fair. As long as I was suspicious of the other guys, I might as well include him. He’d been sixteen at the time, and from Violet’s point of view, he was probably fair game. However, if the two had engaged in a torrid affair, why kill the golden goose? I added BW’s and Jake’s names to the list.
I kept thinking I’d overlooked something obvious, but I couldn’t think what it was.
I took a break and made myself a peanut butter and pickle sandwich for my supper. I substituted a paper napkin for a plate and thus reduced the dirty dishes to a bare minimum. I was just in the process of washing my knife when the telephone rang.
The woman on the other end of the line said, “This is Anna Ericksen. I believe you left a message on my machine.”
“Are you the Ericksen who once lived at 3906 Land’s End Road in Serena Station?”
There was a cautious silence. “Why do you want to know?”
“I’m sorry. I should have explained myself earlier. I’m interested in contacting the family who lived next door to Foley and Violet Sullivan in 1953.”
“That was my parents’ house, where I grew up.”
“Really? Wow, that’s great. I’m lucky you didn’t get married or I’d have never tracked you down.”
“Oh, honey. I’m gay. You couldn’t pay me to get married. I got troubles enough.”
“Do you remember Violet?”
“Not directly. I was a little kid back then, but people have been talking about her for years and years. We lived next door to the Sullivans when I was growing up. I suppose you know they found her buried in her car.”
I said, “So I heard. Look, I know this is a long shot, but is there anything you can tell me about Violet?”
“No, I’m sorry to say I don’t remember her, but I do remember that Fourth of July.”
“You’re kidding. You remember that particular Fourth of July?”
“I sure do. We’d gone to the fireworks and afterwards Daisy’s
friend Tannie spent the night with me. I can’t tell you how thrilled I was. I was five years old and she was nine, and I just admired everything about her. She talked me into jumping on the bed in my room, which I wasn’t allowed to do. So there we were bouncing away, having the time of our lives. She bumped me and I toppled off and broke my arm. The bone didn’t heal right and I got a hump in it to this day. It’s one of my first concrete memories.”
I could feel myself blinking, wondering if the woman had made a fundamental mistake. “I was told Tannie went to the fireworks with her dad.”
“Oh, she did, but we ran into them at the park, and Tannie’s father asked Mother if we could keep her overnight. He said he had something to take care of and wasn’t sure what time he’d be back.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“If he did, it didn’t register with me. He might have told Mother, but she’s long dead. Why not ask Tannie? She might know.”
“I’ll do that, thanks. I truly appreciate your help.”
“You’re entirely welcome.”
27
LIZA
Saturday, July 4, 1953
Liza Mellincamp often thought about her fourteenth birthday, which fell on July 3, 1953, the day before Violet Sullivan left Serena Station. Years later, she found it hard to believe so much changed in that forty-eight-hour period. She’d spent the morning of her birthday cleaning her room. Violet was taking her out for lunch, and Liza wanted to be ready in plenty of time. She had never eaten in a real restaurant and she could hardly contain herself. She and her mother had shared sandwiches at drugstore lunch counters, but that wasn’t the same.
At 9:30 she turned on her Philco clock radio and listened to The Romance of Helen Trent and Our Gal Sunday while she made her bed, emptied the wastebasket, and shoved her dirty clothes into the hamper. Monday, she’d take everything to the Laundromat as she did every week. She’d end up doing most of the household chores in any event because her mom was usually too drunk to do much except lie on the couch in the living room, smoking cigarettes and burning holes in the rim of the wood coffee table. She tidied and dusted her desktop, night table, and bookshelves. She shook out the scatter rugs off the porch rail and left them there to air. She wet-mopped the linoleum on her bedroom floor and then went over it with Johnson’s Jubilee, liking the glossy wet shine, though she knew it would dull as it dried. In the bathroom, she scrubbed the tub, toilet, and sink with Bab-o cleanser. There were too many chips and stains to make a difference, but she felt better knowing it was done.