“Oh, he always was the sweetest man. I haven’t seen him now for sixteen or seventeen years. I didn’t leave Serena Station until a couple of years ago, when I moved in with Kyle and his wife,” she said, warming to the subject. She went on for a bit, clearly lonely and desperate for human contact. Of course I felt like a heel, but I never set her straight. It’s not nice to lie to old ladies. Even I know that much.
We exchanged reminiscences, hers real, mine invented. Then I slithered my way over to the point. “Whatever happened to that cousin of his, the one from Bakersfield?”
“You mean Ty?”
“Exactly. As I remember, he went back to Bakersfield on the spur of the moment and that’s the last I heard. How’s he doing these days?”
“Fine.”
“Do you have a number for him?”
“Well, dear, he’s in Sacramento, but I don’t understand why you’d want to talk to him when you called to speak to Kyle.”
“I thought I might as well round up the whole gang while I was at it,” I said. I was trying to sound casual and jolly, but I couldn’t pull it off.
I could feel the chill through the line. The lady might be old, but her intuitions were alive and well. “You’re Liza Mellincamp, aren’t you?”
“Actually, I’m not.” This was the only moment in the conversation when I’d told her the truth and I was hoping to get credit.
“Well, whoever you are, I’ve already told you as much as I deem wise. Thank you for calling, but don’t call again.” She hung up with perhaps more force than I thought appropriate in a woman her age.
I hung up on my end and then took a quick break. Sometimes lying is sweaty work and leaves me feeling short of breath. I hadn’t expected to be put on the carpet like that. I went and folded some of Daisy’s clothes just to give my brain a rest.
I returned to the phone and called Directory Assistance in Sacramento and asked for a number for last name, Eddings; first name, initial T, Ty, or Tyler. This time my only option was his office number. As it turned out, Ty Eddings was an attorney in a law firm with a string of names that went on with all the lilt and cadence of a nursery rhyme.
The receptionist connected me with his secretary, who told me Mr. Eddings was in court. I gave her my name and Daisy’s number, asking her to have him return the call. “May I ask what this is in regard to?”
“A death.”
“Oh dear.”
“Yeah, well, that’s the way it goes,” I said. “By the way, what kind of law does he practice?”
“Criminal.”
“In that case, tell him it’s about a murder and I need to hear from him as soon as possible.”
I spent the next hour typing up my notes. This was my last day on the job and I wanted to leave Daisy with an organized account of what I’d done. I wasn’t entirely satisfied with myself. There were too many loose ends and the legwork itself didn’t add up to much. On the other hand, she’d now found her mother, which was what she’d wanted to begin with. Among the many unanswered questions, one issue that troubled me was the lace curtain. Foley had torn down the first panel in the course of the fight he and Violet had Thursday night, the second of July. An infuriated Violet had torn down the rest and she’d thrown them in the trash. Foley claimed great remorse, so much so that he’d gone out and bought her the Bel Air the very next day. If he’d killed her and buried her in the car, why wrap the body in the curtain? If the body were ever found—which of course it was—why leave behind an item that would link the deed to him? Foley might be cursed with a limited imagination, but he wasn’t that dumb.
Having typed my way through to the end of my notes, I stacked the pages of my report and tucked them into a folder. I went back and read the various sections of the newspapers I’d photocopied, both before and after Violet’s disappearance. When I reached the item about Livia Cramer’s “home demonstration” party, I realized that the Mrs. York who’d been awarded one of the prizes was, in fact, the same Mrs. York I’d spoken to less than an hour before. This is the amusing thing about information: Facts exist within a framework. Data that might seem meaningless in one context can later serve as a little window on reality.
I was cruising through the remainder of the newspapers when I stumbled on an item I hadn’t seen before. On July 6, in the second section, there was a small item about a man named Philemon Sullivan, age twenty-seven, who was arrested for “drunk and disorderly conduct.” The fine was $150, and he was given a suspended sentence of 125 days in the county jail. Was that Foley? The age was right, and I knew from the names in the city directory that he and Violet were the only Sullivans in town. I checked the date again. July 6. The article didn’t specify when the fellow had been picked up, but Foley swore he’d never had another drink after Violet vanished. Until the other night, of course, but who cared about that?
I pulled out the phone book and looked up the number for the Presbyterian church where Foley was employed. I picked up the handset and then found myself hesitating. I didn’t want to have to drive to Cromwell, but it didn’t seem smart to question him by phone. Better to be present so I could see his reaction. There’s sometimes much to be learned from observing body language and facial expressions. Aside from that, I was hoping Ty Eddings would call, and if I tied up the line, he wouldn’t be able to get through. I made sure the message machine was on, shoved the file in my bag, then grabbed my car keys and headed out the door.
I found Foley in the sunny church kitchen, using an oversized polisher to buff the mottled beige-and-white vinyl floor tiles. He moved with the awkwardness of a man in pain. He was a mess. His facial swelling had diminished some, but that didn’t improve his looks. The adhesive tape was peeling from the splint on his nose. His eye sockets were deep lavender, as though he’d used eye shadow to intensify the blue of his eyes. The bruising had migrated down his cheeks, the pull of gravity creating a beard of subcutaneous blood that darkened the lower portion of his face. Black sutures sprung from his still-puffy lips like the whiskers on a catfish.
When he realized I was in the room, he shut down his machine and sank gratefully onto a kitchen stool.
I pulled out a second stool and perched. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
“I don’t like being idle. It’s better if I work so I can earn my keep. What brings you this way?”
“I’ve been thinking about the lace curtain the body was wrapped in.”
He dropped his gaze to his hands. “I wish I hadn’t torn those curtains down. That’s what drove her away. I know there’s no changing what is, but if she hadn’t left when she did, she might still be alive.”
“That’s not where I was heading, Foley. I didn’t drive all the way out here to make you feel bad,” I said. “When did your trash usually get picked up?”
He had to stop and think. “Fridays.”
“But it couldn’t have been picked up that Friday because of the holiday, right?”
He shrugged. “I’ll take your word for it. It was too many years ago.”
“Well, think about it. The banks were closed. No mail delivery, no government offices open, and no city services, except maybe the bus line if Serena Station had a bus back then.”
“That sounds right.”
“Which means the curtains were sitting in the trash for two full days—all day Friday and all day Saturday—before they landed in that car. The Bel Air wasn’t buried until after nine thirty that night.”
He gave me a startled look, but I headed him off. “Just bear with me here. Where did you keep the trash cans?”
“Alley behind the house.”
“So somebody could have stolen the curtains without being seen.”
“Stolen them? What for?”
“Because the guy already knew he was going to kill her and bury her in that hole. The curtain-ripping fight was common knowledge. Violet told the story all over town. So on the off chance someone stumbled across the car, his wrapping her in the curtain would point a finger at you.
”
I could sense the wheels laboring in Foley’s head. I pushed on. “Who’s Philemon Sullivan? Is that you?”
“My mother laid that on me, but I always hated the name so I called myself Foley.”
“Weren’t you picked up for drunk and disorderly conduct right around that time?”
“Who told you that?”
“I saw an item in the paper about a suspended sentence and a hundred-and-fifty-dollar fine. This was on July sixth, but there was no mention of the date the arrest was made. When did that happen?”
“I don’t want to talk about it now. It was a long time ago.”
“Thirty-four years to be exact. So what difference would it make if you tattled on yourself?”
He was silent for a moment and then conceded the point. “I was arrested late Friday afternoon and spent the night in jail. I got drunk at the Moon and I guess I was out of line. BW phoned the sheriff’s department and they came and arrested me. Once I was booked, I called Violet, but she wouldn’t come get me. Said it served me right and I could sit there and rot for all she cared. I was so hung over, I thought I’d die. They finally let me out the next morning.”
“On Saturday, the Fourth?”
He nodded again.
“Did anyone see you?”
“Sergeant Schaefer left the station the same time I did and he offered me a ride home. Tom Padgett would verify that as well because we picked him up along the way. His truck battery was dead and he was on his way home to pick up some jumper cables.”
“You told me you had ‘a job of work’ as you put it, early Saturday afternoon. Do you remember what it was?”
“Yes ma’am. Sergeant Schaefer asked if I’d help him put together a workbench he was building in his shed. I’m good at carpentry—maybe not finish work, but the kind of thing he needed. He already had the lumber and we knocked together a workbench for his power tools.”
“When’s your birthday?”
“August 4.”
“Well, here’s a belated birthday present. You’re off the hook for Violet’s murder. Somebody dug that hole between Thursday night and Saturday afternoon, but it couldn’t have been you. Thursday night you were home with Violet, tearing up the house. Later, the two of you went over to the Moon and got drunk. Somebody saw a guy operating a bulldozer out at the Tanner property Friday night, but you were in jail by then. So between your jail time and your work for Sergeant Schaefer Saturday afternoon, your whereabouts are accounted for.”
He stared at me. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“I wouldn’t celebrate quite yet. You’d be smart to go ahead and hire an attorney to protect your backside. In the meantime, I’ll be happy to tell Daisy about this.”
On the way back through Santa Maria, I stopped in at Steve Ottweiler’s auto-repair shop. The whole business about Hairl Tanner’s will was bugging me and I didn’t want to ask Jake. Steve showed me into his office, assuming I was there on automotive business. I waited until the chitchat subsided. “Can I ask you about something?”
“Go right ahead.”
“Tannie told me Hairl Tanner died a month after your mom.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Meaning what?”
“He shot himself.”
“Suicide?”
“That’s right. He was a bitter and disillusioned old man. My grandmother was gone. My mom had just died and he had nothing to live for, in his mind at any rate.”
“He left a note?”
“Yes. I still have it, if you doubt my word.”
“Did he give any explanation about the disposition of his estate?”
“What’s this about?”
“I’m wondering why Hairl Tanner was so angry with your dad.”
He snorted as though amused, but his eyes went dead. “What makes you think he was mad?”
“I saw the will.”
“Oh? And how’d you manage that?”
“I went down to the courthouse and looked it up. I checked a couple of other wills at the same time so don’t get the idea that I was picking on your dad. Your grandfather set it up so Jake couldn’t touch a nickel, not even for the two of you.”
“I don’t see the relevance.”
“This is my last day on the job. I leave it to the cops to figure out who killed Violet, but I hate to sign off without knowing why she died.”
“Aren’t those two questions the same thing?”
“I’m not sure.”
“It’s obvious you have a theory or you wouldn’t be here.”
“I think she was killed for the stash she’d put together so she could run away.”
“What’s that have to do with my father?”
“I’ve been wondering where he got the money to buy the Blue Moon.”
“You’re implying, what—that he killed her for the cash?”
“All I’m asking is how he financed the purchase of the bar.”
“If you want an answer to that question, you better go over to the Moon and ask him. In the meantime, I’m not going to sit here and put up with your half-assed interrogation on a subject you know nothing about.”
“Why don’t you answer the question and save me the trip?”
“To make your life easy?”
“To avoid a subject he might find embarrassing. I think you know more than you’ve told me so far.”
I knew he was angry, but I could see him wrestling with himself. “If it’s any of your fucking business, my mother had a life insurance policy. Dad collected sixty thousand dollars, put half in savings accounts for Tannie and me, and used the rest to buy the Moon. The subject is now closed and I want you out of here before I call the police.” He got up from his desk and with his hand on my elbow, escorted me unceremoniously from the premises.
By the time I got back to Daisy’s it was 4:00 and I was ready to pack it in. Clearly I’d reached the stage in the investigation where people were not only getting pissed off, but resorting to rudeness, sarcasm, and manhandling. Steve Ottweiler had to be as aware as I was that there was no way to verify his claim about his mother’s life insurance. Jake was never going to tell me which insurance company it was, and after thirty-four years, I couldn’t think how to get the information independently of him. I probably should have gone straight over to Jake’s and pressed him on the point, but in truth I was ever so faintly intimidated by the man. After I left Steve’s office, he had plenty of time to call his dad and tell him what was going on. All Jake had to do was repeat the story Steve had told me and I’d be none the wiser.
I sat down and typed the additional three conversations into my report. Mrs. York, Foley, and Steve Ottweiler. This was strictly make-work. By now it was not so much about being conscientious as it was about giving myself time to think. While my fingers traveled across the keys, my brain was busy with something else. I simply didn’t know what it was. The phone rang just as I was finishing up, and I answered with my attention still riveted to the page. “Hello?”
“Miss Millhone?”
“Yes.”
“This is Ty Eddings. You left a message for me.”
30
KATHY
Friday, July 3, 1953
Kathy stood behind the dining room door, forking cold Chef Boyardee ravioli from a can. The little pillows of dough were soft and the tomato sauce clung to the surfaces like cream. Dinner wasn’t coming up for half an hour, and Kathy was treating herself to a little snack beforehand. Kathy’s mother had decided it was important to experience food from foreign countries, so the first Friday of every month she’d try a new recipe. This she called “educating their pallets.” Last month she’d cooked this Chinese dish called Subgum Chicken Chow Mein that she served over English muffins with lots of soy sauce and crunchy brown noodle-things on top. In May she’d cooked Italian spaghetti, and in April she’d made a French dish called Beef Boigheenyawn, which to Kathy’s way of thinking was just like beef stew. Tonight they were having a Welch dish that Kathy h
erself had prepared under her mother’s watchful eye. First she’d opened a package of Kraft Old England American cheese slices that she melted in a double boiler with a can of evaporated milk. Then she’d stirred in Worcestershire sauce and half a teaspoon of dry mustard, and that was that. Oh, yum. She could hardly wait. The ravioli was just in case there wasn’t enough to go around.
The problem was that ever since the gym teacher, Miss Carrico, made that remark about Kathy’s losing thirty-five pounds, her mother had been keeping a close eye on her, serving her portions so small she left the table with a stomachache. The first time it happened Kathy thought she’d done it by mistake, but when she’d asked for a second helping, her parents had exchanged a look that made her cheeks burn. It was like they’d been discussing her behind her back and secretly agreed with the teacher, which didn’t seem fair.
When Kathy first told her mother what Miss Carrico had said about how fat she was, her mother had been livid. She’d gone straight to the school principal to complain about the teacher’s lack of tact and her sticking her nose into other people’s business where it didn’t belong. The principal must have turned around and given Miss Carrico a serious talking-to because now she made a point of ignoring Kathy, avoiding the sight of her altogether as though she didn’t exist. Not that Kathy cared. If Miss Carrico tried to make trouble over her PE grade, she intended to tell her mother about the way she acted around Miss Powell, the home economics teacher. When Miss Carrico thought no one was looking, she got all weird and intense. It was almost like she had a crush on the other woman, which Kathy didn’t think was right. She’d talked to her minister about it after one of the Moral Rearmament meetings, and he’d told her he’d look into it, but in the meantime to keep the information “under her hat.” Kathy wasn’t sure how long she was supposed to wait before she took matters into her own hands.
Actually, she thought it was possible Miss Carrico resented the Cramer family for their position in the community. On the second of June, for instance, for Queen Elizabeth’s coronation, the principal had especially asked if Kathy’s dad would bring in their tabletop Ardmore television set, so Kathy’s class could watch the pageant all the way from England. He’d carried the TV into school and set it up right there in her seventh-grade homeroom. All the kids had gathered around to watch the ceremony and afterward, the principal made a point of personally thanking her in front of everyone. Miss Carrico had been standing in the back of the room with a smirk on her face, obviously not realizing Kathy could see straight through to that jealous heart of hers.