Four Sue Grafton Novels

by Sue Grafton

  “I think those are company names. Poe, I don’t know about, but there’s a Beatty Oil and Natural Gas. If there were ever towns in those spots, they might’ve left the names on the map so the area wouldn’t seem so desolate.”

  The surrounding countryside was flat, entirely given over to agriculture: fields of lettuce, sugar beets, and beans as far as the eye could see. The air smelled of celery. Bright blue port-o-potties stood like sentinels along the road. Cars were parked along the berm adjacent to some fields. Wooden crates were stacked high on flatbed trucks, and migrant farmworkers bent above the rows, harvesting a crop I didn’t recognize on sight, flying by as we were at sixty miles an hour. The road made a wide curve north. Oil rigs dotted the land and in one section, there was a small refinery that threw off an odor reminiscent of burning tires. In sections, I could see a line of stationary boxcars that must have stretched for a quarter of a mile.

  I looked past her through the driver’s-side window. Tucked in a stand of pines, a grand old stone-and-stucco house sat close to the road, abandoned to all appearances. The architecture had elements of English Tudor with a touch of Swiss chalet thrown in, the whole of it incongruous in the midst of tilled and untilled fields. The second story was half-timbered with three gables punctuating the roofline. “What the heck is that?”

  Daisy slowed. “That’s why we came this way. Tannie and her brother, Steve, inherited the house and three hundred acres of farmland, some of which they lease out.”

  Two massive stone chimneys bracketed the house on each end. The narrow third-story windows suggested rooms reserved for household servants. A magnificent oak had been planted at one corner of the house, probably ninety years before, and now overshadowed the entrance. Across the road, there was empty acreage.

  The yard was completely overgrown. Weeds had proliferated and once decorative shrubs were close to eight feet high, obscuring the ground-floor windows. Where there had been a gracious approach, defined by boxwoods on both sides of a wide brick path, the passage was now close to impenetrable. Someone was using a small tractor to clear the overgrowth near the road, piling it in a mound. The brush closer to the house would probably have to be hacked away by hand. Daunting, I thought.

  “Catch the back side,” she said as we passed.

  I shifted in my seat and glanced over my shoulder, looking at the house from another angle. A wide dirt-and-gravel lane, probably the original driveway, now doubled as a frontage road with a service road splitting off to the right. I was guessing that the service road intersected one of the old county roads that was rendered obsolete once New Cut Road went in.

  On the back side of the house, most of the third-story windows in the rear were missing, the frames and timbers charred black from a fire that had eaten half the roof. There was something painful in the sight and I could feel myself wince. “How’d that happen?”

  “Vagrants. This was a year ago. Now there’s a raging debate about what to do with the place.”

  “Why was the house built so close to the road?”

  “Actually, it wasn’t. The house used to sit dead center on the land, but then the new road was cut through. The grandparents must have needed cash, because they sold off a big chunk, maybe half of what they owned. The ink wasn’t dry on the check before negotiations were under way for a housing tract that never went in. Talk about local politics. Now Tannie’s in a quandary, trying to decide whether to restore the house or tear it down and build in a better location. Her brother thinks they should sell the property while they have the chance. Right now, the market’s good, but Steve’s one of those guys who’s always predicting doom and gloom, so they’ve been butting heads. She’ll have to buy him out if she decides to hang on. She’s hired a couple of guys to help her clear brush on her days off. The county’s been testy about the fire hazard, given last year’s burn.”

  “Does she want to farm the land?”

  “I doubt it. Maybe she plans to open a B-and-B. You’d have to ask her.”

  “Amazing.” I could feel the shift in my perception of Tannie Ottweiler. I’d pictured her barely making ends meet on a bartender’s salary, never guessing she was a land baroness. “I take it she’s thinking about moving up here.”

  “That’s her hope. She’s been driving up Thursdays and Fridays, so if she’s here again this week maybe the three of us could have lunch.”

  “Sounds great.”

  There was a silence that lasted fifteen miles. Daisy was communicative in small doses, but she seemed to feel no obligation to chatter full time, which suited me fine.

  “So what’s your story?” she asked, finally.

  “Mine?”

  “You’ve been asking questions about me. Fair is fair.”

  I didn’t like this part, where I was forced to pony up. As usual, I reduced my past to its basic elements. I didn’t want sympathy and I didn’t want additional questions. In any version I told, the ending was the same and I was bored with the recitation. “My parents were killed in a car wreck when I was five. I was raised by a maiden aunt, who didn’t parent all that well.”

  She waited to see if I’d go on. “Are you married?”

  “Not now, but I was. Twice, which seems like plenty.”

  “I’ve got four divorces to your two so I guess I’m more optimistic.”

  “Or maybe slower to learn.”

  That netted me a smile, but not much of one.

  When we got back to Daisy’s house, I picked up my car and drove the hour back to Santa Teresa, returning to my office, where I worked for the balance of the afternoon. I took care of the phone messages that had accumulated in my absence and then sat down and read the newspaper accounts about Violet in the weeks following her vanishing act. The initial item about the missing woman didn’t appear until the eighth of July, Wednesday of the following week. The article was brief, indicating that the public’s help was being sought in the disappearance of Violet Sullivan, last seen on Saturday, July 4, when she’d left to join her husband at a park in Silas, California, nine miles from her home in Serena Station. She was believed to have been driving a violet-gray two-door Chevrolet Bel Air coupe, with the dealer’s sticker displayed on the windshield. Anyone with information was encouraged to contact Sergeant Tim Schaefer at the Santa Teresa County Sheriff ’s Department. The telephone number for the north county substation was listed.

  Daisy had clipped two more articles, but there was little additional information. There were references to Violet’s having money, but no dollar amount had been confirmed. A bank manager in Santa Teresa had called the sheriff ’s department to report that Violet Sullivan had arrived at the Santa Teresa Savings and Loan early in the afternoon on Wednesday, July 1. She’d spoken first to him, presenting her key and asking for access to her safe-deposit box. He was already late for lunch so he’d turned her over to one of the tellers, a Mrs. Fitzroy, who’d dealt with Mrs. Sullivan previously and recognized her on sight. After Mrs. Sullivan signed in, Mrs. Fitzroy verified her signature and accompanied her into the vault, where she was given her box and shown into a small cubicle. She returned the box some minutes later. Neither the teller nor the bank manager had any idea what was in the box or whether Violet Sullivan had removed the contents.

  In a third article, which ran on July 15, the county sheriff ’s department’s public relations officer stated they were interviewing Foley Sullivan, the missing woman’s husband. He was not considered a suspect, but was a “person of interest.” According to Foley Sullivan’s account, he’d stopped off to have a beer after the fireworks ended at 9:30. He got home a short time later and saw the family car was gone. He assumed that he and his wife had missed each other at the park and that she’d arrive shortly. He admitted to being mildly intoxicated and claimed he’d gone straight to bed. It wasn’t until his daughter woke him at 8:00 the next morning that he realized his wife had failed to return. Anyone with information, etc.

  Occasionally, in the years since then, feature articles had b
een written about the case—puff pieces in the main. The tone was meant to be hard-hitting but the coverage was superficial. The same basic facts were spun out and embellished with little in the way of revelation. As nearly as I could tell, the subject had never been tackled in any systematic way. Violet’s uncertain fate had elevated her to the status of a minor celebrity, but only in the small farming community where she had lived. No one outside the area seemed to take much interest. There was a black-and-white photograph of her and a separate photo of the car—not the identical vehicle, of course, but a similar make and model.

  The car caught my attention and I read that part twice. On Friday, July 3, 1953, Foley Sullivan had filled out the loan papers on a purchase price of $2,145. Since the vehicle was never seen again, he’d been compelled to make payments for the next thirty-six months until the terms were satisfied. Title had never been registered. Violet Sullivan’s driver’s license had expired in June of 1955, and she’d made no application for renewal.

  What struck me as curious was that Daisy had described her father as close to a deadbeat, so I couldn’t imagine why he’d continued paying for the car. How perverse to have to go on forking out the dough for a vehicle your wife may or may not have used in running off with another man. Since there was no way the dealer could repossess the car, Foley was stuck. I couldn’t understand why he cared, one way or the other, whether the dealer sued him for the balance or turned him over to a collection agency. Big deal. His credit was already shot, so what was one more debt? I put the question in a drawer at the back of my mind, hoping an answer would be sitting there the next time I looked.

  At 5:00 P.M. I locked the office and went home. My studio apartment is located on a side street a block from the beach. My landlord, Henry, had converted the space from a single-car garage to a rental unit, attached to his own house by a glass-enclosed breezeway. I’ve been living there quite happily for the past seven years. Henry’s the only man I know whom I’d be willing to marry if (and only if ) we weren’t separated by a fifty-year age difference. It’s tough when the perfect man in your life is an octogenarian…though a young eighty-seven years old. Henry’s trim, handsome, smart, white-haired, blue-eyed, and active. I can go on in this manner, reciting his many virtues, but you probably get the point.

  I parked and passed through the squeaky gate that announces my arrival. I went around to the rear and let myself into my apartment, where I wrestled with my conscience briefly, and then changed into my running clothes and did a three-mile jog along the beach. Home again forty minutes later, I found a message from Cheney Phillips waiting on my machine. He proposed a quick bite of supper and said unless he heard otherwise, he’d meet me at Rosie’s close to 7:00. I showered and got back into my jeans.

  “Well, it’s an interesting proposition. I’ll give you that,” Cheney said when I’d laid it out to him. Rosie had taken our order, asking us what we wanted, and then writing down what she’d already decided to serve—an unpronounceable dish that she pointed to on the menu. This turned out to be a beef-and-pork stew with more sour cream than flavor, so we’d spent a few minutes surreptitiously adding salt and enough pepper to make our eyes sting. Rosie’s cooking is usually tasty, so neither of us could figure out what was going on with her. Cheney was drinking beer and I was drinking bad white wine, which is all she serves.

  “You know what’s hanging me up?” I asked.

  “Tell.”

  “The thought of failing.”

  “There are worse things.”

  “Name one.”

  “Root canal. IRS audit. Terminal disease.”

  “But at least those things don’t impact anyone else. I don’t want to take Daisy’s money if I can’t deliver anything, and what are the odds?”

  “She’s a grown-up. She says this is what she wants. Do you have any reason to doubt her sincerity?”

  “No.”

  “So why don’t you put a cap on the money end?”

  “I did that. It doesn’t seem to help.”

  “You’ll do fine. All you can do is give it your best shot.”

  In the office Wednesday morning, I made a series of phone calls, setting up appointments with the principals on my list. I didn’t think the order of interviews would make any difference, but I’d arranged the names in order of personal preference. In quick succession, I talked to Sergeant Timothy Schaefer, who’d been the investigating officer when Violet disappeared. I wanted to see how things had looked from his perspective and I thought he’d be good at laying in the background. We agreed to meet that afternoon at 1:00, and he gave me directions to his house in Santa Maria. Foley Sullivan was next on my list. Daisy had told him I’d be calling, but I was still relieved to find him cooperative. I made an appointment to talk to him after my interview with Sergeant Schaefer. My next call was to Calvin Wilcox, Violet’s only sibling. I got a busy signal on that number so I moved to the next.

  Fourth on my list was the babysitter, Liza Clements, née Mellincamp, one of the last people who’d spent time in Violet’s company. I was hoping to create a calendar of events, starting with Liza and working my way backward as I reconstructed Violet’s activities and encounters in the days before she vanished. I dialed Liza’s number and she picked up after six rings, just at the point where I’d about given up.

  When I identified myself, she said, “I’m sorry, but could we talk another time? I’ve got a dental appointment and I’m just now walking out the door.”

  “How about later this afternoon? When will you be home?”

  “Really, today’s a mess. What about tomorrow?”

  “Sure, that would work. What time?”

  “Four o’clock?”

  “Fine.”

  “Do you have my address?”

  “Daisy gave it to me.”

  “Great. See you then.”

  I moved on to Kathy Cramer. She and Liza were fourteen at the time, which put them in their late forties now. I knew Kathy was married, but she’d apparently elected to keep her maiden name, because Cramer was the only reference I had. I dialed her number and once I had her on the line, I told her who I was and what I was doing at Daisy’s behest.

  “You’re kidding,” she said, her voice flat with disbelief.

  “Afraid not,” I said. So tedious. I didn’t relish having to go through this routine with every other call I made.

  “You’re looking for Violet Sullivan after all these years?”

  “That’s what I was hired to do. I’m hoping you can fill in some blanks.”

  “Have you talked to Liza Mellincamp?”

  “I see her tomorrow afternoon. If you could spare me half an hour, I’d be grateful.”

  “I can probably manage that. Can we say tomorrow morning at eleven?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “What address do you have? We just moved.”

  I recited the address on my list, which was out of date. She gave me the new one with a set of directions that I scribbled down in haste.

  My last call was to Daisy, telling her I was making a run to Santa Maria and back. On Thursday, I expected to have a block of free time, so I was proposing lunch and a quick verbal report. She was agreeable and said we could try a coffee shop close to her work. Since Tannie would be in Santa Maria on Thursday as well, she’d give her a call and see if she could join us. Her lunch hour was flexible, so I agreed to call as soon as I had a break.

  After I hung up, I folded the list and gathered my index cards, gassed up the VW, and headed north. I was already getting bored with the hour drive each way and not all that happy about the miles I was putting on my thirteen-year-old car.

  5

  KATHY

  Wednesday, July 1, 1953

  Kathy Cramer was working in the office at her father’s Chevrolet dealership when Violet pulled up in Foley’s rattletrap pickup and started looking at cars. She carried a big straw tote with a little dog tucked inside, its head popping up like a jack-in-the-box. This was Kathy’s fir
st real job, and her father was paying her a dollar an hour, twenty-five cents over the minimum wage and twice what her best friend, Liza, made for babysitting. A dollar an hour was pretty good for a fourteen-year-old, even if his hiring her was not entirely voluntary. When his secretary left to get married, he’d wanted to advertise for a permanent full-time replacement, but Kathy’s mother put her foot down, insisting he could find somebody in the fall when Kathy went back to school.

  Her responsibilities entailed answering the phone, filing, and “lite” typing, which she generally messed up. At the moment business was slow, so she occupied her time reading the movie magazines she kept in her lap. James Dean was already her favorite of the new Hollywood stars. Also Jean Simmons, with whom she completely identified. She’d seen Androcles and the Lion and, most recently, Young Bess, in which Jean Simmons had starred with her husband, Stewart Granger, who was second only to James Dean in Kathy’s mind.

  This was July and the office was small. Glass on all sides let the sunlight slant in, heating the space to unbearable temperatures. There was no air-conditioning, so Kathy kept an electric fan beside her on the floor, the face tilted toward hers for maximum effect. The air was still hot, but at least it was moving. She didn’t think it was possible to sweat so much sitting down. In the spring, her gym teacher had suggested it really wouldn’t hurt if she lost thirty-five pounds, but Kathy’s mother was having none of it. Girls paid entirely too much attention to superficial matters like weight, clothing, and hairstyles when what counted was inner beauty. It was more important to be a good person, setting an example for those around you. Kathy’s mother said her complexion would clear up in time if she’d just quit picking at it. Kathy used Noxzema every night, but it didn’t seem to help.

  Kathy took off her glasses and polished the lenses with the hem of her skirt. These were new glasses with stylishly tilted black cat’s-eye frames that Kathy thought looked especially wonderful on her. She found herself following Violet’s progress across the lot. She had vulgar dyed-red hair and wore a tight purple sundress with a deeply scooped neckline. Winston Smith, the salesman Kathy’s dad had hired the month before, had his eye on the crevice between her boobies. Everybody was always mooning over Violet, which made Kathy sick. Especially her friend, Liza, who thought Violet could do no wrong. Kathy was struck by a sharp emotional jolt, which later in life she might concede was a feeling of jealousy. At the moment she wondered if it was possible to have hot flashes at so young an age. She’d seen her mother fanning herself, suddenly dripping with sweat, and thought what she experienced might be similar.