Four Sue Grafton Novels

by Sue Grafton

  Cynic that I am, I did wonder if Foley had quit drinking because he was afraid alcohol would one day loosen his tongue, tricking him into saying something he shouldn’t. For the same reason, I questioned his reasons for the lack of an intimate relationship since Violet had disappeared. Guilt produces a loneliness of its own. The temptation to confide has to be overwhelming at times. His suffering had been intense, but he’d never sought solace, or so he claimed.

  I looked at the map again, noting the distance between the service station where Violet had filled her tank, the park in Silas, and the Sullivans’ house. Must have been fifteen or twenty miles from point to point. It was possible, I supposed, that Violet had bought gas and then driven home, in which case she might well have been there when Foley returned. If that were the case, surely the babysitter would have said so. I put a rubber band around my fat stack of cards, then fired up the engine, put the car in gear, and headed for home.

  As I was unlocking my front door, Henry emerged from his kitchen and locked the door behind him. He was looking very spiffy for a guy who favors shorts and flip-flops. He waved and I waited while he crossed the patio. It was close to cocktail hour and I figured he was on his way to Rosie’s. “Actually, I’m driving down to Olvidado to take Charlotte to the movies. We’ll catch the five-o’clock show and have dinner afterwards.” Charlotte was a real estate agent he’d dated twice. I was happy to see him take an interest after his recently failed romance.

  “Sounds like fun. What are you seeing?”

  “No Way Out with that actor, Kevin Costner. You think this is okay?” He held his arms out, asking me to make a judgment about his slacks and collared T-shirt.

  “You look fine.”

  “Thanks. What are you up to?”

  “I’m on a job up in the Santa Maria area. I’ll be driving back and forth, but I don’t want you to worry if you don’t see me for a couple of days. You better get a move on. Traffic’s tricky at this hour.”

  I watched him cross to his two-car garage, pausing long enough to see which car he took. His pride and joy is a 1932 Chevrolet, the five-window coupe, painted bright yellow. His other car is a workaday station wagon, which is serviceable but no great shakes. He backed down the drive in the vintage Chevy, waving at me as he disappeared from sight.

  Once in my apartment, I dropped my shoulder bag on a kitchen stool and went through my usual ritual of phone messages and mail. Cheney had called to say hi and he’d catch me later. Mail was boring. When I peered into the refrigerator, the sight that greeted me was no big surprise. The contents consisted of condiments—mustard, pickles, olives, and a jar of jalapeños—a stick of butter, a head of browning lettuce, and a six-pack of Diet Pepsi. I hadn’t been to the grocery store for days, which meant I’d either have to make a supermarket run or eat out again. While I debated, I returned Cheney’s call. I knew he’d be gone, but I left a lengthy message, telling him what I was up to. I wasn’t sure what my schedule would look like after tomorrow, but I said I’d be in touch. Already this was feeling like the same sort of absentee relationship I’d had with Robert Dietz. How do I get myself into these situations with men?

  I was halfway to Rosie’s, less than thrilled with the prospect, when I thought about Sneaky Pete’s. I knew Tannie would be working, and it occurred to me that we could chat about Daisy and Violet while I indulged in another spicy salami concoction on a kaiser roll. I trotted back to my car and drove into town.

  Sneaky Pete’s is a neighborhood hangout, serving a loyal clientele in much the way Rosie’s does. Tannie spotted me when I walked in. I took a stool at the bar, waiting while she finished drawing two beers for a couple near the window. It was not quite six and quiet for a Wednesday night. Even the volume on the jukebox had been turned down to a tolerable level.

  She returned to the bar and took out a wineglass and a bottle of Edna Valley, saying, “You drink Chardonnay, right?”

  “Good memory.”

  “That’s my job. Daisy says the three of us are having lunch tomorrow.”

  “That’s the plan. I told her I’d call her as soon as I’m free. What time are you driving up?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but early. I’ll find out where you’re going and I’ll meet you there.” She poured my wine and then picked up her cigarette and took one last drag before she stubbed it out. “One of these days I’ll quit. Working here, you have to smoke in self-defense. So how goes the battle? Daisy says you’re already hard at work.”

  “Well, I’m doing what I can. She drove me around the area so I could get the lay of the land. Serena Station’s depressing.”

  “Isn’t it,” she said. “You meet Foley?”

  “I spoke to that retired sheriff ’s department sergeant first and then to him.”

  “That must have been intense.”

  “Very,” I said. I took a sip of my wine. “You didn’t tell me you had a house up there. Daisy took me by yesterday afternoon so I could see. Too bad about the fire.”

  “We’re lucky they caught it when they did or the house would be gone. We’ve got a deputy patrolling now to keep the riffraff out. My brother hates the place.”

  “Daisy says you hope to buy him out.”

  “If I can get him to agree. He’s being his usual bullheaded self, but I think he’ll knuckle under in the end. His wife’s on my team. She’s got no interest in being saddled with a house like that. I love it, but talk about a white elephant.”

  “The land must be worth a fortune.”

  “You ought to see our tax bill. The tricky thing is there’s a move afoot to rezone. The rumor around town is that the old packing plant has been sold and the buildings will be demolished. That property butts right up against ours, so I’ve had developers wooing me all year, trying to get the jump on it before word leaks out. I’d love to hang on, but we’d net ourselves a bundle if we sell out to them.” She reached under the bar and pulled out a roll of paper, secured with a rubber band. “You want to see what they have in mind?”

  I took off the rubber band and opened the large furl of heavyweight paper. What I was looking at was a watercolor mockup, showing the grand entrance to a walled community called the Tanner Estates. There were two big stone pillars leading into the development, with lush lawns on both sides of a winding drive. A few rooftops were visible in the distance, the houses widely spaced and nestled among mature trees. To the left, Tannie’s house was beautifully rendered, restored to its original state, thanks to the artist’s skill. “Geez, what I saw this afternoon didn’t look anything like this. Where are all the big nasty oil tanks and barbed-wire fences?”

  “I guess if you have bucks enough, you can make it look any way you please. I can’t believe the county will approve the plans, but Steve says that’s all the more reason to sell while we can.”

  “That makes no sense. If the rezoning’s approved, the value of the land would go up, which is reason to hang on.”

  “Try telling that to him. He wants out from under.”

  I released the edges of the paper and it rolled itself up of its own accord. “Was that where you grew up?”

  Tannie shook her head. “It belonged to my grandparents, Hairl and Mary Clare. Mom and Steve and I lived there while Pop was away at war. When he joined the army in 1942, my mother moved back into the house. She didn’t have job skills to speak of and Pop couldn’t support us on his military pay.”

  “Did you say your grandfather’s name was ‘Hairl’?”

  She smiled. “His name should have been Harold, but my great-grandmother couldn’t spell so that’s what she wrote on his birth certificate. My mother was named for both her parents—Hairl and Mary Clare—so she became ‘Mary Hairl.’ Thank god the linking names stopped there or no telling what I would have been called.”

  “Where’d ‘Tannie’ come from?”

  “It’s actually ‘Tanner’—my mother’s maiden name.”

  “I like it. It suits you.”

  “Thanks. I’m fond of it m
yself. Anyway, Hairl and Mary Clare lived in the house from 1912, when it was built, until 1948, when she had a stroke and went into a nursing home. Granddaddy bought a duplex in Santa Maria to be close to her.”

  “You guys stayed in the house?”

  “My mother couldn’t manage on her own so we moved into the other side of his duplex. That way, she could make sure he was taking care of himself. He ate all his meals with us.”

  “Big change for you.”

  “And a tough one, too. I missed living in the country. I didn’t have any friends, but I was free to roam. We had dogs and barn cats. It was idyllic from my perspective, but as she pointed out, the new place was closer to town, which meant I could walk or ride my bike to school. I finally got used to the idea. Once Pop came out of the army, he went through a series of jobs, the last of them at Union Sugar. He’d always loved farming—not that he ever made a dime—but after the war his heart wasn’t in it and he couldn’t handle the work. Mom would have pitched in if we’d had the chance to move back. Even after my grandmother died, I held on to that hope, though I can see now the chances were getting dimmer with every passing year. Granddaddy would have left the house to my mother, but she died before he did.”

  “How old was she?”

  “Thirty-seven. She was diagnosed with uterine cancer in 1951 and died two years later, when Steve was sixteen and I was nine.”

  “Must have been hard on all of you.”

  “My dad in particular. He was a mess. We moved from Granddaddy’s duplex to a little house in Cromwell. I went to various schools in north county, which is how I knew Daisy. She and I were a couple of sad sacks in those days. We’d both lost our mothers and our lives had been turned upside down.”

  “You were coping with a lot.”

  “I was and I could have used some continuity. Steve and I saw Granddaddy every chance we got, but he was a sour old man by then and very bitter about life. There was a time when he’d ruled over his very own magic kingdom. Then suddenly, his wife was gone and his only child was dead. It was like he held Pop responsible for everything that went wrong.”

  “Your father? How so?”

  “Who knows? Maybe by association. Seeing Pop must have been too painful a reminder of the past. Granddaddy was probably happiest those three years when my father was gone and he ruled the roost. He died a month after my mom.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Hang on.” She broke away and picked up a food order from the kitchen window, delivering it to the guy at the end of the bar. I could see him tuck into the kaiser roll, fried egg dripping onto his plate, and I could taste the hot salami and cheese. When Tannie caught sight of my face, she placed an order for me without my even having to ask. I must have looked as mournful as a dog begging for table scraps. “Tell you who you ought to talk to is Winston Smith. Is he on your list? He’s the guy who sold Violet the car.”

  “Name doesn’t sound familiar, but I can check. What’s the story on him?”

  “Nothing in particular. It’s just this feeling I have. I always thought he knew more than he let on.”

  “What’s your opinion of Foley? I don’t believe you’ve said. I’m talking about him as a person, not what he may or may not have done.”

  I saw her attention shift. Another customer had come in and she moved halfway down the bar, as he was claiming a stool. He told her what he wanted, and I watched her make his drink, though it was not one I recognized from the liquors she poured. She obviously knew the guy and chatted with him while pulling bottles from the shelf, doing pours with a carelessness that comes from long experience. Having served him, she took advantage of the interruption to make a round of the tables, where she picked up three drink orders and tended to them before she came back to me. She paused to light a cigarette, answering the question as though she’d never been gone: “He was always a creep. I don’t buy into that pious act of his. I’ve heard he’s given up booze, but that doesn’t cut any ice with me. A guy like that—scratch the surface, he’s the same as he’s always been. Only now he hides it better.”

  “Did you have much contact with him?”

  “Enough. Daisy and I were friends, but my dad never let me spend the night at her house. For one thing, the place they moved into was a nasty little dump, and for another, he saw Foley as the kind of guy young girls shouldn’t be left alone with. Daisy was welcome to come to our house. When Foley dropped her off, he’d try to chat me up. I’m only ten years old and I can already tell that he’s a world-class jerk.”

  “You thought that at ten?”

  “I could see straight through him. Kids operate at gut level and they’re hard to fool. I never told Daisy what I thought of him—she had problems enough—but I avoided him like the plague. Even Pop, who’s what they call ‘a man’s man,’ didn’t have any use for him.”

  “Your father’s still alive?”

  “Oh, sure. Hale and hearty. Daisy says she put his name on the list of people you should talk to. I don’t think he knew Violet. I mean, he knew her—everybody knew Violet—but mainly because she and Foley hung out at the Blue Moon. Pop’s a part owner now.”

  “Isn’t that the Blue Moon where the Sullivans threw some of their big screaming fights?”

  “That’s it,” she said. “You can ask the bartender, BW. He witnessed most of ’em. In fact, he and Pop pooled their resources and bought the Moon not long after Violet disappeared. They’ve talked me into taking over the management, if I move back to town.”

  The crowd was picking up, and after Tannie brought my sandwich, I left her alone to tend to business. In my bag I had my index cards, so while I ate, I shuffled through my notes, trying to get a sense of where I was and where I needed to go next. The wall of years between me and Violet Sullivan felt as impenetrable as ever, but I was catching glimpses of her.

  9

  CHET

  Wednesday, July 1, 1953

  Chet Cramer was late getting back from lunch, having spent an interminable three hours in discussion with Tom Padgett about a partnership in his heavy-equipment business. In Chet’s opinion, Padgett was a fool. He’d married a woman fifteen years older than he was. Tom was forty-one now, which put her somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty-six years old, a shriveled-up old bag. Everyone in town knew it was her money he was after. She’d been widowed after twenty-five years of marriage to Loden Galsworthy, who’d died of a heart attack. Loden owned a string of funeral parlors, and Cora not only inherited those, but the rest of his estate, which was valued at a million dollars and included the house, two cars, stocks, bonds, and life insurance. Tom was a man with big schemes and precious little in the way of common sense. He’d hit her up for one loan in order to set up his business in the first place. He’d borrowed an additional sum from the bank. He admitted he’d been underfunded from the get-go, but now he wanted to expand, capitalizing on the inevitable demand for John Deere equipment as Santa Maria grew. The builders had to lease from someone and why not him? Chet could see his point, but he didn’t much like Padgett, and he sure as shit didn’t want to go into business with him. His suspicion was that Tom had a big balloon payment coming up, and this was nothing more than a push to find the dough before the note came due. Cora must have put her foot down and refused to bail him out.

  At the country club, over grilled trout, Chet had been polite, feigning interest when, in truth, he had an agenda of his own. He and Livia were eager for membership, and he was hoping Tom and Cora would agree to sponsor them. The place had an old-money respectability he’d always admired. The furnishings were refined, though he noticed a touch of shabbiness in the corridor on his way in to the dining room. Only rich people had the confidence to offer leather chairs so old they had cracks along the seat. The point was that members here were movers and shakers in town, and membership would put Chet on a first-name basis with most of them. Even at lunch, men were required to wear jackets and ties. He liked that. He’d looked around the room, picturing the entertaining he co
uld do here. Livia was an avid but lousy cook, and he’d done everything he could to steer her off inviting folks for dinner. She didn’t believe in alcohol consumption, which she said was against Scripture. That made meals a dreary proposition. From his perspective, heavy drinking was the only way to survive her enthusiasms, and he employed every manner of ingenuity to keep his glass filled with something more palatable than the sweetened iced tea she served.

  Here he could see that members and guests to a man were enjoying midday cocktails—martinis, Manhattans, whiskey sours. Chet wanted to take up golf, and he liked the idea of Livia and Kathy lounging around the pool while colored waiters in white coats served them sandwiches held together with frilly toothpicks. You weren’t even expected to pay for the meal. You signed your name to a chit and then paid in full at the end of the month.

  Of course, Padgett was sly. He seemed to sense Chet’s ambition, and he was probably hoping to use it as leverage for the so-called partnership. Chet had stalled him off, suggesting that Tom put together a business plan so he and his accountant could take a look. Chet said as soon as he knew what kind of money they were talking, he’d have a chat with the bank. Which was all a bunch of crap. He didn’t need his accountant to point out the folly of underwriting Padgett’s proposal when he, Chet, was struggling to keep his dealership afloat. In some ways, he and Padgett were in the same fix. Chevrolet expected him to expand his salesroom, services, parts and accessories facilities, along with his presence in the used-car market. The company also insisted that he pay for a product sign, a service sign, and “other necessary signs,” none of which were cheap. He was in hot competition with nine other car dealerships in town—Studebaker, DeSoto, Packard, Buick, Dodge, Plymouth, Chrysler, Hudson, and Cadillac. At the moment, he was holding his own, but he knew it would require a sizeable investment if he wanted to pull ahead.