by Sue Grafton
I got out my index cards and reviewed my notes, which were beginning to bore me senseless. None of the items were monumental. I’d been asking the same six to eight questions for two days, and while nothing revolutionary had come to light, I had to admit I was better informed. I started working on the timeline for the days leading up to Violet’s disappearance. The story I kept coming back to was Winston’s account of spotting the Bel Air on New Cut Road at the point where construction ended. What had she been doing out there? I thought his guess had merit, that the site was the rendezvous point of Violet and someone else—male, female, lover, friend, family member, or passing acquaintance, I knew not which. The landscape out there was flat, and Winston’s headlights would have been visible for at least a mile. She’d had time enough to move the car, but there was no place to hide it unless she’d driven it to the far side of the Tanner house or across the open fields. A better bet was to conceal herself (alone or with her theoretical companion) in hopes that the approaching driver would turn around and go back without stopping to investigate. If she’d had car trouble and needed help, why not step out of the shadows and flag him down? And what of Baby, the yapping Pomeranian pup? This was not a Sherlockian situation where silence suggested familiarity between the dog and someone else. The dog barked at everyone, at least according to reports. It was still a puzzlement why Violet had chosen the place, but that was an issue I’d have to table for the time being.
At 6:58 I packed my toiletries in my shoulder bag and emerged from my room. The motel parking lot was now packed with cars. I left mine where it was and walked to the coffee shop, which was located in front. The moment I stepped inside, I was assaulted by the noise: conversations, music from the jukebox, laughter, the clattering of china. It was like a party in progress, and the air of comradery suggested the gathering was a daily occurrence. Farmhands, construction workers, oil workers, gang bosses, husbands, wives, infants, and school-age kids—anybody who was out and about apparently made the trek from neighboring towns to have breakfast here. I could smell bacon, sausage, fried ham, and maple syrup.
I was fortunate to capture the one remaining stool at the counter. Specials were posted on a blackboard above the pass-through that opened into the kitchen. The menu was standard: eggs, breakfast meats, toast, muffins, biscuits and gravy, waffles, pancakes, and the usual assortment of teas, coffees, and juices. Two waitresses were working the counter, with another four busy serving the booths and tables that filled the room. I told Darva, the waitress who took my order, that I was looking for BW. I’d scanned the place myself and hadn’t seen anyone remotely fitting his description, but it was always possible I’d missed him in the crush. She did a visual survey, as I had, and shook her head. “Wonder what’s keeping him. He’s usually here by now. I’ll point him out to you the minute he comes in.”
“Thanks.”
She filled my coffee cup, set the cream pitcher within range, and moved down the line, offering refills and warm-ups before she put in my order. My breakfast arrived and I focused my attention on my orange juice, rye toast, crisp bacon, and scrambled eggs. This was my favorite meal, and I wasted no time putting it away. Darva slipped my check under my plate, and when she topped off my coffee cup she said, “That’s him.”
I looked over my shoulder at the fellow standing in the door. He was as Jake Ottweiler had described him, though I’d have put him at a good twenty-five pounds over the three hundred Jake had mentioned. His head was shaved, but a nap of white stubble had grown in again. His brows were dark and his features appeared diminished by all the weight he carried. His neck was thick, and I could see a roll of fat along his collar line in back. He wore jeans and a golf shirt. I watched him make his way across the room, pausing to chat with half the people he passed. Two men vacated a booth and he slid into it, undismayed by the dirty dishes they’d left behind. I waited until the busboy had cleared the table, giving him additional time to order before I paid my check and crossed the room.
“Hi. Are you BW?”
“I am.” He half-rose from his seat and held out his hand, which I shook. “You’re Kinsey. Jake called me last night and told me you’d be in. Have you had breakfast yet?”
“I just finished.”
He sat down again. “In that case, you can join me for a cup of coffee. Slide in.”
I eased into the booth across from him. “Congratulations on the Moon. It’s a great restaurant, and what a crowd.”
“Weekends are even busier. Of course, we’re the only game in town so that doesn’t hurt. First thing we did when we took possession was we bought a liquor license. We remodeled and expanded in the late fifties and then again about five years back. Before that the Moon was just a hole in the wall—beer and wine with a few prepackaged snacks, pretzels, potato chips, things like that. The clientele was mostly locals. We might get someone in from Orcutt or Cromwell, sometimes a few from Santa Maria, but that was about it. You enjoy your dinner?”
“I did. The steak was fabulous.”
The waitress appeared with a coffeepot and mugs. She and BW got into a minor conversation while she poured coffee. “Your order’s coming right up,” she said, and moved away.
He smiled. “I’m a creature of habit. Eat the same thing every day. Same time, same place.” He added cream to his coffee and then picked up three packets of sweetener and flapped them briefly before he tore off the tops. I watched five seconds’ worth of chemicals disappear into his cup. “So you’re making the rounds, asking about Violet. Must be frustrating.”
“Monotonous is more like it. People are trying to be helpful, but information is scarce and the story tends to be the same. Violet had a trashy reputation and Foley beat her. Try to make something out of that.”
“I don’t have much to add. I saw the two of them three and four nights a week, sometimes together, sometimes one or the other alone, but usually half in the bag.”
“So if Violet picked up a stranger, you’d have known about it?”
“You bet, and so would everyone else. People frequented the Moon because they knew the place. We were too small and too far out of the way to attract tourists or traveling salesmen.”
“Did you work every night?”
“I’d take a day off now and then, but I was pretty much the man in charge. The guy who spelled me, if I was sick or out of town, died a long time ago. Who else have you talked to?”
I rattled off the list of names and watched him nod in agreement.
“Sounds right. None of them could help?”
“That remains to be seen. I’m collecting bits and pieces, but I have no idea if anything I’ve picked up is relevant. Do you remember your reaction when you heard she was gone?”
“I wasn’t surprised. I can tell you that.”
“Were you suspicious of anyone?”
“Besides Foley? No.”
“You don’t know of anyone she might have run off with?”
He shook his head.
“Sergeant Schaefer tells me the locals were all present and accounted for. He says the rumors about Violet having a lover were all traceable to Foley, so if he did something to her, he’d provided himself a smoke screen.”
The waitress reappeared with his breakfast: waffles, fried eggs, link sausage, a side of hash browns, and a second side, of grits with a pat of melting butter.
“Makes a certain amount of sense, assuming Foley’s smart enough, which I tend to doubt.”
“At the time, did you think he might have killed her?”
“It crossed my mind. I know he decked her on more than one occasion, but it was usually behind closed doors. None of us would tolerate his abusing her in public.”
“People tell me the two of them got into wrangles all the time at the Moon.”
“Only for as long as it took me to get out from behind the bar with my baseball bat. I’d have been happy to clobber Foley if he put up resistance. He was usually cooperative if I made matters plain.”
“Was sh
e abusive as well?”
“She went after him sometimes, but she was such a tiny thing she couldn’t do much harm. They’d get into it like two dogs, snarling and snapping. I’d go out there and separate them, put her on one side of the room and him on the other.”
“Did you ever hear her talk about leaving him?”
“Now and then,” he replied. “You know, she’d be crying and complaining, feeling sorry for herself. But it’s like I told her, I’m a bartender, not a damn marriage counselor. I did what I could, but it didn’t amount to much. Problem was, they were so used to brawling that as soon as it was over, they went about their business like nothing had gone on. Next thing you know they’d be at it again. I’d have thrown ’em both out for good, but I felt as long as they were in the Moon, at least I could keep an eye on them and intervene if necessary.”
“Did they fight about the same thing or was it different every time?”
“Usually the same. She’d be flirting with some guy and Foley would take offense.”
“Who, though?”
“Who’d she flirt with? Any guy in range.”
“What about Jake Ottweiler?”
“I’ll correct myself. Not him. The man was married and his wife was on her deathbed.”
“Sorry. I didn’t think Violet made many subtle moral distinctions.”
“She didn’t. I saw her throw herself at Tom Padgett and he was married. There was also a fellow who ran a little plumbing concern. Violet was all over him one night. Must have scared the hell out of him because he never came back.”
“Did she ever flirt with you?”
“Sure, if I was the last guy left in the bar.”
“I guess there’s no point in asking if you succumbed to her charms.”
“I wasn’t tempted. Maybe I saw too much and the idea lost its appeal. I liked her, but not that way. She was too messed up, but it wasn’t anything I could change. She was what she was, her and Foley both. Tell you one thing about him: he hasn’t stepped a foot in the Moon since the day she disappeared.”
“At what point did you buy the place?”
“Fall of 1953. Before that it was owned by a couple of guys from Santa Maria. I was the one who managed everything—kept the books, did the ordering, saw the bathrooms were clean.”
“How’d you end up buying it?”
“After Mary Hairl died that August, Jake was at loose ends. He’d had a series of jobs, but none he’d been happy with. He figured it was time for a change, so when he heard the Moon was for sale, he asked if I’d go into partnership with him in buying the place. I had a couple thousand dollars in the bank so I tossed that in the pot. I had years of experience, and he knew he could trust me not to skim the till.”
“It’s been a good deal for both of you?”
“The best.”
“Sorry to keep harping on this point, but do you have any idea who Violet might have been involved with? I’m really at a loss.”
“I probably already said more than I should. Business I’m in, I don’t look, I don’t ask, and I don’t want to know. Anything I do know, I don’t repeat.”
“Even thirty-four years later?”
“Especially thirty-four years later. What purpose would it serve?”
“None, I suppose.”
“Mind if I offer you a word of advice?”
“Why not? I may not take it, but I’m always willing to listen.”
“Something to keep in mind: This is a small community. We look after each other. Somebody like you comes scratching around, nosing in our business, that doesn’t sit well.”
“No one’s objected so far.”
“Not to your face. We’re too polite for that, but I’ve heard grumbles.”
“Of what sort?”
“Understand, this is not coming from me. I’m repeating what I heard.”
“I won’t hold you accountable. What’s the rest of it?”
“If Violet hasn’t been found so far, what makes you think you’re going to get anywhere? Seems nervy to some.”
“It takes a certain amount of nerve to do anything in life,” I said. “This is a fishing expedition. I may not get a bite and in that case, I’m gone.”
“You think if one of us knew where she was, we’d tell you after all these years?”
“I guess that would depend on why she left and how protective you felt. Liza Mellincamp believes she’s out there somewhere. She claims she doesn’t know where, but she sure doesn’t want to be responsible for Violet being exposed.”
“Suppose it’s true,” he said. “Suppose she left town like a lot of people think. Suppose she’s made herself a whole new life? Why track her down? Believe me, she’s suffered enough. If she managed to escape, then more power to her.”
“Daisy hired me to do this. If people have a problem, tell ’em they should take it up with her. My personal opinion? She’s entitled to any information I can find.”
“Assuming you come up with anything.”
“Right, but you know what? The years work on all of us. Secrets are a burden. If someone’s teetering on the brink, all it takes is a nudge, which is one of my jobs.”
He pushed his plate back and took out a pack of cigarettes. I watched him light up, extinguishing the match with a puff of smoke. He kept his cigarette in one corner of his mouth, squinting against the smoke as he leaned to his left and extracted a money clip from his pants pocket. He peeled off a ten and put it by his plate. “Well, I wish you luck. Meantime, I got business to take care of.”
“One more quick question: You think she’s dead or alive?”
“I really wouldn’t care to say. Happy travels.”
“Thanks.”
As soon as he was out the door, I took out my index cards and scribbled down as much of the conversation as I could capture off the top of my head. I glanced at my watch. 7:45. With luck, I could get a call through to Daisy and catch her before she went to work. I grabbed my shoulder bag and moved through the dwindling crowd.
I walked back to my room, intending to do a final quick walk-through before I checked out. I slowed as I approached. My door was ajar. I stopped in my tracks. Maybe the motel maid was in there cleaning the room. I moved forward with caution and used the tip of my finger to push the door open to the full. I did a slow visual survey and then stepped inside. Everything was just as I’d left it, at least to all appearances. I had no luggage, so if someone had broken in, there was nothing to search. The bed was still rumpled, covers thrown aside. In the bathroom, my damp towel was where I’d placed it earlier, over the rim of the tub.
I paused in the doorway between the two rooms and let my eyes do the traveling. Object to object, surface to surface. Nothing seemed to be disturbed. Still, I knew I’d locked the door securely because I’d tested the knob right after I’d pulled it shut. I walked to the front office, my room key in hand. The parking lot was now only half as full, but I didn’t spy anyone who seemed to take an interest in me.
Mrs. Bonnet was at the desk. I told her I was checking out, and while I waited for my credit card receipt, I said, “Did anyone come in this morning asking for me?”
“No ma’am. We don’t give out information about the paying guests. Were you expecting someone?”
“No. When I got back from breakfast, my door was standing open and I was curious.”
She shook her head, shrugging, unable to enlighten me.
I signed the slip. She handed me the carbon and I put it in my bag. I walked back to my car, which was parked in the slot outside my room. I unlocked the door and slid under the wheel, tossing my shoulder bag on the passenger seat. I turned the key in the ignition, wondering for one fleeting paranoid moment if I was about to be blown sky-high. Happily, I was not. I backed out and then shifted from reverse into first. The car seemed to waddle when I accelerated. Even with my limited knowledge of mechanical problems, this was not a good sign. I drove forward another couple of yards, thinking I’d run over an object and I was
inadvertently dragging it behind. The waddle was still there. Puzzled, I put my foot on the brake and opened the door, leaning to my left. I shut the engine down and got out.
All four of my tires had been slashed.
18
CHET
Friday, July 3, 1953
Chet Cramer sat in his four-door Bel Air sedan, smoking a cigarette, a pleasure he relegated to the end of his day. The windows were cranked open, including the two wing windows, which he’d angled in hopes of capturing fresh air. He loved this car. The Bel Air series was top of the line, with four models: the two-door sport coupe, the two-door convertible, and the two-door and four-door sedans. All had automatic transmission, radio, and heater as standard equipment. His was two-toned; the top Woodland Green, the lower portion Sun Gold, a combination he’d personally selected for himself. The colors reminded him of the green and gold of the old Lucky Strike cigarette pack. When World War II came along, the government had needed the titanium used in the green ink and the bronze used in its gold, so Lucky Strike had abandoned the color scheme in favor of a white pack with a red bull’s-eye. When he first started smoking, he’d been attracted to Lucky Strike because of the slogan—Be Happy, Go Lucky—which seemed ironic in retrospect. He hadn’t been happy-go-lucky since the death of his father in 1925. Recently he’d switched brands, thinking to disassociate himself altogether from the notions of happiness and luck. The new Kent cigarette, with its Micronite filter, was billed as “the greatest health protection in cigarette history.” He wasn’t sure why he was concerned about protecting his health, but he didn’t think it hurt to cut down on tar and nicotine.
He popped open the glove compartment and took out the sterling silver flask he’d inherited from his dad. He kept it filled with vodka from his office supply, and he used it to fortify himself before he went home each day. He preferred rye whiskey but couldn’t afford to greet Livia smelling like a loaf of delicatessen bread. He unscrewed the lid and took a slug. He felt the heat of the liquor going down, but it didn’t dissolve the ache in his chest. He checked the clock on the dashboard. 5:22. By 6:15 he’d be having dinner with his wife and daughter, after which he thought he might as well go back to work. He’d taken advantage of the July 4th weekend to advertise a “Firecracker of a Sale.” During special promotions of this sort he devoted long hours to the dealership as a matter of course, and now that he’d fired Winston, he’d have to shoulder the kid’s load, such as it was. He saw work as a blessing, a way of immersing himself in the here and now. At the moment, he was only going through the motions, knowing it was easier to stick to his routines than to try to make sense out of what had happened to him.