Three Complete Novels: A Is for Alibi / B Is for Burglar / C Is for Corpse

by Sue Grafton

  “Yeah, well, something’s come up. I want you to take a look.”

  “Can’t we eat first and then look?”

  “This won’t take long.”

  She followed me to the side yard and I pointed to the irregular rectangle that had attracted my attention. At ground level, the depression wasn’t as defined as it appeared from above, especially with half-dead hydrangea bushes piled to one side. At close range, it looked more like a mole had been tunneling across the yard. The soil was uneven, but it took a bit of squinting to see that it was sunken in relation to the surrounding lawn. This was about the same as staring at the night sky, trying to identify Taurus the Bull by visualizing lines between stars. I never saw anything remotely resembling livestock, a failing I attributed to my paltry imagination. Yet here I was pointing like a bird dog, saying, “Know what that is?”

  “Dirt?”

  “Better than dirt. I think it’s Violet Sullivan’s grave.”

  Tannie stared down at her feet. “You’re shitting me.”

  “Don’t think so, but we’ll find out.”

  We sat on the porch steps waiting for Tim Schaefer. Tannie had lost her appetite and neither of us was in the mood to talk. “But I got dibs on the braunschweiger once we get around to the sandwiches,” she said.

  At 1:10 Schaefer drove up in his 1982 Toyota and pulled into Tannie’s drive with his metal-detecting pal. The two got out, car doors slamming in unison, and crossed to the porch. Schaefer carried a shovel and a long steel implement, like a walking stick with a point on one end. He introduced his friend, whose name was Ken Rice, adding a two-line bio so we’d know whom we were dealing with. Like Schaefer, he was a man in his early eighties, retired after thirty-eight years with the Santa Maria Police Department, working first as a motorcycle officer, then foot patrol, Narcotics, and later as the department’s first K-9 officer. For the past twenty years, his passion had been the location and recovery of buried relics, caches of coins, and other forms of treasure. We shook hands all around and then Rice turned on his detector, which looked like the two halves of a toolbox, connected by a metal rod. “Let’s see what we got.”

  The four of us trooped across the property to the side yard, me tagging behind Rice like a little kid. “How does that work?”

  “System has a directional transmitter and directional receiver built into these interlocking cases. Powered up, it emits an electromagnetic field that penetrates the soil. This is the same equipment used by public-utility employees looking for pipes underground. When the search pattern encounters metal, the signal is interrupted and that generates an audio response.”

  “How far down?”

  “The Fisher’s capable of revealing a target as far down as twenty feet. Depending on soil mineralization and ground conditions, it’s possible to detect an object even deeper.”

  When we reached the spot, the three of us watched as Rice swept the detector across the ground. He’d put on a headset, and I gathered the device made a continuous sound that grew louder when he made a find. On his first pass, I saw the needle on the gauge leap hard to the right and stay there as though glued. He pressed a hand to his ear, frowning to himself as he continued sweeping across the area. Having finished, he said, “You’ve got something the size of a boxcar down there.”

  I laughed. “We do?”

  “Schaefer tells me you’re looking for a car, but this might be something else.”

  “Such as what?”

  “A Dumpster, underground storage tank, a chunk of sheet metal roof.”

  “So now what?” I asked.

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

  He and Schaefer conferred and then Schaefer returned to his car, where he opened the trunk. He came back bearing a ball of twine and a plastic bag full of the golf tees he used in recaning chairs. While Rice made a series of passes with his box, Schaefer followed in his wake and stuck golf tees in the ground, roughly conforming to the signal Rice was picking up. Tannie and I each took a turn listening, passing the headset from one to the other. If Rice moved the device too far left or right, the tone diminished. Schaefer ran a line of twine from tee to tee. When they finished mapping, the string was laid out in a rectangle eighteen feet long by approximately eight feet wide. I could feel the skin pucker on my arms at the notion of an underground object of that size. It must be equivalent to sailing on the ocean and realizing a whale was on the verge of surfacing under your boat. The very proximity seemed ominous. Unseen and unidentified, it radiated an energy that had me edging away.

  Schaefer picked up the metal bar he was using as a probe. He chose a spot and pushed down, leaning his weight into the rod. It sank eight inches, but not easily. The soil in this part of the state has a high clay content, larded with numerous rocks and sizeable sandstone boulders. This makes digging tedious under the best of circumstances. Strike a boulder with a shovel blade and the impact will reverberate all the way up your arms.

  Rice added his weight to the job. The probe sank another foot and a half and stopped. He said, “What do you think?”

  “Let’s see if it’s rock or we’re hitting something else.”

  Schaefer took his shovel and set to work, cutting into the hard-packed topsoil. I’d thought the ground would yield, but it proved to be slow going. Twenty minutes of steady effort produced a trench eighteen inches wide and about three feet long. Frail roots were exposed and hung from the perpendicular sides of the cut like a living fringe. The dirt pile beside the hole mounted.

  At a depth of twenty-six inches, he made contact with an object, or a portion of an object. The four of us paused to stare.

  “I’ve got a trowel if you want to dig by hand,” Tannie said.

  “Might be smart,” Rice replied.

  When she returned, she said, “May I?”

  Schaefer said, “Have at it. It’s your land.”

  Tannie got down on her hands and knees and began to scrape away the dirt. The object might have once been chrome though it was so badly rusted it was difficult to tell. I found myself tilting my head, saying, “What is that?”

  By the time she’d dug down and cut an additional five inches, she’d uncovered something with a metal lip that extended over a shallow curve of glass. She looked up. “It’s a headlight. Isn’t it?”

  Schaefer rested his hands on his knees and leaned closer. “I believe you’re right.”

  Tannie scraped away another narrow trough of dirt, revealing what looked to be the rusted metal curve of a front right fender.

  Rice said, “One of us better call the station and get some help out here.”

  By 3:00 there were eight officers at the site: an ID detective and a young deputy from the Santa Maria Sheriff’s Department; a sergeant, two homicide detectives, and two nonsworn officers from Santa Teresa. In addition, an investigator had driven up from the State Crime Lab, which is located in Colgate, near the Santa Teresa Airport. A temporary parking area had been set up for official vehicles, including the crime scene van.

  The first officer on the scene, the young Santa Maria deputy, had secured the area, relegating Schaefer, Ken Rice, Tannie, and me to a spot twenty-five yards away. Anyone in a secured crime scene is considered the same as a primary witness and might be asked to testify in court, which was why we were kept at such a distance. In addition, if this turned into a homicide investigation, there was always the risk that unauthorized persons might contaminate the site.

  The lead investigator, Detective Nichols, came over and introduced himself, then briefed us on strategy for the excavation. He was a good-looking man in his forties, wearing a dress shirt and tie with a windbreaker, but no sport coat. He was slim, his light brown hair trimmed short. He glanced in my direction. “You’re Miss Millhone?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Could I speak to you?”

  “Of course.”

  We moved some distance away so we could talk in private.

  “I understand Daisy Sullivan hire
d you to find her mother. You want to tell me how you came up with this?” he asked, indicating the site.

  I backtracked, filling him in on my conversation with Winston and the tidbit he’d given me about spotting the car. I told him I’d been bothered by the fact that after that last sighting, the car was never seen again. “I was touring the house and when I looked down from one of the second-floor windows, I spotted the depression in the ground. At first I thought I was looking at an old planting bed, but then the car popped into my head. I called Sergeant Schaefer and he drove out with Ken Rice.”

  “You had no information in advance?”

  “None. In fact, I had only the dimmest recollection of Violet Sullivan’s disappearance. I’d read the occasional newspaper account, but I hadn’t paid much attention until Daisy contacted me this past Monday. Tannie was the one who introduced us, which is how I ended up here.”

  He settled a look on me that was friendly enough, but had a no-nonsense undertone. “Anything else you find, you make sure I hear about it first.”

  “Absolutely.”

  We returned to the others. The five of us watched while one of the ID techs photographed the area and the other tech took measurements and drew a rough sketch, depicting what was believed to be the angle and orientation of the car. Given what they could see in the early phases of the work, the speculation was that whoever engineered the burial had used a bulldozer with an eight-foot blade, probably creating a ramp at a twenty-to thirty-degree angle. The car had been backed into the hole and then covered with fill. According to calculations, it would have taken approximately fifty feet of ramp to a maximum depth of fifteen feet in order to get the whole of the car underground with the front end sunk deep enough to prevent discovery. Now I could see what that pesky high school geometry class was about. There was no point in going to all the trouble of burying a car if the hood ornament was going to wash clear in the first big rain storm. If the job were poorly done, the car would emerge, little by little, over a period of time until it looked like an island in the middle of the lawn. Assuming the whole of the vehicle was there. Maybe we were looking at the bisected front end with nothing else attached. Detective Nichols excused himself and went back to the dig.

  If speculation about the depth and angle was correct, the car was tilted beneath the surface like a sunken submarine, hung up on an underwater shelf. That being the case, the roof of the car and the top edge of the windshield would be approximately two paces back and some two and a half feet deep. To test the theory, Nichols whistled the young deputy over, handed him the shovel, and directed him to dig. He set to work, keeping his cuts shallow. Fifteen minutes later, the blade of his shovel scraped the surface of the roof.

  There was a long debate about the use of an excavator, a motion that was quickly ratified. The idea of freeing the vehicle by hand was out of the question. The ID detective radioed and a deputy was dispatched to A-Okay Heavy Equipment to ask Padgett if he had one available. This generated an additional delay while the excavator was located, loaded on a low-boy flatbed truck, and driven out from town.

  Tannie and I retired to her car, now parked a hundred yards down the road. We sat with the windows rolled down and ate our deli sandwiches, calling it lunch though it was already 4:00 P.M. I had no idea how word got out, but a trickle of people appeared, and before long the road was lined with vehicles. Two deputies controlled public access to the scene, which had been sealed off with tape. Steve Ottweiler arrived and he joined us, talking to his sister through the open window of her car. She said, “Does Pop know?”

  “I called him and he’s on his way out. Let me go see what Tim Schaefer has to say. He’ll know more than we do.”

  Steve crossed the road. Schaefer was standing in a small knot of men. During the course of their conversation, the flatbed truck arrived. Tom Padgett had followed in his car, and he supervised the off-loading of the compact John Deere excavator, after which the equipment operator was the only one allowed in the magic circle. Padgett was relegated to the sidelines in the same way we were, which seemed to annoy him no end. For the next hour, we watched in amazement as the operator maneuvered his equipment with the delicacy of a surgeon. He was directed by whistles and hand signals, his skill such that he could scrape as little as an inch or as much as a foot of dirt from the hole on command.

  Ken Rice found a ride home while Schaefer remained. He stood sipping coffee from a foam cup someone managed to provide. Even retired, he was drawn to the drama unfolding before our eyes. Jake Ottweiler pulled up and parked his car down the road. His son walked out to meet him and the two returned to Tim Schaefer’s side. Having worked for the sheriff ’s department for thirty-some-odd years, he was the reigning civilian expert. I noticed BW McPhee was on hand, having appeared at some point. I also caught a glimpse of Winston, but didn’t have a chance to make eye contact before he disappeared again. A local TV station sent a crew, and Detective Nichols gave a brief, uninformative statement, essentially referring the reporter to the sheriff for further comment.

  At 5:45 Daisy arrived. Tannie and I got out of the car and waved her over. She joined us, looking pale and subdued. She was still in her work clothes, navy slacks, a cotton sweater, and sensible low-heeled shoes. She was chewing on her thumbnail again but lowered her hand self-consciously when she caught sight of me. She tucked her fingers out of sight and shifted from foot to foot as though to warm herself. She hadn’t heard about my tires being slashed, so we talked about that just to get her mind off what was going on. “I don’t like the sound of it.”

  “It’s a bit melodramatic, but I took it as a good sign,” I said.

  “What are your plans for tonight?”

  “I was expecting to head home, but now I think I’ll hang out until we know what we’ve got down there.”

  “You can’t go back to the Sun Bonnet.”

  “No, but there are other motels.”

  “Spend the night at my place. Tannie leaves first thing tomorrow morning. You’ll survive one night on the couch. I’ve done it before myself. Meanwhile, we can lock your car in my garage and get it off the street in case the son of a bitch comes looking for it.”

  “If I stay, I’ll either need to do laundry or borrow some underwear.”

  “We’ll do both.”

  “This is such guy stuff. I love it,” Tannie remarked, taking in the various gatherings of men.

  Detective Nichols joined Tim Schaefer on the far side of the road, introducing himself to Jake and Steve Ottweiler. After a few more minutes of conversation, Nichols returned to us. He knew by then that the Ottweilers owned the property and that Daisy was the only child of the missing Violet Sullivan. He introduced himself to Daisy, and I could see her taking him in—glasses, clean-shaven, nice smile. There was a shift in her posture. Clearly she found him attractive.

  He glanced at the clusters of onlookers out by the road. Even with their limited line of sight, there was something compelling about the work. “I’m about to have the deputies clear these people out of here. This is not a spectator sport. If we need to bring in additional equipment or manpower, I don’t want to have to work around all the looky-loos and parked cars. I’m going to have you give the deputy contact numbers in case I need to get in touch. I’d appreciate your keeping quiet about anything you’ve seen or heard. We don’t want details getting out. The less information we have in circulation, the better.”

  “It’s all right if we stay?” Daisy asked.

  “As long as you do what you’re told and keep out of the way.”

  “How long will it take? I know you can’t say exactly…”

  “I’m guessing two days. No point being hasty and damaging the car beyond what nature’s already done.”

  “But you haven’t found anything?”

  “Not so far. I understand your concern about your mother and I’ll keep you informed. As soon as we free the car, we’ll take it to the impound lot. We’ve got a storage facility, where we can warehouse the vehi
cle while we go over it. Right now we have no idea what evidence we’ll find, if any, after all this time. What about your father; have you talked to him?”

  Daisy shook her head. “I came right from work. I assume somebody’s called him by now, but maybe not. I’m sure he’d be here if he knew.”

  “One thing I’ll need to ask him—or maybe this is something you can tell me yourself—do you recall what your mother was wearing the day she disappeared?”

  “A sundress. Lavender cotton with white polka dots. Leather sandals and thin silver bracelets, six of them. I don’t actually remember any of it. It was in the report my father filed at the time.” She seemed so tense, I expected her teeth to chatter. “Are you going to tell me if she’s down there?”

  “I’d do that, of course. You have a right to know.”

  “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

  As he walked away, she tracked his departure with a calculating eye. “Well, he’s cute. Married, no doubt.”

  Tannie laughed. “Just your kind of guy. Too bad he works. He’d be perfect for you.”

  Within minutes, we could see two deputies encouraging bystanders to move on. People began to drift away. Car doors slammed, engines coughed to life, and one by one the crowd dispersed. In truth, at that remove, there wasn’t much to see. The excavation was being treated like an archaeological dig—sketched, diagrammed, measured, photographed, and documented with a video camera as well. Two-man teams were set up, and as each scoop of dirt was freed, it was loaded into one of two sieves, shaken, and sifted for physical evidence.

  At dusk, portable generators were brought in and high-intensity lights were set up. By then Daisy was shivering.

  I linked my arm through hers. “Let’s get out of here. They’re not going to find anything tonight. You’re freezing and I’m starving. Plus, I gotta pee so bad I’m about to wet my pants.”

  “Oh, me too,” Tannie said.

  21

  JAKE