Sue Grafton Novel Collection

by Sue Grafton

  He fixed his green eyes on mine. “Oh, yes. The car would have displaced somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty cubic yards of dirt. Rough guess.”

  “So what’d he do, haul it all away?”

  “Not likely. The biggest dump truck in operation back then had a capacity of five cubic yards, so it would have taken too long, especially if he ferried the load any appreciable distance. The easiest solution would have been to push it across the road and spread it out on that field.”

  “But wouldn’t someone have noticed the sudden appearance of all the fresh dirt?”

  “Not necessarily. If I remember correctly, the field you’re looking at belonged to a co-op at the time, and it was only being cultivated intermittently. With road construction under way, things were already torn up, so no one would have paid attention to a little more dirt.”

  “We have to be talking about someone who’s worked in construction, don’t you think? The average joe doesn’t jump on a bulldozer and dig a hole that size. Seems like you’d have to know what you were doing.”

  “True, but that’s not going to help you narrow the field. After World War Two a lot of guys around here worked construction, Foley being one. Building trade was booming, so it was that, farmwork, the oil fields, or the packing plant.”

  “Well. I guess we don’t have to worry about it. I’m sure Detective Nichols will figure it out.”

  At noon I took Daisy’s car and made a run to the delicatessen I’d patronized the day before. Since Tannie had commandeered yesterday’s braunschweiger on rye, I ordered one for myself. Daisy said she’d be happy with whatever I picked up, so I had the counterman put together a sliced-turkey sandwich on sourdough bread. I ordered a second one and then added potato chips, sodas, and a bag of cookies. As long as we were stuck there we might as well enjoy ourselves.

  We ate in her car, watching the excavation as though we were at a drive-in movie. A tow truck appeared, the most exciting occurrence in the past three hours. Tom Padgett must have gotten bored because I saw him back away and start heading in our direction. He had his fat-stemmed glasses in hand, polishing one lens with a white handkerchief. His jeans, cowboy boots, and western-cut shirt gave him the air of a rodeo rider, complete with slightly bowed legs.

  I said, “Hang on.” I opened the car door and got out. “Hi, Tom. Are you off to lunch?”

  “Come again?” He put on his glasses and cupped a hand to one ear.

  “I wondered if you were on your way to lunch.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I thought I’d grab a bite somewhere.”

  “I can save you the trip. We have an extra turkey sandwich, if you’re interested.”

  “That’d be nice if you’re sure it’s okay. “

  “If you don’t eat it, we’ll have to toss it out.”

  He used the front fender of Daisy’s car as a makeshift picnic table. I popped open the remaining soda and passed it to him. He shook his head to the offer of potato chips but later accepted a cookie that he downed with enthusiasm.

  I said, “How’s it going? You’ve managed to get a lot closer to the hole than we have.”

  He cleared his mouth and ran a paper napkin across his lips, nodding as he did. “They’re making good progress. Looks like they’re about to try pulling the car out of the hole.”

  “Really, that close?”

  He wadded up his sandwich wrappings. “That’s why they got the tow truck. Might not work, but it’d sure be a lot easier than what they’ve done.”

  “How long did you hang around last night?”

  “As long as I could. I had paperwork to catch up on, so I left before they called it a wrap. I was surprised how much they’d accomplished. Lot of dirt.”

  “Was it your equipment they were using when the road was built?”

  “Sure was. Those days, there were only two of us. Me and a fellow named Bob Zeigler. Road construction, the county hired private companies like us, so we took advantage of the need. We were competitors, but neither of us had enough equipment to cover the whole job. Most of what I carried was tractors, and he was already spread thin because there were so many housing tracts under construction.”

  “How’d you get into the business in the first place?”

  “I could see the niche and decided to step in. I borrowed from the local-yokel bank and hit up family members for as much as I could. First thing I did was pick up a couple of used farm machines. I didn’t have an office or a yard. I worked out of a truck I kept parked beside a public pay phone, and did the mechanical repairs myself. Heavy equipment’s low margin, high volume, so every cent I got went right back to the John Deere factory to buy more equipment. Gradually things picked up. Around here, what with the old boy network, you could slip a few bucks to a private contractor and you were set. At least for a while.”

  “You have a guess about what the guy used to dig the hole? Calvin Wilcox says a bulldozer.”

  “Had to be: 1953 the bulldozer or a track loader would’ve been the only mobile equipment available. The track loader was new technology in those days. I believe Caterpillar brought one out in 1950, but it was too expensive for me, and if Zeigler owned one, I’d have known about it. So a bulldozer for sure.”

  “One of yours?”

  “Had to be mine or his. We were the only game in town.”

  “You wouldn’t by any chance have records going back that far?”

  “Can’t help you there. You’re hoping I can tell you who rented that machine, but no dice. I keep records for as long as the IRS requires and after that, files get tossed. Seven years back is the extent of it.”

  “Too bad.”

  “I’m surprised Detective Nichols lets you nose around like this. He strikes me as the type to run a pretty tight ship.”

  “Right now we don’t even know what we’re dealing with.”

  “I guess that’s right. Far as I know, there’s no law against burying a car. Same token, sheriff ’s office can get pretty testy about people messing in their business.”

  “Happily, I’m not ‘messing in their business.’ Detective Nichols knows anything I learn will go straight back to him. I made a promise.”

  We heard the steady peep-peep-peep of a vehicle backing up. The tow truck driver had the door open, and he was leaning out so he could see where he was going. Most of the law-enforcement personnel had assembled near the hole—detectives, deputies, and crime-scene techs. Daisy seemed rooted to the earth, but both Padgett and I crossed the road to get as close as we could. There was some dickering around while the cable was secured to the front axle of the car. I could hear the high whine of the hydraulic lift and the cable pulled taut. With a groan, the car was wrested from the earth and hauled, rattling and banging, up the long incline. When the vehicle finally rolled into view, the tow truck driver pulled on his emergency brake and got out to take a look.

  The sad remains of the Bel Air hunkered in the light like some hibernating beast whose rest had been disturbed. Moisture had chewed into the rubber on all four tires, leaving them flat. The rust was so extensive that the exterior paint might have been any color. The backseat window on the passenger side was gone. On the same side of the roof, the weight of the soil had caused a portion to collapse, leaving it looking as soft as a rotting melon. Dirt must have filtered into the interior, creating the depression that I’d seen from the second floor of the house. Though we couldn’t see anything from where we stood, we were later told that condensation had caused the upholstered seats to decay down to the springs. The windshield and hood were intact, but the gas tank had rusted through and all the gas had leaked out, visible as a darkened patch at the bottom of the hole. Even from that distance, I picked up scents, as subtle but unmistakable as a whiff of skunk—rust, rotting upholstery, and decomposing flesh.

  One of the techs blew on the windshield, managing to clear a small patch of glass. He directed the beam from a heavy-duty flashlight across the interior. He moved to the missing rear window so he could peer in
to the backseat. Daisy turned away, gnawing on her thumbnail. The tech motioned the detective over and he peered in. While the second tech took a set of photographs, Nichols approached Daisy and eased her away from the rest of us. He talked to her for some time, his manner serious. I knew the news wasn’t good. I could see her nod, but she made very few comments in response, her expression impossible to read. He waited until he’d assured himself that she was okay before he crossed back to the tow truck. At a signal the car was loaded on the deck and secured with heavy chain.

  Daisy returned. Her face was drawn and her eyes held the blank look of someone who hasn’t yet made sense of the world. “What’s left of the dog is on the floor. They can see skeletal remains in the backseat. The body’s wrapped in a shroud of some kind, though most of the fabric’s rotted away. Nichols says they won’t know cause of death until the medical examiner takes a look at her.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It gets worse. He says the shroud looks like badly disintegrating lace, probably a curtain, judging by the row of broken plastic rings they can see along one edge.”

  26

  We drove back to Daisy’s house. My impulse was to have her drop me off so I could pick up my VW and head for home, but she asked me to go with her to tell her father about the discovery of Violet’s body. I wasn’t sure she’d fully absorbed the impact of her mother’s death. Under the surface calm, she had to be in a fragile emotional state. She’d longed for closure, but surely not this kind. Though she hadn’t said as much, she’d probably had her hopes pinned on the notion that Violet was still alive, which would have afforded them the option of reconciliation. The certainty about Violet’s fate created more questions than answers, and none of the options seemed good.

  In the meantime, ever practical, I made a quick dash inside and moved the clothes from the washer to the dryer so I could have my jeans back before I hit the road. We drove to Cromwell in Daisy’s car, and when we pulled up in front of the rectory, we could see Foley sitting on the porch in a wooden rocker, his hands in his lap. In the aftermath of the assault, his face looked painfully swollen. His cheeks and eye sockets had ballooned up as though tight with air, and his bruises were a deeper shade of dark blue and more widespread. He’d showered and his clothes were fresh, but the packing in his nostrils and the splint on his nose had precluded washing his hair. A residue of dried blood matted the strands. Watching us approach, Foley had to know the news was bad, in the same way you know you’re in for a jolt when a somber-looking state trooper comes knocking at your door.

  Daisy stopped a few feet short of the porch. “Has anyone told you?”

  “No. Pastor said there was a call, but I refused to take the phone until I heard from you.”

  “They found her buried in the car. ID hasn’t been confirmed, but the dog was buried with her and there’s no doubt as far as I’m concerned.”

  “How was she killed?”

  “They won’t know until the autopsy tomorrow or possibly the day after.”

  “At least she didn’t leave us. I take comfort in that.”

  “Not in the way we thought.”

  “Do you think it was me that harmed her?”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  “I did love her. I know you don’t believe me, but I loved her with all my heart.” A tear trickled down each side of his face, but the effect was odd, like he’d suddenly sprung pinhole leaks. Personally, I thought it was the wrong time to try defending himself. Daisy didn’t seem receptive and she sure wasn’t interested in seeing him play victim. We all knew who the real victim was in the overall scheme of things.

  “That’s no way to love, Daddy. With a fist? My god. If that’s what love is about, I’d just as soon do without.”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “So you say. All I remember is your punching her out.”

  “I can’t argue the point. Sometimes I hit her. I don’t deny the fact. What I’m saying is you can’t fix on one part and think you understand the whole. Marriage is more complicated than that.”

  “You better hire yourself another lawyer, Daddy, because I’ll tell you what’s complicated. She was wrapped in a lace curtain and the dog’s skull was crushed.”

  In the car driving back to her place, I kept my mouth shut, sensing she was in a dangerous mood. Finally she said, “I swear to god, if he killed her I want you to nail his ass.”

  “I wish it were that simple, but it’s not up to me. This is a homicide investigation and believe me, the sheriff ’s department doesn’t need my help or interference. I may be a licensed PI, but that cuts no ice with local law enforcement. The quickest way to alienate the cops is to tromp on their turf.”

  Daisy’s face seemed set. “You owe me a day. I gave you a twenty-five-hundred-dollar retainer. Five hundred a day for five days and you’ve worked four.”

  “Well, that’s true.”

  “One day. That’s all I’m asking for.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something. I understand what you’re saying about the sheriff ’s department, but at this point you know more about the case than they do.”

  “True again,” I said. I had my own curiosity to satisfy, and I was already thinking of ways to do it that wouldn’t entail stepping on their toes. In times past, I may have been a teeny tiny bit guilty of crossing the line, but I was feeling virtuous this round. So far, at any rate.

  When we reached her house, I slipped my jeans on hot out of the dryer, gathered my toiletries and the few remaining articles of clothing, and shoved it all in a plastic bag. I grabbed my shoulder bag, tossed both bags in the backseat of my car, and backed out of the garage. It was Saturday afternoon. Government offices were closed, but the Santa Maria public library was open and might be worth a look-see. I drove into town, heading north on Broadway as far as the 400 block, where I pulled into the parking lot.

  The library is housed in a two-story Spanish-style structure with the ubiquitous red-tile roof. Santa Teresa architecture shares certain similarities with Santa Maria, though much of the latter looks less than twenty-five years old. I hadn’t seen an “old town” or anything resembling the mix of Spanish, Victorian, post-Victorian, Craftsman, and contemporary houses that Santa Teresa boasts. Many neighborhoods, like Tim Schaefer’s, date to the ’50s, ’60s, and ’70s, decades in which single-family residences were miraculously charm free.

  Once inside, I asked for the reference department and was directed to an elevator that took me to the second floor. My first job was to pull the roll of microfilm for the Santa Maria Chronicle covering June 1, 1953, to August 31, 1953. I threaded the film through the machine and scrolled day by day, looking for anything of significance.

  On a national level, June 19, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg were executed at Sing Sing. There was apparently new hope for a truce in Korea. On the local scene, according to the advertisements, gas was selling for twenty-two cents a gallon, a loaf of bread cost sixteen cents, and a sixteen-ounce jar of Kraft Cheez Whiz cost fifty-seven cents. Livia Cramer had given a home-demonstration party, whatever that was, and the ladies who’d been awarded prizes were listed. Cecil B. DeMille’s Cleopatra, starring Claudette Colbert and Warren William, was playing at the local theater, along with a 3-D movie called Bwana Devil. Approaching the Fourth of July weekend, I saw that the Santa Maria Indians had a game scheduled with the San Luis Obispo Blues at 8:30 in the Elks Field, and the 144th Field Artillery Battalion was having a Fourth of July Reunion BBQ. As I’d surmised, while many businesses were open on Friday, banks and government offices were closed. Eventually I came across the article about Violet’s disappearance, a copy of which Daisy had tucked in her file. I started printing out pages, beginning with June 30 and continuing into the following week.

  I went into a room devoted to genealogy and local history. I checked the volumes on the left-hand wall and located the county directory for 1952. The 1953 edition was missing, but I thought the 1
952 data would be more useful in any event. I set my shoulder bag on the floor and took a chair at one of the tables.

  In going over my notes, I’d come across the map I’d sketched on my first trip to Serena Station. I’d met many people who’d been intimately connected to Violet, but I hadn’t talked to those on the periphery. In a murder investigation, anyone with something to hide could lie, obfuscate, or point a finger at someone else. A disinterested observer was a better source of information.

  Serena Station was accorded two pages in the city-county directory: roughly sixty families listed by address, name, and occupation. I counted forty-seven homemakers, eleven oil workers, a nurse, a bartender (BW McPhee), a ranch hand, four railroad workers, eight laborers, a postmaster, and a teacher. Foley was calling himself a construction worker in those days, and Violet was listed as a housewife, not a homemaker, I noted. The Blue Moon, a Laundromat, and the auto-repair shop were the only three businesses in town. The Sullivans’ neighbors to the left were Jon and Bernadette Ericksen, and on the street behind them, backing up to their rental house, was a couple named Arnold and Sarah Treadwell. One house down from the Ericksens, there was a family named Hernandez. I made notes, not knowing at this point what information would be worth pursuing. I spotted Livia and Chet Cramer’s names, but no family named Wilcox or Ottweiler. I checked the five pages devoted to the small town of Cromwell, spotting both sets of names. Businesses there were more numerous but still covered only eight additional columns. I photocopied all the pages on the off chance I’d need to look at them again. No point in being forced to make a return trip.

  I put that volume back and pulled the 1956 city directory, checking for the same three names—Ericksen, Treadwell, and Hernandez. Two of the three families were gone, which indicated death, divorce, or a simple move to another town. I noticed that after 1956, the county directory had been converted to a city directory that covered only Santa Maria and Lompoc, with no mention of Serena Station at all. I pulled the 1986 telephone book and searched again, hoping to find a trace. The Hernandez family was a wash, there being so many listed I knew I’d never track down the one I wanted. I had slightly better luck with Ericksen. I didn’t find a “J” or a “B,” but there was an “A. Ericksen” in Santa Maria, possibly Jon and Bernadette’s offspring. A family named Treadwell was living in Orcutt, and though the husband’s first name wasn’t a match, I thought there might be a connection. I wrote down both sets of phone numbers and street addresses.