"S" is for Silence (17 page)

“Yeah, I know.”

“Let a house like that sit empty and first the raccoons move in. Then the termites, then the bums. It was grand once upon a time, but try bringing it back and you'll go broke. You're looking at well over a million bucks.”

“So I take it you're opposed,” she said, and then laughed. “I know it's bad, but that's a piece of my childhood. I can't see knocking it down. Besides, we do make
some
money from the property, between the oil and gas leases.”

“Well, you asked and I'm giving you my opinion. You know the rumors about rezoning. You want to save the house, you're better off selling to developers and letting them do the work. They could turn it into offices or a party center in the middle of a housing tract.”

“Steve's point exactly. Don't tell me you're in league with him.”

“I got no stake in the matter one way or the other. You ought to get a contractor out there and have him take a look.”

“Why not you?”

“You already know what I think. You need to hear it from someone else. You'll be happier that way. I'd be willing to meet with anyone you want and throw in my two cents.”

“You'd poison the well.”

“I wouldn't open my mouth until you heard what he had to say.”

“Who do you recommend?”

“Billy Boynton or Dade Ray. Both are good men.”

“I guess I better do that. I know I'm only postponing the inevitable. I keep thinking, one step at a time, but who am I trying to kid? It's like having to put a dog down. You know the mutt's too sick to go on, but it's just that you don't want to do it
today.
”

“I understand. You have to do it in your own time.”

“Enough said. I got it and I appreciate your input.”

“Anytime,” he said. His attention shifted to me. “Pardon my bad manners. Jake was just telling me about you. You've got quite a job on your hands.”

“Well, it's a challenge at any rate. At first the idea seemed absurd, but now I'm enjoying myself. Me against Violet. It's like playing hide-and-seek.”

“So what's your theory?”

“I don't have a theory. Right now I'm talking to anyone and everyone, filling in the blanks. The questions don't change, but sometimes I get an answer I don't expect. One of these days, I'm going to pick up a thread and then I'll see where it goes. From what I've heard about Violet, she might have been devious, but she wasn't good at keeping secrets. Somebody knows where she is.”

“You really think so?”

“I do. Either the guy she ran off with or the guy who did her in. It's really just a matter of tracking him down.”

He shook his head, his tone skeptical. “I have to hand it to you, you're an optimist.”

“That's what keeps me on my toes. What about you? Where do you weigh in on the debate?”

“What, whether she's dead or alive? Personally, I think she ran off and I said it from the get-go. I spent more than one night listening to Violet bitch. I promise, it was only a matter of time before she found a way out.”

“But where would she have gone; have you ever asked yourself?”

“Sure, I've thought about that. She was young and in her own way she was innocent. A small-town kind of girl. She had experience with men, but she didn't know anything about the world at large. I can't picture her in a big town like San Francisco or L.A. I can't even picture her in the state. California's as expensive now as it was back then, relative to income. Given the cash she had—which probably didn't amount to much—I'm guessing she'd go someplace she could afford. Midwest, the South—someplace like that.”

“You heard about her money?”

“Half a dozen times. She'd get on a tear and threaten to pull out if Foley didn't straighten up and fly right.”

“Like that was ever going to happen,” Tannie put in.

The subject shifted. There were only so many ideas you could bounce around with so little information. At 10:30, Padgett made his excuses and headed for the door.

Daisy, meanwhile, was feeling no pain. She'd had enough to drink that some merrier, more loquacious personality had taken over her ordinary self. She was flirting with some guy, laughing too loudly. From a distance, she appeared to be having fun. Up close, I was betting, she was out of control. It was the first indication I'd seen of the trouble she was capable of getting into. Tannie followed my gaze, and the two of us locked eyes briefly. “Once she reaches this point, it's all over,” Tannie said. “He'll end up in her bed and things will go downhill from there.”

“We can't intervene?”

“This time, sure, but she'll be in here again tomorrow night and the night after that. You want to take on that kind of responsibility? Because I sure don't. After this round, at any rate. Tannie to the rescue. What an idiot. Wish me luck.”

She left the table and joined Daisy, who was dancing with her cowboy. She took some persuading, but she did return to the table without her new best friend. By the time we were ready to part company, it was 11:00 and I'd had one too many glasses of wine. I was fine for the short haul, but I didn't like the idea of driving all the way home. “You know what, guys? It's not such a hot idea my being on the road. Is there a motel around here, or maybe a B-and-B?”

The Sun Bonnet Motel was stuck out in the middle of nowhere, a one-story stucco building that was plain, shabby at the seams, but allegedly clean. My room was the kind you'd be wise to avoid examining with a black light after dark because the stains illuminated—bedding, carpeting, furniture, and walls—would suggest activities you wouldn't want to know about. It was a family business, Mr. and Mrs. Bonnet having owned the place for the past forty years. Its single virtue was that Mrs. Bonnet—Maxi—owned and ran Maxi's Coffee Shop, which was attached to one end. Oh happy day. In the morning, I could intercept BW within a hundred yards of my bed.

Daisy had been apologetic that she couldn't put me up at her house, but that's where Tannie was staying, and she had only the one spare room.

“Sorry 'bout that, but I got dibs,” Tannie injected, clearly pleased with herself.

“You could sleep on my couch,” Daisy said.

“Oh no, not me. I'm too old for that stuff. Maybe some other time.”

 

After I checked in, I left the registration desk and returned to my car. Mrs. Bonnet had put me in 109, which was down at the end of the line, the second to last of ten rooms. All the other rooms were dark, but there was a car parked on each side of the slot for 109. I left my car in front of my door, only slightly worried by the sight of the drapery sagging off the hooks. I unlocked the door, went in, and flipped on the light. The room was small, the color scheme leaning toward cantaloupe and peach. A double bed was centered on the wall to my right. The pillows looked flat, and there was a trough down the middle of the mattress where my body would just fit, thus saving me needless tossing and turning. The bed tables and the chest of drawers were paint-grade wood with a wood-laminate veneer. The easy chair didn't look that easy, but I didn't plan to sit.

I went into the bathroom, floor squeaking as I walked, and pulled my toothbrush, toothpaste, and a change of underpants from my shoulder bag, where I keep them for such occasions. My only serious lament was that I hadn't brought a book, but I'd expected to drive up and back without any opportunity to read. I checked all the drawers, but there wasn't so much as a Gideon's Bible or a stray paperback. I stripped off my jeans and brassiere, and slept in the very T-shirt I'd worn all day. During the night, I could hear—like the sound of a train passing—thunder in the walls as the guests in rooms on both sides of mine flushed their toilets at random intervals. My bedspread smelled musty, and I was happy I didn't see the article about dust mites until the following week.

At 6:00
A.M.
my eyes popped open. For a moment I couldn't think where I was, and when it finally occurred to me, I was annoyed with myself for waking up so early. I had neither sweats nor running shoes, which meant a morning run was out of the question. I closed my eyes to no avail. At 6:15 I threw the covers back, went into the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and showered, as those were the only options open to me. I put on my clothes again and sat on the edge of the unmade bed. I didn't want to walk over to Maxi's Coffee Shop until 7:00, when I was hoping to meet BW.

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 she 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.”