"S" is for Silence (26 page)

By the time Daisy came out of her bedroom at 8:00 Saturday morning, Tannie had left for home. From my makeshift pallet on the couch, I'd heard her come out of the guest room and creep into the bathroom, quietly closing the door. I must have dozed because the next thing I knew, she was slipping through the living room with an overnight case in hand. Out on the street, I heard her car start and then all was quiet again until Daisy got up.

Tannie had stripped her sheets and left them on the guest-room floor with her damp towel on top. Daisy shoved everything in the washing machine and then loaned me a pair of sweatpants so I could add my jeans to the mix. We took turns in the bathroom. I grabbed a quick shower while she started the coffee and then I ate a bowl of cereal while she took my place. By 8:35 we were dressed, fed, and on our way to the Tanner property to check the progress on the excavation. We took her car, leaving mine in her garage. The day was clear and sunny, the air rapidly warming as we made the drive.

The road was still blocked to through traffic, but the deputy waved us past the barrier when Daisy identified herself. I'd apparently been given dispensation to accompany her. We parked the requisite twenty-five yards from the dig and got out of the car. The sagging yellow crime-scene tape trembled in the breeze with a light snapping sound. I recognized the faces from the day before: both crime-scene techs, Detective Nichols, the young deputy, and Tim Schaefer, who'd made himself a permanent fixture, although confined to the periphery like the rest of us. Despite the restrictions, we hovered on the sidelines as though magnetized. Conversations were restrained, and I noticed no laughter at all, unusual in a situation that generated an eerie tension of its own.

Judging by the mountain of dirt, I could tell that the hole had been considerably deepened, and the operation had shifted from machinery back to shoveling by hand. From our vantage point, there was nothing visible of the vehicle, but I gathered a narrow channel had been created on each side as additional sections of the car were exposed. Tom Padgett stood as close to the excavation as he could manage without risking arrest. His bulldozer was on call, as was a flatbed truck that had been brought over from the yard, and he was behaving as though this gave him proprietary rights, which perhaps it did. When he wasn't focused on the excavation, he was chatting with Detective Nichols like an old pal of his.

Calvin Wilcox was parked behind Daisy, about twenty feet down the road. He'd arrived shortly after we had and he was sitting in a black pickup truck with his company name emblazoned on the sides. He smoked a cigarette, his left arm resting on the open windowsill. I could hear his radio blasting country music. Like Daisy, he was permitted at the site by reason of his relation to Violet. There was no interaction between the two of them, which struck me as odd. As far as I knew, Calvin was Daisy's only uncle, and it seemed natural to assume they'd established a relationship over the years. Not so, judging by their manifest uninterest. Neither acknowledged the presence of the other by so much as a nod or a wave.

“What's the deal with you and your uncle Calvin?”

“Nothing. We get along fine. Just no warm, fuzzy feelings between the two of us. When I was growing up, he and my aunt made very little effort to maintain contact. It's been so long since I've seen my cousins, I doubt I'd recognize them.”

“Mind if I talk to him?”

“About what?”

“Just some questions I have.”

“Be my guest.”

Calvin Wilcox watched without expression as I approached. I saw him flip aside his cigarette butt and then he leaned forward and turned off the radio. Up close, I could see he hadn't shaved that morning, and the stubble along his jaw was a mixture of gray and faded red. With his ruddy complexion, his green cotton shirt made his eyes look luminous. As before, I felt I was looking at a version of Violet—same coloring, opposite sex, but electric nonetheless. “Looks like you pulled a rabbit out of a hat,” he said when I reached the open driver's-side window. “How'd you come up with this?”

The question seemed ever so faintly hostile, but I smiled to show what a good sport I was. “I'd say ‘dumb luck' but I don't want to be accused of false modesty.”

“I'm serious.”

“Me, too.” I went through my standard explanation, trying a variation just to keep the story interesting. “Someone saw Violet's car parked out here the night she disappeared. After that, it was never seen again so it dawned on me maybe it hadn't gone anywhere. In retrospect, it seems dumb I didn't twig to it before.”

“Who saw the car?”

I went through a lightning-quick debate with myself and decided naming Winston was a very bad idea. It was as Detective Nichols had said: the less information in circulation, the better. I waved the question aside. “I don't remember offhand. It's one of those things I heard in passing. What about you; how'd you hear about this?” I asked, indicating the excavation.

“I was listening to the radio on the way home from work when it came on the news. I called the sheriff's office as soon as I got home.”

“Were you out here last night?”

“For a while. I wanted to see for myself, but the deputy wouldn't let me get anywhere near. They knocked off at ten and said they'd be starting again this morning at six.”

“You have a guess about how long it would take to dig a hole that size? I'm talking way back when.”

“I don't know the details. You'll have to fill me in.”

“From the scuttlebutt yesterday, the guy made a long shallow ramp, eight feet wide and maybe fifteen feet at its deepest point. The back end of the car is buried at the bottom with the front on an incline about like this.” I held my arm out at roughly a thirty-degree angle.

He sat, blinking, while he ran the numbers through his head. “I'd have to do the math to give you any kind of accurate answer. In 1953, the guy would've used a bulldozer. If you're telling me he backed the car in, then he must have dug the hole with a long sloping ramp on either end and scooped out dirt until the hole was deep enough at its deepest point to sink the car completely. I'd say two days, maybe a day and a half. It wouldn't take long to fill it in again. Someone must have seen what he was up to, but he might have had a cover story.”

“The Fourth fell on a Saturday that year so most people were given Friday off, too. If the road crew was idle for the three-day weekend, then the excavation could have been done without anyone on hand.”

“I can see that,” he said. “With the road unfinished, there wouldn't have been any traffic to speak of.”

“What about the excess dirt? Wouldn't there have been quite a bit leftover when the hole was filled in?”

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.