"S" is for Silence (30 page)

Liza went out the back door and sat down in one of the two lawn chairs that overlooked a scruffy patch of grass. The wooden fence was less than six feet tall, but a thick tangle of honeysuckle spilled over the top, obscuring her view of the street. It was hot and her T-shirt was sticking to her back. She went inside again and sat in the living room, where she turned off the overhead light and let the table fan blow across her face.

At 9:00 she heard Ty scratching at the back screen. He stood outside the door, and the gaze he fixed on her was as hungry and as patient as a fox's. She let him in and he kissed her, pressing himself against her. For once, she had the presence of mind to slip out of his grip.

“Ty, I'm not going to neck with you in here. What if Daisy wakes up or the Sullivans come back?”

“Come on. Foley's at the park and I saw Violet barreling down the road in that fancy car of hers. Neither one of them are coming back for hours.”

“I don't care. I'm not going to do it.”

“How about we go out to my pickup? It's parked in the alley out back. I spread some blankets in the bed so we can lay there together and look at the stars.”

“Are you crazy? I can't leave Daisy by herself.”

“I didn't say we'd go anywhere. It's just someplace private where we can talk without waking her.”

“I don't think it's right. I'm supposed to stay in the house.”

“Did Violet say that specifically?”

“No, but that's what she pays me to do.”

“Half an hour. An hour. No one's ever going to know.”

He'd wheedled and coaxed, making it all sound easy and insignificant. Finally, she'd given in and followed him through the yard to his pickup. Of course, the minute they were stretched out in the truck bed he'd started in on her. The night was warm, but Liza found herself shivering. Her fingers were so icy, she had to tuck her hands in her armpits. Ty was solicitous. He'd brought two paper cups and another bottle of Cold Duck. Liza drank more than her share, hoping to quiet her nerves. While they talked, the fireworks display started in Silas. They'd hear thumps and then sprays of green and blue sparkles would erupt, showers of red like umbrellas raining out of the sky. For thirty minutes they watched, transfixed. It was like a movie Liza had seen where this man and woman had been kissing and kissing and the curtains had blown open at the window and the sky had been alight.

After a while she lost track of time, didn't even care how long they'd been there. She was feeling so close to him. He wrapped his arms around her and murmured against her neck. “How're you doing, Lies? I gotta take good care of you so you won't catch cold.” He slid his hand underneath her shirt.

“Oh, don't.”

“I'm not doing anything.” He unbuttoned her shorts and moved his hand down along her belly.

“Maybe we should stop.”

“Stop what?”

“We can't keep doing this.”

“Don't you like it?”

“I do, but I don't want to go too far, okay?”

“Just let me touch you once,” he said. He'd managed to get a finger between her legs.

She grabbed his hand and held it. “Wait. I can't do this. I have to go in. What if they get home?”

“They won't. They never come in before the Moon closes. You know that about them. They're off drinking and having fun, and we're right here close by. Violet won't care. She likes me.”

“I know, but we have to be careful.”

“I will. I'll be careful. Here, have one more little sip of wine. I'm just so crazy about you, Liza. Don't you love me even a little bit? I know you love me.” He took the empty cup from her hand and whispered against her hair, kissing her neck and her breasts until she burned. “Be sweet. Please be sweet to me just this one time.”

She should have pulled away, but she felt suspended, passive, as though she had no control over what would happen next. On he went, telling her he loved her, that it was torture not having her when he loved her so much. By then he had her shorts off. “Let me put it in,” he whispered. “Just one time. Please.”

She'd said no at first, but he'd been so excited at the idea and so persistent, she'd relented. What was the harm when she wanted him, too. “You promise you'll pull out in time?”

“Of course. I swear. I wouldn't do anything to hurt you. I love you. You know I do. Angel, I want you so much it's driving me insane.”

She felt at the same time powerful and afraid, but he was so beautiful and fearless. No one had ever said such incredible things to her. He seemed so sweet and eager. She had her eyes closed, but she could hear the rustling of his clothes. She made a sound at the shock of his naked body against hers. He was smooth and muscular. His skin was hot and he smelled of soap. She couldn't remember where the jar of Vaseline came from, but there it was. And he was pressing himself and putting her hand on him and moving against her and wanting her to open up to him and then she did. She knew he'd already gone too far, but he'd pushed in. Then he was moving and didn't seem to hear her feeble protest. He moved and he was moving and then he made a sound like he was lifting something heavy. He groaned, out of breath, and then he slumped over her, relaxed. “Oh, Lies. Oh geez. That was fantastic. That was so beautiful.”

It hadn't even been a minute. She shifted her hips and he slipped out of her, leaving her goopy and wet.

“What's the matter? Are you okay?”

“No, I'm not okay. You said you'd pull out!”

“I'm sorry. I meant to, but I couldn't help myself. Baby, it just felt so good. I went crazy for a minute and the next thing I knew, it just happened.”

“Shit. What time is it? I gotta go.”

“Not yet. It's not hardly midnight. Don't leave me. Here, feel this.” He took her hand and pressed it against him.

She'd stayed where she was, half-underneath him, warm only in the places where his body covered hers. The rest of her was cold, her limbs pinned to the blanket by the weight of him. “I have to go in. What if they come home and I'm not there?”

“You can tell 'em you came out for a breath of air.”

“Let go of me. Please,” she whispered, but he kissed her again, murmuring, “You're great. You're amazing. I love you.”

“I love you too,” she said. “Ty, I have to go in.” She twisted out of his grasp and groped along the truck bed until she found her underpants. She pulled them on and then searched for her shorts and T-shirt.

“Look, I'll see you tomorrow morning, right?”

“Maybe.”

“All day. We'll spend the whole day together.”

“I can't.”

“Yes, you can. Meet me out on Porter Road. I'll borrow my uncle's truck and we'll go for a drive. Eight o'clock.”

She could tell her underpants were on wrong-side out. She lifted one hip so she could strip them off. “Damn it! Now I got stuff running down the inside of my leg. Give me a handkerchief or something so I can clean myself off.”

He handed her his T-shirt, which he'd wadded up and tossed aside. She jammed it between her legs and cleaned herself as well as she could. She eased into her underpants again and hooked herself into her bra. She pulled on her T-shirt and shorts and used her fingers to get the snarls out of her hair. Once dressed, she climbed over the tailgate.

Ty said, “Eight o'clock tomorrow morning. You're not there, I'm knocking on your door and I don't care who sees.”

She kissed him in haste, told him that she loved him, and then hurried toward the house and let herself in the back door. The screen whined softly. The kitchen light was off, but she could see the luminous hands on the wall clock. 1:15. Violet and Foley usually didn't get home until after 2:00 so she was fine. Everything was okay. The same table lamp was burning in the darkened living room. The fan rotated at a steady pace, pushing hot air this way and that. Both bedrooms were dark. She paused outside Daisy's room, listening to the child's slow, deep, regular breathing. She was fine.

Liza crept into the bathroom. In the glow from the night-light, she pulled down her shorts and checked her underpants. The crotch was wet with semen, stained with blood. She had to talk to Violet. She knew she should have made him use a rubber, but he promised he'd pull out, and now what? Violet would know. Violet knew everything there was to know about sex. Liza returned to the living room, where she lay on the couch, hugging herself. What was done was done. He'd told her he loved her—he'd actually said that to her—and he was the one who brought up the subject of seeing her again, so it wasn't like she was chasing him or anything like that. Still, she wished she hadn't done it. She could feel her eyes burn as the tears spilled out. As soon as Violet came in, the two of them would talk and she'd be fine.

I put a call through to Sneaky Pete's. I could hear the strains of the jukebox in the background and a steady hum of voices. This was Saturday night, but it was only 6:45 and the place wasn't going to rock until well after 9:00. Tannie answered the phone.

“Hi, Tannie. This is Kinsey. You have a minute?”

“Sure, if you don't mind the interruptions. I'm tending bar and the gal who's scheduled to work called in sick an hour ago.”

“I'll try to be quick. You heard about Violet?”

“I did. What happened to the poor woman? I know she was killed, but nobody's said how.”

“I haven't heard a word about the cause of death. I guess we'll know more after the autopsy's done.”

“Autopsy? Somebody told me she was just a bunch of bones wrapped up like a mummy so you couldn't even see her face.”

“Well, that's not quite true. As I understand it, she was wrapped in a length of fabric, but it was falling apart. That's hardly mummylike,” I said.

“Did you get a look at her?”

“Not me, and Daisy didn't either. Detective Nichols gave her the news, but he didn't want anyone getting close to the car.”

“How's she taking it?”

“She's okay. I don't think the reality has sunk in.”

“I thought about calling, but I didn't have the nerve. Maybe tomorrow. So what's up with you?”

“I've been putting together a timeline for that Fourth of July weekend, trying to figure out where everyone was. You went over to the park with your dad?”

“Didn't we talk about this? I was supposed to go with my brother, but he went off with his friends so Pop ended up taking me himself.”

“Were you there the whole time?”

“I don't remember for a fact, but I can't think why not.”

“Here's why I ask. I managed to track down the woman who lived next door to the Sullivans back then. Anna Ericksen. Do you remember her? She was five at the time.”

“Vaguely.”

“We just had a chat, and according to her recollection, she and her mother ran into you at the park. She says your dad asked if her mother could look after you because he had something to take care of, so you ended up spending the night at her house.”

“Nah, don't think so. It doesn't ring a bell. Are you sure she doesn't have me confused with somebody else?”

“Do you remember bouncing on the bed? She says you bumped into her and she fell and broke her arm.”

Tannie let out a startled laugh. “That was
her
? Oh my god, I remember the little girl, but I'd forgotten her name. Was that the same Fourth of July? Shit, she had bone sticking through her skin. It was sickening.”

“You have any idea where your father went that night?”

“Probably the hospital to see Mom. He was there most nights. What's this about?”

“I'm not sure. It's really just a gap I was hoping to fill in.”

“I can ask the next time I talk to him and see what he says.”

“Why don't you hold off and I can talk to him myself. I'm driving up again Monday, probably early afternoon.”

“You're still working for Daisy? I thought you'd be done.”

“This is what you call mop-up. She paid me in advance and I owe her a day.”

After we hung up, I realized I should have downplayed the subject even more than I had. I didn't want Jake to know I was pursuing the point. If Tannie mentioned it and he needed to cover his tracks, he'd have time to fabricate an excuse. Maybe he
had
left Tannie in Mrs. Ericksen's care so he could visit Mary Hairl. The only time we'd talked, he hadn't said anything about that. In fact, he'd spoken in such detail about Foley's behavior at the park that I'd assumed he'd been there. Not to brag, but I myself am really quite skilled at lying and I can tell you how it's done. Like a magic trick, you distract from the sleight-of-hand by focusing attention on the irrelevant.

I took a moment to call Cheney Phillips and we chatted for a while. I asked about the conference and then filled him in on my discovery. He offered to meet me at Rosie's so he could buy me a drink, but I was feeling reclusive and thought I better level with him. “Nothing personal, but all I want to do is sleep in my own bed and not talk to a soul. The past four days I haven't had a minute to myself and it's driving me nuts.”

“Got it. Sounds like you're in the thick of things, which I can understand. Call when you come up for air, and we'll have dinner.”

“Perfect.”

“Hey, Kinsey? You be careful with yourself. Whoever this guy is, he's gotten away with murder now for thirty-four years. He's not going to let you march in and blow it for him.”

“All I'm doing is a records search and after that, my job's done. Trust me. I'm leaving any rough stuff to the sheriff's department. That's their bailiwick.”

After we hung up, I sat and thought about what he'd said. I knew he was right. I'd already had my tires slashed and that was before the car was unearthed and the bodies had been found. I unlocked the cabinet where I'd been keeping my handguns. I owned three. My favorite, a little .32-caliber semiautomatic my aunt Gin had given me as a kid, had been vaporized in an explosion that was meant to kill me. The next gun I acquired was a .32-caliber Davis that I bought because I liked the looks, thus opening myself to scorn and derision from all the gun nuts who considered it inferior. In deference to them, I bought an H&K P7 and an H&K P13, both serious weapons. The P13 was really more gun than I could comfortably handle, so I put it back in the cabinet with the Davis. I took out the box of Winchester Silvertips, loaded the P7, and put it in my shoulder bag.

I was now technically prepared, but far from feeling reassured, I was just flat scared.

 

I spent Sunday morning typing up my notes. After lunch I drove over to the office and sorted through the mail that was piled on the floor. The mailman had stuck so many envelopes through the slot that they'd spread out across the carpet like a welcome mat. I sorted through the bills and then had no choice but to sit down and write checks. I listened to my messages, which were surprisingly few; none required my immediate attention. On the way home I went by the post office and dropped my paid bills in the box at the curb. I spent the rest of the day cleaning my apartment—good therapy for those of us who cherish solitude. Scrubbing toilet bowls, you're hardly ever troubled by others eager to pitch in.

Monday morning, I put my typewriter and all my notes in the car and drove into downtown Santa Teresa. I parked in the public lot across from the courthouse, put my handgun in the glove compartment, and locked my car. Everything I hoped to accomplish could be done in a two-block radius and none of it required me to be armed. My first stop was the title company on the corner. I was looking for information about Santa Maria property transactions in 1953. The original deeds are recorded and sent back to the new property owner, but photocopies are kept in the County Recorder's office, quite possibly forever. The easiest way to get to them is to put in a request at the customer service counter at one of the local title companies. I do most of my business with Santa Teresa Title because their library is extensive and they'll run a simple search without charge. Currently deeds are indexed according to the property address, but in the '50s, transactions were indexed by name. I asked the clerk for anything they could find for me under the names Jake Ottweiler, Chet Cramer, and/or Tom Padgett. She asked me to come back in an hour.

I crossed the street to the Hall of Records in the Santa Teresa County Courthouse. Since 1964 the estates of Santa Maria residents have been administered in the Santa Maria branch of the probate court, but in 1953 wills were filed at the courthouse here. I'd never thought of wills as hostile instruments, but I was in for a surprise. Cora Padgett's will was straightforward. On her death on March 2, 1959, she'd left everything to Tom, making him a very rich man. The attached Exhibit A indicated that the real property, including a house and four funeral parlors, was valued at close to two million dollars. Her personal assets—cash, stocks, bonds, and jewelry—bumped the number up another three quarters of a mill. I paid the fee for a certified copy of her death certificate, which listed the cause of death as bilateral bronchopneumonia. Nothing iffy about that.

I moved to the wills of Calvin and Violet's parents. Roscoe Wilcox died May 16, 1951, leaving a will that was signed and dated December 21, 1949. The will had been filed for probate on May 24, 1951, proved, the assets collected and identified, and the claims of the creditors paid. The terms were simple. Violet's brother, Calvin Wilcox, was appointed executor. There were two specific bequests: the first, the sum of ten thousand dollars, which Roscoe left to his church, and a second, which read “To my daughter, Violet, in appreciation for the love and devotion she evidenced during our lifetime, the generous sum of one dollar, which is twice what she is worth.” All of his tangible personal property and the remainder of his estate he left “to my wife, Julia Faraday Wilcox, if she survives me, and if not, to my son, Calvin Edward Wilcox.”

Julia Wilcox, by the terms of her will, also signed and dated December 21, 1949, left everything to her husband or, in the event that he predeceased her, to her son, Calvin. The remaining provisions of both wills spelled out the attendant clerical details: inventory valuation, the payment of funeral expenses, debts, Federal and California taxes, and any claims made against the estate. Clearly Violet had been denied any expectation of money (save that one surly dollar) by reason of her indifference, lack of compassion, or abundant bad character. Chet Cramer had implied that Calvin stood to profit by her death, but since both wills predated her disappearance, Calvin was already in line to inherit everything and therefore had nothing to gain by killing her. He might have disliked her, but I couldn't see why he'd risk his life or his freedom to get her out of his hair. Violet was a nuisance, but that was about it.

Hairl Tanner's will was the eye-popper. He'd apparently drawn up a new one on July 6, 1953, thereby revoking all previous wills and codicils. He named a trust officer at his bank to be executor and established two trusts, one for Steve Ottweiler and one for Tannie. The trusts were to accumulate all income, with no distributions whatsoever, until the two reached twenty-five years of age. He further specified that his tangible personal property was to be similarly held in trust until each was twenty-five years old. I had to go back and read that provision again. Essentially what he was saying was that Steve wouldn't have access to the money in his trust until 1962 and Tannie wouldn't be eligible for her portion until 1969. The valuation of his personal property—art, silver, and antiques—was estimated at six hundred thousand dollars, but neither grandchild could sell, borrow against, or enjoy ownership for years. What was that about? At first I thought he was being punitive toward his two grandchildren, but then it occurred to me that Jake Ottweiler was the object of his wrath. Old man Tanner apparently wanted to make sure Jake couldn't collect one red cent of his money even in support of his own two kids. Given the terms of Tanner's will, Jake would have been forced to dig into his own pockets to cover his children's expenses in addition to his own. Had Hairl made Jake the executor or a trustee, he might have at least petitioned for reasonable sums of money related to their health, welfare, and education. So how had Jake come up with his share of the purchase price of the Blue Moon?

While I was at the courthouse, I asked about DBAs, those being a record of applications for fictitious business names, hoping to pick up a tidbit or two about how they'd taken ownership. Unfortunately, an application expires five years from the date it's filed and those files are purged after ten years; 1953 had long been relegated to the shredder. I tried the tax assessor's office across the street, again hoping for information related to the Blue Moon, but the clerk told me the basement of the courthouse had flooded and any records prior to 1962 were lost. Some guys have all the luck. Here I was trying to pry into Jake's business and I was having no success.

I left the courthouse and returned to the title company, where I picked up a manila envelope full of photocopied documents. I went back to my car and sat in the parking lot, leafing through my little pile of treasures. I started with the information related to Tom Padgett. There was an Affidavit–Death of Joint Tenant, in which Cora's name was removed from the deed to the house. Over the next several years, Tom Padgett had bought numerous properties on money borrowed from a Santa Maria bank, but most had been paid off according to the Full Reconveyances on file.

I gave a cursory look at the grant deeds in the names of Calvin and Rachel Wilcox, all of which seemed unremarkable, and then moved on to Jake Ottweiler. He and BW McPhee had purchased the property on which the Blue Moon was situated on December 12, 1953, for the sum of twenty-two thousand dollars, a figure I calculated from the line of tax stamps pasted along the left margin. I remembered BW mentioning the “couple thousand dollars” he'd thrown into the pot, which meant that Jake had come up with roughly twenty thousand dollars. There had to have been a hefty additional sum to cover the liquor license, expansion, and remodeling they'd done.

I sat and thought about what I'd found, then started the car and backed out of the slot. Time to hit the road.