"S" is for Silence (5 page)

“How about later this afternoon? When will you be home?”

“Really, today's a mess. What about tomorrow?”

“Sure, that would work. What time?”

“Four o'clock?”

“Fine.”

“Do you have my address?”

“Daisy gave it to me.”

“Great. See you then.”

I moved on to Kathy Cramer. She and Liza were fourteen at the time, which put them in their late forties now. I knew Kathy was married, but she'd apparently elected to keep her maiden name, because Cramer was the only reference I had. I dialed her number and once I had her on the line, I told her who I was and what I was doing at Daisy's behest.

“You're kidding,” she said, her voice flat with disbelief.

“Afraid not,” I said. So tedious. I didn't relish having to go through this routine with every other call I made.

“You're looking for Violet Sullivan after all these years?”

“That's what I was hired to do. I'm hoping you can fill in some blanks.”

“Have you talked to Liza Mellincamp?”

“I see her tomorrow afternoon. If you could spare me half an hour, I'd be grateful.”

“I can probably manage that. Can we say tomorrow morning at eleven?”

“Sure thing.”

“What address do you have? We just moved.”

I recited the address on my list, which was out of date. She gave me the new one with a set of directions that I scribbled down in haste.

My last call was to Daisy, telling her I was making a run to Santa Maria and back. On Thursday, I expected to have a block of free time, so I was proposing lunch and a quick verbal report. She was agreeable and said we could try a coffee shop close to her work. Since Tannie would be in Santa Maria on Thursday as well, she'd give her a call and see if she could join us. Her lunch hour was flexible, so I agreed to call as soon as I had a break.

After I hung up, I folded the list and gathered my index cards, gassed up the VW, and headed north. I was already getting bored with the hour drive each way and not all that happy about the miles I was putting on my thirteen-year-old car.

KATHY

Wednesday, July 1, 1953

Kathy Cramer was working in the office at her father's Chevrolet dealership when Violet pulled up in Foley's rattletrap pickup and started looking at cars. She carried a big straw tote with a little dog tucked inside, its head popping up like a jack-in-the-box. This was Kathy's first real job, and her father was paying her a dollar an hour, twenty-five cents over the minimum wage and twice what her best friend, Liza, made for babysitting. A dollar an hour was pretty good for a fourteen-year-old, even if his hiring her was not entirely voluntary. When his secretary left to get married, he'd wanted to advertise for a permanent full-time replacement, but Kathy's mother put her foot down, insisting he could find somebody in the fall when Kathy went back to school.

Her responsibilities entailed answering the phone, filing, and “lite” typing, which she generally messed up. At the moment business was slow, so she occupied her time reading the movie magazines she kept in her lap. James Dean was already her favorite of the new Hollywood stars. Also Jean Simmons, with whom she completely identified. She'd seen
Androcles and the Lion
and, most recently,
Young Bess
, in which Jean Simmons had starred with her husband, Stewart Granger, who was second only to James Dean in Kathy's mind.

This was July and the office was small. Glass on all sides let the sunlight slant in, heating the space to unbearable temperatures. There was no air-conditioning, so Kathy kept an electric fan beside her on the floor, the face tilted toward hers for maximum effect. The air was still hot, but at least it was moving. She didn't think it was possible to sweat so much sitting down. In the spring, her gym teacher had suggested it really wouldn't hurt if she lost thirty-five pounds, but Kathy's mother was having none of it. Girls paid entirely too much attention to superficial matters like weight, clothing, and hairstyles when what counted was inner beauty. It was more important to be a good person, setting an example for those around you. Kathy's mother said her complexion would clear up in time if she'd just quit picking at it. Kathy used Noxzema every night, but it didn't seem to help.

Kathy took off her glasses and polished the lenses with the hem of her skirt. These were new glasses with stylishly tilted black cat's-eye frames that Kathy thought looked especially wonderful on her. She found herself following Violet's progress across the lot. She had vulgar dyed-red hair and wore a tight purple sundress with a deeply scooped neckline. Winston Smith, the salesman Kathy's dad had hired the month before, had his eye on the crevice between her boobies. Everybody was always mooning over Violet, which made Kathy sick. Especially her friend, Liza, who thought Violet could do no wrong. Kathy was struck by a sharp emotional jolt, which later in life she might concede was a feeling of jealousy. At the moment she wondered if it was possible to have hot flashes at so young an age. She'd seen her mother fanning herself, suddenly dripping with sweat, and thought what she experienced might be similar.

Winston worked strictly on commission, which probably explained why he was so interested in talking to Violet as she strolled between the aisles of used cars. Winston was twenty years old. His hair was dark blond with a ridge of curls on top. The sides were swept back and met at the nape in a style known as a DA, which was short for “duck's ass,” though that wasn't a term Kathy would dream of saying out loud. Kathy could see him gesturing, pretending to be knowledgeable when, in fact, he'd never made a sale. She found it endearing, how transparent he was to her. His goal was to make enough money to pay for his sophomore year in college, and he'd confided his belief that selling cars was the perfect way to jack up his savings. He admitted he didn't have quite the knack for it that he'd hoped. He didn't even enjoy it much, but he was determined to develop his skills, taking Mr. Cramer as his role model. Temporarily, of course.

He was easily handsome enough to be a movie star himself. She thought he looked wonderful in his front-pleated slacks, open-neck shirt, and white bucks. He actually reminded her of James Dean—same cheekbones and long lashes, and the same slender build. His expression was soulful, suggestive of troubles untold. Kathy could picture him working for her father after graduation, but he had bigger dreams, possibly law school, he said. Kathy often asked him about himself, encouraging him to open up to her.

In her pencil drawer, she kept the box of pretty pink stationery she was using for the volume of poems she was writing. She liked the roses around the edge and the pale blue butterfly in each corner. She did the actual composition on wide-lined tablet paper and then transcribed the finished verse onto good paper when she was finally satisfied. Originally she'd bought the stationery for Liza, whose birthday was coming up on Friday, July 3, but when she realized how perfect it was, she'd decided to keep it for herself. She could always give Liza the lily of the valley dusting powder someone had given her last year.

The poem she was working on was half-finished. This was only the fourth poem she'd written, but she knew it was her best. Maybe not perfect yet, but her English teacher said every good writer did constant revisions, and Kathy'd found that to be the case. She'd been working tirelessly on this poem for the better part of the morning. She took out the lined sheet and read it to herself. She was thinking of calling it “To W…” without giving any other hint of whom the poem was written for. She knew many poets, such as William Shakespeare, wrote sonnets and titled them that way.

She hesitated. That word “arms” was a stumper. “Charms” would rhyme, but she couldn't figure out how to work it in. She tapped her pencil against her lips and then crossed it out. She'd come up with something better. Her thoughts returned to Winston. As a seventh grader, she'd taken a class in dating etiquette, anticipating the opportunities that would crop up for her in eighth grade. She'd learned what topics were suitable for conversation with a boy and what to say at the door at the end of a date. In her mind, the boy's face was amorphous, his features shifting to resemble whatever movie star she was currently smitten with. She imagined him kind and gentle, appreciative of her many fine qualities. She'd had no idea then how soon Winston would appear in her life, the epitome of all her dreams. She did think he'd exhibited a certain interest in her, at least until Violet showed up.

Violet and Winston were approaching the showroom floor, where the best car on the lot—a two-door Chevrolet Bel Air coupe—was displayed under bright lights to emphasize its sleek lines. Violet had spotted the vehicle from halfway across the lot, and Winston was laying on his spiel as though his life depended on it. Like Violet might actually buy it. Very funny! Ha ha! She'd heard Violet and Foley were so poor they could barely afford the rent.

Winston held open the plateglass door, allowing Violet to pass through. Kathy caught sight of a big blue bruise on her chin. Violet was all the time walking around like that, making no effort whatever to cover the marks. No dark glasses. No makeup. No wide-brimmed hat, which might have helped. She went about her errands—supermarket, post office, walking Daisy to school—with one or both eyes black, cheek swollen, her lips puffy and plump from one of Foley's blows. She made no excuses and she never explained, which left Foley looking like a fool. How could he defend himself when she never accused him of anything? Everyone in town knew he hit her, but no one intervened. That was considered their personal business, though Kathy's mother often said it was a total disgrace. Kathy's mother thought Violet was trash and she said Liza was asking for trouble if she hung out with her. Just the night before, sitting at the top of the stairs while her parents were in the living room, she heard her mother talking about Violet and Jake Ottweiler, who'd been seen slow-dancing at the Blue Moon. Violet was oversexed, a regular nymphomaniac (whatever that was), and her mother was disgusted that Jake would have anything to do with her. She was getting all worked up, her voice rising (which made it easier for Kathy to hear) when her father blew his stack. “Christ, Livia! Is that all you have to do, sit around and pass along ugly gossip? What the hell is wrong with you?!”

They'd argued, and her mother had hushed him because she was worried Kathy might overhear them. Personally, she'd agreed with her mother. Violet was a tramp. Kathy picked up a batch of papers and crossed to the filing cabinet by the door so she could hear what Violet and Winston said. The two were focused on the car and didn't seem to notice her hovering nearby. Winston was saying, “Make no mistake, this is not your basic sedan. This is Chevrolet's five-passenger coupe. A 235 engine, Powerglide, dual carbs, and exhaust. Full hub caps, even has a beehive oil filter, if you can imagine such a thing.”

Violet clearly didn't know a filter from a fish fillet. “It's the color I love,” she said, running a hand along the front fender. The hood ornament looked like an eagle or a hawk in full flight, beak foremost, wings back, speeding through the air in a stylized pose.

“The color's custom—only one of its kind. Know what it's called? ‘Violet Slate.' I kid you not.”

Violet flashed him a smile. She made a point of wearing shades of violet: purple, lavender, lilac, mauve. Winston leaned past her and opened the door on the driver's side, revealing the orchid pink trim on the lower dash panel. “Here, have a seat.” He cranked down the window and then stood back so she could get a better view. The seats were plush, trimmed in a robin's egg blue with insets and side panels in a pink-and-blue pattern that looked like flame-stitching, the two colors bleeding into each other to form violet shade. When the car had come in, Mr. Cramer had opened the trunk for Kathy, showing her the interior, which was upholstered in the exact same two shades. Even the spare tire in the wheel mount was covered in blue plush, like a tire cozy.

Violet slid in behind the wheel, hands at ten o'clock and two o'clock, nearly feverish with excitement. “It's beautiful. I love this!” She ran a reverent hand across the seat. “How much?”

Winston laughed, thinking she was making a joke.

“What's so funny?”

He stared at the toe of his shoe, looking up at her from under dark lashes, dimples showing, his brow furrowing. “Well, nothing, Mrs. Sullivan, but I believe it's beyond your means. I know it's beyond mine.”

“I've got
money.
”

“Not this much,” he said, in a jocular tone, keeping things light. Kathy could see he was trying to cushion her disappointment when he told her the price. She thought Violet was getting a bit above herself, putting on airs. Boy, was she in for a rude surprise.

Violet's smile faded. “You think I can't afford to buy a nice car like this?”

“I didn't say that, Mrs. Sullivan. By no means.”

Kathy couldn't believe the woman was still pushing the point, but Violet said, “Then answer my question.”

“Sticker price is $2,375. My boss might be willing to dicker some, but not a lot. Car like this is considered top of the line and there's not much wiggle room, as we like to say.”

Kathy checked Violet's expression, hoping she'd realize how far out of line she was. Violet kept her eyes on Winston, who seemed somewhat distracted by the gap that appeared at the neck of her dress, which was cut low to begin with. She said, “I'd want to take it for a test drive.”

“Well, sure. We can arrange that.”

She extended her hand out the window, palm up. “You have the keys?”

“No, not
on
me. They'd be in the office…in there,” he said, gesturing unnecessarily.

“Well, Winston, you'll have to go and get them. You think you can manage that?” Her tone was silky and flirtatious even though what she said seemed insulting to Kathy's ear.

“Unfortunately, my boss has gone to lunch, and I'm the only one on the lot.”

“And?”

“And, you know, I can't just take off, because he left me in charge.”

“If I'm not mistaken, there's a mechanic on the premises. Two of them, in fact. What's that one's name? Floyd, isn't it?”

Both Kathy and Winston checked the service bay where Floyd could be seen, servicing a used car that had just come in. Mr. Padgett had been talking about a trade-in but then decided he'd hold off until fall when the new '54 models arrived. In the meantime, he'd said he'd just as soon have the cash in hand, so he'd sold it outright.

Winston seem relieved, as though Violet had given him the perfect out. “Mrs. Sullivan, Floyd can't work the floor. He wouldn't know what to do any more than I could go back in the service bay and do his job for him.”

“Why do I need you? All I'm going to do is drive around the block. Don't you trust me?”

Winston's Adam's apple dipped. “I do. It's not that. I just think it'd be better to wait until my boss gets back so you can talk to him. He knows this car inside and out, far better than I do. Besides, if it comes to that, he's the one who handles all the paperwork, so it only makes sense.”

“Paperwork?”

“You know, down payment, terms—stuff like that. You'd have to have your husband come in and sign.”

Violet was amused. “Why? Foley doesn't have a dime. I intend to pay cash.”

“Outright?”