S Is for Silence

  They'd been silent walking to the car, silent on the way home. He'd dropped her at the house and headed straight for the Moon. Violet was there that night. She'd perched on the stool next to his and he'd bought her a glass of red wine. She was half in the bag, but then again, so was he by this time. "What has you so down in the dumps?" she'd asked.

  "It's Cora. We had a counseling session with the minister and somewhere in the middle, the light finally dawned. The woman doesn't trust me and she has no respect. I don't understand it. She married me for better or for worse. This is worse, where I am, but she won't lend a hand to pull me out of a hole."

  "What kind of hole?"

  "Money, what else? My business needs a boost. That's all I'm talking about."

  Violet had laughed. "She's supposed to give you money? Why should she do that?"

  "I'd do it for her. What's marriage about if not sharing fifty-fifty? Doesn't that sound fair?"

  "Sure, but in this case, both halves belong to her. What do you have to offer?"

  "Business savvy. I'm a businessman."

  "You're a horse's ass. You sound just like Foley. He'd love to get his big mitts on my money. It's like the Chinese water torture. Drip, drip, drip."

  "You don't see yourselves as a team?"

  "Sure. We're made for each other. He's the boxer and I'm the punching bag."

  "You wouldn't give him anything? Even if it might make a difference in his life?"

  "Of course not. Why should I? He'd piss it away."

  "You women are hard. I've never seen anything like it. The Bible says wives should be submissive to their husbands. Didn't you ever hear about that?"

  "No."

  "Well, neither did my wife. It's not even her money. She got it from that old fart she was married to. Hell, I'd have married the man myself if he'd asked me nice."

  Violet's eyebrows went up. "Why? Are you one of them?"

  "No, I'm not one of them. I'm just making a point."

  "You don't know what women go through to get money."

  Tom said, "Well, I can make it easy for you. That money you got? You give it to me and I'll promise you a forty percent return in three months. Guaranteed."

  "Bullshit." She took out a cigarette and Tom leaned forward with a light. She blew out a stream of smoke and gave him a speculative look. "I got a question for you. How come you never come on to me? Don't you find me attractive?"

  "I do. Of course I do. What kind of question is that?"

  "You're a stud. I can tell by looking at you."

  Tom laughed, embarrassed. "Well, I appreciate your confidence. I'm not sure Cora would agree."

  "I'm serious. How long have we been talking like this? How many times we been in here dancing and clowning around? But you never make a move. What's that all about?"

  "I can't believe you'd criticize me when I'm the only guy in town who's not trying to get in your pants. You know why that is? I'll tell you why. I'm more interested in this," he said, tapping his head. "Sure, we could take a tumble in the hay. And then what? You'd move on to someone else. I'd rather be your friend."

  "Oh, please."

  "You know what grieves me? To see a mind like yours go to waste. You're so busy fending off that psychopath you're married to you don't have the time or energy to do anything else. Why don't you use your brain for a change and get away from the guy."

  "I don't know. Foley's kind of sweet in his way."

  "That's poppycock and you know it. You can't let emotion rule you in these things. You gotta be hard-nosed."

  "But I'm not."

  "Call it practical if you like. Look at me and Cora. There's nothing wrong with her. I admire the woman, but what good is that? The marriage is dead. She knows it as well as I do, but you want to know what happens if I ask for a divorce? I'll be out on my ass. Same thing with you. You can walk away, but all you'll take with you are the clothes on your back."

  "That doesn't mean anything. If I could get free, I'd be willing to leave it all behind. Who cares about possessions? Anything I have can be replaced. I got money of my own."

  "You just can't get off that, can you?"

  "You're the one brought up money."

  "Now you sound just like Cora."

  "Anyway, what the hell do you have to complain about? You got that big house and those cars. You know what I'd give to have a car like yours?"

  "That's what I'm trying to tell you, Violet. Four thousand for a car? That's chump change. You're out there with your head down, hunting for pennies on the ground. You gotta look at the bigger picture."

  "You paid four thousand dollars for a car? You can't be serious."

  "See, that's what's wrong with you. You think small. You think if you keep a real-tight hold on your money you can keep the dollar bills from flying away. Doesn't work like that. You gotta loosen up. Put your money to work. Okay, so you got what in the bank, twenty?"

  Violet jerked her thumb up, indicating more.

  "Thirty-five?"

  "Fifty," she said.

  "That's good. Great, but every day it sits, you're losing money on your money —"

  She cut him off. "Nun-hun. I know what you're getting at and it's no deal."

  "You have no idea what I'm getting at so would you listen for a change? I'm saying we pool our funds."

  "Oh, sure, pool our funds. I bet you'd like that. You know why? Because I got more than you."

  "I got money."

  "How much?"

  He tilted his head, calculating. "I'll be honest with you. I got a lot, but not as much as you. That's what I'm working on right now."

  "Super. I'm thrilled on your behalf. I'm still not giving you a dime."

  "That's what I like about you. You're stubborn as hell. Tell you what, though, you change your mind, all you have to do is say the word."

  "Don't hold your breath."

  Chapter 16

  * * *

  I arrived at the Blue Moon that night in advance of Tannie and Daisy. It was 6:45 and the whole of Serena Station was bathed in golden light. The air smelled of bay laurel, the scent underscored by the faint suggestion of wood smoke. In the absence of a visible autumn, Californians are forced to fabricate, stockpiling wood for the fireplace, hauling heavy sweaters out of the bottom drawer. Many residents live in exile; eastern-seaboard and midwestern transplants who end up on the West Coast in search of good weather. No more ice storms, no 108-degree days, no tornadoes, and no hurricanes. First comes relief at being delivered from bugs, humidity, and climatic extremes. Then the boredom sets in. Soon they're making nostalgic trips home at considerable expense to revisit the very elements they'd sought to escape.

  The patron parking lot was full and cars were lined up along the road. I made one circuit of the lot, found a small, probably illegal spot and managed to squeeze in. As I made my way to the entrance, I glanced back, amused at how conspicuous my VW looked in the midst of all the pickups, camper shells, vans, and RVs.

  The exterior of the restaurant was rough-hewn, its weathered board-and-batten facade as squared up and staunch as a saloon on a western movie set. The interior was a continuation of the theme: wagon wheels, oil lamps, and wooden tables covered in red-and-white-checked cloths. Happy hour was under way. Where I'd anticipated the odor of cigarettes and beer, the air was rich with the scent of prime beef being grilled over oak.

  Tannie had reserved us a table on the left side of the bar area, which was jammed with people. On the right, through an arch, I could see two or three dining rooms, but my guess was the regulars preferred to eat here, where they could keep an eye out for pals. I was probably one of the few unfamiliar faces they'd seen in a while, judging by the curious looks being turned on me.

  The hostess showed me to the table and moments later a waitress approached. She handed me a menu printed on plain white paper. "You want something to drink while you wait for your friends? Wine list is on the back."

  I glanced at the list of wines by the glass, bypassing hard liquor i
n favor of something more familiar. I ordered a glass of Chardonnay and then caught sight of a man, sitting at the bar, whose gaze seemed to be fixed on me. I turned to see if he was staring at someone else, but I seemed to be it. Once the waitress went off to fetch my wine, he eased off the bar stool and headed in my direction. He was tall, with a lean, rangy body, and long arms. His face was narrow, as lined and weathered as a contour map. Broken capillaries in his cheeks made him appear flushed, and exposure to the outdoors had mottled his skin to a nutty brown. His hair, once dark, was now a salt-and-pepper mix.

  When he reached the table, he held out his hand. "Jake Ottweiler, Tannie's father. You must be her friend."

  "Nice to meet you. I'm Kinsey. How are you?"

  "Welcome to the Blue Moon, which most of us refer to as 'The Moon.' I saw you when you came in."

  "So did everyone else. You must not get a lot of walk-in trade."

  "More than you'd think. Folks from Santa Teresa drive up on a regular basis." His eyes were a piercing blue against the sunburned darkness of his face. Tannie had told me he'd farmed the land for years, but his part-ownership in the Blue Moon had apparently introduced an element of gentility. He'd traded in his work boots and overalls for slacks and a nicely cut navy sport coat over a soft white shirt.

  When the waitress reappeared and set down my glass of white wine, he murmured, "I'll take care of that" with scarcely a glance at her. It was clear they'd dealt with each other for so long the need for conversation was reduced to a minimum.

  I said, "Will you join me?"

  "Briefly. At least until Tannie gets here. I'm sure you girls have lots to talk about." He pulled out a chair and ordered a drink with the lift of one hand. When the waitress had moved off again, he leaned back in his chair and studied me. "You don't look like my idea of a private eye."

  "These days, we come in all shapes and sizes."

  "How's it going?"

  "An investigation like this requires the patience of a saint."

  "Seems like a fool's errand, if you want to know the truth."

  "No doubt," I said. "Can I ask you a few questions as long as I have you here?"

  "Be my guest. I don't know that I can help, but I'll tell you what I can."

  "How well did you know Violet?"

  "Well enough, I guess. I used to see her in here two and three times a week. She was a troubled soul, but not a bad person by any means."

  "I heard she took you to small-claims court because of an incident in which your dog killed hers."

  "That was bad. I felt sorry for her, but I had my dog under control.

  Hers was running loose, so she was as much at fault as I was. In the end, I had to put my dog down, but it had nothing to do with her. Anyway, we settled it. I could have argued the point, but to what end? Her toy poodle was dead and she was brokenhearted until she got Baby."

  "Were you at the park for the fireworks the night she disappeared?"

  "I was. Tannie was supposed to go with her brother, but he took off with his friends so the two of us went."

  "Did you see Foley?"

  "No, but I know he and Livia Cramer got into it. She didn't approve of the Sullivans. She thought they were heathens, which was none of her concern, but the woman never could leave well enough alone. She got on him about Daisy. The little girl had never been baptized and Livia thought it was disgraceful. Foley was drunk by then and told her exactly what she could go and do with herself. Livia made sure everyone in town heard what he'd said. In her mind, it was one more example of what a lowlife he was."

  "You didn't see Violet?"

  He shook his head. "Last time I saw Violet was the day before. She was driving around town in that new car of hers and she stopped to have a chat."

  "You remember the subject?"

  "Mostly she was showing off. She'd come back from taking Daisy and Liza Mellincamp to lunch and a movie in Santa Maria. She had errands to run, so she'd dropped the girls at the house while she was out and about."

  "You've got a good memory."

  He smiled. "I'd like to take credit, but the subject comes up every other year — some journalist in town. I've told the story so often, I could do it in my sleep."

  "I'll bet. When you talked to Violet, she seemed okay to you?"

  "As much as she ever did. She had her ups and downs, what I believe they call bipolar these days."

  "Really. That's new. No one's mentioned mood swings."

  "That was my observation. I'm not up on these things so it's only a guess on my part. She did a lot of crying in her beer, so to speak."

  "Daisy remembers her parents getting into a big fight the night before. This would have been Thursday night. She says Foley tore down a panel of her mother's curtains. Violet blew her stack, tore down the rest of them and threw 'em in the trash. Did you hear about?"

  He shook his head slightly. "Sounds like something she'd do. Why bring that up?"

  "I've heard that's why Foley ended up buying her the car, to make amends."

  "Must not have done much good if she left anyway," he said. "Fellow you want to talk to is my partner, BW, who tended bar back then. Unfortunately, he's not in tonight or I'd introduce you."

  "Daisy suggested his name, too. Could you let him know I'm trying to get in touch?"

  "How about I tell you where he'll be at seven in the morning and you can talk to him yourself? Maxi's Coffee Shop. It's right on the road between Silas and Serena Station. He's there every morning for an hour or so."

  I could feel my eyes cross at the notion of an early morning drive. I'd have to leave S.T. at dawn. "I'd hate to pop in unannounced. He might not like being quizzed while he's enjoying his morning coffee and eating his eggs."

  "BW won't care. He's an easygoing guy and he loves to hold court."

  "How would I recognize him?"

  "Easy. He weighs three hundred pounds and his head is shaved."

  He glanced at the entrance behind me, and I turned to see Daisy and Tannie coming in the door. They spotted us and crossed to the table with Tannie leading the way. She was sunburned from a day spent outside battling the brush, but she'd managed in the interim to shower and change clothes. Her jeans were freshly pressed and her white blouse was crisp, her hair still damp and tucked under a baseball cap. Daisy wore a red cotton cardigan over a red-and-white-print dress. She'd pulled her blond hair back, clamping it in place with a red plastic clip.

  Jake rose as they approached. Tannie gave her dad a buss on the cheek. "Hey, Pop. I see you've met Kinsey," she said, and then slipped into the chair beside mine.

  He pulled out a chair for Daisy. "How're you doing, Daisy? You're looking good."

  "Thanks. I'm fine. Place smells divine."

  "I got an eight-ounce filet with your name on it."

  Tannie lowered her gaze, but the comment she made was directed to me. "Don't look now, but Chet Cramer just walked in with Caroleena, the Violet Sullivan clone."

  Of course, I looked straight up, catching Chet Cramer's eye. His smile was friendly, but I noticed he promptly steered his wife toward another part of the bar. From the glimpse I had, she looked too old to be dying her hair such a harsh shade of red. Her pale complexion was more the result of makeup than the delicate Irish coloring she hoped to simulate. Tight dress, big boobs, getting thick in the waist.

  "Does she really look like Violet?"

  "Oh, hardly," Daisy scoffed. "That woman's a cow. My mother was a natural beauty. Poor Kathy Cramer. I'd be mortified if my father connected up with someone like that."

  The dinner crowd was picking up, so Jake excused himself to tend to business while the three of us settled in with our drinks and a serious contemplation of the menu. We all ordered the filet mignon, medium rare, with a salad up front and a side of baked potato. We were finishing the meal when the subject of Kathy Cramer surfaced again. Having been granted immunity from any accusation of gossiping, I naturally passed along the news about the collapse of the Cramer-Smith marriage.


  "Well, good for him. She is such a bitch. I'm happy to hear he's finally busting out," Tannie said.

  Daisy said, "I'm with you. About time he got a backbone."

  "I'm not sure you can call it 'busting out' when she's giving him the boot," I said.

  Tannie made a pained face. "But he used to be so cute. And really, the name Winston. Could you just die?" she said. "I do think someone should tell him to drop the weight. Even twenty pounds would make a difference. He goes back on the market, I know half a dozen women who'd snap him up."

  "Including me," Daisy said, offended that Tannie would offer him up without consulting her.

  "Oh, right. Just what you need, another guy with an ax to grind. Wait till Kathy hits him up for alimony and child support. He'll never get out from under."

  "I don't know about that."

  "What choice does he have?" Tannie asked. "They've been married close to thirty years. She had a crush on him since eighth grade. Remember that? No, you wouldn't. You were still in elementary school. But I'm telling you, even when I was ten, I'd see her moping around town. So pathetic. She'd find ways to bump into him and she'd be going, 'Oh gee, Winston, I had no idea you'd be here.' She'd sit behind him in church and stare at him like she could eat him alive. The guy never had a chance."

  I said, "I saw the wedding photo he keeps in his office. He was very trim."

  Tannie said, "True. And she was big as a tank."

  "How'd she lose the weight?"

  "How do you think? She's popping pills like after-dinner mints."

  "You're kidding."

  "No, I'm not. Black-market speed. She's got a source, from what I heard."

  "Now that I think about it, she did seem amped," I said.

  The busboy removed our plates and the waitress showed up again to offer us dessert, which all three of us declined.

  I watched as a man leaving the bar did a detour toward our table. From across the room, I placed him in his midforties, but by the time he'd reached us, I'd added thirty years. His wavy hair was dark, but the color was a shade I imagined Grecian Formula would produce. His eyes were blue behind heavy black-frame glasses that had hearing aids built into the stems. He was roughly my height, five-six, but the heels on his boots gave him another couple of inches. He wore jeans, a red plaid shirt with a string tie, over which he'd buttoned a powder blue western-cut sport coat, nipped in at the waist.