by Sue Grafton
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.
To W…
When I gaze in your beautiful brown eyes
I feel my throbbing heart increase in size
With all the love I hold inside for you
I promise, my darling, I will always be true.
I loved you deeply right from the start
And now no one can ever sunder us apart.
If I could only hold you tightly in my arms…
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?”
&nbs
p; “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?”
“Do you know how much money I have? I’m not supposed to tell, but I know I can count on your discretion,” she said, lowering her voice.
“You shouldn’t be telling me anything personal, Mrs. Sullivan. You should talk to Mr. Cramer about your finances.”
“Fifty thousand dollars.”
Winston laughed, unnerved. “Seriously?”
“Of course. Why would I joke about a thing like that?”
“What’d you do, rob a bank?”
“It was an insurance settlement. I wanted more, but that’s what the company offered me right off the bat. My lawyer said take it, so that’s what I did. The two were probably in cahoots. I’ve never even told Foley the full amount. He’d be on me in a flash and squander every dime. See this?” Violet pointed to the bruise on her chin. “One day Foley’s going to push me too far and that’s it. I’ll be gone. The money’s my ticket out.” She held out her hand. “Now. May I have the keys?”
Kathy watched Winston struggle with the request. She knew he wasn’t much for confrontation, especially with a woman like Violet. On the other hand, she knew her dad had given him explicit instructions: No test drive without a salesman. No leaving the floor unattended.
“What’s your commission on a sale like this?” Violet asked, as though the sale were a foregone conclusion.
“Somewhere in the neighborhood of four percent.”
“Enough to cover your tuition and books for the next two years, or am I wrong about that?”
“That seems about right,” he said.
Even Kathy was transfixed by the notion of all that money coming to him.
“So do you want the sale or not?”
Winston glanced at his watch. “I don’t know what to tell you, Mrs. Sullivan. Mr. Cramer’s due back any minute now…”
“Oh for Christ’s sake! Give me the keys and let’s get on with it. I’m just taking it around the block.”
Kathy closed the file drawer, rolling her eyes in disgust. Pushiness was unbecoming in a woman—everyone knew that—but blasphemy was inexcusable. She returned to her desk and took a seat. The woman was insane. There was no way Winston was going to let her drive away in that car. Without so much as a dollar changing hands? Very funny. Ha ha. Kathy picked up a stack of papers and tamped them against the desk, then opened and closed a drawer, pretending to be absorbed in her work.
Winston appeared at her desk. There were big damp circles under his shirt sleeves, and she could smell his sweat. “I got a problem.”
“I know. She is so full of herself, it makes me sick.”
“Can I have the keys to the Bel Air?”
She stared at him, blinking. “Why ask me?”
“Could you give them to me, please? She’s buying the car and she wants to see how it drives.”
“I don’t have them.”
“Yes, you do. I saw him give them to you.”
Kathy didn’t move because she’d suddenly had a thought. At dinner the night before, her dad told her mom he was top-heavy on inventory and light on cash. What if Violet really had the money and the sale got messed up? If Kathy made a fuss and then the deal fell through, she’d never live it down. She could feel her face burn.
Exasperated, Winston leaned over and opened her pencil drawer. There, big as life, were the keys on a ring with the Chevrolet logo, the make and model of the car inked on a round white tag. He helped himself to the set.
“You’ll be sorry,” she said, not looking at him.
“No doubt,” he said, and then returned to the floor. Violet was still sitting in the car.
Kathy’s dad would have a fit the minute he found out, but what was she supposed to do?
Winston held out the keys to Violet. She took them without a word and then started the car. She put the gear in reverse and began backing toward the wide steel door at the rear of the showroom. Kathy watched as Winston crossed to the door and gave the handle a yank. The door ascended on its track with a low rumbling sound. He leaned toward the driver’s-side window, probably to offer her advice, but Violet swung the car into the alley and took off without so much as a backward look.
Kathy saw Winston glance at his watch, and she felt a little thrill of fear because she knew exactly what was on his mind. Even if Violet took the long way around, the drive couldn’t take more than five minutes. Which meant he could have the car on the floor again before her dad returned from lunch.
6
I found Sergeant Timothy Schaefer in a workshop at the back of his property on Hart Drive in Santa Maria. The house itself was built in the 1950s by the look of it—a three-bedroom frame structure so uniformly white that it had been either freshly painted or recently covered in vinyl siding. His workshop must have been a toolshed at one time, enlarged by degrees until it was now half the size of a single-car garage. The interior walls were all raw wood and exposed studs. He’d used layers of newspaper as insulation, and I could probably read a year’s worth of local news items if I peered closely enough.
Schaefer had told me he’d retired from the Santa Teresa County Sheriff ’s Department in 1968 at the age of sixty-two, which made him eighty-one years old now. He was heavyset, his loose gray pants held up with tan suspenders. The brown and blue in his plaid flannel shirt had been washed to a blend of softly faded hues. His hair was a flyaway white, as fine as spun sugar, and he wore bifocals low on his nose, fixing me with an occasional sharp l
ook over the rims.
In front of him, on a chunky wooden workbench that lined the shop on three sides, he’d set a newly refinished rocking chair, its seat in need of recaning. His tools were neatly lined up: a pair of needle-nose pliers, two ice picks, a knife, a ruler, a container of glycerin, and loops of cane held together with clothespins. On the chair he was currently caning, he’d used golf tees to hold the cane in place until he could tie them off underneath.
“My daughter got me into this,” he said idly. “After her mother died, she thought a hobby would keep me out of trouble. Weekends, we make the rounds of flea markets and yard sales, picking up old beat-up chairs like this. Turns out to be a money-making proposition.”
“How’d you learn?”
“Reading books and doing what they said. Took a while to get the hang of it. Glycerin helps the cane slide. Don’t soak it long enough and it’s hard to work with. Soak it too long and it’ll start to weaken and break. Hope you don’t mind if I keep on with this. I promised a fellow I’d have his rocker ready by the end of the week.”
“Be my guest.”
For a while, I was content to watch without saying a word. The mechanics of it reminded me of needlepoint or knitting, something close to a meditation. There was a certain hypnotic quality to the process, and I might have stood there observing for the better part of the day if time had permitted.
