by Sue Grafton
“Forget it. He’s not going to do that. So what else? I’m sure you didn’t tail us to inquire about his health.”
“I feel I owe you an explanation.”
Daisy nearly offered him a smart remark, but apparently decided against it. Better to let him fumble through the conversation on his own.
Jake kept his gaze pinned on the middle distance, but his manner was otherwise straightforward. “It isn’t true, what he accused me of, but I believe I know how he came by that impression, even if he’s mistaken. I hope you’ll bear with me.”
“Have at it. I’m all ears.”
“There was an incident at the Moon…this must have been a month and a half before your mother disappeared. I’d been up at the hospital, visiting Mary Hairl, and I stopped off for a nightcap. Both your parents were at the bar and had been for some time. I think it’s safe to say neither one of them was feeling any pain. By the time I arrived, your dad was in a sulk. Violet started flirting with me—I think to aggravate him as much as anything else. My wife was sick. I was lonely and maybe I gave your mother the wrong impression. We started dancing, which seemed harmless to me, but after a while she was behaving in a way that was an embarrassment. Community’s small. You know how it is. Everybody knows everybody’s business. I couldn’t have her rubbing up against me, or putting her hands on my butt. Anyway, I’ll skip the details out of respect for her. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but I knew I had to set her straight.
“Problem was, Violet was accustomed to getting her way and she wasn’t about to take no for an answer. She got mad and said I’d insulted her. About then she walked off the floor and I followed her. I hadn’t meant anything of the sort. I tried telling her it wasn’t my intent. I liked your mother…don’t get me wrong…but I was taken aback. Long and short of it, she ended up throwing a glass of wine in my face.”
“That was you? I’d heard the story, but I had no idea. Your name was never mentioned.”
“That was me all right. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the end of it. She started screaming and cussing. She was hot-tempered to begin with and sensitive to slights. She threatened to tell Foley we’d had sex, that I’d come on to her, and when she turned me down, I’d forced myself on her. Nothing could have been farther from the truth, but what could I do? BW could see something was going on and he got Foley out of there on some pretext.
“Once he was gone, I tried to reason with her. I hadn’t meant to offend her and I apologized for any misunderstanding. She seemed to calm down. I hoped that would be the end of it, but I couldn’t be sure. I was in a sticky position. I couldn’t go to Foley and tell him what she’d said. If she never mentioned it herself, I’d only be opening up a can of worms. He’d either take issue with me for rejecting her, or else he’d accuse her of screwing around and she’d deny everything, claiming I’d raped her. In that case, I’d end up looking like my only interest was in covering my tracks. At any rate, I thought it best to keep quiet and that’s the last I heard of it until tonight. Clearly, she did what she’d threatened. She must have told him I’d pushed her into something against her will and that’s what he believed.”
Daisy was quiet. I could see her testing his story in the same way I was. “I don’t know what to say. Dad and I haven’t talked about any of this. He’s a mess right now and I’m sure he’s ashamed of himself for getting drunk. I do understand your wanting to set the record straight. If you like, I’ll tell him what you said.”
“I leave that to your judgment. At least now you know my side of it. You can believe it or not. And your dad, when he sobers up, can do with it what he wants. I don’t mean any disrespect to Violet, but he knows how capable she was of turning things around. If he’d stop and think about it, he might be willing to concede the point. As for me, I’m sorry for any part I played. I never meant to cause him any grief.”
“I appreciate that, Jake. Is there anything else?”
“No, that’s it. I’ve had my say. I know it’s late and I won’t keep you.”
The two of them went through a bit of conversational back-and-forth before Jake finally said his good-nights and returned to his car.
Once he’d left, I waited half a minute and said, “What do you think?”
“I’ve got no proof, but offhand I’d say the man is a lying sack of shit.”
24
TOM
Thursday, July 2, 1953
The morning after Cora left for Walnut Creek, Tom slept in, sprawled across the bed in a luxury of sheets. Among the many things they disagreed about was the temperature in the bedroom at night; he liked it cold, windows open to the wide, while Cora liked the windows shut and the heat cranked up. They also disagreed about blankets, the firmness of the mattress, and the nature of bed pillows. Alone, he could do it all exactly as he liked. With Cora out of the way, he was an entirely different man. It was like having a separate personality, one he called forth and wore like a smoking jacket while she was gone. He had two such personalities, as a matter of fact. When he drank, especially at the Blue Moon, he relaxed into the blue-collar type from which he sprang. He was a good old boy at heart. He liked his boots and jeans, adding a western-cut sport coat when he felt like dressing up. Here in Cora’s fancy house, sober and unobserved, he activated another side of his nature, playing Lord of the Manor. He was jaunty and dapper. He used a cigarette holder when he smoked and affected a snooty accent when he talked to himself.
He got up at 10:00, showered, dressed, and popped over to Maxi’s Coffee Shop for breakfast. He checked on a couple of pieces of equipment that he had out, and when he reached the house again, he saw the mail truck just pulling away. He angled the car in close to the mailbox and retrieved the stack of envelopes and two of Cora’s magazines. He left the car in the driveway and entered the house, calling, “Yoo hoo, I’m home!” purely for the pleasure of knowing he was on his own.
He carried the mail into Cora’s office and laid it on the corner of her desk, intending to peruse later at his leisure. He sat down in her office chair and began a systematic search. She was secretive about her personal papers, keeping everything locked up—desk drawers, file cabinets, even the closet where she kept her jewelry and furs. The good news was he’d long ago figured out where she hid the keys. It amused him to let her go on believing herself secure while he kept an eye on her every move. He knew better than to try to siphon money from her bank accounts—she could be such a bitch about those things—but he did occasionally fudge an endorsement on a dividend check. One had arrived the day before, and he’d culled it out of the batch before he gave the mail to her. In his bathroom, with the door locked, he opened the envelope to see what his deception had netted him. Ah. $356.45 from some shares of stock she owned. He liked walking-around money, just the odd few bucks. She never seemed to notice. Dividend checks came periodically and the face amount varied, so it wasn’t something she counted on as a regular event. He wasn’t proud of himself, but he did enjoy his little forays into her private affairs. Really, she brought it on herself.
He opened her desk drawer and found the folder in which she kept her canceled checks. He extracted one, pleased with the sample of her signature. Cora A. Padgett with a little loop on the last t. He had a nice supply of tracing paper and he could whip out a decent approximation in no time at all. He endorsed the check—well, “Cora A. Padgett” endorsed the check—and then he put his tools away and picked up the stack of mail. He sorted through rapidly, disregarding bills except for the ones he didn’t want her to see. The last envelope in the pile was a letter addressed to Loden Galsworthy from an out-of-state bank. He reached for the letter opener, slit the envelope, and read the correspondence signed by a “Lawrence Freiberg,” one of two vice presidents. Mr. Freiberg, or “Larry,” as Tom was already fond of calling him, was writing to inquire about the above-referenced account on which there’d been no activity for the better part of five years. Interest had been accruing and was, of course, properly credited, but the bank was
wondering if perhaps there was something more they might do for him. They’d recently established an investment arm for valued customers. Since Loden Galsworthy was numbered among their very best, Mr. Freiberg suggested that perhaps the bank might put him in touch with one of their financial experts for an analysis of his portfolio. Tom read the letter twice. This had to be an account of Loden’s that Cora had either overlooked or knew nothing about. Mr. Freiberg had probably never met his valued customer and clearly had no idea he was writing to the deceased—the late Loden Galsworthy. When he turned to the next page and his eye settled on the account balance, he barked out a laugh. $65,490.66.
He couldn’t believe his good fortune. For weeks he’d walked around with his head in a noose and suddenly he was free. He knew exactly what to do. He got up from the desk and crossed to the closet where Cora maintained what amounted to a shrine to her dead husband’s memory. Being the sentimental fool she was, she’d held on to a number of items that had belonged to him, among them his personalized stationery and his Mont Blanc fountain pen. Tom extracted an envelope, several sheets of letterhead, and a few pieces of blank paper. He then sat down at Cora’s typewriter (Loden’s before his death) and flexed his fingers, preparing himself as though for a piano recital. Using the blank paper and a bit of ingenuity, he composed a letter thanking the vice president for his concern. He confessed he’d been out of the country and had just returned to the States after four years away. Having the account brought to his attention was fortunate, as he was currently entertaining an investment opportunity for which the above-referenced funds would be swiftly set to work. He requested that the account be closed and the money forwarded to him at the post office box he’d maintained during his absence. This was, in fact, a post office box that Tom had set up some time ago so that any private business of his wouldn’t come under Cora’s nose. He rolled a sheet of Loden’s stationery into the typewriter and went to work. His typing was clumsy, but he managed to get a clean copy after three tries. If the bank had kept any previous correspondence from Loden Galsworthy, it might be noted that the typeface, the writing paper, and the fountain pen nib were all a match. Now all he needed was Loden’s signature.
On Cora’s office wall, there was a certificate of appreciation for work she’d done as a Red Cross volunteer in 1918, when she was twenty-one years old. It was a boilerplate document, hundreds of which must have been doled out to the women who’d donated thousands of hours of free labor, but she’d framed it and hung it as though she were the sole recipient. Loden Galsworthy had been one of the three signatories. She’d told Tom that she and Loden often spoke of the amazing coincidence of this link between them before they’d even met.
He took down the framed certificate and spent twenty minutes or so perfecting Loden’s signature. Then he signed the letter, folded it, placed it in the envelope, and added a stamp. All in a day’s work. He’d drop it in the mail on his way to the bank. This was truly a gift from the gods, an answer to his prayers. He felt incredibly light and free. He hadn’t realized how anxious he’d been until the crisis had passed. Now he didn’t have to worry about Cora’s penury. No more wheedling, no more maneuvering. In one stroke, all his problems had been solved. As icing on the cake, his lunch with Chet Cramer the day before had gone very well. He knew Chet had agreed to listen to his pitch only because he and Livia coveted membership in the country club to which the Padgetts belonged, but he thought his presentation had been effective. Chet had not only seemed interested, but he’d asked Tom to work up a business plan to pass on to his accountant. Tom intended to work on that shortly after lunch.
He drove to the bank and made a deposit, tucking the forged dividend check in with some miscellaneous checks of his own. With the $65,490.66 that would soon be his, he no longer needed the measly $356.45, but he’d already forged Cora’s signature so why not proceed? He’d learned never to waste his efforts. Once he made a plan, he carried it out—a principle that had always paid off handsomely for him.
He chatted with the teller, completed his business, and was just on his way out when he ran into the loan officer, Herbert Greer, who’d clearly made a point of intercepting him. Tom had been avoiding him because he knew the guy was going to press him for the money he owed. Now, with his newfound funds waiting in the wings, he greeted Greer like an old friend, shaking his hand with real warmth. “Herb, how are you? I’m glad I ran into you.”
Herb was clearly not prepared for Tom’s friendliness after weeks of evasions and excuses. Herb said, “I thought you were out of town. I left a couple of messages with Cora earlier this week, and when you didn’t respond I assumed you were off gallivanting around.”
“Not me. Cora’s the one who’s gone. She took off this morning to visit her sister up in Walnut Creek. Naughty girl. She didn’t mention you’d called. I had no idea.”
“It must have slipped her mind.”
“No doubt. She’s usually good about these things, but she was in a rush to get packed and on the road. Anyway, I was going to stop by your desk earlier, but I saw you were on the phone.”
Herb was cautiously pleased at the suggestion, probably imagining he’d have to tackle Tom and bring him down before any such appointment would be made or kept. “Why don’t you have a seat at my desk and we can do that right now?”
Tom looked at his watch, his expression tinged with regret. “Can’t. Daggone it. I’m having lunch at the country club with Chet Cramer and I’m late as it is.”
“I thought I saw you at the club with him yesterday.”
“True. I didn’t realize you were there. You should have stopped by the table to say hello. I think I might have mentioned we’re in discussions about a partnership. He knows the heavy-equipment business, which he says isn’t that different from a dealership.”
“I had no idea you had a deal in the works. Good for you.”
“Well, we’ve yet to hammer out the details, but you know him. There’s a guy who takes his time. No point in pushing him. He likes to have all his ducks in a row before he takes the plunge.”
“We’ve worked with Chet for years. He’s solid as they come.”
“Tell you what, if we can reach an agreement, I’ll bring him along and maybe we can talk about ways to make this thing work.”
“Always amenable. I hope you’ll give him my regards.”
“Happy to.”
“Shall we say Monday? Ten o’clock?”
“Perfect. I’ll see you then.”
And for the first time in his life, Tom left the bank feeling optimistic. As soon as Loden Galsworthy’s money came in, he’d be able to expand. Now all he needed was another big whack of cash so he could pay off his bank loan on Monday.
25
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.
