by Sue Grafton
While I waited, I wandered back to the showroom floor, moving from a Corvette convertible to a Caprice station wagon. The best-looking car was an Iroc-Z Camaro convertible, bright red with a tan interior. The top was down and the leather seats were soft. Try tailing someone in a car that slick. I turned to find Mr. Cramer standing with his hands in his pockets, admiring the car as I did. I knew from counting on my fingers that he was in his early eighties. I could see he’d been handsome in his youth, and I sensed, like an aura, the volume of air he must have displaced before he shrank from age. His suit was a size that a young boy might wear. He said, “What kind of car you drive?”
“1974 VW.”
“I’d make you a pitch, but you look like a woman knows her own mind.”
“I’d like to think so,” I said.
“You’re here about Mrs. Sullivan.”
“I am.”
“Let’s go on up to my office. People see I’m down here, I never get a moment’s peace.”
I followed him across the showroom floor and up the stairs. When we reached his office, he opened the door and stepped aside to let me in. The room was plain—a straight-legged wooden desk, a couch, three chairs, and white walls on which he’d mounted numerous black-and-white photographs of himself with various local bigwigs. The Cromwell Chamber of Commerce had given him a citation for community service. The furniture might well have been the set he started business with. “Did you graduate from college?” he asked as he rounded his desk and took a seat.
I sat down across from him, putting my shoulder bag on the floor at my feet. “Hardly. I had two semesters of junior college, but I don’t think that counts.”
“Better than I did. My father dug ditches for a living and never saved a dime. My senior year in high school, he was killed in an auto accident. It’d been raining for a week, highway was slick as glass, and he went off a bridge. I was the oldest of four boys and I had to go to work. One thing my dad taught me was never do manual labor. He hated his job. He said, ‘Son, if you want to make money, find a job where you have to shower before you go to work instead of when you get home.’ He maintained there was always someone for hire when it came to the dirty work, and I’ve followed that to this day.”
“How’d you end up selling cars?”
“Desperation. Everything turned out fine in the end, but it didn’t look so promising at first. The only fellow who’d hire me was George Blickenstaff, owner of the local Ford dealership. He was an old family friend and I guess he took pity on me. I started selling Fords when I was nineteen years old. That was 1925. I didn’t much care for it, but at least I wasn’t working with my hands. Turns out I had a knack for sales. Four years later, the stock market crashed.”
“That must have put a dent in the business.”
“Some areas, yes, but not as much out here. We were always small potatoes and we didn’t take the same hit the bigger dealers did. By the time the Depression came along, I was doing pretty well, at least compared to what a lot of other folks endured. By then, I’d turned into Blickenstaff ’s star salesman. You’d have thought it was something I was born to do. Of course, I was full of myself and thought I deserved a dealership of my own.”
“Is that when you bought this place?”
“Took me years. Problem was, every time I had money in the bank, something came along that took the wind right out of my sails. I put my brothers through college and just about had my mother’s house paid off when she got sick. The hospital bill alone was enough to wipe me out. Factor in the funeral expenses and the headstone and I was flat broke. I didn’t marry till I was thirty-two years old and that set me back again because suddenly I was saddled with a family.”
“But you did persevere,” I said.
“Oh, I did better than that. By 1939, I could see what was coming. The minute Germany invaded Poland, I talked old man Blickenstaff into stockpiling tires, car parts, and gasoline. He didn’t want to listen, but I knew it was an opportunity we couldn’t pass up. U.S. involvement was a given. Any fool could see that—except him, of course. I knew when the time came, rationing would be inevitable, and we couldn’t afford to be caught short. He argued the point, but I knew I was right and I never let up. My instincts were dead on. Once the war started, there wasn’t another dealer in the area who’d had the same foresight. Guys were coming out of the woodwork, begging for gasoline, begging for tires, which was music to my ears. I told ’em I was happy to be of help as long as sufficient cash changed hands. The point was delivering product and service to the customer, and if Chet Cramer could make a buck in the process, then what’s wrong with that? Blickenstaff didn’t have the stomach for it. He lost a son in the war and he thought it was morally reprehensible—that was the phrase he used, ‘morally reprehensible’—to profit when all those boys had sacrificed their lives. In truth, he was tired and it was time he stepped aside.”
“You bought the dealership from him?”
“No ma’am. I bought the Chevrolet franchise and drove that old geezer into the ground: 1945 he closed his doors and I picked up his dealership for pennies on the dollar. May sound cold, but it’s a simple fact of life: You can’t accomplish anything unless you’re willing to act. Make a plan. Take a risk. That’s how you get what you want.”
“What about your brothers? Did any of them come into the business with you?”
“This is mine. I don’t share. I did enough for them and now they’re on their own.” He shifted in his chair, leaning forward on his desk. “Anyway, you didn’t come here to talk about me. You want to know about Violet Sullivan.”
“I do, but I’m also curious about the car. Can we start with that?”
He made a dismissive gesture. “Foley had no business buying that car. He ought to’ve been ashamed of himself. The Sullivans didn’t have a pot to piss in—I hope you’ll forgive the language.”
“Doesn’t bother me,” I said.
“Violet got it in her head she had to have that car, and Foley knew better than to stand in her way. I wasn’t about to turn away a sale, so I cut him a deal.”
“Which was what?”
“I took his truck in trade, for whatever that was worth. Purely a courtesy on my part, but I made one thing clear: The first time he missed a payment, I’d repossess. No excuses, no slow pays, and not one penny short. I didn’t care what the law said, that car was coming back.”
“Given his history, you were taking quite a chance.”
“Oh, I never thought he’d do it. I fully expected to have the car on the lot again within three months and then I’d take it for myself.”
“I thought Winston Smith made the sale.”
“He’s the one Violet dealt with up front. He was a pip-squeak, all of twenty years old. Woman like Violet, she’s always going to find a way to get what she wants. She comes waltzing in here when I’m off the lot and she starts working on him. I’d’ve put a stop to it if I’d seen what was going on. First thing you know she talks him into letting her take that Bel Air on a test drive—alone. I’m serious. Without him in the car. He never should have agreed, but he’s so busy trying to impress her, he doesn’t know what hit him. When she finally shows up again, she’s put two hundred and fifty-seven miles on a brand-new car. I fired him on the spot and then called Foley and told him to get his butt in. He finally came around Friday morning and I completed the deal—approved the loan and handled all the paperwork.”
“I still don’t understand why you sold it to him. From what I’ve heard, his finances were a mess.”
“I have no use for Foley; man doesn’t have a brain in his head. I felt sorry for Violet. I thought she deserved something nice for putting up with him, fool that she was.”
“What was in it for you?”
His smile was sheepish. “Hey, even an old dog like me can do a good turn now and then. Everybody thinks I’m a hard-ass, but I can be generous when it suits. Of course that might’ve been the last time I ever did a good deed. When that car went
missing, I was sick to death. Foley did pay it off. I have to give him that.”
“So you weren’t out anything?”
“Not one red cent.”
“Violet didn’t tell you how she managed to put two hundred and fifty-seven miles on the odometer?”
“No, but I can make a pretty good guess. That’s the day she showed up at a Santa Teresa bank and emptied her safe-deposit box. I figured it out afterward, because the distance was about right—hundred and twenty-five miles each way. She said the day was gorgeous and she couldn’t resist. At the time, I was under the impression she drove north along the coast, but she never said as much.”
“If she wanted to drive to Santa Teresa, why not take Foley’s truck?”
“That thing was on its last legs. No surprise she’d prefer to tool around in a fancy car like mine. Maybe she was planning to sweet-talk the bank manager into making her a loan.”
“Did she give any indication she intended to leave town?”
“Never said a word. Not that she had any reason to confide in me. I barely knew the woman. So what was in her safe-deposit box? I never heard.”
“Foley thinks it was cash from an insurance settlement. Fifty thousand is the number I’ve heard. In addition to that, her brother says he lent her two thousand dollars on Wednesday of that week.”
“Calvin Wilcox. Now there’s a piece of work.”
“As in what?”
“Those two were always at each other’s throats. He assumed the full care of their parents and Violet wouldn’t lift a hand. He didn’t give a damn if she disappeared or not. I’m sure it cheered him no end that when his mother died, all the money came to him. If his sister had been around, he’d have had to split it with her.”
I felt my attention narrow like a cat’s at the sound of a little mousie scratching in the wall. “Money?”
“Oh, yes. It was a sizeable estate. Roscoe Wilcox made a fortune perfecting phosphorescent paint. Got a patent on some new, improved formula, or so I’ve heard. Every time you see a paint job that glows, it’s money in the bank—or Calvin’s pocket in this case.”
“How well do you know him?”
“We’re both members of the same country club and the same association of local businessmen. He built that company from scratch, which I’ve always admired, but the fellow himself? I got my doubts about him. Maybe it’s just that he and that wife of his have never cared for me.”
“What happened to Winston Smith? I’d like to talk to him if you know where he is.”
“That’s easy. The week after I fired him, I took him back and he’s worked for me ever since. It’s like I told him: You don’t want to act in haste. What seems tragic in the moment can sometimes turn out to be the best thing in the world.”
“Meaning what?”
“He ended up married to my daughter and now they have those three gorgeous girls. He’s a very lucky man.”
12
JAKE
Wednesday, July 1, 1953
Jake Ottweiler pulled up a chair beside his wife’s hospital bed and sat with her as he had every evening since June 17 when she’d been admitted. Mary Hairl was on heavy medication. She slept deeply and often, her face in repose as sculpted as stone. Her hand lay in his, her palm against his, her cold fingers threaded through his warmer ones. She was as pale as a piece of paper, lavender veins showing through the skin on her arms. She was thin, brittle-looking, and she smelled like death. He was ashamed for noticing, ashamed of himself for wanting to recoil.
Mary Hairl was thirty-seven years old and she’d given Jake two wonderful children. Tannie, at nine, was a sturdy, fearless girl, boisterous and outgoing, all bony elbows, skinned knees, and joy. She had a talent for playing the piano, and she read books way above her grade level. She’d never be pretty, he knew that about her without even waiting to see what puberty would bring. The growth spurt—the breasts, the loss of baby fat—none of this would alter the basic plainness of her face. But she was a bright, funny child, and he treasured that in her.
At sixteen, his son, Steve, was not only handsome, he was smart as well—not at the top of his class, but not far from it. Played varsity football and won his letter jacket as a sophomore, the first season he played. Eagle Scout. Sang tenor in the church youth choir. He’d signed a pledge that he’d abstain from alcohol for life, and Jake knew he’d do it, no matter the peer pressure brought to bear. Steve was baby-faced and had a boyish demeanor Jake was hoping he’d outgrow. Hard enough to be a man in this world without looking half his age. Mary Hairl had been a good mother to those kids, and he wasn’t sure how he’d manage when she went. He’d do what she did—be firm, listen carefully, and let them make their own mistakes as long as it wasn’t anything too serious. It would never be the same, but they’d muddle through somehow. What choice did they have?
He put his head down and rested his face against the edge of the hospital bed. The sheet was crisp and cool against his sunburned cheek. He was incredibly weary. After he’d come back from overseas just after the war, he hadn’t had the will or the strength to return to farming. He’d taken a series of jobs, most recently with Union Sugar. He’d missed so many days of work because of Mary Hairl’s illness, he’d been fired. Now money was impossibly tight, and if it weren’t for her father’s financial help, they’d be out on the street. He hadn’t understood how much work his wife did. Now that he was essentially sole parent, he was in charge of the meal planning, grocery shopping, laundry, and most of the major household chores. Mid-April, just before she was hospitalized for surgery, she’d put in the truck garden, which was flourishing. She’d always been an uncomplaining soul, and by the time she’d seen the doctor for abdominal tenderness and bloating, the tumor was advanced. Surgery confirmed the cancer, which had spread to so many organs there was nothing to be done. The surgeon closed her up again and now they were waiting for the end. The weeding, mulching, and plucking of suckers from the numerous tomato plants was another set of tasks Jake’d added to his list. After school, Steve pitched in with mowing the lawn and washing the truck, while Tannie was in charge of keeping the house tidy and making their brown-bag lunches. Hairl Tanner, Mary Hairl’s father, was still joining them for the evening meal, so the four of them ate supper together nightly, a ritual that seemed cheerless without Mary Hairl. Once the meal was finished, Hairl would disappear, leaving Tannie to clear the table. Steve washed the dishes while Tannie dried them and put them away. At that point, Jake would pick up his jacket and head over to the hospital, arriving about 7:00 P.M.
Jake was scarcely aware that he’d fallen asleep. He’d been thinking about the night in early May when Mary Hairl was admitted for the second time in as many months. She’d made sure her father and the kids were fed before she finally, reluctantly, agreed to call the doctor, who’d met them within the hour in the emergency room. Steve had stayed at home to look after Tannie, and when Jake and Mary Hairl left house, both the kids were doing their homework. She’d been in excruciating pain for much of the day, and he’d handed her over to the charge nurse that night with the blessed sense that at least now she’d get relief. Her suffering only reminded Jake how ineffectual he was in the face of her illness. He’d stayed with her until 9:00, watching the drip in her IV line, waiting for the medication to take effect. He’d kept an eye on the clock, willing the hands to move, and when she’d finally fallen asleep, he’d fled the premises.
He retrieved his truck from the hospital parking lot in Santa Maria and headed straight for the Blue Moon, the only place in Serena Station where a fella could buy a beer. It had been raining intermittently. The May evening was chilly, and he cranked up the heat until the cab felt like an incubator. The roads were dark, and the lighted houses in Serena Station seemed as isolated as campfires. He needed to drink. He needed to unwind in an atmosphere that carried no suggestion of blood, suffering, or impending loss.
The Moon was close to empty. Tom Padgett sat at the bar, nursing a Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, chat
ting with Violet Sullivan and the bartender, BW McPhee. BW was a stocky fellow, barrel-chested and tough, who doubled as a bouncer when the occasion arose. Jake took a stool at the bar, glancing idly at the two sitting four stools down. Violet’s eyes were puffy with tears and her hair was disheveled. Clearly something had gone on. Tom was trying to talk her out of whatever funk she was in. Jake was inclined to ignore Violet, minding his own business, but while BW uncapped his bottle of Blatz, he told him she and Foley had gotten into a shoving match that ended with her slapping him square across the face. Foley had gone berserk, overturning a table and breaking a chair. BW’d given him one minute to clear out or he was calling the police.
By the time Jake arrived, Foley was gone. While Padgett’s comments were too low to hear, Violet’s responses were audible. She was talking about her money in a tone that was half braggadocio and half aggrieved. He’d heard the claim before, usually when Foley’d just popped her one and she was threatening to leave. He didn’t know if it was true or not, the bit about her personal funds. She never mentioned an amount, and it struck him as odd that she didn’t simply take the cash and get on with it.
For a while, Padgett dropped a steady stream of coins into the jukebox, and he and Violet danced. The dress she wore was an emerald green, cut low in the back. Behind the bar, BW was watching them as they moved around the floor. Now and then Jake would turn, looking over his shoulder, following their progress with a shake of his head. He and BW exchanged glances.
“That’s what got Foley raging in the first place, her dancing with him,” BW remarked.
“Just about anything sets him off. Piece of shit,” Jake said.
