I was now technically prepared, but far from feeling reassured, I was just flat scared.
I spent Sunday morning typing up my notes. After lunch I drove over to the office and sorted through the mail that was piled on the floor. The mailman had stuck so many envelopes through the slot that they’d spread out across the carpet like a welcome mat. I sorted through the bills and then had no choice but to sit down and write checks. I listened to my messages, which were surprisingly few; none required my immediate attention. On the way home I went by the post office and dropped my paid bills in the box at the curb. I spent the rest of the day cleaning my apartment—good therapy for those of us who cherish solitude. Scrubbing toilet bowls, you’re hardly ever troubled by others eager to pitch in.
Monday morning, I put my typewriter and all my notes in the car and drove into downtown Santa Teresa. I parked in the public lot across from the courthouse, put my handgun in the glove compartment, and locked my car. Everything I hoped to accomplish could be done in a two-block radius and none of it required me to be armed. My first stop was the title company on the corner. I was looking for information about Santa Maria property transactions in 1953. The original deeds are recorded and sent back to the new property owner, but photocopies are kept in the County Recorder’s office, quite possibly forever. The easiest way to get to them is to put in a request at the customer service counter at one of the local title companies. I do most of my business with Santa Teresa Title because their library is extensive and they’ll run a simple search without charge. Currently deeds are indexed according to the property address, but in the ’50s, transactions were indexed by name. I asked the clerk for anything they could find for me under the names Jake Ottweiler, Chet Cramer, and/or Tom Padgett. She asked me to come back in an hour.
I crossed the street to the Hall of Records in the Santa Teresa County Courthouse. Since 1964 the estates of Santa Maria residents have been administered in the Santa Maria branch of the probate court, but in 1953 wills were filed at the courthouse here. I’d never thought of wills as hostile instruments, but I was in for a surprise. Cora Padgett’s will was straightforward. On her death on March 2, 1959, she’d left everything to Tom, making him a very rich man. The attached Exhibit A indicated that the real property, including a house and four funeral parlors, was valued at close to two million dollars. Her personal assets—cash, stocks, bonds, and jewelry—bumped the number up another three quarters of a mill. I paid the fee for a certified copy of her death certificate, which listed the cause of death as bilateral bronchopneumonia. Nothing iffy about that.
I moved to the wills of Calvin and Violet’s parents. Roscoe Wilcox died May 16, 1951, leaving a will that was signed and dated December 21, 1949. The will had been filed for probate on May 24, 1951, proved, the assets collected and identified, and the claims of the creditors paid. The terms were simple. Violet’s brother, Calvin Wilcox, was appointed executor. There were two specific bequests: the first, the sum of ten thousand dollars, which Roscoe left to his church, and a second, which read “To my daughter, Violet, in appreciation for the love and devotion she evidenced during our lifetime, the generous sum of one dollar, which is twice what she is worth.” All of his tangible personal property and the remainder of his estate he left “to my wife, Julia Faraday Wilcox, if she survives me, and if not, to my son, Calvin Edward Wilcox.”
Julia Wilcox, by the terms of her will, also signed and dated December 21, 1949, left everything to her husband or, in the event that he predeceased her, to her son, Calvin. The remaining provisions of both wills spelled out the attendant clerical details: inventory valuation, the payment of funeral expenses, debts, Federal and California taxes, and any claims made against the estate. Clearly Violet had been denied any expectation of money (save that one surly dollar) by reason of her indifference, lack of compassion, or abundant bad character. Chet Cramer had implied that Calvin stood to profit by her death, but since both wills predated her disappearance, Calvin was already in line to inherit everything and therefore had nothing to gain by killing her. He might have disliked her, but I couldn’t see why he’d risk his life or his freedom to get her out of his hair. Violet was a nuisance, but that was about it.
Hairl Tanner’s will was the eye-popper. He’d apparently drawn up a new one on July 6, 1953, thereby revoking all previous wills and codicils. He named a trust officer at his bank to be executor and established two trusts, one for Steve Ottweiler and one for Tannie. The trusts were to accumulate all income, with no distributions whatsoever, until the two reached twenty-five years of age. He further specified that his tangible personal property was to be similarly held in trust until each was twenty-five years old. I had to go back and read that provision again. Essentially what he was saying was that Steve wouldn’t have access to the money in his trust until 1962 and Tannie wouldn’t be eligible for her portion until 1969. The valuation of his personal property—art, silver, and antiques—was estimated at six hundred thousand dollars, but neither grandchild could sell, borrow against, or enjoy ownership for years. What was that about? At first I thought he was being punitive toward his two grandchildren, but then it occurred to me that Jake Ottweiler was the object of his wrath. Old man Tanner apparently wanted to make sure Jake couldn’t collect one red cent of his money even in support of his own two kids. Given the terms of Tanner’s will, Jake would have been forced to dig into his own pockets to cover his children’s expenses in addition to his own. Had Hairl made Jake the executor or a trustee, he might have at least petitioned for reasonable sums of money related to their health, welfare, and education. So how had Jake come up with his share of the purchase price of the Blue Moon?
While I was at the courthouse, I asked about DBAs, those being a record of applications for fictitious business names, hoping to pick up a tidbit or two about how they’d taken ownership. Unfortunately, an application expires five years from the date it’s filed and those files are purged after ten years; 1953 had long been relegated to the shredder. I tried the tax assessor’s office across the street, again hoping for information related to the Blue Moon, but the clerk told me the basement of the courthouse had flooded and any records prior to 1962 were lost. Some guys have all the luck. Here I was trying to pry into Jake’s business and I was having no success.
I left the courthouse and returned to the title company, where I picked up a manila envelope full of photocopied documents. I went back to my car and sat in the parking lot, leafing through my little pile of treasures. I started with the information related to Tom Padgett. There was an Affidavit–Death of Joint Tenant, in which Cora’s name was removed from the deed to the house. Over the next several years, Tom Padgett had bought numerous properties on money borrowed from a Santa Maria bank, but most had been paid off according to the Full Reconveyances on file.
I gave a cursory look at the grant deeds in the names of Calvin and Rachel Wilcox, all of which seemed unremarkable, and then moved on to Jake Ottweiler. He and BW McPhee had purchased the property on which the Blue Moon was situated on December 12, 1953, for the sum of twenty-two thousand dollars, a figure I calculated from the line of tax stamps pasted along the left margin. I remembered BW mentioning the “couple thousand dollars” he’d thrown into the pot, which meant that Jake had come up with roughly twenty thousand dollars. There had to have been a hefty additional sum to cover the liquor license, expansion, and remodeling they’d done.
I sat and thought about what I’d found, then started the car and backed out of the slot. Time to hit the road.
29
As soon as I reached Santa Maria, I pulled into a gas station and filled my tank, then parked to one side of the service bay and used the pay phone. I put a call through to the hospital where Daisy worked and asked for the Medical Records Department. Once she was on the line, I told her I was back in town. “Is there any way I can park myself at your place? I’ve got notes to type up and some calls I want to make.”
“Sure, no problem. There’s a house key hidden u
nder the flowerpot sitting on the porch.”
“That’s not such a keen idea, Daisy. Everyone hides the key under a flowerpot. Burglars know that and it’s the first place they look.”
“Well, goody. I’m happy to hear. Frustrate a burglar and next thing you know he’s busting your windows or gouging at the locks. Oh, and as long as you’re there, would you mind switching the clothes out of the washer and into the dryer?”
“You just ran a load. Is that all you do?”
“Hey, it’s a harmless vice,” she replied.
At Daisy’s, I let myself in and then did as she’d asked, after which I set my typewriter on the dining room table and assembled my notes. I picked my way through my index cards, looking for loose ends. I knew I’d missed something, but it wasn’t immediately obvious going over my notes. Or possibly it was so obvious I couldn’t catch sight of it. In the process of collating the bits and pieces, I came across Ty Edding’s name. He’d been at the Tanner property with Liza on Friday night, and while she remembered nothing of the car that had pulled up in front, he might make a better witness.
I put a call through to Liza. “Hey, this is Kinsey. I’m sitting here squinting at my notes and thinking it might be helpful if I could talk to Ty Eddings.”
“Why?”
“To ask about the guy you spotted at the Tanner property that night. You have any idea where Ty is at this point?”
“No.”
I waited and then tried a prompt. “Not even a guess?”
“I told you I never heard from him again so how would I know? Dead or in jail for all I care.”
“What about his aunt? What was her name?”
“York. Dahlia. She left town when her husband died and I don’t know where she went.”
“What about kids? Someone told me Ty had a cousin named Kyle. Is York his last name?”
“Yes.”
“Liza, why are you making this so difficult? Are you mad at me?”
There was a silence. Finally, frostily: “Not to chide you for your lack of sensitivity, Kinsey, but did it occur to you I might be upset about Violet’s death? You treat it like ‘Hohum, oh well. One down and on to the next.’”
I could feel myself wince. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think about that. You’re right and I apologize. I get focused on what I’m doing and I forget about the emotional end of things.”
Silence.
“You want to talk about it?” I asked. The question felt lame in the wake of her criticism. If you have to be told how to behave, it doesn’t count.
“Not particularly. I’d like time to grieve in private, if it’s all right with you.”
“Of course. I didn’t mean to intrude. Look, I’m hanging out at Daisy’s. Why don’t you call me later if you feel like conversation.”
Silence. I could hear her breathing. Finally, she said, “Kyle York lives in San Luis Obispo. He’s an allergist.” She hung up abruptly, leaving me to deliver my penitent “Thank you” to dead air.
I tried Directory Assistance, asking for a listing for Kyle York, M.D. I expected an office number, but surprisingly the operator offered me a choice. “You want the office or his home?”
“I might as well take both.”
She gave me the numbers, which I jotted on a card. I knew if I called the office, I’d either be left on terminal hold, listening to shitty music, or some officious receptionist would quiz me at length about my need to speak to him. I was thinking I’d wait until the end of the day and try his home phone, but on impulse I dialed. After five rings, a woman picked up. I said, “Mrs. York?”
“Well, yes, but you’re probably looking for my daughter-in-law, and she’s not here right now. She’s taken the dog to the grooming shop and won’t be back for an hour and a half. May I tell her who called?” Her voice sounded slightly wobbly, as though from disuse.
“Are you Dr. York’s mother?”
“Yes, I am. May I help you with something?” She sounded pleased that I knew of her existence. I wasn’t sure that she’d be quite so pleased when I told her my purpose.
I had one split second to decide how to play the conversation. The truth didn’t have a chance. “I’m actually an old friend of Kyle’s from elementary school. We lost touch years ago, but someone said he had a practice in San Luis Obispo so I thought I’d give him a call.”
“That’s very sweet of you. What did you say your name was?”
“Tanner—Tannie—Ottweiler.”
“You must be Jake Ottweiler’s girl.”
“Yes, ma’am, I am.”
“How’s your father?”
“He’s fine. He sends his regards.”
“Oh, he always was the sweetest man. I haven’t seen him now for sixteen or seventeen years. I didn’t leave Serena Station until a couple of years ago, when I moved in with Kyle and his wife,” she said, warming to the subject. She went on for a bit, clearly lonely and desperate for human contact. Of course I felt like a heel, but I never set her straight. It’s not nice to lie to old ladies. Even I know that much.
We exchanged reminiscences, hers real, mine invented. Then I slithered my way over to the point. “Whatever happened to that cousin of his, the one from Bakersfield?”
“You mean Ty?”
“Exactly. As I remember, he went back to Bakersfield on the spur of the moment and that’s the last I heard. How’s he doing these days?”
“Fine.”
“Do you have a number for him?”
“Well, dear, he’s in Sacramento, but I don’t understand why you’d want to talk to him when you called to speak to Kyle.”
“I thought I might as well round up the whole gang while I was at it,” I said. I was trying to sound casual and jolly, but I couldn’t pull it off.
I could feel the chill through the line. The lady might be old, but her intuitions were alive and well. “You’re Liza Mellincamp, aren’t you?”
“Actually, I’m not.” This was the only moment in the conversation when I’d told her the truth and I was hoping to get credit.
“Well, whoever you are, I’ve already told you as much as I deem wise. Thank you for calling, but don’t call again.” She hung up with perhaps more force than I thought appropriate in a woman her age.
I hung up on my end and then took a quick break. Sometimes lying is sweaty work and leaves me feeling short of breath. I hadn’t expected to be put on the carpet like that. I went and folded some of Daisy’s clothes just to give my brain a rest.
I returned to the phone and called Directory Assistance in Sacramento and asked for a number for last name, Eddings; first name, initial T, Ty, or Tyler. This time my only option was his office number. As it turned out, Ty Eddings was an attorney in a law firm with a string of names that went on with all the lilt and cadence of a nursery rhyme.
The receptionist connected me with his secretary, who told me Mr. Eddings was in court. I gave her my name and Daisy’s number, asking her to have him return the call. “May I ask what this is in regard to?”
“A death.”
“Oh dear.”
“Yeah, well, that’s the way it goes,” I said. “By the way, what kind of law does he practice?”
“Criminal.”
“In that case, tell him it’s about a murder and I need to hear from him as soon as possible.”
I spent the next hour typing up my notes. This was my last day on the job and I wanted to leave Daisy with an organized account of what I’d done. I wasn’t entirely satisfied with myself. There were too many loose ends and the legwork itself didn’t add up to much. On the other hand, she’d now found her mother, which was what she’d wanted to begin with. Among the many unanswered questions, one issue that troubled me was the lace curtain. Foley had torn down the first panel in the course of the fight he and Violet had Thursday night, the second of July. An infuriated Violet had torn down the rest and she’d thrown them in the trash. Foley claimed great remorse, so much so that he’d gone out and bought her the Bel Air the ver
y next day. If he’d killed her and buried her in the car, why wrap the body in the curtain? If the body were ever found—which of course it was—why leave behind an item that would link the deed to him? Foley might be cursed with a limited imagination, but he wasn’t that dumb.
Having typed my way through to the end of my notes, I stacked the pages of my report and tucked them into a folder. I went back and read the various sections of the newspapers I’d photocopied, both before and after Violet’s disappearance. When I reached the item about Livia Cramer’s “home demonstration” party, I realized that the Mrs. York who’d been awarded one of the prizes was, in fact, the same Mrs. York I’d spoken to less than an hour before. This is the amusing thing about information: Facts exist within a framework. Data that might seem meaningless in one context can later serve as a little window on reality.
I was cruising through the remainder of the newspapers when I stumbled on an item I hadn’t seen before. On July 6, in the second section, there was a small item about a man named Philemon Sullivan, age twenty-seven, who was arrested for “drunk and disorderly conduct.” The fine was $150, and he was given a suspended sentence of 125 days in the county jail. Was that Foley? The age was right, and I knew from the names in the city directory that he and Violet were the only Sullivans in town. I checked the date again. July 6. The article didn’t specify when the fellow had been picked up, but Foley swore he’d never had another drink after Violet vanished. Until the other night, of course, but who cared about that?
I pulled out the phone book and looked up the number for the Presbyterian church where Foley was employed. I picked up the handset and then found myself hesitating. I didn’t want to have to drive to Cromwell, but it didn’t seem smart to question him by phone. Better to be present so I could see his reaction. There’s sometimes much to be learned from observing body language and facial expressions. Aside from that, I was hoping Ty Eddings would call, and if I tied up the line, he wouldn’t be able to get through. I made sure the message machine was on, shoved the file in my bag, then grabbed my car keys and headed out the door.
Sue Grafton Page 103
