S Is for Silence

by Sue Grafton

  * * *

  By the time I got back to the emergency room, Foley had been released. He emerged from the examining area, clutching a head trauma precaution sheet and the pain pills he'd been given to take home with him. His eyes were already looking bruised, and I imagined that by the next day, the purple would be intense. He had a splint taped over the bridge of his nose, and it made his eyes seem as close together as a collie's. Both nostrils had been packed with half-inch-wide strips of white cloth, and I could see sutures across his chin. I had to guess there were others on the inside of his mouth. Luckily for him, the pain medication was wiping out the ill effects of his drinking binge. He looked subdued. His eyes were fixed on Daisy's with the mute, pleading look a puppy lays on you when there are table scraps at stake.

  Daisy drove him into Cromwell, me trailing along behind in his truck as I had before. When she pulled into the driveway of the parish house, the porch light came on. The pastor pushed a curtain aside and peered out, then opened the front door in his slippers, pajamas, and a soft flannel robe. I parked in front, locked the truck, and crossed to Daisy's car, where I handed Foley his keys. He wouldn't meet my eyes and I could feel the embarrassment rolling off him like sweat. The pastor held open the screen door and Foley disappeared inside. Daisy had a few words with the man and then returned to her car.

  We got in. For a moment, she sat staring through the windshield, her hands on the steering wheel.

  "You okay?"

  "I'll tell you what's weird. You know when you see a movie they have those previews of coming attractions? This feels like a preview of past attractions. I don't remember seeing my father drunk, but this has to be what he was like when he was married to my mom. Not nice."

  "Yeah, and I'll bet he looks about like she did when he beat the hell out of her."

  She turned the key in the ignition. "At least now you know why I'm so screwed up."

  "You know something, Daisy? You're not that screwed up. I've seen a lot worse."

  "Oh, thanks. I feel much better now that you've said that."

  * * *

  We drove to Santa Maria in silence. The two-lane road was deserted at that hour, dark agricultural land stretching out on both sides as far as the eye could see. We passed a corrugated metal building sitting in a sea of asphalt and surrounded by chain-link fencing. The area was awash in a cold, silver light, but there was no sign of life. To the west, concealing the sight of the ocean beyond, a swell of low-lying hills formed a scalloped silhouette against the night sky. Daisy checked her rearview mirror as a set of headlights popped into view. I glanced over my shoulder, expecting the car to speed up and pass. Daisy was cruising at a sedate sixty miles an hour, but drivers on country roads get impatient.

  The car behind us maintained the same distance for a mile and then began closing the gap. Daisy flicked another look in the mirror. "Shit. I recognize the Mercedes. That's Jake."

  "How'd he know where we were? You think he was waiting in the ER parking lot?"

  "I didn't see him if he was."

  We reached Santa Maria and turned down Daisy's street with Jake right behind us. He wasn't doing anything threatening and he made no attempt to conceal himself, but in the wake of the violence, I wasn't crazy about seeing him again. BW might have delivered the kick, but Jake had been the catalyst. Daisy pulled into her driveway and doused her headlights. I checked the house. An overhead fixture burned in the kitchen, but the living room and guest room at the front of the house were both dark. Jake eased in behind us and doused his headlights. He killed the engine, as Daisy had, and then he got out and approached us along the drive.

  "You think we ought to get out?" she asked.

  I put a hand on the door handle. "Let's. I don't like the idea of his towering over us."

  She got out on her side and I got out on mine, moving around the front of the car so we were side by side. It was dark and the night was chilly as anticipated, which made me happy I'd accepted the offer of a jacket. I crossed my arms, not feeling the cold so much as residual tension. The neighboring houses were locked and barred for the night. I wasn't uneasy about Jake, but it did occur to me that if either of us screamed, no one would hear us and respond.

  Daisy said, "Hey, Jake. What can I do for you?"

  "Sorry to bother you. I stopped by to ask about your dad. Is he all right?"

  "I wouldn't go that far, but the doctor treated him and sent him home so I guess that tells you something. You know you could have called instead of following us home like this."

  "There's something else I wanted to talk about and I didn't think it should wait. I promise I won't take up too much of your time..."

  "Good because we spent the last two hours at the emergency room and I'm beat. Tannie's gone to bed if you were hoping to see her."

  "It's you I'd like to talk to. You, too," he said, with a quick nod at me.

  "Why don't you come on in the kitchen and we'll close the door. I don't imagine you want Tannie hearing this."

  "Out here is fine. I intend to talk to her myself as soon as I have the chance. My son, Steve, too."

  "Smart move," she said.

  Jake ignored her testiness. "I came to apologize for what happened to Foley tonight. We're fully prepared to pay his medical expenses. You can send the bills straight to me and I'll take care of them. BW had no right to do what he did."

  "Shit, really? Kick a guy in the face and bust his nose?"

  "Daisy, I said I was sorry and I mean that. BW was way out of line and I told him so. I'm not saying he was wrong to hustle your dad out of there. Foley had that coming, but not the violence. BW's a hothead. He tends to act first and think about it later. It wouldn't surprise me if Foley pressed charges."

  "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 a
nd 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."

  Chapter 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 w
ho'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."