S Is for Silence

by Sue Grafton

  "Why was that any of Livia's concern?"

  "Liza, you know how judgmental she was. She thought she was right. You were barely fourteen years old and had no business taking up with the likes of him. If Ty's mother hadn't showed up, no telling what kind of trouble you'd have gotten yourself into. All that petting? Get real. Can't you see that he was setting you up?"

  "But how'd she find out?"

  "What?"

  "We know Livia told Dahlia, but who told her?"

  "Don't look at me. All the kids at school knew. That's all they ever talked about — the fact that the two of you were fooling around. I can't tell you how many times I had to come to your defense."

  Liza looked at the counter. "Really."

  "Trust me. I was on your team. Remember Lucy Speiler and that guy she was hanging out with? What a mess he was —"

  "Kathy, don't go on and on. You're the one who told."

  "Me? I can't believe you'd say that."

  "Well, I did. You were jealous of Violet and you were jealous of Ty. Remember the day you brought over my birthday gift and I wasn't home? You went to my room and read my diary and that's what you told your mom. God knows why. Maybe you thought you'd been anointed to save my immortal soul."

  "Maybe I was. Did it ever occur to you how gullible you were? You were so pathetic. Violet could make you do anything. Whatever she wanted — didn't matter how outrageous it was — you'd lie down, roll over like a pup, and start licking her hand."

  "We were friends."

  "What kind of woman makes friends with a thirteen-year-old? You know why she did that? Because no one her age would have anything to do with her. She was cheap. She was sleazy and she slept all over town. She'd have liked nothing better than to have you in the same boat with her. You know what they say, misery loves company."

  "You didn't know her the way I did."

  "I knew her well enough. Same thing with Ty. He might have been cute, but he had no class at all. Anyway, enough of this. It's over and done. There's no sense going over the same ground twice."

  "I agree. We can't change the past. No matter what went down, we're accountable."

  "Exactly." Kathy reached for the bottle and topped off her wine, wiping her mouth against the back of her hand. "Lola says I should talk to that divorce attorney from San Luis Obispo. Stanley Blum. He's a real shark according to her. He charges a fortune, but he's good. She says I gotta fight back, and I better be quick."

  "You remember Moral Rearmament?"

  "Ha. You're talking to the all-time champ here. Moral Rearmament was my middle name."

  "You still think it's right? Absolute Honesty?"

  "Are you kidding? Of course."

  "And that's what friends do, help one another when we stray from the path?"

  Kathy rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Look, Lies, don't think I'm unaware of your snotty tone. You can be as mad as you want, but I did it for you. I agonized — honestly — but I had to follow my conscience. I make no apology for that so I hope you're not waiting for one. You want to blame me? Well, fine, you go right ahead, but you should be thanking me instead. What if you'd ended up married to the guy? Have you ever thought about that?"

  "Aren't you even sorry?"

  "Haven't you heard a word I said? I'm not going to apologize for doing what I thought was right. I didn't want you making a mistake you'd regret for the rest of your life."

  "Never mind. All right. I get that."

  "At long last."

  "I guess, if it came down to it, I'd do the same for you."

  "I know you would and I appreciate your saying that. You're a good friend." Kathy leaned forward as though to hug her, but Liza remained upright and Kathy was forced to convert the gesture into something else. She brushed a speck from her skirt and then took another sip of wine with a hand that trembled slightly.

  "As a matter of fact, I did."

  "Pardon?"

  "I did the same thing for you. You meddled in my life so I decided I should meddle in yours."

  Kathy lowered her glass.

  Liza's tone was mild but her gaze was unwavering. "I called Winston this afternoon. I told him about Phillip."

  "You told him?"

  Liza laughed. "I did. Every last detail."

  * * *

  I hadn't meant to stay at Liza's as long as I did, but once Kathy left, we had to sit and do a postmortem. Liza seemed lighter and freer than I'd ever seen her. We laughed and chatted until I happened to glance at my watch. 8:39. "Wow, I gotta get out of here. I didn't realize it was so late. Where's the sheriff’s substation?"

  "It's on Foster Road over by the airport. Here, I'll draw you a map. It's not hard," she said. "The quickest route is to cut down from Highway 166 to Winslet Road on Dinsmore."

  "Oh yeah, I've seen that," I said.

  Liza drew a crude map on a paper napkin. The scale was off, but I got the general idea.

  I tucked the napkin in my pocket. "Thanks. As soon as I get this last piece of information, I'm heading over there. I trust they have a copier. The originals are Daisy's, but I want one set for my files and one set for theirs."

  "You'll be driving home after that?"

  "I have to. I've got a stack of files on my desk, plus mail, plus calls to return. If I don't get back to work, I won't eat this month."

  We hugged quickly. When I left, she was standing in the doorway, silhouetted in the light from the living room. She watched until I was safely in my car and then she waved. I started the engine and pulled away from the curb, taking another quick peek at my watch. Mrs. Wyrick struck me as a stickler for punctuality, someone who'd lock the door and turn the lights out if you were one minute late. She'd love nothing better than to shut me down.

  The temperature had dropped and the night was considerably colder than it had been when I left Daisy's. I sped over to Main Street, which turned into Highway 166. Traffic was light and once I had Santa Maria at my back, the darkness stretched out in all directions — broad fields of black rimmed in lights where a house or two backed up to the empty land. The air smelled damp. My headlights cut a path in front of me into which I rushed. I had only a rough idea how far away she was. This section of the county was uncomplicated, five or six roads that ran in straight lines, cattywumpus to one another so that they occasionally intersected. I was currently heading toward the ocean, which was somewhere ahead, fenced off by a low rim of hills marked in .darker black against the gray-black of the sky.

  Now and then I passed an oil rig and farther on a huge storage tank, lighted from below as though to emphasize its mass. Barbed-wire fences ran on both sides of the road. I could see the ghosts of irrigation pipes zigzagging across a field where the available moonlight picked out the lines of PVC in white. A stand of frail pines was the only feathery interruption to the skyline. I caught a flash of bright blue — Mrs. Wyrick's house, a hundred feet off the highway and planted in the middle of a junkyard.

  I slowed and turned onto the rutted dirt driveway. She lived in a landscape of rusted farm equipment, disabled vehicles, piles of lumber, wood pallets, and scrolls of chicken-wire fencing. This was apparently where old bathroom fixtures came to die once the renovations were done. I could see sinks, toilets, and upended bathtubs. In another area, sections of wrought-iron fencing had been laid against a wooden shed. There were sufficient discarded iron gates to enclose a pasture if you soldered them together side by side.

  There was a doghouse, of course, and chained to it, a heavy-chested brindled pit bull. The dog's choke collar made its bark sound like whooping cough was on the rise. I thought about Jake's pit bull killing Violet's toy poodle and hoped this dog was properly secured.

  There was no place to park, but a hard-packed dirt lane encircled the house, where I could see lights still burning. I pulled in beside a vintage truck up on blocks, wheels gone, its black tailgate down. I killed the engine and got out. I kept my attention half-turned on the pit bull while I picked my way to the front porch. The wooden steps
creaked emphatically, which threw the pit bull into a frenzy. The dog lunged repeatedly with such force that the shuddering doghouse humped closer by a foot. Looking out across the yard, I could see a number of old cars dotting the landscape. Maybe Mrs. Wyrick sold salvaged auto parts along with all the other junk.

  The top half of the front door was glass, with a panel of cloth that might have once been a dish towel concealing the rooms from view. The sound from a television set suggested a sitcom in progress. When I knocked, the glass windowpane rattled under my knuckles. After a moment, Mrs. Wyrick peered out and then she opened the door. The overhead light was on in the living room and a brightly lighted kitchen was visible beyond it. She was softer than I'd imagined her. When I'd spoken to her on the phone, I'd pictured a harridan, stooped, not quite clean, with flyaway white hair, rheumy eyes, and bristles on her chin. She'd mentioned her shed, and I had images of a crone who'd been saving Life magazines since 1946. I envisioned a house filled with newspapers, head-high, with narrow walkways between, stray cats, and filth. The woman who greeted me had a round, doughy face. Her body looked spongy, rising and swelling as she moved until the flesh filled all the little nooks and crannies in her dress. She may have had some fermentation action under way as well because the snappishness I'd encountered on the phone had now mellowed. She seemed vague and irresolute, and she smelled like those bourbon balls people give you at Christmastime. She was eighty-five if a day.

  The minute she saw me, she turned and lumbered back to her easy chair, leaving me to close the door. The rise and fall of a laugh track churned the air, not quite camouflaging the fact that nothing being said was funny in the least. "Did you take out the garbage?" Screams of laughter. "No, did you?" The more witless the line, the more hilarious was the outbreak of merriment. Mrs. Wyrick picked up the remote and lowered the sound. I spotted the half-empty pint of Old Forrester sitting on the end table near her chair.

  We skipped right past all the social niceties, which was just as well. She was too looped to do much more than navigate from the chair to the door and back. I said, "Did you have any luck?"

  Something flickered in the depths of her blue eyes — cunning or guilt. She picked up a folded piece of paper that fluttered lightly from the palsy in her hands. "Why do you want this?"

  "Do you remember Violet Sullivan?"

  "Yes. I knew Violet many years ago."

  "You must have heard that her body was found."

  "I saw that on the television."

  "Then you know about the Pomeranian in the car with her."

  "I believe the fella said a dog. I don't remember any mention of a Pomeranian."

  "Well, that's what it was, and I think the dog was one you sold. Is that the litter record?"

  "Yes it is, hon, but I can only tell you who bought the puppy. I wouldn't know anything about where the dog went from here."

  "I understand. The point is I suspect the man who bought the dog gave her to Violet and he's the one who killed both."

  She began to shake her head. "No, now you see, that doesn't sound right. I can't believe that. It doesn't set well with me."

  "Why not?" I caught a flash of light and glanced over my shoulder, thinking a car was pulling into the drive. The dog barked with renewed vigor.

  Mrs. Wyrick touched my arm and I turned back to her. "Because I've known the man for years. My late husband and I were longtime customers of his and he treated us well."

  "You're talking about the Blue Moon?"

  "Oh, no. The Moon is a bar. My husband didn't hold with alcoholic beverages. He never had a drink in his life."

  "Sorry. I didn't mean to jump to conclusions. Do you sell automobile parts?"

  "Not for the kind of car you have. I heard you when you drove up. It sounded foreign to me. I may be deaf in the one ear, but the other one hears good."

  "What about Chevrolet parts?"

  "Them and Fords and whatever, but I don't see how that applies to this question of the dog."

  "May I see the paper?"

  "That's what I'm still talking over in my head, whether I should pass this on. I don't want to cause any harm."

  "The harm's already been done. I'd be happy to pay for the information if that would help you decide."

  "A hundred dollars?"

  "I can do that," I said. When I reached for my wallet, I noticed my hand was shaking. I had to get out of there.

  She laughed. "I was just saying that to see what you'd do. I won't charge you anything."

  "Then you'll give it to me?"

  "I suppose so since you drove all the way out."

  "I'd appreciate it."

  She held the paper out.

  It was like the Academy Awards. And the nominees are... I opened the fold and looked down at the name, thinking about the presenter who pulls the card from the envelope and knows for one split second something the audience is still waiting to hear. And the winner is...

  "Tom Padgett?"

  "You know Little Tommy? We always called him Little Tommy to distinguish from his daddy, who was Big Tom."

  "I don't know him well, but I've met the man," I said. I thought about how rich he was now that his wife was dead, how desperate he must have been while she was still alive.

  "Well, then I don't see how you can think he'd ever do a thing like that."

  "Maybe I'm mistaken." I could feel the fear welling up. I tucked the paper in my bag and put one hand on the doorknob, prepared to ease out.

  She seemed to be rooted in place but fidgety at the same time. "He always said if anybody ever asked about the dog I should let him know. So I called and told him you were coming out."

  My mouth had gone dry and there was a sensation in my chest like a faraway electrical storm. "What did he say?"

  "It didn't seem to worry him. He said he'd drive over to have a chat with you and get it all straightened out, but he must have been delayed."

  "I thought someone pulled in just a moment ago."

  "Well, it must not have been him. He'd have knocked on the door."

  "If he shows up after I'm gone, would you tell him I was thinking of someone else and I'm sorry for the inconvenience?"

  "I can tell him that."

  "Mind if I use your phone?"

  "It's right there on the wall." She nodded toward the kitchen.

  "Thanks." I crossed the living room to the kitchen and picked up the handset from the wall-mounted phone. The line was dead. I set it back with care. "It seems to be out of order so I'll just be on my way. I can probably find a phone somewhere else."

  "Whatever you say, Hon. I enjoyed the visit."

  I left by the front door, and the porch bulb went out as soon as my foot hit the step. For a minute I was blinded by the sudden shift from bright lights to darkness. The dog had taken up its barking, but he didn't seem any closer to the house. I could hear the rattle of its chain as he paced back and forth. I stood there, waiting for my eyes to adjust. I scanned the area around the house. I spotted my VW, parked where I'd left it. There were no other cars in sight. The highway extended in both directions with no passing cars. I found my car keys and listened to them jingle as I went down the stairs. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely unlock the car door.

  Automatically I checked the backseat before I got in. I made sure both doors were locked and then started the car, shoving the gear into reverse. I took my gun out of the glove compartment and laid it on the passenger seat, putting my shoulder bag over it to weigh it in place. I threw my right arm over the top of the passenger seat, my eyes on the path behind me as I backed out of the yard. I swung out onto the highway and shifted into first. All I had to do was reach the sheriff's substation, less than ten miles away. I'd have to cut south from Highway 166 to West Winslet Road, then cut south again on Blosser, which Liza had penned in parallel to the triangle of land where the airport sat. Foster Road was close to the southernmost boundary.

  The alternative was to take 166 straight into Santa Maria and pick up B
losser on the outskirts. The problem was Padgett Construction and A-Okay Heavy Equipment sat on Highway 166 between me and the town. My car was conspicuous. If Padgett were looking for me, all he had to do was wait for me to pass. I shifted from second to third, engine whining in a high-pitched protest. I tried to picture the roads that connected the 166 and West Winslet. There were three that I remembered. The Old Cromwell and New Cut were now behind me so scratch that idea. The one choice remaining was a road called Dinsmore.

  I leaned on the gas until I spotted the sign and took a hard right-hand turn. It was black as pitch out here. I kept scanning for headlights, my eyes flicking back and forth from the darkened road ahead of me to the darkened road behind me, spinning away in my rearview mirror. On my right, lengths of thirty-six-inch pipe were lined up along the road, in preparation for who knows what. An excavator and a bulldozer were parked across the road. I was guessing they were laying gas lines, collection mains, something of the sort.

  I was on the verge of making a U-turn when a set of headlights popped into view behind me, filling the oblong of mirror with a glare that made me squint. The vehicle was closing rapidly, coming up behind me at a speed far greater than I could coax out of my thirteen-year-old tin can. I pressed down on the accelerator, but my VW was no match for the car behind. I picked up a blend of silhouettes as the car swung wide and passed me with a crew of teenage boys inside. One of them tossed an empty beer can out the window, and I watched the aluminum cylinder bounce and tumble before it disappeared.

  The red of taillights diminished and winked out.

  A minute later, I saw a fork in the road ahead where Dinsmore split. One arm continued straight ahead and a second road shot off to the left. There was a row of four barriers across that arm. The devices were hinged like sawhorses with a two-by-four-foot panel across the top, painted in series of diagonal orange and white stripes. Each had a reflecting light on top that seemed to blink an additional caution. I slowed to a stop, remembering Winston's description of the barriers he'd seen the night he'd spotted Violet's car.