Sue Grafton - S is for Silence

“You’re fortunate. My mother was in a nursing home for years. Well, let’s call it a ‘facility.’ I wouldn’t label it a home. She used to phone me six and seven times a week, begging me to come get her. Up to me, I’d have done it, but my wife was adamant. She’s a stockbroker. No way would she have given that up in order to take care of Mother. I didn’t blame her, but it was tough.”

“You have children?”

“Four boys, all grown and gone. Two live here in town. I got one in Reno and another one in Phoenix.” He took a quick peek at his watch. “You want to ask about Violet, be quick about it. I got a meeting coming up.”

“Sorry. I get curious about people and I forget myself.”

“All right with me. It’s your call.”

“I take it you and Violet weren’t close?”

“You got that right. Last time I saw her, she came by the office and asked for money that I was dumb enough to give.”

“How much?”

“Two grand. That was the first of July, in case you’re wondering. After she left here, she went over to my mother’s house and hit her up as well. Mother didn’t have much, but Violet managed to wheedle five hundred dollars out of her. Month later, we found out she’d stolen Mother’s good jewelry: diamond bracelets, earrings, two pearl necklaces-the works. Three thousand dollars’ worth we never saw again.”

“How do you know it was her?”

“Mother remembered her asking to use the bathroom, which you could only get to by going through her bedroom. Jewelry box was on the dressing table. Mother didn’t have occasion to open it until her birthday that year when Rachel and I were taking her to dinner at the club. She wanted to get all gussied up and that’s when she realized everything was gone.”

“Did you report it to the police?”

“I wanted to, but she refused. She said if Violet needed it that bad, she could have it.”

“Had Violet stolen things before?”

“No, but she borrowed money every chance she got, usually small amounts. She’d claim it was for Daisy so we wouldn’t turn her down.”

“That seems curious. She bragged about having fifty thousand dollars of her own, which Foley says she got from an insurance settlement. He can’t confirm the amount, but he knows she collected.”

“She told me the same thing, but I thought it was b.s. If she had that much money, why bother to weasel the two grand from me?”

“Suppose she was putting a stash together so she could take off?”

“Always possible.”

“Could she have kept in touch with your mother? I keep thinking that even if she managed to make a new life for herself, she might still want some tie to the past.”

“Certainly not with me. Violet didn’t have any sentimental attachments that I know of. There’s no way Violet could have made contact with Mother without my knowing. For one thing, her number was unlisted, and any mail she got had to go through me first. For a while, the scam artists had her on their radar screens and they were sending her letters proposing ‘lucrative’ financial schemes or telling her she’d won the lottery and needed to send in the processing fee. She was so gullible she’d give away the furniture if anybody asked.”

“And security at the facility was tight?”

“You’re thinking Violet could have sneaked in? Forget it. She had no use for Mother beyond ripping her off. Of course, it’s irrelevant now since Mother’s passed away, but if Violet had managed to make a new life, she wouldn’t risk discovery for a woman she didn’t give a shit about.”

“Any idea where she might have gone?”

“Wherever the road took her. She was a creature of impulse, not one for long-range plans.”

“But what’s your take on it? You think she’s out there somewhere?”

“I never said that. If she were alive, she’d have come back to beg, borrow, or steal what she could. I don’t think she went a month without a handout.” He took his foot off the desk and leaned in on his forearms. “You want my take on it?”

“Sure, why not?”

“You want to make Daisy happy? Fine. Earn a few bucks for yourself? It’s no skin off my nose. But don’t turn it into your holy mission in life. You find Violet, you’ll only be making trouble.”

“For whom?”

“Everyone-and I’m including Daisy in that.”

“What do you know that I don’t?”

“Nothing. I know Violet. It’s just a wild-ass guess.”

Chet Cramer Chevrolet was located on Main Street in Cromwell, three acres of shiny cars, fifteen capacious service bays, and a two-story showroom with floor-to-ceiling plateglass windows. Inside, at ground level, there were six small glass-fronted offices, each outfitted with a desk, a computer, a run of file cabinets, two chairs for customers, and prominent displays of family photographs and sales awards. One cubicle was currently occupied by a heavyset salesman in earnest conversation with a couple whose body language suggested they were not as eager to do business as he had hoped.

I didn’t see a reception desk, but I spotted a sign with an arrow pointing to the parts department. I walked down a short hallway, passing the restrooms and a lounge with comfortable chairs, where two people sat reading magazines. Doughnuts were available and a vending machine dispensed tea, hot chocolate, coffee, cappuccino, and lattes without charge. I found the cashier and told her I had an appointment with Mr. Cramer. She took my name and rang his office to tell him I was there.

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.”