Sue Grafton - S is for Silence

“I understand Tiffany’s getting married in June.”

“Ka-ching, ka-ching, ” he said, pretending to punch up sales on a cash register. “You know how much weddings cost these days?”

“Not a clue.”

“Me, neither. Kathy keeps me in the dark so I can’t object. I’m sure it’s something close to the national debt.”

We both laughed at that, though the observation didn’t seem at all funny to me. Clearly Winston and his wife weren’t operating off the same page.

He pulled out a handkerchief and blotted his upper lip where a subtle sheen of moisture had appeared. He returned the handkerchief to his back pocket. “Anyway, she tells me you have questions about Violet Sullivan.”

“If you don’t mind,” I said, expecting the standard assurance that the subject was really no big deal.

“Doesn’t matter if I do or not, I’m under orders,” he said, again with that quick, easy laugh to show what a wag he was.

Mentally I squinted, listening to the second set of comments embedded in the first. I’m not a fan of doublespeak. His asides were the sort offered by married couples who banter in public, airing their grievances with an eye to soliciting outside support. If Kathy had been with us, she’d have countered with a few ha-has of her own, thus guaranteeing a laugh at his expense. He would have joined in the merriment, which is what seemed pitiful to me. The man was in pain.

“What orders?”

“What?”

“What orders did she give?”

“Skip it. Long story.”

“I love long stories.”

“You don’t have other people you have to talk to?”

“I’m supposed to meet Daisy, but if you let me borrow your phone, I can change that. You want to go somewhere and grab a cigarette?”

I called Daisy at work and had a quick conversation with her, telling her something had come up and I wasn’t going to make it for lunch. I suggested that if Tannie was driving up I could hang out in Santa Maria and the three of us could have dinner at the Blue Moon instead. She seemed to like that idea, so I said I’d call her again later in the afternoon and we could finalize our plans.

I’d expected Winston to step out into the vestibule to grab a smoke, but he took out his car keys and walked me to the side lot where he’d parked his car. He handed me into the passenger side of a metallic blue 1987 Chevrolet Caravan station wagon. When he got in on his side, he said, “This is only mine until the ‘88s come in. Then they swap it out.”

“Slick.”

“You think so until you look at the underlying attitude. No matter how fond you are of what you have, there’s always something hotter coming down the pike. It’s a recipe for discontent.”

“If you buy into it,” I said.

“That’s my job-promoting the concept. Coaxing the gullible into taking the bait.”

“So why don’t you quit and do something else? No one has a gun to your head.”

“I’m fifty-four years old, a little long in the tooth for any big career change. Can I buy you lunch?”

“In matters of food, you can always count me in.”

I pictured McDonald’s, but then I was always picturing McDonald’s. I’d take a Quarter Pounder with Cheese over just about any other foodstuff on earth.

He drove us across town and pulled into a supermarket parking lot where a fellow and his wife had set up a portable barbeque that was attached to a camper shell. The rolling metal rig was black, about the size of a double-wide utility sink, with a pulley and chain that allowed for the raising and lowering of a rack. Chunks of meat had been laid on the grill over hot coals, and the smoky smell of charred beef filled the air. To one side, buttered rolls had been cut in half and placed on the grill.

A steady stream of cars was turning into the lot, taking advantage of the numerous empty parking spaces. On a card table, I could see piles of paper napkins, paper plates, plastic cutlery, and numerous plastic tubs of salsa and beans. Nearby three portable picnic tables were set up with aluminum lawn chairs. An ice chest contained cold cans of soda for a quarter apiece.

We parked as close as we could and eased into a line that was easily twenty-five people long. The wait was worth it, and I made no attempt to tidy up my manners as we ate.

“Geez, how do they do this? It’s great!” I said with my mouth half-full.

“Santa Maria barbecue. That’s tri-tip,” he said. “You rub it with salt, pepper, and garlic salt, and cook it over red oak.”

“Fabulous.”

Both of us licked our fingers before opening the moist towelette packets provided with the meal. When my hands were clean, I said, “Thanks. What a treat.”

“You’re welcome.”

We walked back to his car, freeing up our lawn chairs for the people waiting to sit down. We lingered outside his car while he lit his after-meal cigarette. His thin candy-coating of mirth had dropped away and something darker had emerged. This was not a happy man. There was a heaviness about him that seemed to taint the very air. Apropos of nothing, he held up his cigarette. “Know why I’m doing this?”

“She won’t let you smoke inside.”

He flicked a look at me. “How’d you know?”

“I was in the house. No ashtrays.”

“She runs a tight ship.”

“A lot of people feel that way about smoking,” I said mildly, not mentioning that I was one.

“Hey, don’t I know it. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about that.”

I didn’t ask what “that” he was referring to. Instead I said, “Fine. We can talk about Violet, then.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “She was a tramp.”

Kathy had used the same term. I said, “Come on. Everybody says she was a tramp. Tell me something I haven’t heard.”

I watched his face, wondering what was going on behind his eyes.

He studied the bright ember of his cigarette. “Kathy’s jealous of her.”

“Is or was?”

“Is.”

“That takes some doing. Violet’s been gone for thirty-four years.”

“Try telling her that.”

“I thought they barely knew each other.”

“Not quite true. Liza Mellincamp was Kathy’s best friend. Then Violet came along and Liza got caught up in the Sullivan family drama. Liza’s parents were divorced, which in those days was a much bigger deal than it is today. Now it’s the norm. Back then it wasn’t scan dalous, but it was looked on as low-class. And there was Violet, already outside the pale. She took Liza under her wing. Kathy couldn’t stand it.”

“Is that why she hated Daisy?”

“Sure, she hated her. Daisy was another link to Violet. Liza spent a lot of time at the Sullivans’. She also had a boyfriend that summer, though he broke off the relationship the same weekend Violet disappeared.”

“I don’t get it. So many events seem connected to Violet. Maybe not directly, but peripherally. You got fired. Tannie’s mother died.”

“Sometimes I think there are people who generate that stuff. They don’t mean to do it, but whatever happens to them ends up affecting everyone else. Day I got fired was the worst day of my life. Twenty years old and there went any hope of a college education.”

“What were you planning to do?”

“I don’t even remember. Something better than what I got. I’m not a salesman. I don’t like manipulating people. Cramer sees it as a game and it’s one that he wins. The whole deal makes me sick.”

“But it looks like you’re doing okay.”

“You ought to see my credit card bills. We can barely make ends meet. Kathy’s out there spending money faster than I can earn it. Country club membership. The new house. The clothes. Vacations. She doesn’t like to cook, so most nights we eat out…” He stopped and shook his head. “You know the irony?”