Sue Grafton - S is for Silence

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.

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 under 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 ‘Ho-hum, 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.