Sue Grafton - S is for Silence

“On Saturday, the Fourth?”

He nodded again.

“Did anyone see you?”

“Sergeant Schaefer left the station the same time I did and he offered me a ride home. Tom Padgett would verify that as well because we picked him up along the way. His truck battery was dead and he was on his way home to pick up some jumper cables.”

“You told me you had ‘a job of work’ as you put it, early Saturday afternoon. Do you remember what it was?”

“Yes ma’am. Sergeant Schaefer asked if I’d help him put together a workbench he was building in his shed. I’m good at carpentry- maybe not finish work, but the kind of thing he needed. He already had the lumber and we knocked together a workbench for his power tools.”

“When’s your birthday?”

“August 4.”

“Well, here’s a belated birthday present. You’re off the hook for Violet’s murder. Somebody dug that hole between Thursday night and Saturday afternoon, but it couldn’t have been you. Thursday night you were home with Violet, tearing up the house. Later, the two of you went over to the Moon and got drunk. Somebody saw a guy operating a bulldozer out at the Tanner property Friday night, but you were in jail by then. So between your jail time and your work for Sergeant Schaefer Saturday afternoon, your whereabouts are accounted for.”

He stared at me. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“I wouldn’t celebrate quite yet. You’d be smart to go ahead and hire an attorney to protect your backside. In the meantime, I’ll be happy to tell Daisy about this.”

On the way back through Santa Maria, I stopped in at Steve Ottweiler’s auto-repair shop. The whole business about Hairl Tanner’s will was bugging me and I didn’t want to ask Jake. Steve showed me into his office, assuming I was there on automotive business. I waited until the chitchat subsided. “Can I ask you about something?”

“Go right ahead.”

“Tannie told me Hairl Tanner died a month after your mom.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Meaning what?”

“He shot himself.”

“Suicide?”

“That’s right. He was a bitter and disillusioned old man. My grandmother was gone. My mom had just died and he had nothing to live for, in his mind at any rate.”

“He left a note?”

“Yes. I still have it, if you doubt my word.”

“Did he give any explanation about the disposition of his estate?”

“What’s this about?”

“I’m wondering why Hairl Tanner was so angry with your dad.”

He snorted as though amused, but his eyes went dead. “What makes you think he was mad?”

“I saw the will.”

“Oh? And how’d you manage that?”

“I went down to the courthouse and looked it up. I checked a couple of other wills at the same time so don’t get the idea that I was picking on your dad. Your grandfather set it up so Jake couldn’t touch a nickel, not even for the two of you.”

“I don’t see the relevance.”

“This is my last day on the job. I leave it to the cops to figure out who killed Violet, but I hate to sign off without knowing why she died.”

“Aren’t those two questions the same thing?”

“I’m not sure.”

“It’s obvious you have a theory or you wouldn’t be here.”

“I think she was killed for the stash she’d put together so she could run away.”

“What’s that have to do with my father?”

“I’ve been wondering where he got the money to buy the Blue Moon.”

“You’re implying, what-that he killed her for the cash?”

“All I’m asking is how he financed the purchase of the bar.”

“If you want an answer to that question, you better go over to the Moon and ask him. In the meantime, I’m not going to sit here and put up with your half-assed interrogation on a subject you know nothing about.”

“Why don’t you answer the question and save me the trip?”

“To make your life easy?”

“To avoid a subject he might find embarrassing. I think you know more than you’ve told me so far.”

I knew he was angry, but I could see him wrestling with himself. “If it’s any of your fucking business, my mother had a life insurance policy. Dad collected sixty thousand dollars, put half in savings accounts for Tannie and me, and used the rest to buy the Moon. The subject is now closed and I want you out of here before I call the police.” He got up from his desk and with his hand on my elbow, escorted me unceremoniously from the premises.

By the time I got back to Daisy’s it was 4:00 and I was ready to pack it in. Clearly I’d reached the stage in the investigation where people were not only getting pissed off, but resorting to rudeness, sarcasm, and manhandling. Steve Ottweiler had to be as aware as I was that there was no way to verify his claim about his mother’s life insurance. Jake was never going to tell me which insurance company it was, and after thirty-four years, I couldn’t think how to get the information independently of him. I probably should have gone straight over to Jake’s and pressed him on the point, but in truth I was ever so faintly intimidated by the man. After I left Steve’s office, he had plenty of time to call his dad and tell him what was going on. All Jake had to do was repeat the story Steve had told me and I’d be none the wiser.

I sat down and typed the additional three conversations into my report. Mrs. York, Foley, and Steve Ottweiler. This was strictly make-work. By now it was not so much about being conscientious as it was about giving myself time to think. While my fingers traveled across the keys, my brain was busy with something else. I simply didn’t know what it was. The phone rang just as I was finishing up, and I answered with my attention still riveted to the page. “Hello?”

“Miss Millhone?”

“Yes.”

“This is Ty Eddings. You left a message for me.”

Friday, July 3, 1953

Kathy stood behind the dining room door, forking cold Chef Boyardee ravioli from a can. The little pillows of dough were soft and the tomato sauce clung to the surfaces like cream. Dinner wasn’t coming up for half an hour, and Kathy was treating herself to a little snack beforehand. Kathy’s mother had decided it was important to experience food from foreign countries, so the first Friday of every month she’d try a new recipe. This she called “educating their pallets.” Last month she’d cooked this Chinese dish called Subgum Chicken Chow Mein that she served over English muffins with lots of soy sauce and crunchy brown noodle-things on top. In May she’d cooked Italian spaghetti, and in April she’d made a French dish called Beef Boigheenyawn, which to Kathy’s way of thinking was just like beef stew. Tonight they were having a Welch dish that Kathy herself had prepared under her mother’s watchful eye. First she’d opened a package of Kraft Old England American cheese slices that she melted in a double boiler with a can of evaporated milk. Then she’d stirred in Worcestershire sauce and half a teaspoon of dry mustard, and that was that. Oh, yum. She could hardly wait. The ravioli was just in case there wasn’t enough to go around.

The problem was that ever since the gym teacher, Miss Carrico, made that remark about Kathy’s losing thirty-five pounds, her mother had been keeping a close eye on her, serving her portions so small she left the table with a stomachache. The first time it happened Kathy thought she’d done it by mistake, but when she’d asked for a second helping, her parents had exchanged a look that made her cheeks burn. It was like they’d been discussing her behind her back and secretly agreed with the teacher, which didn’t seem fair.