Sue Grafton - S is for Silence

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 Blosser 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.