S is for Silence

“One thing I’ll need to ask him-or maybe this is something you can tell me yourself-do you recall what your mother was wearing the day she disappeared?”

“A sundress. Lavender cotton with white polka dots. Leather sandals and thin silver bracelets, six of them. I don’t actually remember any of it. It was in the report my father filed at the time.” She seemed so tense, I expected her teeth to chatter. “Are you going to tell me if she’s down there?”

“I’d do that, of course. You have a right to know.”

“Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

As he walked away, she tracked his departure with a calculating eye. “Well, he’s cute. Married, no doubt.”

Ta

Within minutes, we could see two deputies encouraging bystanders to move on. People began to drift away. Car doors slammed, engines coughed to life, and one by one the crowd dispersed. In truth, at that remove, there wasn’t much to see. The excavation was being treated like an archaeological dig-sketched, diagrammed, measured, photographed, and documented with a video camera as well. Two-man teams were set up, and as each scoop of dirt was freed, it was loaded into one of two sieves, shaken, and sifted for physical evidence.

At dusk, portable generators were brought in and high-intensity lights were set up. By then Daisy was shivering.

I linked my arm through hers. “Let’s get out of here. They’re not going to find anything tonight. You’re freezing and I’m starving. Plus, I gotta pee so bad I’m about to wet my pants.”

“Oh, me too,” Ta

21

Thursday, July 2, 1953

Jake Ottweiler drove into Santa Maria for his bimonthly haircut, pausing outside the barbershop to put a nickel in the vending machine and extract a copy of the Chronicle. In his truck he’d discovered Mary Hairl’s soiled nightgowns in a bundle on the front seat, where he’d inadvertently left them the night before. Once he got home, he’d do a load of wash and take her fresh clothes on his visit the next day. He usually went afternoons or evenings without fail, but she’d urged him to take a day off. He’d argued the point, more as a way of disguising his relief than with any desire to prevail.

As for the laundry, she’d insisted the hospital gowns were fine, not wanting to make more work for him when he was already strapped for time, but he’d seen how much happier she was in her own cotton nightie and robe. Now and then she even managed to put on her slippers and venture down the hall to visit the pastor’s mother, who was laid up with a broken hip.

Rudy greeted him when he entered the shop. He was finishing up a shave on the fella ahead of him, so Jake waited his turn. He took a seat in the barber chair. Rudy wrapped a paper band around his neck and then secured a cape over his shoulders. The two scarcely exchanged a word. Rudy had been cutting his hair for the past twenty-seven years and didn’t need advice. Jake flapped open the paper, skimming for information about the coming three-day weekend. He wasn’t much interested in the Fourth of July folderol, but Mary Hairl wanted the kids to enjoy themselves. Steve was old enough to entertain himself-which in fact he preferred to do-but Ta

As he flipped past the society news, Livia Cramer’s name caught his eye. Mrs. Livia Cramer had been the hostess of a home-demonstration party, at which prizes had been given to Miss Juanita Chalmers, Miss Miriam Berkeley, Mrs. R. H. Hudson, and Mrs. P. T. York. Refreshments of pizza pie and cake were served. Now why that was newsworthy was beyond him, but he knew she’d be full of herself at the attention. Livia was pretentious enough as it was. He was tempted to carry the article up to the hospital to Mary Hairl, but if he tried poking fun at the woman, Mary Hairl would only come to her defense. Livia was panting for the day when she could palm off that hulking child of hers on some poor unsuspecting chump. With all the prattling about the engagement party, bridal showers, the wedding, the reception, talk of the gown, the flowers, and the honeymoon details, Livia would have her name and likeness splashed across the society pages for a year and a half. Assuming anyone would have the girl.

He read the comics-Nancy, Freckles, Gordo, and Alley Oop-which he never thought were fu

Once home, he stripped off his work boots, Sears shirt, and overalls, and ran water in the shower. While he waited for the hot water to come through, he put his clothes in the hamper, and as he passed the bathroom mirror, he glimpsed the scabbed-over claw marks Violet Sullivan had left on his back not four days before. He stepped into the shower, feeling both appalled and aroused. If anyone else saw the marks his goose would be cooked. He was always surprised by the damage she managed to inflict. She was small, no bigger than a girl, all energy and sass, red hair hanging halfway down her back, with a waviness that made a pattern when he lifted it from her neck. He liked to thread his fingers through its thickness, grab a fistful of hair, and pull her head back so hard her mouth would come open with surprise. He’d run a rough palm across her breasts and down the length of her spine while she shuddered with desire. He’d never known a woman like her, so savage and so insatiable. She wore a delicate violet perfume, her trademark she said. She dressed in purple and lavender, sometimes a dark vivid green that set her green eyes afire. The fabrics were soft and clung to the front of her legs, making a crackling sound when he pulled the skirt away from her thighs.

He’d never cared for violets himself. Weeds, to his way of thinking, taking over the lawn. Mary Hairl loved them, the white ones in particular, and she fussed at Jake every time he threatened to spray. He couldn’t see the point in letting something wild and uncontrollable encroach on the grass. That spring, which he knew now would be Mary Hairl’s last, he’d lain facedown among the violets, letting the light, sweet scent saturate his skin. He’d run his hand across the dark green leaves, snatching up the blossoms in the much same way he’d torn into Violet the last time they met. The motel carpeting had a strange metallic smell that he associated with their sex.

At the hospital the night before, he found himself ruminating on the differences between the two women. Of late, Mary Hairl’s eyes had begun to look sunken, hollow, smudged dark, and Jake felt as guilty as if he’d struck her. He’d been patient and tender, dogged in his attentions, but his brain had disco