S is for Silence

Having typed my way through to the end of my notes, I stacked the pages of my report and tucked them into a folder. I went back and read the various sections of the newspapers I’d photocopied, both before and after Violet’s disappearance. When I reached the item about Livia Cramer’s “home demonstration” party, I realized that the Mrs. York who’d been awarded one of the prizes was, in fact, the same Mrs. York I’d spoken to less than an hour before. This is the amusing thing about information: Facts exist within a framework. Data that might seem meaningless in one context can later serve as a little window on reality.

I was cruising through the remainder of the newspapers when I stumbled on an item I hadn’t seen before. On July 6, in the second section, there was a small item about man named Philemon Sullivan, age twenty-seven, who was arrested for “drunk and disorderly conduct.” The fine was $150, and he was given a suspended sentence of 125 days in the county jail. Was that Foley? The age was right, and I knew from the names in the city directory that he and Violet were the only Sullivans in town. I checked the date again. July 6. The article didn’t specify when the fellow had been picked up, but Foley swore he’d never had another drink after Violet vanished. Until the other night, of course, but who cared about that?

I pulled out the phone book and looked up the number for the Presbyterian church where Foley was employed. I picked up the handset and then found myself hesitating. I didn’t want to have to drive to Cromwell, but it didn’t seem smart to question him by phone. Better to be present so I could see his reaction. There’s sometimes much to be learned from observing body language and facial expressions. Aside from that, I was hoping Ty Eddings would call, and if I tied up the line, he wouldn’t be able to get through. I made sure the message machine was on, shoved the file in my bag, then grabbed my car keys and headed out the door.

I found Foley in the su

When he realized I was in the room, he shut down his machine and sank gratefully onto a kitchen stool.

I pulled out a second stool and perched. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“I don’t like being idle. It’s better if I work so I can earn my keep. What brings you this way?”

“I’ve been thinking about the lace curtain the body was wrapped in.”

He dropped his gaze to his hands. “I wish I hadn’t torn those curtains down. That’s what drove her away. I know there’s no changing what is, but if she hadn’t left when she did, she might still be alive.”

“That’s not where I was heading, Foley. I didn’t drive all the way out here to make you feel bad,” I said. “When did your trash usually get picked up?”

He had to stop and think. “Fridays.”

“But it couldn’t have been picked up that Friday because of the holiday, right?”

He shrugged. “I’ll take your word for it. It was too many years ago.”

“Well, think about it. The banks were closed. No mail delivery, no government offices open, and no city services, except maybe the bus line if Serena Station had a bus back then.”

“That sounds right.”

“Which means the curtains were sitting in the trash for two full days-all day Friday and all day Saturday-before they landed in that car. The Bel Air wasn’t buried until after nine thirty that night.”

He gave me a startled look, but I headed him off. “Just bear with me here. Where did you keep the trash cans?”

“Alley behind the house.”

“So somebody could have stolen the curtains without being seen.”

“Stolen them? What for?”

“Because the guy already knew he was going to kill her and bury her in that hole. The curtain-ripping fight was common knowledge. Violet told the story all over town. So on the off chance someone stumbled across the car, his wrapping her in the curtain would point a finger at you.”

I could sense the wheels laboring in Foley’s head. I pushed on. “Who’s Philemon Sullivan? Is that you?”

“My mother laid that on me, but I always hated the name so I called myself Foley.”

“Weren’t you picked up for drunk and disorderly conduct right around that time?”

“Who told you that?”

“I saw an item in the paper about a suspended sentence and a hundred-and-fifty-dollar fine. This was on July sixth, but there was no mention of the date the arrest was made. When did that happen?”

“I don’t want to talk about it now. It was a long time ago.”

“Thirty-four years to be exact. So what difference would it make if you tattled on yourself?”

He was silent for a moment and then conceded the point. “I was arrested late Friday afternoon and spent the night in jail. I got drunk at the Moon and I guess I was out of line. BW phoned the sheriff’s department and they came and arrested me. Once I was booked, I called Violet, but she wouldn’t come get me. Said it served me right and I could sit there and rot for all she cared. I was so hung over, I thought I’d die. They finally let me out the next morning.”

“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 Ta

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 Ta

“Go right ahead.”

“Ta

“In a ma

“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?”