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The car caught my attention and I read that part twice. On Friday, July 3, 1953, Foley Sullivan had filled out the loan papers on a purchase price of $2,145. Since the vehicle was never seen again, he’d been compelled to make payments for the next thirty-six months until the terms were satisfied. Title had never been registered. Violet Sullivan’s driver’s license had expired in June of 1955, and she’d made no application for renewal.
What struck me as curious was that Daisy had described her father as close to a deadbeat, so I couldn’t understand why he’d continued paying for the car. How perverse to have to go on forking out the dough for a vehicle your wife may or may not have used in ru
At 5:00 P.M. I locked the office and went home. My studio apartment is located on a side street a block from the beach. My landlord, Henry, had converted the space from a single-car garage to a rental unit, attached to his own house by a glass-enclosed breezeway. I’ve been living there quite happily for the past seven years. Henry’s the only man I know whom I’d be willing to marry if (and only if) we weren’t separated by a fifty-year age difference. It’s tough when the perfect man in your life is an octogenarian… though a young eighty-seven years old. Henry’s trim, handsome, smart, white-haired, blue-eyed, and active. I can go on in this ma
I parked and passed through the squeaky gate that a
“Well, it’s an interesting proposition. I’ll give you that,” Cheney said when I’d laid it out to him. Rosie had taken our order, asking us what we wanted, and then writing down what she’d already decided to serve-an unpronounceable dish that she pointed to on the menu. This turned out to be a beef-and-pork stew with more sour cream than flavor, so we’d spent a few minutes surreptitiously adding salt and enough pepper to make our eyes sting. Rosie’s cooking is usually tasty, so neither of us could figure out what was going on with her. Cheney was drinking beer and I was drinking bad white wine, which is all she serves.
“You know what’s hanging me up?” I asked.
“Tell.”
“The thought of failing.”
“There are worse things.”
“Name one.”
“Root canal. IRS audit. Terminal disease.”
“But at least those things don’t impact anyone else. I don’t want to take Daisy’s money if I can’t deliver anything, and what are the odds?”
“She’s a grownup. She says this is what she wants. Do you have any reason to doubt her sincerity?”
“No.”
“So why don’t you put a cap on the money end?”
“I did that. It doesn’t seem to help.”
“You’ll do fine. All you can do is give it your best shot.”
In the office Wednesday morning, I made a series of phone calls, setting up appointments with the principals on my list. I didn’t think the order of interviews would make any difference, but I’d arranged the names in order of personal preference. In quick succession, I talked to Sergeant Timothy Schaefer, who’d been the investigating officer when Violet disappeared. I wanted to see how things had looked from his perspective and I thought he’d be good at laying in the background. We agreed to meet that afternoon at 1:00, and he gave me directions to his house in Santa Maria. Foley Sullivan was next on my list. Daisy had told him I’d be calling, but I was still relieved to find him cooperative. I made an appointment to talk to him after my interview with Sergeant Schaefer. My next call was to Calvin Wilcox, Violet’s only sibling. I got a busy signal on that number so I moved to the next.
Fourth on my list was the babysitter, Liza Clements, née Mellincamp, one of the last people who’d spent time in Violet’s company. I was hoping to create a calendar of events, starting with Liza and working my way backward as I reconstructed Violet’s activities and encounters in the days before she vanished. I dialed Liza’s number and she picked up after six rings, just at the point where I’d about given up.
When I identified myself, she said, “I’m sorry, but could we talk another time? I’ve got a dental appointment and I’m just now walking out the door.”
“How about later this afternoon? When will you be home?”
“Really, today’s a mess. What about tomorrow?”
“Sure, that would work. What time?”
“Four o’clock?”
“Fine.”
“Do you have my address?”
“Daisy gave it to me.”
“Great. See you then.”
I moved on to Kathy Cramer. She and Liza were fourteen at the time, which put them in their late forties now. I knew Kathy was married, but she’d apparently elected to keep her maiden name, because Cramer was the only reference I had. I dialed her number and once I had her on the line, I told her who I was and what I was doing at Daisy’s behest.
“You’re kidding,” she said, her voice flat with disbelief.
“Afraid not,” I said. So tedious. I didn’t relish having to go through this routine with every other call I made.
“You’re looking for Violet Sullivan after all these years?”
“That’s what I was hired to do. I’m hoping you can fill in some blanks.”
“Have you talked to Liza Mellincamp?”
“I see her tomorrow afternoon. If you could spare me half an hour, I’d be grateful.”
“I can probably manage that. Can we say tomorrow morning at eleven?”
“Sure thing.”
“What address do you have? We just moved.”
I recited the address on my list, which was out of date. She gave me the new one with a set of directions that I scribbled down in haste.
My last call was to Daisy, telling her I was making a quick run to Santa Maria and back. On Thursday, I expected to have a block of free time, so I was proposing lunch and a quick verbal report. She was agreeable and said we could try a coffee shop close to her work. Since Ta
After I hung up, I folded the list and gathered my index cards, gassed up the VW, and headed north. I was already getting bored with the hour drive each way and not all that happy about the miles I was putting on my thirteen-year-old car.