S is for Silence (Kinsey Millhone 19)

“One more quick question: you think she’s dead or al ive?”

“I really wouldn’t care to say. Happy travels.”

“Thanks.”

As soon as he was out the door, I took out my index cards and scribbled down as much of the conversation as I could capture off the top of my head. I glanced at my watch. 7:45. With luck, I could get a call through to Daisy and catch her before she went to work. I grabbed my shoulder bag and moved through the dwindling crowd.

I walked back to my room, intending to do a final quick walk-through before I checked out. I slowed as I approached. My door was ajar. I stopped in my tracks. Maybe the motel maid was in there cleaning the room. I moved forward with caution and used the tip of my finger to push the door open to the full. I did a slow visual survey and then stepped inside. Everything was just as I’d left it, at least to all appearances. I had no luggage, so if someone had broken in, there was nothing to search. The bed was still rumpled, covers thrown aside. In the bathroom, my damp towel was where I’d placed it earlier, over the rim of the tub.

I paused in the doorway between the two rooms and let my eyes do the traveling. Object to object, surface to surface. Nothing seemed to be disturbed. Still, I knew I’d locked the door securely because I’d tested the knob right after I’d pulled it shut. I walked to the front office, my room key in hand. The parking lot was now only half as full, but I didn’t spy anyone who seemed to take an interest in me.

Mrs. Bonnet was at the desk. I told her I was checking out, and while I waited for my credit card receipt, I said, “Did anyone come in this morning asking for me?”

“No ma’am. We don’t give out information about the paying guests. Were you expecting someone?”

“No. When I got back from breakfast, my door was standing open and I was curious.”

She shook her head, shrugging, unable to enlighten me.

I signed the slip. She handed me the carbon and I put it in my bag. I walked back to my car, which was parked in the slot outside my room. I unlocked the door and slid under the wheel, tossing my shoulder bag on the passenger seat. I turned the key in the ignition, wondering for one fleeting paranoid moment if I was about to be blown sky-high. Happily, I was not. I backed out and then shifted from reverse into first. The car seemed to waddle when I accelerated. Even with my limited knowledge of mechanical problems, this was not a good sign. I drove forward another couple of yards, thinking I’d run over an object and I was inadvertently dragging it behind. The waddle was still there. Puzzled, I put my foot on the brake and opened the door, leaning to my left. I shut the engine down and got out.

All four of my tires had been slashed.

18

Chet

Friday, July 3, 1953

Chet Cramer sat in his four-door Bel Air sedan, smoking a cigarette, a pleasure he relegated to the end of his day. The windows were cranked open, including the two wing windows, which he’d angled in hopes of capturing fresh air. He loved this car. The Bel Air series was top of the line, with four models: the two-door sport coupe, the two-door convertible, and the two-door and four-door sedans. All had automatic transmission, radio, and heater as standard equipment. His was two-toned; the top Woodland Green, the lower portion Sun Gold, a combination he’d personally selected for himself. The colors reminded him of the green and gold of the old Lucky Strike cigarette pack. When World War II came along, the government had needed the titanium used in the green ink and the bronze used in its gold, so Lucky Strike had abandoned the color scheme in favor of a white pack with a red bull’s-eye. When he first started smoking, he’d been attracted to Lucky Strike because of the slogan-Be Happy, Go Lucky-which seemed ironic in retrospect. He hadn’t been happy-go-lucky since the death of his father in 1925. Recently he’d switched brands, thinking to disassociate himself altogether from the notions of happiness and luck. The new Kent cigarette, with its Micronite filter, was billed as “the greatest health protection in cigarette history.” He wasn’t sure why he was concerned about protecting his health, but he didn’t think it hurt to cut down on tar and nicotine.

He popped open the glove compartment and took out the sterling silver flask he’d inherited from his dad. He kept it filled with vodka from his office supply, and he used it to fortify himself before he went home each day. He preferred rye whiskey but couldn’t afford to greet Livia smelling like a loaf of delicatessen bread. He unscrewed the lid and took a slug. He felt the heat of the liquor going down, but it didn’t dissolve the ache in his chest. He checked the clock on the dashboard. 5:22. By 6:15 he’d be having dinner with his wife and daughter, after which he thought he might as well go back to work. He’d taken advantage of the July 4 th weekend to advertise a “Firecracker of a Sale.” During special promotions of this sort he devoted long hours to the dealership as a matter of course, and now that he’d fired Winston, he’d have to shoulder the kid’s load, such as it was. He saw work as a blessing, a way of immersing himself in the here and now. At the moment, he was only going through the motions, knowing it was easier to stick to his routines than to try to make sense out of what had happened to him.