S is for Silence (Kinsey Millhone 19)

“Maybe we’re the cynics, assuming she’s dead when she might be alive and well and living in New York.”

“Can’t rule that out.”

I went on down the list, telling him what Winston had confessed about seeing Violet’s car.

Schaefer said, “I’ve been thinking about that car. Couple of us old retirees get together for dinner once a month and talk about the old days. I was telling them about you and what you’re up to. The one fellow worked Auto Theft, and he said if the Bel Air landed in a junk yard, the VIN might have been stripped off and switched to another vehicle. You want to make a stolen car disappear, that’s how you go about it. The beauty of it is it then allows you to register a stolen car as salvage. You claim you bought some old clunker and fixed it up and who’s going to be the wiser? They call ‘em ghost cars. Any rate, next day I phoned the SO and had one of the deputies read off the vehicle identification number from Violet’s Bel Air.”

“You had that?”

“Oh, sure. Chet Cramer gave it to us in one of the early interviews. I called up the Sacramento DMV and had them do a computer search. They show no record of the VIN. Dang. For a minute, I was hoping for a hit, but the car’s never surfaced, which sets me back to the notion it was shipped overseas.”

“You’re assuming the number Cramer gave you was correct,” I said. “All he had to do was alter one digit and the computer would spit it back as a no match.”

“That’s a troubling possibility. You’ll be careful?”

“I will.”

“And keep me in the loop.”

I assured him I’d be doing that as well.

I stopped at a delicatessen and picked up some sandwiches and Cokes, then took Highway 166 out of Santa Maria until it intersected New Cut Road. By now the route was familiar and I drove with only half my attention focused on the road. With the balance of my mental energy, I was sifting through the miscellany I’d collected over the past two days. I wasn’t much wiser but at least I was getting all the players sorted out.

I reached the Ottweiler property at 11:15. Tannie’s contractor had arrived early, and he pulled into the driveway the same time I did. She introduced him as Bill Boynton, one of the two Padgett had suggested the night before. I told her about the sandwiches I’d brought and then left her alone to chat with him while I took the opportunity to tour the interior of the house. From the porch, I could see two guys working at the edge of the property, cutting heavy brush as she had. A swath had now been cleared from the foundation to the depth of the yard. The ground looked naked and apologetic without all the high weeds, brambles, and old shrubs.

Even at first glance, I found myself agreeing with Padgett, who considered the place beyond redemption. No wonder her brother was urging her to sell. The first floor had all the charm of an inner-city tenement. I could see touches of former splendor-ten-inch crown molding, beautifully plastered ceilings with ornate medallions and cornices as delicate as cake icing-but in most rooms, decades of leakage and neglect had taken their tolls.

When I reached the stairs, I began to pick up the acrid scent of charred wood, and I knew that the floors above would be damaged not only by the fire, but by the water from the firemen’s hoses. I went up, following a once beautiful oak banister that was now dingy with soot and age. A fine layer of broken glass crunched underfoot, making my progress audible. Fixtures had been stripped. In the largest of the bedrooms at the front of the house, I was momentarily startled by what appeared to be a vagrant curled up in one coner. When I moved closer, I could see that the ‘body’ was an old sleeping bag, probably left by a drifter taking shelter uninvited. In the large walk-in linen closet, I could still see labels written in pencil on the edges of the shelves-SINGLE SHEETS, DOUBLE SHEETS, PILLOW CASES-where the maids had been directed to place the freshly laundered linens.

The third floor was inaccessible. Yellow CAUTION tape had been stretched across what was left of the stairs. Gaping holes in the stairwell traced the course of the fire as it ate its way through the rooms above. There was something unbearably creepy about the ruin everywhere. I made a circuit of the second floor, pausing at many of the windows to take in the view. Aside from the field across the road, there wasn’t much to see. One field over, a new crop of some kind was sprouting through layers of plastic sheeting that served to keep the weeds down. The illusion was of ice. Closer to the house, Tannie’s battle with the brush had uncovered meandering brick paths and a truck garden now choked with weeds. During the summer, a volunteer tomato plant had resurrected itself, and it sprawled over a wooden bench, cherry tomatoes in evidence like little red ornaments on a Christmas tree. I could see the outlines of former flower beds and trees stunted by lack of sun for all the overgrowth.