S Is for Silence

his, the one from Bakersfield?”
    “You mean Ty?”
    “Exactly. As I remember, he went back to Bakersfield on the spur of the moment and that’s the last I heard. How’s he doing these days?”
    “Fine.”
    “Do you have a number for him?”
    “Well, dear, he’s in Sacramento, but I don’t understand why you’d want to talk to him when you called to speak to Kyle.”
    “I thought I might as well round up the whole gang while I was at it,” I said. I was trying to sound casual and jolly, but I couldn’t pull it off.
    I could feel the chill through the line. The lady might be old, but her intuitions were alive and well. “You’re Liza Mellincamp, aren’t you?”
    “Actually, I’m not.” This was the only moment in the conversation when I’d told her the truth and I was hoping to get credit.
    “Well, whoever you are, I’ve already told you as much as I deem wise. Thank you for calling, but don’t call again.” She hung up with perhaps more force than I thought appropriate in a woman her age.
    I hung up on my end and then took a quick break. Sometimes lying is sweaty work and leaves me feeling short of breath. I hadn’t expected to be put on the carpet like that. I went and folded some of Daisy’s clothes just to give my brain a rest.
    I returned to the phone and called Directory Assistance in Sacramento and asked for a number for last name, Eddings; first name, initial T, Ty, or Tyler. This time my only option was his office number. As it turned out, Ty Eddings was an attorney in a law firm with a string of names that went on with all the lilt and cadence of a nursery rhyme.
    The receptionist connected me with his secretary, who told me Mr. Eddings was in court. I gave her my name and Daisy’s number, asking her to have him return the call. “May I ask what this is in regard to?”
    “A death.”
    “Oh dear.”
    “Yeah, well, that’s the way it goes,” I said. “By the way, what kind of law does he practice?”
    “Criminal.”
    “In that case, tell him it’s about a murder and I need to hear from him as soon as possible.”
    I spent the next hour typing up my notes. This was my last day on the job and I wanted to leave Daisy with an organized account of what I’d done. I wasn’t entirely satisfied with myself. There were too many loose ends and the legwork itself didn’t add up to much. On the other hand, she’d now found her mother, which was what she’d wanted to begin with. Among the many unanswered questions, one issue that troubled me was the lace curtain. Foley had torn down the first panel in the course of the fight he and Violet had Thursday night, the second of July. An infuriated Violet had torn down the rest and she’d thrown them in the trash. Foley claimed great remorse, so much so that he’d gone out and bought her the Bel Air the very next day. If he’d killed her and buried her in the car, why wrap the body in the curtain? If the body were ever found—which of course it was—why leave behind an item that would link the deed to him? Foley might be cursed with a limited imagination, but he wasn’t that dumb.
    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 a 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