"S" is for Silence Read Online Free PDF Page B

to the emotional mess inside. While she was gone…as a courtesy…I refrained from peeking into the trash to see if she’d tossed any empty vodka bottles. The kettle began to whistle, so I turned off the burner and poured sputtering water into our cups.
    When she returned she carried a manila folder that she placed on the table. She settled in her chair and put on a pair of drugstore-rack reading glasses with round metal frames. She removed a sheaf of newspaper articles, clipped together, and a page of notes, neatly printed, the letters round and regular. “These are all the newspaper accounts I could find. You don’t have to read them now, but I thought they might help. And these are the names, addresses, and phone numbers of the people you might want to talk to.” She pointed to the first name on the list. “Foley Sullivan’s my dad.”
    â€œHe now lives in Cromwell?”
    She nodded. “He couldn’t stay in Serena Station. I guess a few people reserved judgment, but most thought poorly of him to begin with. He’d been a drinker before she left, but he quit cold and hasn’t had a drop since. This next name, Liza Clements? Her maiden name was Mellincamp. She’s the babysitter who was watching me the night my mother ran off…escaped…whatever you want to call it. Liza had just turned fourteen and she lived one block over. This gal, Kathy Cramer, was her best friend—still is for that matter. Her family lived a couple of houses down—big place and nice, relative to everything else. Kathy’s mother was a dreadful gossip, and it’s possible Kathy picked up a few tidbits from her.”
    â€œIs the family still there?”
    â€œThe father is. Chet Cramer. Foley bought the car from his dealership. Kathy’s married and she and her husband bought a place in Orcutt. Her mother died seven or eight years after Mom disappeared, and Chet married some new gal within six months.”
    â€œI bet that was a popular move.” I indicated the next name on the list. “Who’s this?”
    â€œCalvin Wilcox is Violet’s only brother. I think he saw her that week, so he may be able to fill in a few gaps. This guy, BW, was the bartender at the dive where my parents hung out, and these are miscellaneous customers who witnessed some of their famous public shoving matches.”
    â€œHave you talked to all these people?”
    â€œWell, no. I mean, I’ve known them all for years…but I haven’t asked about her.”
    â€œDon’t you think you’d have better luck than I would? I’m a stranger. Why would they open up to me?”
    â€œBecause people like to talk, but a lot of stuff they might not be willing to say to me. Who wants to tell a woman how often her dad punched her mother’s lights out? Or refer to the time when her mom got mad and threw a drink in some guy’s face? Now and then I get wind of these things, but mostly people are falling all over themselves keeping the truth under wraps. I know they mean well, but I get weirded out by that. I hate secrets. I hate that there’s all this information I’m not allowed to have. Who knows what’s being said behind my back even to this day?”
    â€œWell, I’ll be giving you regular written reports, so whatever I learn you’ll be hearing about.”
    â€œGood. I’m glad. About time,” she said. “Oh, here. I want you to have this. Just so you’ll know who you’re dealing with.”
    She handed me a small black-and-white snapshot with a scalloped white rim and then watched over my shoulder as I studied the image. The print was four inches square and showed a woman in a floral-print sleeveless dress, smiling into the camera. Her hair, which could have been any color, was a medium-dark tone, long and gently wavy. She was small and pretty in a 1950s kind of way, more voluptuous than we’d consider stylish in