Book 19 in the Kinsey Millhone series

The author wishes to acknowledge the invaluable assistance of the following people: Steven Humphrey; Ben Holt, Ben Holt Equipment; Ken Seymour, http://www.1953chevrolet.com/; John Mackall, Counselor-at-Law, Seed Mackall LLP; Greg Boller, Deputy District Attorney, Santa Barbara County District Attorney’s Office; John Lindren. D amp;H Equipment; Bill Turner, Detective Sergeant (retired), Santa Barbara County Sheriff’s Department; G. David Dyne, M.D.; T. J. Dwire, Title Officer, Lawyers Title Company; Emily Craig, Forensic Anthropologist, Kentucky State Medical Examiner’s Office; John White, KellyCo Metal Detector Superstore; Dale Kreiter, Library Technician, and the Stall of the Santa Maria Public Library; Leslie Twine; Florence Michel; C. L. Burk; and Don Gastiger.

Thank you, Hairl Wilson, for the use of your first name, and Bob Ziegler, for the use of your name in its entirety.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters are conjured out of whole cloth, which is to say, the persons inhabiting this novel are figments of my imagination and have no real-life counterparts. Anyone who knows the city of Santa Maria and the surrounding countryside not only will recognize the setting for this book but also will note the many liberties I’ve taken with geography. There is no abandoned two-story Tudor residence in the center of that flat, agricultural landscape. The towns of Serena Station, Cromwell, Barker, Freeman, Tullis, Arnaud, and Silas are invented. Some of the roads exist, but as I’ve recently appointed myself Acting Chair and sole member of the Santa Teresa County Regional Transportation Planning Agency, I’ve relocated, rerouted, and renamed these roads according to the dictates of the story. Please do not write me those notes telling me I got it wrong, because I didn’t.

Saturday, July 4, 1953

When Liza Mellincamp thinks about the last time she ever saw Violet Sullivan, what comes most vividly to mind is the color of Violet’s Japanese silk kimono, a shade of blue that Liza later learned was called “cerulean,” a word that wasn’t even in her vocabulary when she was fourteen years old. A dragon was embroidered in satin-stitch across the back, its strange dog-shaped face and arched body picked out in lime green and orange. Flames twisted from the dragon’s mouth in curling ribbons of blood red.

That last night, she’d arrived at the Sullivans’ house at 6:00. Violet was going out at 6:15 and, as usual, she wasn’t dressed and hadn’t done her hair. The front door was open, and as Liza approached, Baby, Violet’s three-month-old buff-colored Pomeranian, started yapping in a shrill little doggie voice while she pawed at the screen, punching holes here and there. She had tiny black eyes and a black button nose and a small pink bow affixed to her forehead with stickum of some kind. Someone had given Violet the dog less than a month before, and she’d developed a fierce attachment to it, carrying the dog around in a big straw tote. Liza disliked Baby, and twice when Violet left the dog behind, Liza put her in the coat closet so she wouldn’t have to listen to her bark. She’d gotten the idea from Foley, who disliked the dog even more than she did.

Liza knocked on the door frame, a sound barely audible above the dog’s yap-yap-yap. Violet called out, “Come on in. I’m in the bedroom!”

Liza opened the screen door, pushed the dog aside with her foot, and walked through the living room to the bedroom Violet and Foley shared. Liza knew for a fact that Foley often ended up sleeping on the couch, especially when he’d been drinking, which he did almost every day, and even more especially after he’d busted Violet in the chops and she’d stopped speaking to him for two days or however long it was. Foley hated it when she gave him the silent treatment, but by then he’d be sorry he’d slugged her and he wouldn’t have the nerve to protest. He told anyone who would listen that she brought it on herself. Anything bad that happened to Foley was someone else’s fault.

Baby pattered into the bedroom behind her, a fluff ball of nervous energy with a party favor of a tail. She was too small to jump up onto the bed, so Liza scooped her up and put her there. Violet’s tow-headed daughter, Daisy, was lying on the bed reading the Little Lulu comic Liza had given her the last time she sat, which was the night before last. Daisy was like a cat-always in the room with you but busy pretending to be doing something else. Liza took a seat on the only chair in the room. Earlier in the day when she’d stopped by, there had been two brown paper bags sitting on the chair. Violet said it was stuff going to the Goodwill, but Liza recognized a couple of Violet’s favorite things and thought it was odd that she’d give away her best clothes. Now the brown bags were gone and Liza knew better than to mention them. Violet didn’t like questions. What she wanted you to know, she’d tell you outright, and the rest was none of your business.

“Isn’t she adorable?” Violet said. She was talking about the dog, not her seven-year-old child.

Liza didn’t comment. She was wondering how long it would take to suffocate the Pomeranian while Violet was out. Violet was sitting on the bench at her makeup table, wearing the bright blue kimono with the dragon across the back. As Liza watched, Violet loosened the tie and shrugged the wrap aside so she could examine a bruise the size of Foley’s fist that sat above one breast. Liza could see three versions of the bruise reflected in the trifold mirror that rested on the vanity. Violet was small and her back was perfect, her spine straight, her skin flawless. Her buttocks were dimpled and ever so slightly splayed where they pressed down against the seat.

Violet wasn’t at all self-conscious about Liza seeing her undressed. Often when Liza came to sit, Violet would emerge from the bathroom naked, having dropped the towel so she could dab behind her knees with the violet cologne she used. Liza would try to keep her gaze averted while Violet strolled around the bedroom, pausing to light an Old Gold that she’d leave on the lip of the ashtray. Liza’s gaze was irresistibly drawn to the sight of Violet’s body. No matter where Violet went, eyes were drawn to her. Her waist was small and her breasts were plump, drooping slightly like sacks filled nearly to capacity with sand. Liza’s boobs were barely sufficient for her AA brassiere, though Ty would close his eyes and start breathing hard every time he felt her up. After they kissed for a while, even if she resisted, he’d find a way to unbutton her shirt, nudging aside her bra strap so he could cup a budding breast in his palm. Then he’d grab Liza’s hand and press it between his legs, making a sound somewhere between a whimper and a moan.

In her church youth group, the pastor’s wife often lectured the girls about heavy petting, which was not recommended, as it was the quickest road to sexual intercourse and other forms of loose behavior. Oh, well. Liza’s best friend, Kathy, was currently taken up with the Moral Rearmament Movement, which preached Absolute Honesty, Absolute Purity, Absolute Unselfishness, and Absolute Love. The last was the one that appealed to Liza. She and Ty had started dating in April, though their contact was limited. He couldn’t let his aunt hear about it because of things that happened at his last school. She’d never been kissed before, had never done any of the things Ty introduced her to in their times together. Of course, she’d drawn the line at going all the way, but she couldn’t see the harm in Ty’s fooling with her boobs if it made him feel good. This was exactly Violet’s point of view. When Liza finally confessed what was going on, Violet said, “Oh please, Sweetie, what’s it to you? Let him have his fun. He’s a good-looking boy, and if you don’t give in to him some other girl will.”