Fourth on my list was the babysitter, Liza Clements, née Mellincamp, one of the last people who’d spent time in Violet’s company. I was hoping to create a calendar of events, starting with Liza and working my way backward as I reconstructed Violet’s activities and encounters in the days before she vanished. I dialed Liza’s number and she picked up after six rings, just at the point where I’d about given up.

When I identified myself, she said, “I’m sorry, but could we talk another time? I’ve got a dental appointment and I’m just now walking out the door.”

“How about later this afternoon? When will you be home?”

“Really, today’s a mess. What about tomorrow?”

“Sure, that would work. What time?”

“Four o’clock?”

“Fine.”

“Do you have my address?”

“Daisy gave it to me.”

“Great. See you then.”

I moved on to Kathy Cramer. She and Liza were fourteen at the time, which put them in their late forties now. I knew Kathy was married, but she’d apparently elected to keep her maiden name, because Cramer was the only reference I had. I dialed her number and once I had her on the line, I told her who I was and what I was doing at Daisy’s behest.

“You’re kidding,” she said, her voice flat with disbelief.

“Afraid not,” I said. So tedious. I didn’t relish having to go through this routine with every other call I made.

“You’re looking for Violet Sullivan after all these years?”

“That’s what I was hired to do. I’m hoping you can fill in some blanks.”

“Have you talked to Liza Mellincamp?”

“I see her tomorrow afternoon. If you could spare me half an hour, I’d be grateful.”

“I can probably manage that. Can we say tomorrow morning at eleven?”

“Sure thing.”

“What address do you have? We just moved.”

I recited the address on my list, which was out of date. She gave me the new one with a set of directions that I scribbled down in haste.

My last call was to Daisy, telling her I was making a quick run to Santa Maria and back. On Thursday, I expected to have a block of free time, so I was proposing lunch and a quick verbal report. She was agreeable and said we could try a coffee shop close to her work. Since Tannie would be in Santa Maria on Thursday as well, she’d give her a call and see if she could join us. Her lunch hour was flexible, so I agreed to call as soon as I had a break.

After I hung up, I folded the list and gathered my index cards, gassed up the VW, and headed north. I was already getting bored with the hour drive each way and not all that happy about the miles I was putting on my thirteen-year-old car.

5

Kathy

Wednesday, July 1, 1953

Kathy Cramer was working in the office at her father’s Chevrolet dealership when Violet pulled up in Foley’s rattletrap pickup and started looking at cars. She carried a big straw tote with a little dog tucked inside, its head popping up like a jack-in-the-box. This was Kathy’s first real job, and her father was paying her a dollar an hour, twenty-five cents over the minimum wage and twice what her best friend, Liza, made for babysitting. A dollar an hour was pretty good for a fourteen-year-old, even if his hiring her was not entirely voluntary. When his secretary left to get married, he’d wanted to advertise for a permanent full-time replacement, but Kathy’s mother put her foot down, insisting he could find somebody in the fall when Kathy went back to school.

Her responsibilities entailed answering the phone, filing, and ‘lite’ typing, which she generally messed up. At the moment business was slow, so she occupied her time reading the movie magazines she kept in her lap. James Dean was already her favorite of the new Hollywood stars. Also Jean Simmons, with whom she completely identified. She’d seen Androcles and the Lion and, most recently, Young Bess, in which Jean Simmons had starred with her husband, Stewart Granger, who was second only to James Dean in Kathy’s mind.

This was July and the office was small. Glass on all sides let the sunlight slant in, heating the space to unbearable temperatures. There was no air-conditioning, so Kathy kept an electric fan beside her on the floor, the face tilted toward hers for maximum effect. The air was still hot, but at least it was moving. She didn’t think it was possible to sweat so much sitting down. In the spring, her gym teacher had suggested it really wouldn’t hurt if she lost thirty-five pounds, but Kathy’s mother was having none of it. Girls paid entirely too much attention to superficial matters like weight, clothing, and hairstyles when what counted was inner beauty. It was more important to be a good person, setting an example for those around you. Kathy’s mother said her complexion would clear up in time if she’d just quit picking at it. Kathy used Noxzema every night, but it didn’t seem to help.