Occasionally, in the years since then, feature articles had been written about the case-puff pieces in the main. The tone was meant to be hard-hitting but the coverage was superficial. The same basic facts were spun out and embellished with little in the way of revelation. As nearly as I could tell, the subject had never been tackled in any systematic way. Violet’s uncertain fate had elevated her to the status of a minor celebrity, but only in the small farming community where she had lived. No one outside the area seemed to take much interest. There was a black-and-white photograph of her and a separate photo of the car-not the identical vehicle, of course, but a similar make and model.

The car caught my attention and I read that part twice. On Friday, July 3, 1953, Foley Sullivan had filled out the loan papers on a purchase price of $2,145. Since the vehicle was never seen again, he’d been compelled to make payments for the next thirty-six months until the terms were satisfied. Title had never been registered. Violet Sullivan’s driver’s license had expired in June of 1955, and she’d made no application for renewal.

What struck me as curious was that Daisy had described her father as close to a deadbeat, so I couldn’t understand why he’d continued paying for the car. How perverse to have to go on forking out the dough for a vehicle your wife may or may not have used in running off with another man. Since there was no way the dealer could repossess the car, Foley was stuck. I couldn’t understand why he cared, one way or the other, whether the dealer sued him for the balance or turned him over to a collection agency. Big deal. His credit was already shot, so what was one more debt? I put the question in a drawer at the back of my mind, hoping an answer would be sitting there the next time I looked.

At 5:00 P.M. I locked the office and went home. My studio apartment is located on a side street a block from the beach. My landlord, Henry, had converted the space from a single-car garage to a rental unit, attached to his own house by a glass-enclosed breezeway. I’ve been living there quite happily for the past seven years. Henry’s the only man I know whom I’d be willing to marry if (and only if) we weren’t separated by a fifty-year age difference. It’s tough when the perfect man in your life is an octogenarian… though a y oung eighty-seven years old. Henry’s trim, handsome, smart, white-haired, blue-eyed, and active. I can go on in this manner, reciting his many virtues, but you probably get the point.

I parked and passed through the squeaky gate that announces my arrival. I went around to the rear and let myself into my apartment, where I wrestled with my conscience briefly, and then changed into my running clothes and did a three-mile jog along the beach. Home again forty minutes later, I found a message from Cheney Phillips waiting on my machine. He proposed a quick bite of supper and said unless he heard otherwise, he’d meet me at Rosie’s close to 7:00. I showered and got back into my jeans.

“Well, it’s an interesting proposition. I’ll give you that,” Cheney said when I’d laid it out to him. Rosie had taken our order, asking us what we wanted, and then writing down what she’d already decided to serve-an unpronounceable dish that she pointed to on the menu. This turned out to be a beef-and-pork stew with more sour cream than flavor, so we’d spent a few minutes surreptitiously adding salt and enough pepper to make our eyes sting. Rosie’s cooking is usually tasty, so neither of us could figure out what was going on with her. Cheney was drinking beer and I was drinking bad white wine, which is all she serves.

“You know what’s hanging me up?” I asked.

“Tell.”

“The thought of failing.”

“There are worse things.”

“Name one.”

“Root canal. IRS audit. Terminal disease.”

“But at least those things don’t impact anyone else. I don’t want to take Daisy’s money if I can’t deliver anything, and what are the odds?”

“She’s a grownup. She says this is what she wants. Do you have any reason to doubt her sincerity?”

“No.”

“So why don’t you put a cap on the money end?”

“I did that. It doesn’t seem to help.”

“You’ll do fine. All you can do is give it your best shot.”

In the office Wednesday morning, I made a series of phone calls, setting up appointments with the principals on my list. I didn’t think the order of interviews would make any difference, but I’d arranged the names in order of personal preference. In quick succession, I talked to Sergeant Timothy Schaefer, who’d been the investigating officer when Violet disappeared. I wanted to see how things had looked from his perspective and I thought he’d be good at laying in the background. We agreed to meet that afternoon at 1:00, and he gave me directions to his house in Santa Maria. Foley Sullivan was next on my list. Daisy had told him I’d be calling, but I was still relieved to find him cooperative. I made an appointment to talk to him after my interview with Sergeant Schaefer. My next call was to Calvin Wilcox, Violet’s only sibling. I got a busy signal on that number so I moved to the next.