“Even back then?”

“Yes ma’am. The numbers might be different, but percentages are the same. Something like eighty-five thousand cars stolen out of those two cities just this past year. They steal ‘em, take ‘em to local ports, and crate ‘em up for shipping. The other option is to drive a car across the border and dispose of it down there. Places in Mexico and Central America, if a vehicle doesn’t find a buyer, it’s left on the street and ends up sitting in an impound lot. You go down to Tijuana, you can see thousands-cars, trucks, RVs. Some have been there for years and never will be reclaimed.”

“Was the car his or hers?”

“He was the one signed the loan papers, but the car was hers. She made sure everyone knew that. In those days, wives couldn’t get credit even if they worked. Everything was done in the husband’s name.”

“But why would he do that? Buy her a car and then kill her the next day. That doesn’t make sense.”

“He might have killed her on impulse, struck her in a rage. Doesn’t have to be something he planned in advance.”

“But why buy the car at all? Daisy told me he could barely pay the bills. I’ve also heard she had enough cash to buy it outright.”

“I’ll tell you what I think. He did it out of guilt. That was his pattern. He’d get mad, beat the hell out of her, and then do something nice to make up for it. Maybe he realized she was on the verge of taking him to court so he tried to buy her off. She was nuts about that car.”

“From what I heard, Foley was stuck making all the payments even though he never had a thing to show for it. That seems strange.”

“Depending on his agreement with the dealer,” he said. “The fellow you want to talk to on that subject is Chet Cramer of Chet Cramer Chevrolet in Cromwell. I’ll give you his address.”

“Thanks. Daisy mentioned him. I’m surprised he’s still in business after all these years.”

“Oh, sure. He’ll never retire. He’s got his hands on the reins and he’ll be happy to drop dead before he ever lets go.”

Mentally I went back and skimmed the newspaper accounts I’d read. “One of the papers reported Violet going into a Santa Teresa bank that week and getting into her safe deposit box. Any idea what was in it?”

“Nope. I’d assume valuables of some kind. Like you, I’ve heard she had a sizeable sum of cash, but you’d have to take that on faith. We got a court order and had the box drilled when it was clear she was gone. It was empty.”

“What about since then? I know how Stacey feels about a case like this. An open-ended situation bugs the hell out of him.”

“You’re right about that. Once in a while someone goes back to take a look, but there’s not much to go on. We never got a break on this one and we haven’t had the manpower to devote to a second full-on investigation. Detectives down in S.T. have enough on their plates. Some rookie might noodle around with it from time to time, but that’s about it.”

“What about the theory she was having an affair?”

“That’s what Foley maintains, but I have my doubts. Ask around and you’ll find out most people who heard the rumor heard it from him. Violet screwed around-no question about that-but if she ran off with someone, how come no one else was gone?”

7

The service station where Violet was last seen was near Tullis, a dot-sized town you could probably miss if you weren’t paying strict attention. Several hamlets, like stars in a constellation, were clustered in a patch with small two-lane roads forming the irregular grid that connected them. Tullis was to the east on a straight line that led to Freeman and from there to the 101.

Service stations in the area were few and far between, so it was easy to see why Violet had chosen this one. At that point, she’d only had the car for one day, but she’d apparently done sufficient driving to empty her tank. Or maybe she was topping it off in preparation for whatever she did next, which is to say died or left town. I noticed myself shifting from one position to the other. She behaved like someone who was on her merry way, but to where? And more important, did she ever arrive?

When I reached the service station, I pulled in to one side and parked near the entrance to the ladies’ room, taking advantage of the facilities while I had the chance. The toilet did flush, but the hand dryer was busted and since paper towels had been eliminated in the interest of sanitation, I ended up drying my hands on my jeans while I walked around outside.

The station sat at the junction of two roads, Robinson and Twine. The afternoon was hot and still, the sunlight relentless. This was September, and I was imagining the heat in July was fierce. There were endless flat fields on all sides; some looking ragged from the harvest and some newly planted with sprigs of green. It had been late day when Violet stopped here, and it must have looked then much as it did now. The area was windy and dry, without so much as a stand of trees to provide shade. I pictured Violet’s red hair whipping across her face while she stood chatting with the fellow who pumped her gas that day. What did she think was coming next? That’s what bothered me-the idea of her intentions and her innocence.