“And security at the facility was tight?”

“You’re thinking Violet could have sneaked in? Forget it. She had no use for Mother beyond ripping her off. Of course, it’s irrelevant now since Mother’s passed away, but if Violet had managed to make a new life, she wouldn’t risk discovery for a woman she didn’t give a shit about.”

“Any idea where she might have gone?”

“Wherever the road took her. She was a creature of impulse, not one for long-range plans.”

“But what’s your take on it? You think she’s out there somewhere?”

“I never said that. If she were alive, she’d have come back to beg, borrow, or steal what she could. I don’t think she went a month without a handout.” He took his foot off the desk and leaned in on his forearms. “You want my take on it?”

“Sure, why not?”

“You want to make Daisy happy? Fine. Earn a few bucks for yourself? It’s no skin off my nose. But don’t turn it into your holy mission in life. You find Violet, you’ll only be making trouble.”

“For whom?”

“Everyone-and I’m including Daisy in that.”

“What do you know that I don’t?”

“Nothing. I know Violet. It’s just a wild-ass guess.”

11

Chet Cramer Chevrolet was located on Main Street in Cromwell, three acres of shiny cars, fifteen capacious service bays, and a two-story showroom with floor-to-ceiling plateglass windows. Inside, at ground level, there were six small glass-fronted offices, each outfitted with a desk, a computer, a run of file cabinets, two chairs for customers, and prominent displays of family photographs and sales awards. One cubicle was currently occupied by a heavyset salesman in earnest conversation with a couple whose body language suggested they were not as eager to do business as he had hoped.

I didn’t see a reception desk, but I spotted a sign with an arrow pointing to the parts department. I walked down a short hallway, passing the restrooms and a lounge with comfortable chairs, where two people sat reading magazines. Doughnuts were available and a vending machine dispensed tea, hot chocolate, coffee, cappuccino, and lattes without charge. I found the cashier and told her I had an appointment with Mr. Cramer. She took my name and rang his office to tell him I was there.

While I waited, I wandered back to the showroom floor, moving from a Corvette convertible to a Caprice station wagon. The best-looking car was an IROC Z Camaro convertible, bright red with a tan interior. The top was down and the leather seats were soft. Try tailing someone in a car that slick. I turned to find Mr. Cramer standing with his hands in his pockets, admiring the car as I did. I knew from counting on my fingers that he was in his early eighties. I could see he’d been handsome in his youth, and I sensed, like an aura, the volume of air he must have displaced before he shrank from age. His suit was a size that a young boy might wear. He said, “What kind of car you drive?”

“1974 VW.”

“I’d make you a pitch, but you look like a woman knows her own mind.”

“I’d like to think so,” I said.

“You’re here about Mrs. Sullivan.”

“I am.”

“Let’s go on up to my office. People see I’m down here, I never get a moment’s peace.”

I followed him across the showroom floor and up the stairs. When we reached his office, he opened the door and stepped aside to let me in. The room was plain-a straight-legged wooden desk, a couch, three chairs, and white walls on which he’d mounted numerous black-and-white photographs of himself with various local bigwigs. The Cromwell Chamber of Commerce had given him a citation for community service. The furniture might well have been the set he started business with. “Did you graduate from college?” he asked as he rounded his desk and took a seat.

I sat down across from him, putting my shoulder bag on the floor at my feet. “Hardly. I had two semesters of junior college, but I don’t think that counts.”

“Better than I did. My father dug ditches for a living and never saved a dime. My senior year in high school, he was killed in an auto accident. It’d been raining for a week, highway was slick as glass, and he went off a bridge. I was the oldest of four boys and I had to go to work. One thing my dad taught me was never do manual labor. He hated his job. He said, ‘Son, if you want to make money, find a job where you have to shower before you go to work instead of when you get home.’ He maintained there was always someone for hire when it came to the dirty work, and I’ve followed that to this day.”