by Sue Grafton
“I can understand that. What you’re saying makes sense.”
“What is it that bothers you? That’s part of what I’d like to address.”
“I’m thirty-six years old…thirty-seven in three weeks. I’ve lived all my life without a clue about this stuff. From my perspective, it sure seems like somebody could have let me know. I’ve said this before to Tasha and I don’t mean to harp, but why didn’t anyone ever get in touch? Aunt Gin’s been dead now for fifteen years. Grand didn’t even come down for the funeral, so what’s that about?”
“I’m not here to argue. What you’re saying is true and you’re entirely correct. Grand should have come down here. She should have sent word, but I think she was afraid to face you. She didn’t know what you’d been told. She assumed Virginia turned you against her, against the whole family. At heart, Grand’s a good person, but she’s proud and she’s stubborn—well, face it, she can be impossible sometimes—but Rita was stubborn, too. The two of them were so much alike it would have been comical if it hadn’t been so destructive. Their quarrel tore the family to shreds. None of us have ever been the same since then.”
“But Grand was her mother. She was supposed to be the grownup.”
Susanna smiled. “Just because we’re old doesn’t mean we’re mature. Actually, Grand did reach out. I can remember half a dozen times when she made a gesture toward your parents only to be ignored or refused. From what I understand, your father stayed out of it as nearly as he could. The fight was Rita’s, and while he was certainly on her side, she was the one who kept the game alive. Virginia was even worse. She seemed to relish the split, and I’m really not sure why. She must have had issues of her own. In my experience, any time someone makes such a big deal about autonomy, it’s probably a cover for something else. So, Grand tried to include them, especially after you were born, but they’d have nothing to do with her. If she and Daddy were out of town, the three of them would come to visit and, of course, they’d bring you, but there was always a stealthy feel to it. I remember thinking they enjoyed it, sneaking around behind her back.”
“Why?”
“Because it forced the rest of us to declare ourselves. Every time we welcomed them—which we did on numerous occasions—it put us squarely in their camp. Maura and Sarah felt guilty about deceiving Grand. She’d come home from a trip and none of us would say a word. Sometimes I have to wonder what she knew. She has her network of spies, even to this day, so someone must have told her. She never let on, but maybe that was her way of making sure there was contact even if she couldn’t enjoy it herself.”
I thought about it for a moment, turning her comments over in my mind. “I’d like to believe you, and I guess I do in some ways. I know there are two sides to every story. Obviously, Aunt Gin took it seriously enough to maintain silence on the subject until the day she died. I never knew any of this until three years ago.”
“It must be difficult to cope with.”
“Well, yes. In part because it’s been presented to me as finished business, a done deal. To you, it must be old news, but to me it’s not. I still have to figure out what to do with my piece of it. The breech had a huge impact on how I turned out.”
“Well. You could have done worse than having Virginia Kinsey for a role model. She might have been an odd duck, but she was ahead of her time.”
“That about covers it.”
Susanna looked at her watch. “I really should go. I don’t know about you, but I find conversations like this exhausting. You can only take in so much and then you have to stop and digest. Will you call me sometime?”
“I’ll try.”
“Good. That would make me happy.”
Once she was gone, I locked the office door and sat down at my desk. I picked up the photo of my mother and studied it at length. The picture had been taken at the ranch. The background was out of focus, but she and her sister were standing on a wooden porch with railings like the ones I’d seen at the Manse. By squinting, I could make out a group of people standing to one side, all holding champagne flutes. The young men wore tuxedos and the girls were decked out in long white dresses similar to the one Rita Cynthia wore. In many ways, hair and clothing styles hadn’t changed that much. Given any formal occasion, you could lift these people out of their decade and set them down in ours without dramatic differences. The only vintage note was the white shoes my mother wore with their open toes and faintly clunky heels.
My mother was slim, and her bare shoulders and arms were flawless. Her face was heart-shaped, her complexion smooth and clear. Her hair might have been naturally curly—it was hard to tell—but it had been done up for the occasion, tumbling across her shoulders. She wore a white flower behind one ear, as did Susanna, who was loosely encircled by my mother’s arms. It looked like my mother was whispering some secret that both of them enjoyed. Susanna’s face was turned up to hers with a look of unexpected delight. I could almost feel the hug that must have followed once the picture was snapped.
I placed the frame on my desk, sitting back in my swivel chair with my feet propped up. Several things occurred to me that I hadn’t thought of before. I was now twice my mother’s age the day the photograph was taken. Within four months of that date, my parents would be married, and by the time she was my age, she’d have a daughter three years old. By then my parents would have had only another two years to live. It occurred to me that if my mother had survived, she’d be seventy. I tried to imagine what it would be like to have a mother in my life—the phone calls, the visits and shopping trips, holiday rituals so alien to me. I’d been resistant to the Kinseys, feeling not only adamant but hostile to the idea of continued contact. Now I wondered why the offer of simple comfort felt like such a threat. Wasn’t it possible that I could establish a connection with my mother through her two surviving sisters? Surely, Maura and Susanna shared many of her traits—gestures and phrases, values and attitudes ingrained in them since birth. While my mother was gone, couldn’t I experience some small fragment of her love through my cousins and aunts? It didn’t seem too much to ask, although I still wasn’t clear what price I might be expected to pay.
I locked the office early, leaving the photo of my mother in the center of my desk. Driving home, I couldn’t resist touching on the issue, much in the same way the tongue seeks the socket from which a tooth has just been pulled. The compulsion resulted in the same shudder-producing blend of satisfaction and repugnance. I needed to talk to Henry. He’d offered counsel and advice (which I’d largely ignored) since the Kinseys had first surfaced. I knew he’d be quick to see my conflict: the comfort of isolation versus cloying suffocation; independence versus bondage; safety versus betrayal. It was not in my makeup to imagine emotional states in between. I saw it as all or nothing, which is what made it difficult to risk the status quo. My life wasn’t perfect, but I knew its limitations. I remembered Susanna’s comment about a passion for autonomy serving as a cover for something else. When she’d said it, I’d been too startled to wonder what she meant. She’d been referring to Aunt Gin, whose hard heart I’d assimilated as a substitute for love. Had she been alluding to me as well?
Once I reached my neighborhood, I spotted an Austin Healy parked in my favorite place. I did a U-turn and found a space across the street. I pushed through my squeaking gate and down the driveway to Henry’s backyard. He’d hauled his lawn furniture out of storage, hosed off the chairs, and added a set of dark green cushions with the tags still attached. Two glasses and a pitcher of iced tea rested on a small redwood table, along with a plate of homemade oatmeal cookies with raisins. At first I thought he’d meant them for me, but then I spotted him in the far corner of the yard, showing off his garden to a woman I’d never seen. The tableau bore an eerie similarity to an earlier occasion when a woman named Lila Sams had waltzed into Henry’s life.
He smiled when he saw me, gesturing me over so he could make the introductions. “Kinsey, this is Mattie Halstead from San Francisco. She stoppe
d off to see us on her way to L.A.” And to Mattie, he said, “Kinsey rents the studio…”
“Of course. Nice to meet you. Henry’s talked quite a bit about you.”
“It’s nice meeting you, too,” I said, with a sly glance at him. He’d had his hair trimmed, and I noticed he was wearing a white dress shirt and long pants. I didn’t think he’d ever gotten that spiffed up for a woman before. Mattie was easily his height and just as trim. Her silver hair was cut short and layered in a windblown mop. She wore a white silk shirt, gray slacks, and stylish low-heeled shoes. The jewelry she wore—matching earrings and a bracelet—were custom-made, hammered silver and amethysts.
She regarded me with intelligent gray eyes. “I was afraid he might be away so I called from Carmel when I arrived there last night. I’m taking my time, stopping to see friends as I travel down the coast.”
“Is this business or pleasure?”
“A little bit of both. I’m delivering some paintings to a gallery in San Diego. I could’ve crated them for shipping, but I needed a break.”
“You were on the cruise Henry took?”
“Yes, but I’m afraid that was work. This is my time off.”
“Mattie teaches drawing and painting, and she lectures on art. Nell took her watercolor class and ended up doing quite well.”
“Better than Lewis,” Mattie said, with a smile. “I felt so bad for him. I’ve never seen anyone quite so enthusiastic.”
“He was flirting,” Henry said reprovingly before turning to me. “Why don’t you join us? We were just about to sit down and have a glass of iced tea.”
“I better pass on that, thanks. I’ve got some reading to do and then I thought I’d sneak in a run. My schedule’s been horsed up and I owe myself one.”
“What about supper? We’re heading up to Rosie’s at six.”
“No way. I don’t intend to go until she gets off this kick of hers. Gourmet entrails. Did Henry mention that?”
“He warned me, but I’m actually a fan of liver and onions.”
“Yeah, but the liver of what beast? I won’t risk it myself. You ought to have him do the cooking. He’s terrific.”
She smiled at him. “Maybe another time. I’ve been looking forward to reconnecting with William and Rosie. They were dear.”
“How long will you be here?”
“Just one night. I have a reservation at the Edgewater, my favorite hotel. My husband and I used to come here for anniversaries,” she said. “I’ll take off in the morning as soon as it’s light. With luck, I can avoid the rush-hour traffic through Los Angeles.”
“Well, it’s too bad we won’t have time to chat. Do you plan to stop by on the return trip?”
“We’ll see how it goes. I don’t want to be a nuisance.”
“Maybe you can talk him into cooking for you then.”
I let myself into the apartment, tossed my bag on the kitchen counter, and headed up the stairs. I didn’t have any reading to catch up on and I’d done my three-mile run at six A.M. I told those tiny fibs to make sure Mattie and Henry had some time alone. I peered out the bathroom window, taking in the truncated view of the two of them down below. It was not quite four o’clock. I managed to kill an hour and a half and then thought about where to go for supper that night. I was serious about boycotting Rosie’s until she abandoned her newfound passion for animal by-product cookery. As it was currently Happy Hour, I knew Dolan would be at CC’s. I could have joined him, but I didn’t want to sit and count his drinks while inhaling his secondhand smoke. I returned to the bathroom window and peered down at the backyard. Henry and Mattie were gone, but their two lawn chairs remained, pulled slightly closer together than they’d been when I’d first arrived home. I could see the lights on in his kitchen, so they were probably fortifying themselves with Black Jack on ice before braving Rosie’s food.
Now that the coast was clear, I grabbed my shoulder bag and a jacket and scooted out the front door. I retrieved my car and drove to the McDonald’s on lower Milagra Street. I’m at the drive-through lane so often, the take-out servers recognize my voice and deal with me by name. On impulse, I ordered extras and went to Stacey’s house. In my opinion, there’s no condition in life that can’t be ameliorated by a dose of junk food.
When I knocked on his screen door, I could see him perched on a cardboard carton in the living room. His desk drawers were open and a shredder was plugged into an extension cord that trailed across the room. He motioned me in.
I held up the white bag. “I hope you haven’t eaten supper. I’ve got Cokes, french fries, and Quarter Pounders with cheese. Very nourishing.”
“I don’t have much appetite, but I’ll be happy to keep you company.”
“Fair enough.”
I left the bag on the desk and moved into the kitchen where I found a package of paper plates and a roll of paper towels. I returned to the living room, put the dinnerware on the floor, and hauled over two boxes from the stack against the wall. I sat on one box and used the second as a table that I arranged between us. I unpacked Cokes, two large cartons of fries, packets of ketchup and salt, and a paper-wrapped QP with cheese for each of us. I squeezed ketchup on the fries, salted everything in sight, and then downed my QP in approximately eight bites. “I’m going for the land speed record here.”
Stacey lifted the top of his bun and eyed his burger with misgivings. “I’ve never eaten one of these.”
I paused in the midst of wiping my mouth. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.” He tried a cautious bite, which he chewed with suspicion, letting the flavors mingle in his mouth. He wagged his head from side to side. With his second bite, he seemed to get the hang of it, and after that he ate with the same dispatch I did.
I reached into the bag and took out another burger that I passed to him. This time, halfway through, a nearly subliminal moan escaped his lips. I laughed.
“Where’d you get that?” I asked, pointing to the shredder with a french fry.
“Fellow next door,” he said, pausing to swallow his bite. “I’m cleaning out my desk. Can’t quite bring myself to shred my receipts. I don’t intend to file a tax return. I figure I’ll be dead before the IRS catches up with me. Even so, I worry about an audit without the proper paperwork on hand.” He licked his fingers and wiped his mouth. “Thank you. That was great. I haven’t had an appetite for weeks.”
“Happy to help.”
He gathered all the trash and put it back in the bag, then turned and made a free throw, tossing it in the wastebasket. He reached into the bottom drawer and took out a cardboard box filled with black-and-white photographs. He set the box in his lap, picked up a handful, and fed them to the machine.
I watched while six images were reduced to slivers. “What are you doing?”
“I told you. Cleaning out my desk.”
“But those are family photographs. You can’t do that.”
“Why not? I’m the only one left.”
“But you can’t just destroy them. I can’t believe you’d do that.”
“Why leave the job for someone else? At least if I do it, there’s a personal connection.” He sang, “Good-bye, Uncle Schmitty. Bye Cousin Mortimer…” Two more images were converted to confetti in the shredder bin.
I put a hand on his arm. “I’ll take them.”
“And do what? You don’t even know these folks. I can’t identify the better half of ’em myself. Look at this. Who’s he? I swear I never saw this guy before in my life. Must have been a family friend.” He touched the edge of the photo to the shredder teeth and watched it disappear before he picked up the next.
“Don’t shred them. Aren’t those your parents?”
“Sure, but they’ve been dead for years.”
“I can’t stand this. Give me those. I’ll pretend they’re mine.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re alone just like me. If I let you take ’em, someone else will end up throwing them in your trash.”
�
��So what? Come on, Stace. Please.”
He hesitated and finally nodded. “Okay. But it’s dumb.”
He handed me the box of photos, which I placed near my bag out of his reach. I was worried he’d change his mind and shred someone else. He turned his attention to a file folder marked AUTO INSURANCE and fed its contents into the shredder. Idly, he said, “I almost forgot to mention, Joe Mandel called with an address for Iona Mathis. She’s living in the high desert, little town called Peaches.”
“Which is where?”
“Above San Bernardino, off Highway 138. There’s no phone in her name so she might be bunking in with someone else. Did I tell you Mandel got a line on the red Mustang? This guy Gant, the original owner, died about ten years ago, but his widow says the car was stolen from an auto upholstery shop in Quorum, California, where he’d taken it to get the seats replaced. Gant had the car towed back from Lompoc, but it was such a mess he turned around and sold it to the guy whose shop it was stolen from—fellow named Ruel McPhee. According to our sources, the car’s now registered to him. I’ve left him four messages, but so far I haven’t heard back. Con thinks it’s worth a trip down there just to see what’s what.”
“Where’s Quorum? I’ve never heard of it.”
“Well, neither had I, but Con says it’s just south of Blythe near the Arizona line. Now here’s the kicker on that. Turns out Frankie Miracle grew up in Quartzsite, Arizona, which is just a few miles from Blythe in the same neck of the woods. Con wants to take a detour through Peaches and talk to Iona Mathis on his way to Quorum.”