by Sue Grafton
When he turned with a half-wave, I felt a fleeting moment of dread. “Take care of yourself, okay?”
He waved again and then got into his car. How could I have known then that within days, he’d be laid out on a coroner’s slab with a bullet hole between the eyes?
14
My encounter with Sutton left me with a load of guilt. If he’d been good at reading minds, he wouldn’t have thanked me for being polite, because in truth, he’d annoyed the shit out of me. I couldn’t decide if it was attention he wanted or emotional support, but I was unprepared to give either. Even with his collection of wounded birds, he seemed lonely and at loose ends. I didn’t like feeling sorry for him because it clouded my judgment. Here I was bending over backward, trying to compensate for feeling one-up while he was one-down. Somehow he had me hooked in when I should have been moving on.
On the drive home, I operated by rote, rerunning the conversation so I could test the elements. Light-haired and not too tall? Spare me. I hadn’t paid attention to the smattering of looky-loos who’d parked on the berm and it was way too late now for a mental review. A dog was a dog and even if Sutton was right about the guy, what difference did it make? I could understand his plaintive desire to persuade. He had no credibility. I tried to imagine myself in a position where any observation I made was automatically deemed false. Talk about feeling helpless and small. While I was no more inclined to believe him, I decided to set the subject aside without prejudice.
Once in my neighborhood, I scanned for a parking place and found a spot close to the corner of Albanil and Bay. I shut the engine down, locked my car, and walked the half-block to my apartment. I caught sight of a woman ahead of me standing by my gate. She was in her mid-seventies and probably physically imposing in her prime. I pegged her at six feet. Given the customary shrinkage of age, she must have been six-three or six-four in her youth. Her face was gaunt, though her bearing suggested she was accustomed to carrying substantial weight. She wore slacks that rode low on her hips and a crisply ironed white shirt with a lavender cardigan over it. I suspected her clunky running shoes were more for comfort than for speed. Her hair was iron gray, braided, and wrapped around her head in a thin chain. She had a leather purse over one arm and she held a scrap of paper with a note jotted on it, which made me wonder if she was lost.
“Can I do something for you?”
She didn’t look at the paper, but I could see it tremble slightly. “Are you Miss Millhone?”
“Yes.”
“I’m hoping you can help me.”
“I can certainly try.”
“I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding. Something was sent to you by mistake and I need to have it back.”
“Really. And what’s that?”
“A photograph album. I’d appreciate your returning it as soon as possible. Today, actually, if it’s not inconvenient.”
I kept my face a blank, but I knew exactly what she was talking about. My Aunt Susanna had given me the album shortly after we met, just about this same time the year before. The package had arrived when I was out of town, so Henry had passed it on to Stacey Oliphant, who’d brought it down to the desert town of Quorum, where we were working a case. The album was old, half filled with Kinsey family photographs, and I’d been touched by the gesture. There was never any suggestion that the album was on loan, though now that I thought about it, I could see that it wasn’t mine to keep.
I said, “I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.”
“Bettina Thurgood. I drove down from Lompoc, hoping to divert any further trouble.”
“Who’s causing trouble?”
She hesitated. “Your cousin, Tasha.”
“What’s she have to do with it?”
“She’s been planning an event. She said she sent you an invitation.”
“Sure. I received it last week.”
“She needs the old family photographs for a big display she’s making, but when she asked Cornelia for the album, it was nowhere to be found. Tasha got very snippy and now Cornelia blames me.”
“When you say Cornelia, I assume you’re talking about Grand.”
“Your grandmother, yes. Tasha thinks Cornelia’s just being stubborn, refusing to hand over the album because she’s so possessive about the family history. The two got into quite a tangle.”
“Why didn’t Aunt Susanna speak up? She’s the one who sent me the album. If she wants it back, all she has to do is ask.”
“Oh no, dear. Susanna didn’t send the album. I did.”
“You did?”
She nodded. “Last April.”
“Why would you do that? You don’t know me from Adam.”
“Cornelia told me to. I argued until I was blue in the face, but she ordered me to send it to you and that’s what I did. Of course, now she’s forgotten the entire incident. She turned the house upside down in search of the album and when she couldn’t lay hands on it, she accused me of sneaking it to Tasha behind her back. That’s when I decided I’d had enough.”
I squinted at the woman, trying to figure out what she was talking about. I understood what she’d said, but I’d never met Grand and I had no idea why she’d send me the family album. “Are you sure about this?”
“Oh my, yes. You don’t have to take my word for it. I have the proof right here.”
She opened her purse and pulled out a green postcard that I recognized as a return-receipt request. She passed it to me and I glanced at the notations that indicated the date and time the parcel was sent and provided a line for the person who’d signed for it. I recognized Henry’s writing. He often signs on my behalf if I’m gone, as long as delivery isn’t restricted. There was also a note that the package had been mailed from Lompoc, all of which coincided with what I knew. Why would the woman lie? How would she know about me or the album if she hadn’t mailed it in the first place?
“Why would Grand order you to send it to me?”
“I have no idea. None of us dare question anything she does. Now that she’s forgotten, there’s no point in quizzing her.”
Well, that was a comforting thought. Sending the album was the only gesture my grandmother had ever made toward me. Now not only was she taking it back, but she’d erased the incident from her mind. Here I’d been feeling all warm and gooey about Aunt Susanna and that illusion was gone now as well. Not that Bettina was at fault. She was looking at me plaintively.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Is there any way I might take advantage of your facilities?”
“You need a bathroom.”
“I do.”
“Why don’t you come in?”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“I can make you a cup of tea while you’re here,” I said.
“Really, dear. That would be lovely.”
Bettina followed me through the gate and around to the rear where I unlocked my front door and ushered her in. My studio’s perpetually tidy, so I wasn’t worried about disgracing myself with dirty dishes in the sink. I worried I was out of tea bags and my milk would be old enough to smell like spit-up. I suggested she use the downstairs bathroom to “freshen up,” which is old-people talk for pissing like a race-horse after a long drive.
Once the door closed behind her, I scampered into the kitchen to check on my supply of tea bags. As I opened the cupboard door, a little white moth flew out, which was either an evil omen or evidence of bugs. I opened the tea canister and discovered I had three tea bags left. A quick look in the refrigerator revealed that I was out of milk altogether, but I did have a lemon, the juice of which I’d intended to mix with baking soda to clean the inside of a plastic storage container that was dark with tomato stains. This was a tip from my Aunt Gin, who was famous for household remedies with little or no application to problems in the real world.
I filled the kettle and set it on the stove, turned on the burner under it, and sliced the lemon. I got out cups and saucers, placing a tea bag and a pape
r napkin neatly beside each cup. When Bettina emerged we sat down and had tea together before returning to the subject at hand. By then I was reconciled to handing over the album, which was sitting on my desk. I had no real claim to it and from what she’d said, my returning it was as good as saving her life. That issue out of the way, I thought I might as well pump her for information.
I said, “What happens when you put the album back? Won’t Grand smell a rat?”
“I have that all worked out. I can tuck it under the bed or in the little trunk she keeps in the closet. I might even leave it someplace obvious and let everyone assume it was right there under her nose. There’s a short story about that.”
“ ‘The Purloined Letter.’ Edgar Allan Poe,” I said.
“That’s right.”
“I’m still stumped about why she sent it in the first place.”
Bettina made a gesture, waving the question aside. “She got a bug in her ear. When she comes up with one of her notions, you’d better do as you’re told. She hates to be thwarted and she refuses to explain. Once she issues an order, you’d better hop to it if you know what’s good for you. Not meaning to give offense, but she’s a hellion.”
“So I’ve heard. Why do you put up with her?”
She waved that question down as well. “I’ve kowtowed to her so long, I wouldn’t have the nerve to stand up to her now. For one thing, I live on the property and I’d never hear the end of it.”
“You’re her assistant?”
Bettina laughed. “Oh no. You couldn’t pay me to do a job like that. I help her out of gratitude.”
“For what?”
“Cornelia may be difficult, but she can be kindhearted and generous. She did me a great service many years ago.”
“Which was what?”
“I was abandoned as a child. I grew up in an orphanage. She and your grandfather took me in and raised me as their own. She fostered other children, too, but I was the first.”
“Good news for you. I’m an orphan myself and she didn’t take me in.”
Bettina’s smile faded and she looked at me with concern. “I hope you’ll forgive my saying so, dear, but you seem bitter.”
“No, no. I’m bitter by nature. I always sound like this.”
“Well, I hope I haven’t offended you.”
“Not at all. Why don’t you tell me the story? I’d be fascinated.”
“There’s not much to it. From the ages of five to ten I lived in an institution, the Children’s Haven of Saint Jerome Emiliana. He was the patron saint of orphaned and abandoned little ones. My parents both died in the influenza epidemic of 1918. Any orphanage creates a loose association of pseudo-brothers and -sisters, so I suppose I had a family of sorts. We were fed and we had shelter, but there was little love or affection and no real bond with others. As harsh as this sounds, the nuns were cold. They entered the convent, leaving their families behind, for who knows what reasons. The devout ones didn’t always make it. They became novitiates out of a passion for the church, but the life wasn’t as they imagined it. They were often miserable: home-sick and frightened. Passion doesn’t carry you far, because it’s transitory. The nuns who stayed, those who felt truly at home there, had little to give. Distance suited them.
“When your grandparents plucked me out of that environment they changed the course of my life. I don’t know what would have become of me if I’d remained in the institution until I was of age.”
“You’d have been marked for life like me,” I said.
“What are you talking about, ‘marked for life’? You were raised by your mother’s sister, Virginia. Wasn’t that the case?”
“A mixed blessing if there ever was one.”
“A blessing that counts nonetheless,” she said. She paused to glance at her watch. “I better skedaddle before Cornelia realizes I’m gone. Shall I tell Tasha we can expect you on the twenty-eighth?”
“I’m still thinking about it.”
When we’d finished our tea I placed the album in a brown paper bag and walked Bettina to her car, where she gave my cheek a pat, saying, “Thank you for this. I was worried I’d fail and there’d be hell to pay.”
“Happy to be of help.”
She put a hand to her cheek. “I didn’t think to ask, but you may have photographs of your own you’d like to see included in the display.”
“Actually, I don’t. My aunt left a box of photos, but none of them are of family members. It’s possible she had some in her possession and destroyed them before she died. I wasn’t even aware I had family until four years ago.”
“Oh, you poor thing. Well, if you’d like some of these, we could have duplicates made. I’m sure Cornelia wouldn’t object to the expense.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve lived this long without keepsakes. I’m sure I’ll manage to muddle through.”
“Well, if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
We voiced polite farewells and I watched her return to her car. Off she went, down the street, around the corner, and then she was gone. I turned and walked back to the studio with a mounting sense of dismay. What I was sure of, in retrospect, was my ass had been frosted and handed to me on a plate. Grand took in orphans? I was pissed off again.
I cleared the kitchen counter, tossing spoons, cups, and saucers into the sink. I ran hot water, squirted in a stream of liquid detergent, and watched the bubbles pile up. I turned the water off, washed the dishes, and put them in the rack. When I opened the kitchen cupboard, another little moth fluttered out.
“Shit!”
I began removing items from the shelves, inspecting them gingerly. The flap on a half-empty box of cornmeal bore a tiny slip of something in a web, like a wee insect hammock. I looked in and saw grubs crawling in the cornmeal like kids playing in the sand.
I got out a brown grocery bag and dropped in the box of cornmeal, followed by a bag of flour I didn’t even bother to check. I couldn’t remember now why I’d bought flour and cornmeal in the first place, but the two had been in my possession long enough to spawn vermin. In the interest of sanitation, I tossed out crackers, two stray packets of cereal, a package of dried pasta, and a round cardboard oatmeal container the lid of which I didn’t dare lift. Impatient with the process, I put the bag on the counter and emptied the cupboard entirely. At the end of my rampage, there was nothing left, which meant I could scrub the shelves. Good. How perfect. I would start life afresh.
When the phone rang I left the kitchenette and crossed to the desk. I took a deep breath before I picked up the handset, lest I snap at the poor sucker on the other end of the line. “Hello?”
“Kinsey?”
“Yes.”
“P. F. Sanchez down in Puerto. I came up with the vet’s name and thought I’d pass it on to you.”
“You did? Well, how cool! I didn’t expect to hear from you.” I pulled a scratch pad closer and opened the top drawer, looking for a pencil or a pen.
“I thought it might surprise you. I was pretty sure I knew where the file was, but I had to reorganize everything else while I was looking. That’s the downside of hoarding. Things are always getting out of hand. You have a pen and paper?”
“I do. Fire away,” I said.
“Guy’s name was Walter McNally. He had on office on Dave Levine. McNally Pet Hospital. I’ve got the address and the phone number that were in service at the time.”
He rattled them off and I made a note of the information.
“Did you say ‘Walter’ or ‘Walker’?”
“Walter, with a t.”
“Weird. I think I went to high school with his son,” I said. “What about the date when Ulf was put down?”
“July 13, 1967.”
“Thanks. You’re a doll.”
“You’re welcome. Glad to be of help. If you learn anything of interest, will you call me back and let me know?”
“I’ll do that.”
After I hung up, I hauled out the telephone b
ook and turned to the yellow pages, looking under the listing for veterinarians. There was no entry for Walter McNally or McNally Pet Hospital. I flipped to the white pages, but the only McNallys listed were Walker and Carolyn in Horton Ravine. I made a note of their address and phone number. I picked up the handset and paused.
While I knew Walker to speak to, our relationship was otherwise nonexistent. During my senior year Walker McNally and I had been in the same American history class. At the time, I was in my rebellious phase (which lasted all through high school), so I’d been more interested in cutting classes than attending. As a result, I hadn’t done well. Then again, I didn’t do that well when I wasn’t truant, so no harm accrued as a result of my bad behavior. The only history class I remembered was the day we discussed the differences between the English and the American social structures. The teacher wanted us to appreciate the reasons the colonists had established this brave new land of ours and why they’d eventually broken away from the tyranny of the Crown. By his account, the Brits were rigidly class-conscious, while in America we were not. You can imagine my surprise. There followed a lively exchange of opinions, most of them voiced by the kids from Horton Ravine, whose families were well-off and therefore deeply committed to the notion that life was equitable. Of course, everyone in America was afforded equal opportunities! It was just that the Horton Ravine kids got more of them than the rest of us.
I remembered Walker as elegant, with a certain preppy nonchalance that I admired and feared from afar. He was a good-looking guy, aloof and self-aware. He and his entire social set took privilege for granted, and why would they not? Trips to Europe, Ivy League schools? Ho-hum for them. What piqued my interest was his wild side. He was into excess—fast cars and fast girls. The fast girls had money—nothing cheap about them—but they were reckless. I remembered two in particular—Cassie Weiss and Rebecca Ragsdale, with their perfect skin, perfect teeth, and trim athletic bodies. Both were friendly in the way of girls who know they’re better than you. Walker had dated Rebecca and then he’d broken up with her when Cassie made a play for him.
In those days the hot spot for making out was a hilltop pocket park dubbed Passion Peak. On Friday and Saturday nights the parking lot midway up the hill would be packed with cars, windows fogged over and much thrashing about in the front and rear seats. Those seeking greater comfort and privacy would climb to the top, where the city had installed picnic tables and benches and an oversized gazebo that served as a bandstand for summer concerts. The park had been closed to the public for the past two years because a group of teenagers had taken to building bonfires up there, one of which had set the autumn-dry grass ablaze and burned the gazebo to a charred shell.