by Sue Grafton
Lionel and Mona were married in June of 1965. Now that they were a family of six, they needed a larger place. Fortunately, as part of her divorce settlement, Mona had been awarded a house in Beverly Hills, which she sold for big bucks, rolling the money into the new house in Horton Ravine so she wouldn’t have to pay capital gains. At the same time, Lionel sold the modest three-bedroom house where Jon had been raised. That money was set aside for additions and improvements on the new place, which was situated on a bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Jon moved into a newly remodeled two rooms and a bath built above the garage while Lionel, Mona, and the three girls occupied the main house. Mona told him how lucky he was to have independent living quarters that would allow him to come and go as he pleased. Not that he was permitted to do any such thing. His “pad,” as she referred to it, was a not-so-subtle reminder that he’d been separated from the rest. His wants, needs, and desires were peripheral to hers.
From that point on, everything revolved around Mona. She had her tennis lessons, her golf, and her charities, activities his father didn’t share with her because he was either teaching or secluded in his home office, writing. Jon was the outsider, looking in on a life that had once been his. He was miserable, but he knew better than to complain. At the same time, he wondered why he was expected to go on as though nothing had changed. His life had taken on an entirely different cast.
The following January, when he turned seventeen, he lobbied for his driver’s license and a car of his own. Mona objected, but for once Lionel argued on Jon’s behalf. After much ado and numerous debates, she finally gave in, perhaps because she realized having a car and driver at her disposal would work to her advantage. Lionel bought Jon a used Chevrolet convertible. By then, Mona’s three perfect daughters were enrolled at the same private school Jon had attended since kindergarten. He caught sight of them in the corridors six and seven times a day. Of course, he drove them to school and picked them up afterward. He also kept an eye on them if Lionel and Mona went out for the evening. If he had other plans, if he resisted in any way, Mona would rebuff him with silence, cut him out of her field of vision as though he were invisible. This she was clever enough to do without Lionel’s being aware. If Jon had brought it to his father’s attention, he’d have been written off as paranoid or oversensitive. Lionel would have repeated it all to Mona and she would have doubled the penalties.
Lionel would have had to be a fool not to pick up on the chill in the air, but since neither Mona nor Jon would discuss the situation, his father was no doubt delighted to ignore the problem. One Saturday afternoon Mona took the girls shopping, and Lionel walked out to the garage and knocked at Jon’s door. Jon hollered out, “It’s open!” and Lionel dutifully trudged up the stairs. He took a moment to survey the place, which was as cold and bare as a cell.
He said, “Well, it looks like you’ve settled in. Very nice. Is everything okay?”
“Sure,” Jon said. He knew his two rooms were without character or comfort, but he didn’t want to offer his father the means to maneuver.
“Is it warm enough out here?”
“Pretty much. I don’t have any hot water to speak of. I get five minutes’ worth of lukewarm dribble before it runs out.”
“Well, that’s no good. I’m glad you brought it up. I’ll have Mona take care of it.”
Jon suspected he’d just given his father an opening to the Mona discussion that loomed. It was up to his father to proceed without any help from him.
“Mind if I sit down?”
Jon moved a pile of dirty clothes from a wooden desk chair so his father could take a seat. Lionel began a long, rambling discourse about the new blended family. He acknowledged that things were sometimes tense between Mona and Jon, but she was doing her best, and Lionel said it was only fair that Jon meet her halfway.
Jon stared at him, bemused by the enormity of Lionel’s self-delusion. Of course, his father was her defender. She and Lionel were allies. Jon had no recourse. There was no court of appeals. In effect, his father was announcing that Jon was totally at her mercy. Her whims, her sharp tongue, her uncanny ability to seize the upper hand: for all of this, she had Lionel’s blessing. Jon couldn’t believe his father didn’t see what was going on.
“Well, Dad,” he said carefully, “not to be obtuse about it, but from my perspective, she’s a clusterfuck.”
Lionel reacted as though slapped. “Well, son, you’re certainly entitled to your opinion, but I trust you’ll keep it to yourself. I’d appreciate it if you’d try to get along with her, for my sake if nothing else.”
“For your sake? How do you figure that?”
Lionel shook his head, his tone patient. “I know the adjustment isn’t easy. She’ll never replace your mother. She’s not asking for that and neither am I. You have to trust me on this; she’s a caring person, amazing really, once you get to know her better. In the meantime, I expect you to treat her with the respect she deserves.”
It was the word “amazing” that somehow stuck in Jon’s craw. Mona was the enemy, but he could see how futile it was to battle her head-on. After that, Jon referred to her as the Amazing Mona, though never in his father’s company and never to her face. The newlyweds’ first Christmas together, the Amazing Mona had inveigled Lionel to play Santa for a Climping Academy fund-raiser, and every year thereafter, he donned his white wig, white beard, and white mustache, and then climbed into a red velvet fat suit, trimmed in white fur. Even his boots were fake. In Jon’s mind, the photograph that exactly captured their relationship was the one in a silver frame Mona displayed on the baby grand piano in the newly decorated living room. In it she was decked out in a low-cut Yves Saint Laurent evening gown, perched seductively on Santa’s lap. While she glowed for the camera, Lionel’s identity was obliterated. She did manage to raise over a hundred thousand dollars for the school, and for this she was widely praised.
Jon unburdened himself bitterly to his brother by phone. “She is such a total bitch. She’s a tyrant. I’m telling you. She’s a fucking na rcissist.”
Grant said, “Oh, come on. You’ll be out of the house in a year or two, so what’s it to you?”
“She thinks she can run my life and Dad lets her get away with it. Talk about being pussy-whipped.”
“So what? That’s his business, not yours.”
“Shit, that’s easy for you to say. I’d like to see you try living under the same roof with her.”
Bored with the topic, Grant said, “Just tough it out. Once you finish high school you can come live with me.”
“I’m not moving away from all my friends!”
“That’s the best I can offer. Stiff upper lip, old chum.”
Jon discovered a new way to occupy his time. He began breaking into various Horton Ravine homes he knew were unoccupied. While he caddied at the club, he picked up all manner of information about members’ travel plans. Guys chatted among themselves about upcoming cruises and European tours, jaunts to San Francisco, Chicago, and New York. It was a form of bragging, though it was couched in queries about exchange rates, good deals on charter flights, and luxury hotels. Lionel and Mona socialized with most of them, so all Jon had to do was look up their addresses in Mona’s Rolodex. He’d wait until the family was gone and find his way in. If there was talk of an alarm system or a house sitter, he knew to avoid the place. People were careless about locking up. Jon found windows unlatched, basement doors unsecured. Failing that, he scouted out the house keys hidden under flowerpots and fake garden rocks.
Once inside, he cruised the premises, poking through closets and dresser drawers. Home offices were a rich source of information. He was curious about women’s underwear, about the fragrances they used, their personal hygiene. He didn’t steal anything. That wasn’t the point. Breaking and entering gave him temporary relief from anxiety. The heightened fear level washed away the stress he carried and his equilibrium was restored.
Midway through his junior year, he started cutting cl
asses at Climp, first occasionally, then more often. Not surprisingly, his grades tumbled. He was secretly amused at all the murmuring that went on behind his back. There were conferences at school and conferences at home. Notes went back and forth. Phone calls were exchanged. Lionel didn’t want to be the bad guy, so Mona was the one who finally lowered the boom.
She was stern and reproving, and Jon made every effort to keep a straight face while she read him the riot act. “Your father and I have discussed this at length. You have great potential, Jon, but you’re not putting forth your best effort. Since you’re doing so poorly, we think it’s a waste of our money to pay private-school tuition. If you’re unwilling to apply yourself at Climp, we think you should transfer to Santa Teresa High.”
Jon knew what she was up to. She thought the threat of public school would give her leverage. He shrugged. “That’s cool. Santa Teresa High School. Let’s do it.”
Mona frowned, unable to believe he wasn’t going to protest her ruling and promise to improve. “I’m sure you’ll want to graduate with your classmates at Climp, so we’d be willing to discuss it after the first semester at Santa Teresa High, assuming you do better. If you show us you can bring your grades up, we’ll see that you’re transferred back. The decision is yours.”
“I already decided. I’ll take the public high school.”
The fall of 1966, at the end of Jon’s first day at Santa Teresa High, he was standing at his locker when a kid at the locker next to his looked over and smiled. “You’re new. I saw you this morning. We’re in the same homeroom.”
“Right. I remember. I’m Jon Corso.”
The kid extended his hand. “Walker McNally.”
The two shook hands and then Walker said, “Where you from?”
“I was at Climp last year. I flunked out.”
Walker laughed. “Good job. I like it. Welcome to Santa Teresa High.” He opened his locker and dumped his books, then took out a windbreaker and shrugged himself into it. “Speaking of high, this seems like an occasion worth celebrating. You have a car?”
“In the parking lot.”
Walker reached into his jacket pocket and removed a joint. “Shall we adjourn, good sir?”
The first time Jon smoked dope was the first time he’d laughed in years. The laughter was hard-edged and uncontrollable. Later he couldn’t even remember what he found so funny, but in the moment it had felt like happiness, however empty and artificially induced.
16
Wednesday, April 13, 1988
Wednesday morning I came up against a stumbling block. As usual, I’d rolled out of bed, pulled on my sweats and running shoes, brushed my teeth, and headed out the door. I used the walk from my studio to Cabana Boulevard to warm up, setting a brisk pace to prime my pumping heart and soften the long muscles that kept my legs moving. By the time I reached the wharf at the foot of State Street, I’d break into a trot, picking up the tempo as I proceeded. Sometimes I jogged on the bike path and sometimes on the sidewalk, depending on the number of runners, walkers, and bicyclists out on any given morning.
Ahead of me a group of seniors had taken up a big chunk of the bike path, walking four people across and eight to ten people deep, in two separate clusters. I opted for the sidewalk to avoid the stragglers. On my left I passed a row of coin-operated newspaper stands and I gave them a cursory glance. A name popped out at me and I paused to read the headlines, most of which were dated the day before. The latest edition of the L.A. Times, the Perdido County Record, and the San Francisco Chronicle would replace the old issues as soon as the delivery truck made its morning rounds. What caught my attention was an article in the Santa Teresa Dispatch, on the left-hand side of the front page, just above the fold. The heading read:UCST COED KILLED IN DRUNK DRIVER MISHAP
In the next line down, I saw Walker McNally’s name.
I tried to peer past the frame, but the balance of the story was blocked from my view. I don’t carry money when I run so I was forced to circumvent the tiny issue of the lock. I gave the window flap a quick couple of jerks and up it popped. I removed a copy of the Dispatch and let the window snap back into the locked position. I turned to the first section and read the article while I walked. When I reached the bus stop, I sank onto a bench and read the whole of it again.
On Monday afternoon, a UCST sophomore named Julie Riordan had been killed in a two-car collision on Highway 154 while returning home from San Francisco. Walker McNally had been at the wheel of the other car. According to witnesses, he’d lost control of his Mercedes, crossed into oncoming traffic, and slammed into her head-on. He’d then crawled out of the wreckage and taken off on foot. By the time the cops caught up with him, he’d collapsed on the side of the road. He’d been admitted to St. Terry’s with a blood-alcohol level well over the legal limit. His injuries were non-life-threatening and his condition was listed as stable. Julie Riordan, age nineteen, was pronounced dead at the scene.
No wonder Carolyn McNally had hung up on me. Walker was probably still in the hospital when I’d called his house. She must have assumed I’d been hired to investigate the accident. When and if Walker returned to work—assuming he hadn’t been thrown in the pokey in the interim—he wasn’t going to be any friendlier than his wife had been. His colleagues at the bank would be on lockdown as well, warned about disseminating information of even the most benign sort. All I wanted was his father’s current address and a few minutes of his time. If Dr. McNally had forgotten the dog, I’d be facing another dead end, but it made me crazy to think he might be in town and me with no access.
I flirted with the idea of contacting Diana Alvarez. She could probably bully or bullshit her way through to any source she pleased, but I didn’t want to tip her to my interest in the wolfdog buried on that hill. Flannagan Sanchez had given me as much information as he had, so another chat with him would net me nothing. I abandoned the run and went home.
I tossed the newspaper on the counter and flipped on the TV. I tuned into one of the local stations, hoping the story would be covered in an upcoming news segment. All I caught was an endless stream of commercials. I tried two more channels with the same result. I left the TV on and went upstairs to shower. Once I was dressed, I put the coffee on and then ate a piece of toast while I read the article again. No two ways about it, Walker McNally was in deep shit. So now what?
On my way in to the office I stopped off at the market. I needed to replace the bug-infested foodstuffs I’d discarded on Monday. I wasn’t likely to cook or bake, but my barren shelves looked pitiful. I stocked up on flour, cornmeal, cereal, and crackers, both graham and saltines, if you really want to know. I also bought baking soda and a container of baking powder. I’d noticed, as I tossed the old one in the trash, that the “best if used by” date on the bottom of the tin was March 1985. On a roll by then, I bought dried bow-tie pasta and long-grain rice, along with cans of tomato sauce, tomato paste, and diced tomatoes with onion and basil. I was shopping only to give my beleaguered brain a rest. I needed a new game plan and I wouldn’t come up with one if I tried to tackle the problem directly.
I moved to the next aisle, piling tissue boxes, rolls of paper towels, and toilet paper in my cart. I had my hand on a container of liquid detergent when a possible solution occurred to me. I finished my shopping, paid for my groceries, and stowed everything in the trunk of my car. Then I slid under the wheel and took my notebook out of my shoulder bag, leafing through the pages until I found the address Sanchez had given me for the McNally Pet Hospital on Dave Levine Street. At the back of my mind, I’d been playing a little game of “suppose” and “what if” in my quest to find Walker’s dad. I’d thought, What if, on his retirement, Dr. McNally had sold his practice to another veterinarian? The new vet might well know his current whereabouts.
I fired up my Mustang and pulled out of the lot. I hung a right on Chapel and drove the length of it until I reached the dead end at Miracle, where I turned left for half a block. This put me at Dave Levine Stre
et, six blocks from the point at which it split from State. The address I wanted had to be somewhere to my left. I turned and continued at a greatly reduced speed until I reached Solitario Street. On the far side of the intersection, in a seven-tenant strip mall, I spotted Mid-City Cat Clinic with an address that matched the one Sanchez had given me. I snagged the only parking place available and sat for a moment, hoping the gods would be merciful. A wooden cutout of a Puss in Boots pointed at the clinic door, where the names of two veterinarians were stenciled on the pane—Stephanie Forbes, DVM, and Vespa Chin, DVM.
I got out, locked the car, and went in. The waiting room was small and neat, with a counter on the right that separated the receptionist’s desk from the clientele. Behind her was a bank of charts, sporting a rainbow of tabs. A wall-mounted chart illustrated the difference between a fit cat and a fat cat. A nearby bulletin board was plastered with snapshots of cats that I imagined had been treated by the venerable Drs. Forbes and Chin. Through a doorway I saw wire cages that held an assortment of felines, some perhaps boarders and some being treated for various kitty ills.