by Sue Grafton
Occasionally, the teller would lean forward and look at an item herself, but for the most part she seemed content to observe without comment.
Aaron came to Dace’s social security card and a California driver’s license that had expired in May of 1976. He made a note of the social security number, Dace’s full name, and his address at the time the license was issued. “The initial ‘R’ stands for Randall,” he remarked.
“Good to know.”
He passed both documents to me after he added the information to his inventory.
I checked the date of birth on his driver’s license. “Catch this. He was born in 1935, which means he’s fifty-three years old. He looked more like seventy when I saw him.”
“Nobody ever said drink, drugs, and cigarettes were the fountain of youth.”
“I guess not.”
Aaron read and passed along paperwork related to the settlement, showing Dace’s receipt of the money, his signature attesting to the fact that this was settlement in full, that he held the state harmless, and so forth. I added that document to the mounting pile of those we’d reviewed.
The next items Aaron passed me were three sixteen-page folios Dace had put together for his children. I recognized his characteristic printing style. The three booklets were handwritten and handbound. The first covered edible California plants; the second, medicinal herbs; and the third was devoted to California wildflowers. Included with the text were delicate drawings, some done in pen and ink and some in colored pencil. There was a note attached to each, indicating which child was meant as the recipient. There was no way to know whether he’d put the folios together while he was still in prison or after his release, but I was struck by the care he’d taken. He couldn’t have executed the intricate illustrations if he was drunk. These were like poems made visible, precise and lovingly rendered. For the first time, I realized Terrence Dace was a talented man, with an innate intelligence and sensitivity few people in his life had reason to appreciate. How many hours had he spent on the project, and how much affection had he lavished on the drawings and the text? I hoped someone would track down his kids and deliver these in his behalf. It might make a dent in whatever ill will they bore him. The guy deserved better.
The next envelope Aaron picked up was five inches by eight and closed with a metal clasp. Aaron opened it and removed four black-and-white photographs. They were the old-fashioned Kodak prints edged in white. Aaron noted the topmost photo and studied it briefly before he picked up the next. I did the same thing as he passed each one along. Even the teller leaned forward to have a look. In the first, a towheaded boy of six was perched on the shoulders of a rangy, good-looking man who was grasping the child’s feet to anchor him in place. The background showed glimpses of flat, empty land. I could see a crumpled fence and two young trees. I pictured farmland and open countryside. On the back of the photograph, in pen, the note said ME AND UNCLE R, SEPTEMBER 1941. The boy had to be Terrence Dace. I’d seen him only once, in death, and while it was a stretch to trace the similarities between the child and the wreck of a man he’d become, the faint link was there.
The second photo showed the same towheaded boy, progressed to age ten. This time he and his Uncle R sat on the front stairs of a white frame house, Uncle R on the top step with Terrence seated between his uncle’s knees one step down. The affection between the two was unmistakable. Behind them, I could see a portion of a screen door. Off the bottom step there was a boot scraper shaped like a dachshund, and on the right, partially obscured, was a cast concrete planter filled with marigolds in desperate need of watering. Now I picked up the family resemblance; the same flop of straight hair, the same tilt to the eyes. This one was also marked ME AND UNCLE R. The date was June 4, 1945.
The third and fourth photos were indoor shots, one with a Christmas tree showing in the background. Uncle R wasn’t visible; in fact, I was guessing he was the photographer. Young Terrence, now perhaps twelve, was the proud possessor of a .22 rifle, the box and wrapping paper still in evidence at his feet. No date on the back. The fourth photo was taken in the kitchen, the same house and the same holiday, judging by Dace’s shirt, which appeared in both. Terrence and his Uncle R toasted the season with clear-glass punch cups held aloft. The drink might have been eggnog, something creamy-looking. The curve of whiskey bottle to the right suggested that Uncle R had greatly improved his libation. He might even have accorded Dace a wee tot of Old Crow. This time Uncle R was sitting at the boy’s side with his free arm slung across his shoulders.
No wonder Dace had come looking for his Uncle R’s kids. Uncle R was family as he remembered it; family as it was in the days when he was young and life was good. If he’d been estranged from his own children it would be natural for him to dream of forging a bond with the only family he had left. He’d wanted to be clean and sober before he presented himself. According to Dandy, he’d been drunk until the day he died. So much for that idea.
I heard the rustle of paper.
“Well, this is a kick in the pants,” Aaron said.
I looked up to find him examining the final document, which was backed in blue. “Is that his will?”
“Indeed.”
“What’s the date? Dandy said it was July 8.”
“That’s it,” he said.
“So not sewn into the lining of his sleeping bag after all?”
“Nope. Are these the three witnesses you mentioned?”
He flipped the pages and held out the final page so I could see the printed names and signatures: Pearl White, Daniel D. Singer, and Felix Beider.
I realized that “Dandy” was the shorthand version of Daniel D. Dan D. “I never heard their last names except Pearl’s, and I wasn’t sure that was correct. Dandy referred to her as Ms. Pearly White, but I thought it might have been a play on words.”
Aaron returned to the first page. “Not a word about the disposition of his remains, but his kids might expect to have a say in the matter. He’s got all three listed, but there’s only one address and that’s his son, Ethan’s. Nothing for the two girls, so maybe he didn’t know where they were living.”
He turned to the second page and I saw his gaze zigzag down the lines of print. His mouth turned down in an expression that suggested surprise. “The guy was frosted. Says here, ‘I have intentionally omitted to provide in this will for my son, Ethan, or for my daughters, Ellen and Anna, whose loathing and disdain are irreparable and who have repudiated our relationship and severed all ties.’”
I said, “Dandy told me about that. It must have been quite a blowup.”
“Well, this is helpful,” Aaron went on. “Says, ‘Be it known that I own no real property, have no debts, and have no assets other than the monies deposited in my savings account and the incidental personal effects in my safe deposit box. It is my desire that the executor of my estate should notify my children of my death and deliver the gifts I’ve set aside for them.’”
“If he’s disinherited his kids, does it mean his money goes right back to the state? That would be a pisser,” I said.
“Oh, no. He made sure he had all his ducks in a row. For starters, he’s set it up so the executor and sole beneficiary are the same.”
“Meaning what? Is that a good thing or bad?”
“It’s not a problem one way or the other. I think the tricky issue lies elsewhere.”
He pushed the document across the table and I leaned forward so I could read the name listed in two different places on the same page.
I said, “Oh.”
Because the name was mine.
11
I don’t remember the drive home. I kept my emotions on hold, unable to accept what I’d been confronted with in black and white. Before Aaron and I left the bank, the teller made one copy of his inventory sheet for me and a second to be kept in the safe deposit box. She also made a copy of Dace’s will, along with copies of the other paperwork, which she returned to the safe deposit box. Aaron received one packet and I was
given the other. Since I was named executor of the estate, she also handed me the original of the will to be submitted to the superior court clerk when it was entered into probate. I intended to contact an attorney as soon as possible because I already knew I was in over my head. I needed legal guidance and I needed help understanding the full impact of this strange turn of events. This was like winning the lottery without buying a ticket. Half a million bucks? Unreal.
Out on the street, Aaron and I shook hands. I have no idea why. There was simply the sense that some agreement had been reached and we’d sealed the bargain with that age-old gesture, denoting courtliness and nonaggression.
He said, “At a totally mundane level, I still have Dace’s sleeping bag. Looks like that belongs to you along with everything else. You want me to hang on to it?”
“No, thanks. I can tell you right now I won’t be crawling into that thing no matter how many times it’s been cleaned.”
• • •
Once on my street, I parked, locked the car, passed through the squeaky gate, and went around to the back patio. I let myself in, dropped my shoulder bag on the counter, and sat down at my desk. I opened the file drawer and took out the folder where I kept the photocopy of my parents’ marriage license application. I knew what I’d find, but I needed to see it again nonetheless.
Four years previously, a piece of my personal history had surfaced unexpectedly. In the course of an investigation, a woman I was interviewing made a remark about the name Kinsey, wondering aloud if I was related to the Kinsey family up in Lompoc, an hour north of Santa Teresa. I dismissed the idea, but something about the comment bothered me. I’d finally gone down to the courthouse, where I searched public records and came up with the information my parents had supplied on the application for their marriage license, which listed my father’s date and place of birth, my mother’s date and place of birth, and the names of both sets of parents.
And there it was.
My mother, whose maiden name was Kinsey, was born in Lompoc, California. I was indeed a member of the Kinsey family, despite the fact that there had been no contact (that I knew of) in the years since my parents’ death. At the time, I’d paid for a copy of the form, which I’d placed in my files. Now I looked at it with new eyes. My paternal grandfather—my father’s father—was Quillen Millhone. My grandmother’s maiden name was Rebecca Dace. Their only son, my father, was Terrence Randall Millhone, who went by the name Randy. He listed his place of birth as Bakersfield, California, which I’d forgotten. Terrence Dace’s full name was Randall Terrence Dace. The two given names had probably been recycled through the family in variations from one generation to the next, going back who knows how far. If Rebecca Dace had brothers, it would explain how the surname Dace remained in play.
Why hadn’t I made the connection when I first heard the name? It’s not as though Dace was a common name like Smith or Jones. The truth was, I’d been raised thinking of myself as an orphan. My Aunt Gin, for reasons of her own, had neatly sidestepped any talk of our family history. While she was intimately acquainted with the facts, she felt no compulsion to advise me of my antecedents. When assorted Kinsey relatives appeared in my life, I reacted as though my world were being invaded by aliens. I was unaccustomed to cousins and aunts, and I chafed at their overtures, which were motivated by goodwill. The existence of my maternal grandmother, Cornelia Straith LaGrand Kinsey, was a shock and not one I received with grace. Over the past couple of years, I’d adjusted (more or less), but I wasn’t entirely reconciled to any of it.
In my defense, when I’d first clapped eyes on the John Doe, cold and gray and still as stone on a gurney in the coroner’s office, I’d had no reason in the world to believe the man was in any way related to me. Now, for all practical purposes, he belonged to me, and I was charged with the responsibility of overseeing the distribution of his assets, which apparently consisted entirely of cash, left entirely to me. Why did this seem so wrong? There was no mention in the will itself as to what he’d wanted done with his remains. I’d make arrangements for his funeral, but his children might want a part in that decision. Despite their rejection of him and his subsequent repudiation of them, he was still their father, and the issue was by no means settled. Whether his death did or did not change the emotional climate in their hearts, it was still my job to carry the news to them and to offer an olive branch. Surely, his kids must have felt relieved when they learned of his innocence. Whatever the nature of their estrangement, at least the specter of their father as a sexual predator and cold-blooded killer had been laid to rest.
The other question that bore consideration was this: if R. T. Dace and I were related, which appeared to be the case, then what was the connection? While it was only speculation on my part, the answer seemed obvious. Dace had come to Santa Teresa because he’d heard that his favorite “Uncle R” had moved here with his family. He’d heard the news of his uncle’s death, but he’d still thought he might contact surviving family members. The slip of paper in his pocket didn’t refer to the personhood of Millhone, the private investigator. It was Millhone, the private citizen. The only conclusion that made sense was that Dace’s favorite “Uncle R” was my father, Randy Millhone. Terrence Randall Millhone and Randall Terrence Dace were related by blood, though I had no way of knowing if their relationship was actually that of uncle to nephew or something more convoluted. If I was correct in tracing a line to my grandmother Rebecca Dace, then Terrence was most likely my cousin somewhere along that branch.
This is what stopped me in my tracks. If I was right, then the four black-and-white photographs of Dace’s “Uncle R” were the only pictures of my father I’d ever seen. I shut the door on that painful notion, which I’d deal with once I had the snapshots in hand. Right now, they were tucked away in Dace’s safe deposit box along with the other documents I could lay claim to once I sorted through legal matters.
I pulled out the telephone book and looked in the yellow pages under “Attorneys.” In the subcategory “Wills, Trusts and Estate Planning,” there were twenty-one lawyers listed and I’d never heard of one. It wasn’t quite noon, so I picked up the phone and called Lonnie Kingman, my attorney of record. He’s my go-to guy at the first sign of legal troubles, which have cropped up more than once in the course of my career. For a period of three years, we’d shared office space, in that he’d accorded me the use of his conference room for business purposes after I left California Fidelity Insurance.
Eventually, his firm had outgrown the space he was in and he’d bought an office building on lower State Street into which he’d moved some two years before. I realized with embarrassment that I’d never even stepped foot in the place. Maybe I should have considered that good news because it meant I hadn’t been arrested, jailed, or legally threatened of late. Instead, I was forced, once again, to acknowledge the gaps in my upbringing. Aunt Gin hadn’t fostered feelings of connectedness and I hadn’t had occasion to develop them on my own. Maybe it was time to at least pretend to be a nicer person than I knew I was. I dialed Lonnie’s office number.
When the receptionist picked up, I identified myself and asked to speak to Lonnie. I didn’t recognize the receptionist’s name. She told me he was out of the country and wasn’t expected back until the following week.
“What about John Ives? Is he in?”
“No, ma’am, he’s not. Mr. Ives has left the firm and opened offices of his own. I can give you his number if you’d like.”
“Martin Cheltenham?”
“He moved to Los Angeles . . .”
“Who’s left?”
“I can put you through to Mr. Zimmerman.”
“What’s his specialty?”
“Personal injury.”
“Do you have anyone who handles estate law? Wills, dead people? Anything like that?”
“Burke Benjamin.”
“Fine. I’ll take him.”
“Her.”
“Right. Could you put me through?”
“She’s not here at the moment but I expect her back after lunch. Shall I set up an appointment?”
“Please. I’m a friend and longtime client of Lonnie’s and I can be there at one o’clock if she’s available.”
“Looks like it to me. I’ll make a note of it.”
“Thanks so much.”
I spelled my name for her. She asked for my phone number and I dutifully recited it. I thought she might ask for a credit card number, like a restaurant hedging against no-shows, but she let it go at that.
I used the time before my appointment to get out my index cards and transfer information from the photocopies of the paperwork in Dace’s safe deposit box: California driver’s license, which included his then address; his social security number; and his son’s street address in Bakersfield. There was no phone number that I could find. There were other incidental bits and pieces I consigned to index cards, which were easier to carry with me than an eight-by-eleven folder. I created a file for him, into which I tucked the photocopies. It looked like there would be much more to follow before I was through with him.
• • •
The three-story building Lonnie’d bought on lower State Street was the original home of the Spring Fresh Ice Cream Company, which had operated from 1907 until it went into bankruptcy proceedings in 1931. The name Spring Fresh and the year 1907 were carved in Gothic-style lettering in the gray stone lintel above the entrance. For twenty-four years, the ground floor was occupied by the Spring Fresh Ice Cream Emporium, after which the space was taken over by a series of food-related businesses—a luncheonette, a candy store, a soda fountain, and a tea shop—while the two stories above it were let as offices. I learned all of this because a plaque mounted to the right of the front door sketched the building’s metamorphosis, including its designation as a historical landmark.