Sue Grafton

by Four Sue Grafton Novels(Q, R, S;T)

  To the left, in the tiny lobby, was a counter with a glass partition, probably bulletproof, though it was impossible to tell. The civilian clerk, a woman, looked up when we came in. Stacey said, “We’re here to see Sergeant Detective Joe Mandel.”

  She pushed a clipboard across the counter. “He said he’d be right out.”

  All three of us signed in and she gave us each a visitor’s badge, which we fastened onto our shirts. There were three chairs available, but we elected to stand. Through the locked glass door, I could already see someone approaching from the far end of the corridor. He pushed the door open from his side and let us in. There were the usual introductions and a round of handshakes. From the flicker in his eyes, I could tell he recognized me from our meeting in his kitchen, but if he thought it odd, he never let on. He knew Stacey well, but I gathered he hadn’t seen Dolan for many years. They exchanged pleasantries as he held the door open and let us into the corridor.

  We turned left and followed him down a long hallway, a dogrun of beige carpeting and beige walls, with offices opening up on either side. Joe introduced us to Sergeant Steve Rhineberger, in the Sheriff’s forensics unit. He unlocked a door and showed us into a room that looked like a tract-housing kitchen without the stove. There were counters on three sides and some sort of ventilation apparatus at the rear. A large battered-looking brown paper bag sat on the table in the center of the room.

  Sergeant Rhineberger opened a lower cabinet door, tore off a length of white paper from a wide roll inside, and took out a pair of disposable latex gloves. “I asked the coroner’s office to send over the mandible and maxilla. I thought you might want to look at those, too.”

  He placed the sheet of protective paper on the table, pulled on the gloves, and then broke the seal on the evidence bag. He removed the folded tarp and various articles of clothing, which he spread on the paper. Mandel removed a handful of disposable gloves from the cardboard dispenser on the counter. He passed a pair to Stacey, a pair to Dolan, and a pair to me. The guys had been chatting about department business, but we all fell into a respectful silence. Eighteen years after the violence of her death, there was only the crackle of white paper and the snap of gloves.

  It was strange to look at items I’d only seen before in faded photographs. The shirt and daisy-print pants had been cut from the body and the garments seemed sprawling and misshapen laid out across the tabletop. The fabric was soiled and moist, as though permeated with damp sand. The bloodstains resembled nothing so much as smudges of rust. Her sandals were leather, decorated with brass buckles linked with leather bands. A narrow thong would have separated her big toe from the remaining toes on each foot. The sandals looked new except for faint stains on the sole where her heel and the ball of her bare foot had left indelible marks.

  Rhineberger opened a container and removed Jane Doe’s upper and lower jawbones. Her teeth showed extensive dental work, sixteen to eighteen amalgam fillings. When he set the maxilla on the mandible, matching the grooves and worn surfaces where they met, we could see the extent of her overbite and the crooked eyetooth on the left. “Can’t believe nobody recognized her by the description of the teeth. Charlie says it was all probably done a year or two before she died. You can see the wisdom teeth haven’t erupted yet. He says she probably wasn’t eighteen.” He placed the bones back in the container, leaving the lid off.

  Her personal effects scarcely covered the tabletop. This was all that was left of her, the entire sum. I experienced a sense of puzzlement that any life could be reduced to such humble remnants. Surely, she’d expected far more from the world—love, marriage, children, perhaps—at the very least a valued presence among her friends and family. Her remains were buried now in a grave without a headstone, its location marked by lot number in the cemetery ledger. In spite of that, she seemed curiously real, given the sparse data we had. I’d seen the black-and-white photograph of her where she lay on the August-dry grass, her face obscured by the angle of her body and the intervening shrubs. Her midriff, a portion of her forearm, and a section of her calf were all that were visible from the camera’s perspective, her flesh swollen, mottled by decomposition as though bruised.

  I picked up the plastic bag that contained a lock of her hair, which looked clean and silky, a muted shade of blond. A second plastic bag held two delicate earrings, simple loops of gold wire. The only remaining evidence of the murder itself was the length of thin cable, encased in white plastic, with which her wrists had been bound. The tarp was made of a medium-weight canvas, the seams stitched in red, with metal grommets inserted at regular intervals. It looked like standard-issue—a painter’s drop cloth, or a cover used to shield a cord of firewood from rain. In one corner, there was a red speck that looked like a ladybug or a spot of blood, but on closer inspection I realized it was simply a small square of red stitches, where the thread had been secured at the end of the row. From these few tokens, we were hoping to reconstruct not only her identity but that of her killer. How could she be so compelling that eighteen years later the five of us would assemble like this in her behalf?

  Belatedly, I tuned into the conversation. Stacey was laying out our progress to date. Apparently, Mandel had gone back and reviewed the file himself. Like Stacey and Dolan, who’d actually discovered the body, he’d been involved from the first. He was saying, “Too bad Crouse is gone. There aren’t many of us left.”

  Dolan said, “What happened to Crouse?”

  “He sold his house and moved his family to Oregon. Now he’s chief of police in some little podunk town up there. Last I heard he was bored to tears, but he can’t afford to come back with housing prices here. Keith Baldwin and Oscar Wallen are both retired and Mel Galloway’s dead. Nonetheless, it’s nice to have a chance to revisit this case. You have to think after all these years, we might shake something loose.”

  Stacey said, “What’s your take on it? You see anything we missed?”

  Mandel thought about that briefly. “I guess the only thing I’d be curious about is this Iona Mathis, the gal Frankie Miracle was married to. She might know something if you can track her down. I hear she came back and sat through the trial with him. She damn near married the guy again she felt so sorry for him.”

  Stacey made a pained face. “I don’t get the appeal. I can’t even manage to get married once, and I’m a law-abiding citizen. You have an address on her?”

  “No, but I can get you one.”

  11

  Dolan dropped me off at the office before he took Stacey home. Stacey’s energy was flagging and, in truth, mine was, too. As I unlocked the door, I noticed a Mercedes station wagon parked in the narrow driveway that separated my bungalow from the next in line. The woman in the driver’s seat was working on a piece of needlepoint, the roll of canvas resting awkwardly against the steering wheel. She looked up at me and waved, then set her canvas on the seat beside her. She got out of the car, reached into the rear seat, and pulled out a shopping bag, saying, “I was beginning to think I’d missed you.”

  I waited while she locked the car door and headed in my direction. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t remember how I knew her. I placed her in her early sixties, trim, attractive, nicely dressed in a lightweight red wool suit. Her hair was medium length, tinted a deep auburn shade and brushed loosely off her face.

  I hesitated on the threshold, still scrambling through my bag of memories, trying to connect a name to the face. Who was this? A neighbor? A former client? “Are you waiting for me?”

  She smiled, showing a row of square even teeth. Before she managed to say another word, I felt a silvery note of fear pluck at the base of my spine, like a sandcrab picking its way erratically across guitar strings. She held out her hand. “I’m your aunt Susanna.”

  I shook hands with her, trying to compute the term “aunt.” I knew the meaning but couldn’t for the life of me figure out what to do with it.

  “Tasha’s mother,” she added. “I hope I didn’t catch you at bad time. S
he did tell you I’d stop by, didn’t she? How embarrassing for me if she forgot.”

  “Sure. Of course. Sorry I drew a blank, but I was thinking of something else. Come on in and have a seat. You want coffee? I was just about to put a pot on for myself.”

  She followed me through the front door and into the inner office. “Thank you. I’d like that.” She set down her shopping bag and took a seat in the client chair across the desk. Her eyes were hazel like mine. The air around her was scented with cologne. The fragrance suggested citrus—grapefruit, perhaps—very fresh and light.

  “How do you take it?”

  “I’m not fussy. Black’s fine.”

  “It’ll take me a minute.”

  “I’m in no hurry,” she said.

  I excused myself and went through the outer office and into the kitchen, where I leaned against the counter and tried to catch my breath. I’d been faking composure since the moment she’d announced herself. This was my aunt, my mother’s sister. I was acquainted with Tasha and Liza, the oldest and youngest of Susanna’s three daughters. The third girl, Pam, I’d heard about but never met. My introduction to the family had been thoroughly disconcerting as I’d known nothing of their existence. A fluke in an investigation three years previously had turned them up like a nest of spiders in the pocket of an old overcoat. In the absence of my parents and Aunt Gin, Susanna had to be one of my closest living relatives.

  I patted myself on the chest. This was so bizarre. I don’t remember my mother and I’ve never had a concrete image of her. Even so, I sensed the kinship. All the Kinsey women bore a strong resemblance to one another, at least from what I’d heard. I certainly looked like Tasha, and she’d told me that she and her sister Pam looked enough alike to be mistaken for twins. I looked much less like Liza, but even there, no one could deny the similarities.

  I picked up the coffeepot and filled it with water, which I poured into the reservoir of the machine. Filter paper, coffee can. I couldn’t see my hands shake, but the counter near the coffeemaker became gritty with grounds. I grabbed a sponge, dampened it, and wiped the surface clean. I set the pot in the machine and flipped the button to ON. I didn’t trust myself to talk to her, but I couldn’t hang out here until the coffee was done. I took a couple of mugs from the cabinet and set them on the counter. If I’d had brandy on the premises, I’d have downed a slug right then.

  I walked back to my office, trying to remember what “normal” felt like so I could imitate the state. “It’ll be ready in a minute. Hope you didn’t have to wait for me long. I was tied up on business.”

  She smiled, watching me take my seat across the desk from her. “Don’t worry about that. I’m always capable of amusing myself.” She was pretty; a straight nose, only the slightest touch of makeup to smooth out the palette of her complexion. I could see sun damage or faded freckles and a series of fine lines etched around her eyes and mouth. The red suit was becoming, the jacket set off by the white shell underneath. I could understand where Tasha had developed her taste in clothes.

  She held up a finger. “Oh, I nearly forgot. I brought you something.” She leaned down and reached into her shopping bag, coming up with a black-and-white photograph in a silver frame. She held it out and I took it, turning it over so I could see what it was. “That’s me with your mother the day of her coming-out party, July 5, 1935. I was nine.”

  “Ah.” I glanced down, but only long enough to take in a flash of the eighteen-year-old Rita Cynthia Kinsey in a long white dress. She was leaning forward, laughing, her arms around her youngest sister. My mother looked unbelievably young, with dark curly hair falling across her shoulders. She must have worn dark red lipstick because the black-and-white photo made her mouth look black. Susanna was done up in a long frothy dress that looked like a miniature version of Rita’s.

  I felt my face get hot, but I kept it averted until the rush of feeling passed. The pain was sharp, like the lid of a box being slammed on my fingertips. I wanted to howl with surprise. By sheer dint of will, I put myself in emotional lockdown. I smiled at Susanna, but my face felt tense. “I appreciate this. I’ve never had a photograph of her.”

  “That’s my favorite. I had a copy made so that one’s yours to keep.”

  “Thanks. Are there any pictures of my father?”

  “I’m sure there are. If I’d thought of it, I could have brought the family album. We have everyone in there. Maybe next time,” she said. “You know, you look like your mother, but then so do I.”

  I said, “Really,” but I was thinking, This is all too weird. In my dealings with Tasha, it was easy to keep her safely at arm’s length. We used words to hack at each other, establishing a comfortable distance between us. This woman was lovely. For ten cents, I’d have scampered around the desk and crawled up in her lap. I said, “From what I hear, all the Kinsey women look alike.”

  “It’s not the Kinseys so much as the LeGrands. Virginia had some of Daddy’s features, but she was the rare exception. Grand’s features dominate. No surprise there since she dominates everywhere else.”

  “Why do you call her Grand?”

  She laughed. “I don’t know. We’ve called her that ever since I can remember. She didn’t want to be ‘Mummy’ or ‘Mommy’ or any of those terms. She preferred the nickname she’d always had and that’s how we were raised. Once we got to school, I became aware that other kids called their mothers ‘Mama’ or ‘Mom,’ but by then it would have seemed odd to refer to her that way. Maybe, on her part, it was a form of denial—ambivalence about motherhood. I’m not really sure.”

  The smell of coffee began to permeate the air. I didn’t want to leave the room, but I got up and circled the desk. “I’ll be right back.”

  “You want help?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Just yell if you need me.”

  “Thanks.”

  Back in the kitchen, I was businesslike, though I noticed, pouring coffee, I was forced to use both hands. How was I going to pass her the mug without spilling coffee in her lap? I took a deep breath and mentally slapped myself around. I was being ridiculous. This was a virtual stranger, a middle-aged woman on a mission of goodwill. I could do this. I could handle it. I’d simply deal with her now and suffer the consequences later when I was by myself again. Okay. I picked up the two mugs, my gaze fixed on the coffee as I walked. I really didn’t spill that much and the rug was so gross it wouldn’t show, anyway.

  Once in my office, I placed both mugs on the desk and let her claim hers for herself. I took my seat again and reached for my mug, sliding it toward me across the desk. I wondered briefly if I could just lean down and slurp instead of lifting it to my lips. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course you can, sweetie. What do you want to know?”

  Sweetie. Oh dear. Here came the tears, but I blinked them back. Susanna didn’t seem to notice. I cleared my throat and said, “Liza mentioned nephews the first time we met, but that’s the last I’ve heard of them. Arne told me Grand had three sons, all stillborn, but wasn’t there a boy who died in infancy? I thought Liza made reference to that.”

  She made that dismissive gesture so familiar to me. I’d used it myself and so had my cousin Liza on the day we met. “She never gets that right. Really, family history isn’t her strong suit. Technically, it’s true. Mother had three boys before Rita was born. The first two were stillbirths. The third lived five hours. All the other boys in the family—nine nephews—are part of the outer circle. Maura’s husband, Walter, has two sisters, and they both have boys. And my husband, John, has three brothers, with seven boys among them. I know it’s confusing, but since most of those peripheral family members also live in Lompoc, they’re included in all the Kinsey gatherings. Grand doesn’t like to share us with our husbands’ families, so at Thanksgiving and Christmas she makes sure her doors are open and the celebrations are so lavish no one can resist. What else do you want to know? Ask me anything you like. That’s why I’m here.”
r />   I thought for a moment, wondering how far I dared go. “I’ve been told you and Aunt Maura disapproved of my mother.” The topic made me feel mean, but that was easier than feeling frail.

  “That was Maura and Sarah, both of whom were older than me. Maura was twelve and Sarah fifteen when the ‘war broke out,’ for lack of a better term. Both sided with Grand. I was the baby in the family so I could get away with anything. I just pretended I didn’t know what was going on. I always adored your mother. She was so stylish and exotic. I think I mentioned I was nine when she made her debut. I was always more concerned about my Mary Janes than the larger family issues. I like to think I’m independent, but I’m not the maverick your mother was. She took Grand head on. She never shied away from confrontation. I use diversionary tactics myself—charm, misdirection. For me, it’s more effective to conform on the surface and do as I please when I’m outside Grand’s presence. It might be cowardice on my part, but it makes life easier on everyone, or that’s what I tell myself.”

  “But why did Sarah and Maura object to my mother’s marriage? What business was it of theirs?”

  “Well, none. It really wasn’t the marriage so much as what that did to the family. Once the battle lines were drawn, Grand was unyielding, and neither your mother nor Virginia would give in.”

  “But what was that about? I still don’t get it. It’s not as if my father was a bum.”

  “I don’t think Grand had any personal objections to your father. She saw the age difference as a problem. He was what, thirty-five years old to your mother’s eighteen?”

  “Thirty-three,” I said.

  Susanna shrugged. “Fifteen years. That really doesn’t seem like much. I think Grand’s problem was Rita’s marrying on impulse. Grand did that, too—married Daddy on a whim the day she turned seventeen. He was twice her age, and I think they’d known each other less than a month. I suspect she may have regretted her haste, but divorce wasn’t an option in those days, at least for her. She never likes having to admit she’s wrong so she stuck it out. They were devoted to each other, but I’m not sure how long her infatuation survived. I know it’s an old story, but I suspect Grand was hoping to express an unlived part of her life through Rita.”