G Is for Gumshoe

by Sue Grafton

  "Oh, Kinsey. Thank goodness. I'm so glad you're here. Clyde had a meeting at the bank, but he said he'd be back as soon as he could make it."

  "Good. I was hoping to talk to him. How are you?"

  "Awful. I can't seem to get organized and I can't bear to be alone."

  I guided her toward the couch, struck by the sheer force of her neediness. "You don't look like you've slept much."

  She sank onto the couch, refusing to let go of my hands. She clutched at me like a drunk, sloppy with excess, grief perfuming her breath like alcohol. "I sat down here most of the night so I wouldn't disturb Clyde. I don't know what to do. I've been trying to fill out Mother's death certificate and I discover I don't know the first thing about her. I can't remember anything. It's inconceivable to me. So shameful somehow. My own mother..." She was beginning to weep again.

  "Hey, it's okay. This is something I can help you with." I held a hand up, palm toward her. "Just sit. Relax. Is the form in there?"

  She seemed to collect herself. She nodded mutely, eyes fixed on me with gratitude as I moved into the adjacent room. I gathered up a pen and the eight-by-eight-inch square form from the desk and returned to the couch, wondering how Clyde endured her dependency. Whatever compassion I felt was being overshadowed by the sense that I was shouldering a nearly impossible burden.

  Chapter 20

  * * *

  "Treat this like a final exam," I said. "We'll do the easy questions first and then tackle the tough ones. Let's start with 'Name of Decedent.' Did she have a middle name?"

  Irene shook her head. "Not that I ever heard."

  I wrote in "Agnes... NMI... Grey."

  Irene and I sat with our heads bent together, meticulously filling in the meager information she had. This took a little over one minute and covered race (Caucasian), sex (female), military service (none), Social Security number (none), marital status (widowed), occupation (retired), and several subheadings under "Usual Residence." What distressed Irene was that she didn't know the year of her mother's birth and she didn't have a clue about where Agnes was born or the names of her parents, facts she felt anyone with an ounce of caring should have at her fingertips.

  "Quit beating yourself, for God's sake," I said. "Let's work backward and see how fat we get. Maybe you know more than you mink. For instance, everybody's been saying she was eighty-three, right?"

  Irene nodded with uncertainty, probably wishing the form had a few multiple-choice questions. I could tell she was still agitated at the notion of her own ignorance.

  "Irene, you cannot flunk this test," I said. "I mean, what are they going to do, refuse to bury her?" I hated to be flip, but I thought it might snap her out of the self-pity.

  She said, "I just don't want to get it wrong. It's important to do it right. It's the least I can do."

  "I can understand that, but the world will not end if you leave one slot blank. We know she was a U.S. citizen so let's put that down.... The rest of the information we can pick up from your birth certificate. That would tell us your parents' place of birth and their ages the year you were born. Can you lay your hands on it?"

  She nodded, blowing her nose on a handkerchief, which she then tucked in her robe pocket. "I to almost sure it's in the file cabinet in there," she said. She indicated the solarium, which she'd set up as a home office. "There's a folder in the top drawer labeled 'Vital Documents.' "

  "Don't get up. You stay here. I'll find it."

  I went into the next room and pulled open one of the file drawers. "Vital Documents" was a thick manila folder right in the front. I brought the entire file back and let Irene sort through the contents. She extracted a birth certificate, which she handed to me. I glanced at it briefly, then squinted more closely. "This is a photocopy. What happened to the original?"

  "I have no idea. That's the only one I ever had."

  "What about when you applied for a passport? You must have had a certified copy then."

  "I don't have a passport. I never needed one."

  I stared at her, amazed. "I thought I was the only person without a passport," I remarked.

  She seemed faintly defensive. "I don't like to travel. I was always afraid of getting ill and not having proper medical help available. If Clyde had to travel overseas on business, he went by himself. Is that a problem?" My guess was that she and Clyde had argued about her position more than once.

  "No, no. This will do, but it strikes me as odd. How'd you come by this one?"

  She closed her mouth and her cheeks flooded with pink, like a sudden restoration to good health. At first, I thought she wouldn't answer me, but finally she pursed her lips. "Mother gave it to me when I was in high school. One of the more humiliating moments in my life with her. We were writing our autobiographies for an honors English class and the teacher made us start with our birth certificates. I remember Mother had trouble finding mine and I had to turn my report in without it. The teacher gave me an 'incomplete'... the only one I ever got... which just made Mother furious. It was awful. She brought it to school the next day and flung it in the teacher's face. She was drunk, of course. All my classmates looking on. It was one of the most embarrassing things I've ever been through."

  I studied her with curiosity. "What about your father? Where was he in all this?"

  "I don't remember him. He and Mother separated when I was three or four. He was killed in the war a few years later. Nineteen forty-three, I think."

  I glanced down at the birth certificate, getting back to the task at hand. We'd really hit pay dirt. Irene was born in Brawley, March 12, 1936, at 2:30 a.m. Her father was Herbert Grey, birthplace, Arizona, white, age thirty-two, who worked as a welder for an aircraft company. Agnes's maiden name was Branwell, birthplace California, occupation housewife.

  "This is great," I said and then I read the next line. "Oh wait, this is weird. This says she was twenty-three when you were born, but that would make her... what, seventy now? That doesn't seem right."

  "That has to be a typo," she said, leaning closer. She reached for the document and peered at the line of print as I had. "This is off by years. If Mother's eighty-three now, she would have been thirty-six when I was born, not twenty-three."

  "Maybe she's much younger than we thought."

  "Not that much. She was nowhere near seventy. You saw her yourself."

  I thought about it briefly. "Well, it doesn't make any difference as far as I can see."

  "Of course it does! One way or the other, we'd be off by thirteen years!"

  I disconnected my temper. There was no point in being irritated. "We don't have any way to verify the information," I said. "At least that I can think of. Leave it blank."

  "I don't want to do that," she said stubbornly.

  I'd seen her in this mood before and I knew how unyielding she could be. "Do whatever suits. It's your business."

  I heard a key in the lock. The front door opened and Clyde came in, dressed in his usual three-piece suit. He was toting the cardboard carton I'd brought. He crossed to the couch, murmured a hello to me, and placed the box on the coffee table. Then he leaned over to kiss Irene's cheek, a ritualistic gesture without visible warmth. "This was on the front porch –"

  "That's Irene's," I said. "I found it under Agnes's trailer and had it shipped up. It arrived this morning." I pulled the box closer and opened the top flaps, reaching down among the nesting cups, which were still swaddled in newspaper. "I wasn't sure if this was a good time or not, but these were just about the only things the squatters hadn't ripped off."

  I unwrapped one of the teacups and passed it over to Irene. The porcelain handle had a hairline crack near the base, but otherwise it was perfect: pale pink roses, hand-painted, on a field of white, scaled down to child-size. Irene glanced at it without comprehension and then something flickered in her face. A sound seemed to rumble up from the depths of her being. With a sudden cry of revulsion, she flung it away from her. Fear shot through me in reaction to hers. Clyde and I both j
umped and I uttered an automatic chirp of astonishment. Her scream tore through the air in a spiraling melody of terror. As if in slow motion, the cup bounced once against the edge of the coffee table and cracked as neatly in two as if it'd been cut with a knife.

  Irene rose to her feet, her eyes enormous. She was hyperventilating: rapid, shallow breathing that couldn't possibly be delivering enough oxygen to her system. I could see her begin to topple, eyes focused on my face. She clawed at me as she fell, pitching forward in a convulsion that rocked her from head to toe. Clyde grabbed her as she went down, moving faster than I thought possible. He eased her back onto the couch and elevated her feet.

  Jermaine thundered into the living room, a dish towel in her hand. Her eyes were wide with alarm. "What's the matter? What's happening? Oh my God..."

  Irene's eyes had rolled back in her head and she jerked repeatedly, wracked by some personal earthquake that sent shock waves through her small frame. The acrid scent of urine permeated he air. Clyde peeled his jacket off and went down on his knees beside her, trying to restrain her so she wouldn't hurt herself. Jermaine stood by spellbound, twisting the dish towel in her big dark hands, making anxious sounds at the back of her throat.

  Gradually, the spasm passed. Irene began to cough, a tight unproductive sound that made me ache in response. The cough was followed by a high-pitched wheeze that helped to mobilize me again. I put a supporting hand under Irene's right arm and shot Clyde a look. "Let's sit her upright. It'll make her breathing easier."

  We hefted her into a sitting position, a surprisingly awkward maneuver given how light she was. She couldn't have weighed more than a hundred pounds, but she was limp and dazed, her eyes moving from face to face without comprehension. It was clear she had no idea where she was or what was going on.

  "You want I should call emergency, Mr. Clyde?" Jermaine asked.

  "Not yet. Let's hold off on that. She seems to be coming around," he said.

  A fine layer of perspiration broke out on Irene's face. She reached for me blindly. Her hands had that clammy feel to them, like a still-animated fish in the bottom of a boat.

  Jermaine disappeared and returned moments later with a cold, damp rag that she passed wordlessly to Clyde. He wiped Irene's face. She'd begun to make small sounds, a weeping, hopeless and childlike, as if she were waking from a nightmare of devastating impact. "There were spiders. I could smell the dust..."

  Clyde looked at me. "She's always been phobic about spiders..."

  I picked up the two halves of the teacup automatically, wondering if she'd seen something in the bottom. I half-expected one of those old dead spiders lying on its back, legs curled in against its belly like a blossom closing up at twilight. There was nothing. Meanwhile, Irene was inconsolable. "The paint ran down the wall in horrible streaks. The violets were ruined and I was so scared... I didn't mean to be bad..."

  Clyde made soothing noises while he patted her hand. "Irene, you're okay. It's fine now. I'm right here."

  The look in her eyes was pleading, her voice reduced to a plaintive whisper. "It was Mother's tea set from when she was little... I wasn't supposed to play with it. I hid so I wouldn't get spanked and spanked. Why did she keep it?"

  "I'm putting her to bed," he said. He eased one arm under her bent knees, put the other behind her, and lifted, not without some effort. He inched away from the coffee table, walking sideways till he was clear, and then he headed toward the stairs. Jermaine accompanied him, hovering close by to help steady the load.

  I sank down on the couch and put my head in my hands. My heart rate was beginning to return to normal, no mean feat given the rush of adrenaline I'd experienced. Other people's fear is contagious, a phenomenon magnified by proximity, which is why horror movies are so potent in a crowded theater. I smelled death, some terrifying experience neither Irene nor Agnes could deal with all these years afterward. I could only guess at the dimensions of the event. Now that Agnes was dead, I doubted the reality would ever be resurrected.

  I stirred restlessly, glancing at my watch. I'd been here only thirty minutes. Surely Dietz would return soon and get me the hell out of here. I leafed through a magazine that was sitting on the coffee table. At the back of the issue there was a whole month's worth of dinner menus laid out, totally nutritious, well-balanced meals for mere pennies a serving. The recipes sounded awful: lots of Tuna Surprise and Tofu Stir-Fry with Sweet n Sour Sauce. I set the magazine aside. Idly, I picked up the halves of the teacup, rewrapped them in newspaper, and tucked them back in the box. I got up and crossed the room, setting the box by the door. No point in having Irene face that again. Later, if she was interested, I could always bring it back. I looked up to find Clyde coming wearily down the stairs.

  Chapter 21

  * * *

  He looked like a zombie. I followed as he crossed to one of two matching wing chairs and took a seat. He rubbed his eyes, then pinched the bridge of his nose. His dress shirt was wrinkled, the tiny blue pinstripe stained with sweat at the armpits. "I gave her a Valium. Jermaine said she'd stay with her until she goes to sleep."

  I stayed on my feet, clinging to whatever psychological advantage I had in towering over him. "What's going on, Clyde? I've never seen anyone react like that."

  "Irene's a sick cookie. She has been ever since we met." He snorted to himself. "God... I used to think there was something charming about her helplessness..."

  "This goes way beyond helpless. That woman's terrified. So was Agnes."

  "It's always been like that. She's phobic about everything – closed spaces, spiders, dust. You know what she's afraid of? The hook and eye on a door. She's afraid of African violets. Jesus, violets. And it just gets worse. She suffers from allergies, depression, hypochondria. She's half dead from fear and probably hooked on all the prescription drugs she takes. I've taken her to every kind of doctor you can name and they all throw up their hands. The shrinks love to see her coming, but then they lose interest when the old voodoo doesn't work. She doesn't want to get better. Trust me. She's hanging on to her symptoms for dear life. I try to have compassion, but all I feel is despair. My life is a nightmare, but what am I supposed to do? Divorce her? I can't do it. I couldn't live with myself if I did that. She's like a little kid. I thought when her mother died... I thought once Agnes was gone, she'd... improve. Like a curse being lifted. But it won't happen that way."

  "Do you have any idea what it is?"

  He shook his head. He had the hopeless air of a rat being badgered by a cat.

  "What about her father? Could this be connected to him? She says he died in the war..."

  "Your guess is as good as mine," he said, smiling wistfully. "Irene probably married me because of him..."

  "Wanting a father?"

  "Oh sure. Wanting everything – comfort, protection, security. You know what I want? I want to live one week without drama... seven days without tears and uproar and dependency and neediness, without all the juice being drained right out of me." He shook his head again. "Not going to happen in my lifetime. It's not going to happen in hers either. I might as well blow my brains out and be done with it."

  "She must have suffered some kind of childhood trauma –"

  "Oh, who gives a damn? Forty years ago? You're never going to get to the bottom of it and if you did, what difference would it make? She is who she is and I'm stuck."

  "Why don't you bail out?"

  "Leave Irene? How am I supposed to do that? Every time I think of leaving, she ends up flat on her back. I can't kick her when she's down..."

  I heard a tap at the front window. Dietz was peering in. I let out a deep breath. I was never so relieved to see anyone.

  "I'll get that," I said and moved to the front door. Dietz came in, his gaze straying to Clyde, who had leaned his head against the back of the chair, eyes closed, playing dead. Dietz's mere presence caused the tension in the air to dissipate, but he could tell at a glance that all was not well. I lifted my brows slightly, conveying with a
look that I'd fill him in once we were alone. "How'd it go?" I asked.

  "Tell you about it in a minute. Let's get out of here."

  I said, "Clyde..."

  "I heard. Go ahead. We can talk later. Irene will sleep for hours. Maybe I'd be smart to get a little shut-eye myself."

  I hesitated. "One question. Yesterday, when we were scouring the neighborhood for Agnes... do you remember anyone with a toolshed or a greenhouse on the property?"

  He opened his eyes and looked at me. "No. Why?"

  "The pathologist mentioned it. I said I'd get back to her."

  He shook his head. "I was bumping front doors. There might have been a shed in somebody's backyard."

  "If you remember something of the sort, will you let me know?"

  He gestured a yes both dismissive and resigned.

  I picked up the box and we walked out to the car. Dietz tucked me in the passenger seat.

  "What's the matter, she didn't like the tea set?" he said. He shut the door on the passenger side and I was forced to hold my reply until he'd rounded the car and gotten in himself. He fired up the engine and pulled out. I gave him a quick rendition of Irene's collapse.

  "What do you think she's sitting on?" he asked when I was done.

  "Beats me. I can think of a few possibilities. Abuse of some kind, for one," I said. "She might have been a witness to an act of violence, or maybe she did something she feels guilty about."

  "A little kid?"

  "Hey, kids sometimes do things without meaning to. You never know. Whatever it is, if she has any conscious recollection, she's never mentioned it. And Clyde doesn't seem to have a clue."

  "You think Agnes knew about it?"

  "Oh sure. I mink Agnes even tried to tell me, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. I sat with her late one night down in a Brawley convalescent home and she told me this long, garbled tale that I'm almost sure now had the truth embedded in it someplace. I'll tell you one thing. I'm not interested in driving back down to the desert to investigate. Forget that."