J Is for Judgment

by Sue Grafton

  He came out of the kitchen carrying the Pampers and a carton of cigarettes. He headed for the bedroom, and I was not far behind him, doing a quick step to keep up. "I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know if your father tries to get in touch. I'll give you my card. You can call me anytime."

  "Sure."

  "You might warn Juliet, too," I said.

  "Whatever."

  He paused dutifully while I fumbled in my handbag for a business card. I used my raised knee as a desk, penning my telephone number on the back of the card, which I then passed to him. He glanced at it with no apparent interest and put it in his jacket pocket. "Thanks."

  I could tell from his tone he had no intention of calling me for any reason. If Wendell tried to reach him, he'd probably welcome the contact.

  We went into the bedroom, where the baseball game was still in progress. Juliet had moved into the bathroom with the baby, and I could hear her voice reverberating through the bathroom door as she prattled nonsense at Brendan. Michael's attention was already glued to the set again. He'd sunk down on the floor, his back against the bed, turning Wendell's ring, which he wore on his right hand. I wondered if the stone changed colors, like a mood ring, depending on his disposition in the moment. I took the box of Pampers and knocked on the bathroom door.

  She peered out. "Oh, good. You got 'em. I appreciate that. Thanks. You want to help with his bath? I decided to put him in the tub, he was such a mess."

  "I better go," I said. "It looks like the rain is just about to cut loose."

  "Really? It's going to rain?"

  "If we're lucky."

  I could see her hesitation. "Can I ask about something? If Michael's dad came back, would he try to see the baby? Brendan is his only grandchild, and s'pose he never had another chance?"

  "It wouldn't surprise me. I'd be careful if I were you."

  She seemed on the verge of saying something but apparently decided against it. When I closed the bathroom door, Brendan was gnawing on the washrag.

  Chapter 16

  * * *

  Drops began to dot my windshield as I hit the 101, and by the time I found a, parking space half a block from my apartment, the rain had settled into a steady patter, I locked the VW and picked my way through accumulating puddles to the front gate, splashing around to my door, which opens onto Henry's back patio. I could see lights on at his place. His kitchen door was open, and I picked up the scent of baking, some rich combination of vanilla and chocolate that blended irresistibly with the smell of rain and drenched grass. A sudden breeze tossed the treetops, sending down a quick shower of leaves and large drops. I veered off toward Henry's, head bent against the downpour.

  Henry was easing a blade through a nine-by-nine pan of brownies, making parallel cuts. He was barefoot, wearing white shorts and a vivid blue T-shirt. I'd seen pictures of him in his youth-when he was fifty and sixty-but I preferred the lean good looks he'd acquired in his eighties. With his silky white hair and blue eyes, there was no reason to imagine he wouldn't simply keep on getting better as the years rolled by. I rapped on the frame of his aluminum screen door. He glanced up, smiling with pleasure when he saw that it was me. "Well, Kinsey. That was quick. I just left a message on your answering machine." He motioned me in.

  I let myself in and wiped my wet shoes on the rag rug before I slipped them off and left them by the door. "I saw your light on and came over. I was down in Perdido and haven't even been home yet. Isn't this rain great? Where'd it come from?"

  "The tag end of Hurricane Jackie, is what I heard. It's supposed to rain off and on for the next two days. There's a pot of tea brewed if you want to grab cups and saucers."

  I did as he suggested, pausing at the refrigerator to take out the milk as well. Henry rinsed and dried his knife blade and moved to the kitchen table, brownies still resting in the pan in which they'd baked. At sundown in Santa Teresa, the temperature routinely drops into the fifties, but tonight, because of the storm, the air felt nearly tropical. The interior of the kitchen functioned like an incubator. Henry had hauled out his old black-bladed floor fan, which seemed to scan the room, droning incessantly as it created its own sirocco.

  We sat down at the table across from one another, the .pan of brownies between us resting on an oven mitt. The top was light brown, as fragile-looking as dried tobacco leaves. His knife had left a ragged line, a portion of brownie jutting up through the broken crust. Just under the surface, the texture was as dark and moist as soil. There were walnuts as thick as gravel, with intermittent small clusters of chocolate chips. Henry lifted: out the first square with a spatula and passed it to me. After that show of gentility, we ate directly from the pan.

  I poured us each a cup of tea, adding milk to mine. I broke a brownie in half and then broke it again. This was my notion of cutting calories. My mouth was flooded with warm chocolate, and if I moaned aloud, Henry was too polite to call attention. "I made an odd discovery," I said. "It's possible I have family in the area."

  "What kind of family?"

  I shrugged. "You know, people with the same name, claiming to be related, blood ties and like that."

  His blue eyes rested on my face with interest. "Really. Well, I'll be damned. What're they like?"

  "Don't know. I haven't met 'em."

  "Dh. I thought you had. How do you know they exist?""

  "I was doing a door-to-door canvass in Perdido yesterday. A woman said I looked familiar and asked me about my first name. Then she asked if I was related to the Burton Kinseys up in Lompoc. I said no, but then I looked up my parents' marriage license. My mother's father was Burton Kinsey. It's like, in the back of my mind somewhere I think I knew that, but I didn't want to cop to it in the moment. Weird, huh."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "Don't know yet. Think about it. Feels like a can of worms."

  "Pandora's box."

  "You got it. Big trouble.

  "On the other hand, it might not be."

  I made a face. "I don't want to take the chance. I never had family. What would I do with one?"

  Henry smiled to himself. "What do you think you'd do?"

  "I don't know. It seems creepy. It'd be a pain in the ass. Look at William. He drives you crazy."

  "But I love him. That's what it's all about, isn't it?"

  "It is?"

  "Well, obviously, you're going to do as you see fit, but there's a lot to be said for kith and kin."

  I was silent for a while. I ate a section of the brownies about the shape of Utah. "I think I'll let it sit. Once I get in touch, I'll be stuck."

  "Do you know anything at all about them?"

  "Nope."

  Henry laughed. "At least you're enthusiastic about the possibilities."

  I smiled uncomfortably. "I just found out today. Besides, the only one I really know of for sure is my mother's mother, Cornelia Kinsey. I guess my grandfather died."

  "Ah, your grandmother's a widow. That's interesting. How do you know she wouldn't be perfect for me?"

  "There's a thought," I said dryly.

  "Oh, come on. What's your worry?"

  "Who says I'm worried? I'm not worried;"

  "Then why don't you get in touch?"

  "Suppose she's hateful and grasping?"

  "Suppose she's gracious and smart?"

  "Right. If she was so fu-gracious, how come she hasn't been in touch for twenty-nine years?" I said.

  "Maybe she was busy."

  I noticed the conversation was proceeding in fits and starts. We knew each other well enough that we could leave transitions out. Nevertheless, I felt as if my IQ were plummeting. "Anyway, how would I go about it? What would I do?"

  "Call her up. Say hello. Introduce yourself."

  I could feel myself squirm. "I'm not going to do that," I said. "I'm going to let it sit."

  "Dogged" is the word that would probably describe my tone, not that I'm bullheaded about things like this.

  "Let it sit, then," he said with the slig
htest of shrugs. "I am. I intend to. Anyway, look how much time has passed since my parents were killed. It'd be weird to make contact."

  "You said that before."

  "Well, it's the truth!"

  "So don't make contact. You're absolutely right."

  "I won't. I'm not going to," I said irritably. Personally, I found it irksome to be agreed with like that. He could have urged me to do otherwise. He could have suggested a plan of action. Instead he was telling me what I was telling him. Everything sounded so much more reasonable when I said it. What he repeated back to me seemed stubborn and argumentative. I couldn't figure out what was wrong with him unless this was some kind of weird response to all the refined sugar in the brownies.

  The conversation shifted to William and Rosie. Nothing new to report. Sports and politics we reduced to one sentence each. Shortly thereafter I went home to my place, feeling out of sorts. Henry seemed fine, but it felt as though we'd had a terrible argument. I didn't sleep that well, either.

  It was still raining at 5:59, and I skipped my run. My cold symptoms had improved, but it still didn't seem smart to exercise in a downpour. It was hard to realize that just a week ago I was lying by a pool down in Mexico, swabbing myself with unnatural substances. I lingered in bed, staring up at the skylight. The clouds were the color of old galvanized pipes, and the day fairly cried out for some serious reading. I extended one arm and studied the artificial tan, which had faded by t now to a pale peach. I raised one bare leg, noticing for the first time all the streaking around my ankle. Jesus, I could do with a shave. It looked as if I had taken to wearing angora knee socks. Finally, bored with self inspection, I dragged my butt out of bed. I showered, shaved my legs, and dressed, choosing fresh jeans and a cotton sweater since I'd be lunching with Harris Brown. I took myself out to breakfast, loading up on fats and carbohydrates, nature's antidepressants. Ida Ruth had told me she was coming in late, authorizing r my use of her parking spot. I rolled into the office at nine on the dot.

  Alison was talking on the telephone when I arrived. She held a hand up like a traffic cop, indicating some kind of message. I paused, waiting for a break in her conversation. "That's fine, no problem. Take your time," she said. She put a palm across the mouthpiece while the other party was apparently taking care of other business. "I put someone in your office. I hope you don't mind. I'll hold your calls."

  "What for?"

  Her attention jumped back to the telephone, and I assumed the other party had finally returned. I shrugged and walked down the interior corridor to my office, where the door was standing open. There was a woman at the window with her back to me.

  I moved to my desk and slung my handbag on the chair. "Hi. Can I help you?"

  She turned around and looked at me with the sort of curiosity reserved for celebrities at close range. I found myself looking at her the same way. We were enough alike to be sisters. Her face was as familiar as the faces in a dream, recognizable but not bearing up well to close scrutiny. Our features were not identical by any means. She looked not like me, but like the way I felt I looked to others. As I studied her, the resemblance faded. Quickly I could see that we were more dissimilar than similar. She was five feet two to my five feet six, heavier in a way that suggested rich food and no exercise. I'd been jogging for years, and I was sometimes conscious of the ways my basic build had been affected by all the miles I'd put in. She was heavy-breasted, broader in the beam. At the same time, she was better groomed. I had a glimpse of what I might have looked like if I paid the money for a decent haircut, learned the rudiments of makeup, and dressed with flair. The outfit she wore was a cream-colored washable silk: a long, gathered skirt and matching cardigan-style jacket, with a coral-colored silk tank top visible underneath. Through the magic of fashion, some of her chunkiness was hidden, the eye distracted by all the flowing lines.

  She smiled and held out her hand. "Hello, Kinsey. Nice to meet you. I'm your cousin, Liza."

  "How did you get here?" I asked. "I only found out yesterday I might have relatives in the area."

  "That's when we heard, too. Well, that's not quite accurate. Last night Lena Irwin called my sister, Pam, and we had an instant meeting. Lena was sure you were related. Both my sisters were panting to drive down to meet you, but we finally decided it'd be too confusing for you. Besides, Tasha really had to get back to San Francisco, and Pamela's so pregnant she's about to pop."

  Three girl cousins suddenly. That was a bit much. I shifted the subject. "How do you know Lena?'"

  Liza waved dismissively, a gesture I'd used a hundred times myself. "Her family's up in Lompoc. The minute she said she'd met you, we knew we had to come down. We haven't said a word to Grand, but I know she'll want to meet you."

  "Grand?"

  "Oh, sorry. That's our grandmother, Cornelia. Her maiden name was LaGrand, and we've always just shortened it. Everybody calls her Grand. It's been her nickname since childhood."

  "How much does she know about me?"

  "Not that much, really. We knew your name, of course, but we really weren't sure where you'd ended up. The whole family scandal was so ridiculous. I don't mean at the time. Good heavens, from what I've been told, it split the sisters down the middle. Am I interrupting your work? I should have asked before."

  "Not at all," I said with a quick look at my watch. I had three hours before my lunch appointment. "Alison told me she'd hold the calls, but I couldn't think what could be so important. Tell me about the sisters."

  "There were five of them altogether. I guess they had a brother, but he died in infancy. They were completely divided by the breach between Grand and Aunt Rita. You really never heard the story?"

  "Not at all," I said. "I'm sitting here wondering if you really have the right person."

  "Absolutely," she said. "Your mother was a Kinsey. Rita Cynthia, right? Her sister's name was Virginia. We called her Aunt Gin, or Gin Gin sometimes."

  "So did I," I said faintly. I'd always thought of it as my pet name for her, one that I invented.

  Liza went on. "I didn't know her that well because of the estrangement between those two and Grand, who'll be eighty-eight this year and sharp as a tack. I mean, she's virtually blind and her health's not that good, but she's great for her age. I'm not sure the two of them ever spoke to Grand again, but Aunt Gin would come back to visit and all the sisters would converge. The big horror was that somehow Grand would get wind of it, but I don't think she ever did. Anyway, our mother's name is Susanna. She's the baby in the family. Do you mind if I sit?"

  "I'm sorry. Please do. You want coffee? I can get us some."

  "No, no. I'm fine. I'm just sorry to barge in and bury you under all this. What was I saying? Oh, yes. Your mother was the oldest and mine's the youngest. There are only two surviving – my mother, Susanna... she's fifty-eight. And then the sister one up from her, Maura, who's sixty-one. Sarah died about five years ago. God, I'm sorry to spring all this on you. We just assumed you knew."

  "What about Burton... Grandfather Kinsey?"

  "He's gone, too. He only died a year ago, but of course he'd been sick for years." She said it like I should have known the nature of his illness.

  I let that pass. I didn't want to focus on the fine points when I was still struggling with the overall picture. "How many cousins?"

  "Well, there're the three of us, and Maura has two daughters, Delia and Eleanor. Sarah had four girls."

  "And you're all up in Lompoc?"

  "Not quite," she said. "Three of Sarah's four are on the East Coast. One's married, two in college, and I don't know what the other one's doing. She's sort of the black sheep of the family. Maura's kids are both in Lompoc. In fact, Maura and Mom live within five blocks of each other. Part of Grand's master plan." She laughed and I could see that we had the same teeth, very white and square. "We better do this in small doses or you'll die of the shock."

  "I'm close to that as it is."

  She laughed again. Something about this woman was getti
ng on my nerves. She was having way too much fun, and I wasn't having any. I was trying to assimilate the information, trying to cope with its significance, trying to be polite and make all the right noises. But I felt foolish, in truth, and her breezy, presumptive manner wasn't helping much. I shifted on my chair and raised my hand like a kid in a classroom. "Could I ask you to stop and go back to the beginning?"

  "I'm sorry. You must be so confused, you poor thing. I wish Tasha'd done this. She should have canceled her plane. I knew I'd probably botch it, but there just wasn't any other choice. You do know about Rita Cynthia's elopement. They must have told you that part." She made a statement of it, equating the story with the news that the world was round.

  I shook my head again, beginning to feel like a bauble-head in some body's rear car window. "I was five when my parents died in the accident. After that, Aunt Gin raised me, but she gave me no family history whatsoever. You can safely operate on the assumption that I'm dead ignorant."

  "Oh, boy. I hope I can remember it all myself. I'll just launch in, and anything you don't get, please feel free to interrupt. First of all, our grandfather Kinsey had beaucoup bucks. His family ran a diatomite mining and processing operation. Diatomite is basically what they use to make diatomaceous earth. Do you know what that is?"

  "Some kind of filtering medium, isn't it?"

  "Right. The diatomite deposits up in Lompoc are among the biggest and purest in the world. The Kinseys have owned that company for years. Grandmother must have come from money, too, though she doesn't talk much about it so I don't really know the story on that. Her maiden name was LaGrand. She's always been called Grand, ever since I can remember. I already told you that. Anyway, she and Granddaddy had six kids – the boy who died and then the five girls. Rita Cynthia was the oldest. She was Grand's favorite, probably because they were so much alike. I guess she was spoiled... or so the story goes, a real hell-raiser. She totally refused to conform to Grand's expectations. Because of that, Aunt Rita's become like this family legend. The patron saint of liberation. The rest of us – all the nieces and nephews – took her as a symbol of independence and spirit, someone sassy and defiant, the emancipated person our mothers wished they'd been. Rita Cynthia thumbed her nose at Grand, who was a piece of work in those days. Rigid and snobbish, judgmental, controlling. She raised all the girls to be little robots of gentility.