U Is for Undertow

by Sue Grafton

  “This has been the best day of my life.”

  “Mine, too, sweetheart,” she said. Her eyes filled and the knitting blurred in her lap. She had to put a finger on her lips to maintain silence while she blinked back tears.

  22

  Thursday night, April 14, 1988

  I let myself into my studio at 7:00, the manila envelope full of letters tucked under one arm. I tossed the package on the desk and then went and poured myself a glass of wine. I confess I was looking to alcohol to bolster my courage. This might have been the first step on the road to a drunken downfall, but I doubted it. Twice I picked up the envelope and turned it over in my hand. I was reminded of that old question that comes up occasionally at a cocktail party: if you knew that in your top dresser drawer there was a piece of paper on which was written the date and time of your death, would you peek?

  I’ve never known the right answer. There probably isn’t one, but the dilemma is whether you’d opt for total ignorance or for information that might affect the rest of your life (however short it might be). Since all of the letters had been returned, it was clear Aunt Gin had rejected Grand’s peace offering—if, indeed, that’s what it was. Maybe the messages were Grand’s berating of Aunt Gin for failings real and imagined, impossible to know unless I sat down and read them. I hesitated for the following reasons:

  1. It was bedtime and I didn’t want to spend the next six hours stewing about the past. Once I climbed on my emotional carousel, especially in the dark of night, I’d circle for hours, up and down, around and around, often at speeds that threatened to make me sick.

  2. Once I knew the content of the letters, I’d be stuck. In my current state of innocence, anything was possible. I could cling to my long-held beliefs about Grand’s indifference without the pesky contradiction of the truth. What if the letters were filled with hearts and flowers and gushing sentiment? Then what? At this point, I wasn’t prepared to lay down my sword or my shield. My defensive stance felt like power. Surrender would be foolish until I understood the nature and strength of the enemy.

  I went to bed and slept like a baby.

  In the morning, I went through my normal routine—the run, the shower, clothes, a cup of coffee with a bowl of cereal. I picked up my shoulder bag and the packet of letters and drove to the office, where I made yet another pot of coffee and settled at my desk. This was an environment where I felt safe, the arena in which I experienced my competence. What better setting in which to risk personal peace?

  Before launching myself into uncharted territory, I made one more quick evasive move. I called Deborah, asking if Rain would be willing to meet with me. She put Rain on the line and after a brief discussion, we agreed to get together Saturday morning at a coffee shop on Cabana Boulevard, in walking distance of my studio. The place was a favorite of hers and she’d been looking forward to having breakfast there while she was in town.

  I made a note on my calendar. That done, I got down to business. I divided the letters into two piles. In the first I placed those addressed to Virginia Kinsey; in the second, those addressed to me. I began with Aunt Gin’s. The earliest was postmarked June 2, 1955, three days after the accident in which my parents died. A quick examination suggested that this was the only letter she’d opened before sealing it up again and sending it back.

  Dearest Virginia,

  We write you with heavy spirits, our hearts burdened with sorrow as we know yours must be. The loss of Rita Cynthia is more than any of us should have to bear, but I know we must push forward for little Kinsey’s sake. We were heartened by news that the doctors had examined her and found her unharmed. I spoke to the pediatrician, Dr. Grill, and he suggests that given the trauma she’s suffered, we’ll want to have her reevaluated in a month or so, pending her response in the aftermath of the accident. Children mend so much more quickly than adults do under the same circumstances. Dr. Grill cautioned that her physical recovery and her psychological well-being might be at odds. While the child might give every appearance of having adjusted, an underlying depression could well manifest itself as she begins to realize the finality of her parents’ passing. He urged us all to be alert to the possibility.

  We were disappointed that we weren’t allowed to see her during her overnight stay in the hospital here. Of course, she was under observation and I’m sure the doctors were busy seeing to her care. We would not have disturbed her for the world and I thought I’d made that clear. Our only desire was to peep into the room so that we could see with our own eyes that her condition was stable. We had hoped she might spend time with us, but we perfectly understand your desire to take her straight home to all that is known and familiar. At the same time, Burton and I are praying to visit the child as soon as possible so we can personally offer the comfort and support she so desperately needs. If there’s anything we can do for you, in terms of emotional or financial relief, please let us know. We stand ready with our arms open to you both.

  On another note, we would love to sit down together and discuss Kinsey’s future. We believe it would be in the child’s best interests to be settled here with us. Burton and I are putting together a proposal that should satisfactorily address both your needs and ours. We look forward to an account of Kinsey’s progress.

  Your loving mother, Grand

  I closed my eyes, marveling at the sentiments expressed. Did Cornelia Straith LaGrand know nothing about her two oldest daughters? I couldn’t be sure, but I suspected my mother would have reacted badly if she’d received such a letter. Virginia, younger by a year, was doubtless incensed. The Aunt Gin I’d known growing up, was volatile, opinionated, and fearless in the face of authority. She’d have been livid at Grand’s barely disguised attempts to gain the upper hand. The pointed omission of my father’s name must have infuriated Virginia further. Grand’s reference to “a proposal” would have been especially offensive, as though my future were subject to a carefully constructed business plan that Aunt Gin would warm to as soon as she understood its many virtues and advantages.

  I returned that letter to its envelope and took up the next in date order, postmarked June 13, 1955.

  Dearest Virginia,

  My letter of June 2, 1955, was inadvertently returned to me. Perhaps the address I have is incorrect. If so, I’m hoping the post office will forward the address correction. In the meantime, I’m sure you’re doing everything possible to assist little Kinsey during her recovery from recent tragic events. Given your own deep sorrow for your sister’s passing, you must be under a strain as well. I’m hoping both you and Kinsey are bearing up under your sorrow as best you can. Burton and I are hard-pressed to know where to begin the process of putting all our lives back together. It would do us such good if you could see your way clear to having Kinsey spend a few days with us.

  I called your workplace and was told you were unavailable, so it’s possible you’ve taken a brief leave of absence. If there’s any way we can help tide you over, please accept the modest sum I’m enclosing by check.

  We are willing to supply anything else you need in the way of aid in this heartbreaking transitional period. We want only what’s best for you and the child.

  We hope you’ve been giving serious thought to our previous suggestion about Kinsey’s living with us. We have the stability essential to a child in her position, unsettled by the sudden loss of those so dear to her . . .

  The check she’d enclosed was written for twenty-five dollars. There was no sign of the proposal she’d mentioned, so maybe Grand had reconsidered the wisdom of tendering the plan.

  The next two letters were variations on a theme, offers of comfort, solace, and cash in just about that order, with the continuing suggestion that “little Kinsey” would benefit from their generosity and long experience with young children. I started skimming, picking up a paragraph here and there to see if the tone or content changed over time.

  In a letter from Grand dated August 8, 1955, she began to pick away at Aunt Gin’s lifestyle.
The school year was rapidly approaching, and Grand probably wanted me settled with her in Lompoc so I could be properly enrolled. Since the envelopes were still sealed and being returned to Grand as soon as they arrived, she knew her good counsel was falling on deaf ears. This forced her to operate in the dark, without feedback of any kind, spurring new efforts on her part to break down Virginia’s resistance, which was steely to say the least.

  Given your limited resources and your lack of experience with child rearing, we feel we have more to offer Kinsey. Perhaps by now you’ve come to understand the impossibility of raising a child alone. We feel our position has merit, and while the idea might not seem tenable to you at first, we beg you to keep an open mind. Whatever our differences, I’m sure we’re united in our desire to do what’s best for her. We feel we can provide her a loving family, good schooling, and the best prospects possible on her journey to adulthood. Of course, Burton and I would want you to remain a constant in Kinsey’s life, and we assure you we’d make every effort to nurture and protect the bond you have with her.

  Granted, there were difficulties between us these past few years. I don’t know that either of us could trace the short sad history of our disagreements. Suffice to say, in light of Rita Cynthia’s passing, all such conflicts should be set aside so that we may act in concert. We’re hoping to avoid giving Kinsey the impression we’re engaged in a tug-of-war. She should not be put in the middle of this discussion—that could only leave her feeling torn and confused. We’d appreciate the opportunity to present her with options without prejudice or undue influence. Since you’ve been in her life, her natural inclination might be to cling to what’s familiar, but working together we can demonstrate the many advantages that await her.

  The irony wasn’t lost on me. Here all these years I’d resented Grand’s apathy when, in fact, she’d been doing her utmost to pull me into her orbit. My wants, needs, and desires were scarcely mentioned except to suggest that she could serve me better than Aunt Gin. Two letters later, she was saying,

  You’ve always valued your career goals and your independence, issues that would be strongly curtailed by the rigors of parenting. Given your full-time employment, Kinsey would, of necessity, be relegated to day care, which we can’t help but think would be disastrous in light of her losses . . .

  I set the rest aside and turned to the small bundle of letters addressed to me.

  Dearest One,

  How are you today? I bet you can’t guess who sent you this letter. I don’t believe you know how to read yet, so I’m hoping your Aunt Virginia will do me the incredible honor of making my thoughts known to you.

  I hope you haven’t forgotten your Grandfather Kinsey and me. We love you so very very much. You may not remember, but the last time I saw you, you were three years old and we took you to the circus. You had a wonderful time watching the clowns and the trained animals. I promised you another visit and now I’m hoping your Aunt Virginia will make this possible.

  You might wonder what you would do in this big house of ours. We’ve set aside a special bedroom for you with lots of toys and books. We can paint it any color you like. Pink or blue or yellow. Which do you prefer? We have an orchard with some trees that grow big red apples and some that grow oranges. In front of the house, there’s a big oak with a tire swing, and there are grassy fields where you can run to your heart’s content. And guess what else? We have two Shetland ponies and a nanny goat named Joan, who might have babies soon. A baby goat is called a kid. Have you ever seen one? Your cousins are begging you to come so you can all bake cookies in our big kitchen. If you tell us your favorite kind, you can have a dozen and one! I was going to keep this a secret, but I can’t resist . . . we have a new puppy! His name is Skippy and he says “woof, woof,” which means please come to see us.

  The rest of Grand’s letters to me were the same saccharine and simple-hearted tomes, addressed to an imaginary child, as she knew nothing about me. I could hardly fault her for that. It had been years since her mothering had been called upon. She might have done a bang-up job raising five daughters when the role was hers. Here she was, working to insinuate herself into my life while Aunt Gin blocked her every move.

  I had to admit Grand’s question about child care was legitimate. I hadn’t thought about the fact that Aunt Gin, working full-time, would have had to find someone to watch me during the day. I was certain she’d done no such thing. My memory of those early days is sketchy at best, but I would have shrunk in horror if I’d been left in the hands of anyone else. Aunt Gin was my anchor. The death of my parents was probably what triggered the overwhelming sense of timidity with which I lived all through my school days. If Aunt Gin had tried handing me off I’d have set up such an unrelenting howl she wouldn’t have tried it again. I knew she hadn’t asked for time away from her job, as Grand had suggested. From early June until September, she took me into work with her. Virginia Kinsey was high-energy, a tireless worker, with no patience at all for slackers. She’d been with California Fidelity Insurance since she was nineteen years old, probably without having taken a sick day or a vacation day, both of which she considered a form of self-indulgence.

  When I started school that fall, she dropped me off in the morning and then picked me up at twelve-thirty, when she’d usher me into the office with her. I had a little table and chair on one side of her desk, and I would amuse myself with picture books, coloring books, and other quiet pursuits. I wondered how California Fidelity Insurance felt about having a child underfoot. By the time I went to work for the company myself, investigating arson and wrongful-death claims, there was a child-care facility on the ground floor of the building, where parents could drop off their children on their way to work.

  I felt the penny drop. Virginia Kinsey had done that. When she assumed the role of faux mother, it was the ’50s and I was sure CFI had no provision for child care and no interest in initiating such a program. The idea of children on the work premises was years in the future, but she was a force to contend with. It would have been exactly like her to compel the company to bend to her wishes, allowing me to spend half-days with her. CFI would have jumped for joy at the chance to do as she required. Unless they capitulated, they’d have never heard the end of it. My guess was that once she established the precedent, other employees with youngsters leapt at the opportunity to have their little ones close at hand. The company must have balked at providing trained teachers or teachers’ aides—there were none on the premises during my tenure—but they did provide child-care workers whose salaries the parents paid. Having their children under the same roof must have been well worth it.

  I was smiling to myself when the phone rang.

  “What’s this crap I hear about you opening a can of worms in the Mary Claire Fitzhugh case? I can’t believe you’d have the gall to meddle in police business . . .”

  The guy was yelling so loud it took me a minute to figure out who it was. “Lieutenant Dolan?”

  My relationship with Lieutenant Dolan had spanned a number of years. Health issues had forced him to retire, but he was still plugged into the department grapevine. Having knocked heads early on, we’d finally come to an understanding based on mutual admiration and respect. I should have been inured to his occasional sharp tone, but it always took me by surprise.

  “Who the hell else?”

  “What can of worms are you talking about?”

  “You know damn well. You’re off on some tangent, stirring up talk.”

  “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

  “Not from Mrs. Fitzhugh’s perspective. She’s had enough wackos making claims about the child over the years.”

  “Could you just tell me what you’ve heard and who you heard it from?”

  “Cheney Phillips. He says he talked to some kid who thinks he saw Mary Claire’s body being buried. Phillips sends the guy to you and you get the cops all in a lather, thinking there’s been a break. Turns out it’s all bullshit and you’re responsible.�
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  “You want to hear my side of it?”

  “No, I do not! How come I’m calling you when you’re the one who should be calling me? You should have told me about this on day one.”

  “Why would I tell you?”

  “Because it was my case,” he snapped. And then, grudgingly, “At least until the FBI stepped in.”

  “How was I supposed to know?”

  “Because everybody knew.”

  “I was in high school. We didn’t meet until years later.”

  “Didn’t Cheney mention my name when he sent the Sutton kid your way?”

  “No. If I’d known you were involved, I’d have been on your doorstep, begging for information. I’ve been working out here on my lonesome and I could have used the help.”

  “You didn’t know I was the lead detective?”

  “Cheney never said a word. This is the first I’ve heard.”

  “Are you blind? It’s right there in the files.”

  “The files are sealed. And even if they weren’t, the police aren’t going to invite me down for a cozy chat about the case.”

  “Well.”

  “Yeah, well,” I said.

  “Maybe I spoke in haste.”

  “You certainly did. You owe me an apology.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “I want to hear you say it.”

  I could hear him take a puff on his cigarette. “Okay, then. I’m sorry. Is that good enough?”

  “Not quite, but I’ll give you the opportunity to atone.”

  “How so?”

  “Invite me over for a drink. You and Stacey and I can sit down and talk about old times while I pick your brain.”

  A pause while he took another puff. “What have you come up with so far?”

  “I’m not telling you without an invitation.”

  Dead silence.

  “Be here at three,” he said, and hung up.

  23