U Is for Undertow

by Sue Grafton

  The drive was uneventful. The day was gorgeous, temperatures in the low seventies with a light breeze coming off the ocean. I’d had the Mustang serviced the week before and the car was driving like a dream. We’d had intermittent rain in February and March, and the rolling hills on either side of the road had turned a lush green. Thirty-five miles later, I took the 132 off-ramp and drove west toward Vandenberg Air Force Base.

  The town of Lompoc boasts a population of roughly thirty-six thousand, with single-family homes ranging in price from $225,000 to $250,000. There’s a small airport, a U.S. penitentiary, an attractive public library, pocket parks, good schools, and three percent more single men than single women, if you happen to be husband hunting. The surrounding area produces half the flower seeds grown in the world, which means that in May, thousands of acres of flowers are visible from the road. This was early in the season, but in another couple of months the fields would be sprouting the colors of a Persian carpet.

  The business district was low-key, with wide streets and few structures over two stories high. Hale Brandenberg was on the second floor of a chunky office building. At ground level, to the right, there was a real estate company, its front windows papered with photographs of houses for sale; on the left, a title company. A glass-paneled door between the two opened onto a wide carpeted staircase. The directory posted on the wall showed his suite number as 204.

  I went up the stairs, marveling at the proportions of the place. The windows in the upper hallway were huge and the ceilings were easily twenty feet high. A race of giants could have moved in and had headroom to spare. The corridor was dead quiet. I counted eight offices, each entrance marked by a transom above the door, the old-world equivalent of air-conditioning. I was taking a chance he’d be out, but when I tapped on his door and then opened it to stick my head in, he was sitting on the floor in the middle of his one-room suite, rubbing saddle soap into one of two worn leather-upholstered chairs.

  His office was sparsely furnished—leather-top desk, the two leather chairs, and a bank of filing cabinets. His windows, like those in the corridor, were big and bare, spotlessly clean, revealing an uninterrupted expanse of blue sky. I caught sight of a patch of green across the street, trees just leafing out.

  “Housekeeping chores,” he said, explaining his homely activity.

  “So I see. Mind if I come in?”

  He was a rangy-looking man somewhere in his sixties, with a thin face and a cleft in his chin. His fair hair, cropped short, was threaded with gray. He wore faded jeans and cowboy boots, a Western-cut shirt, and a string tie. He looked like he’d be happier outdoors, preferably on horseback. He’d finished conditioning one of the leather chairs and was working on the second. The sections he’d finished looked darker and more supple. “If you’re looking for Ned, he’s across the hall.”

  “I’m looking for you, if you’re Hale Brandenberg.”

  “You selling something?”

  “No.”

  “Serving papers?”

  “I’m looking for information.”

  “Come on in and have a seat. You can use my desk chair since it’s the only one available. You mind if I work while we talk?”

  “Fine with me,” I said. Taking advantage of his offer, I circled his desk and sat. His swivel chair was upholstered where mine was not, but I felt at home anyway because the squeaks were similar. As I watched, I was struck by a sense of familiarity. “I know you. Don’t I know you?”

  “I get that a lot. People tell me I look like the Marlboro Man.”

  I laughed. “You do.”

  He moved his rag across the tin of saddle soap, which he applied to the chair arm with a circular motion. “You have a name?”

  “Oh, sorry. Kinsey Millhone. I’m a PI from Santa Teresa. Are you sure we haven’t met? I could swear I’ve run into you. Maybe a professional meeting?”

  “I don’t do those. Do you socialize up here?”

  “I hardly socialize anywhere.”

  “Nor do I. So what can I do for you?”

  “Does my name ring a bell?”

  He took his time answering. “Possibly, though the context escapes me. Refresh my memory.”

  “You worked for my grandmother once upon a time. Cornelia Kinsey.”

  He moved from the side of the chair to the back, the leather looking almost wet as he rubbed in the saddle soap. “What makes you think I worked for her?”

  “I have the invoices.”

  “Mrs. Kinsey still alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss her business without her consent.”

  “Admirable.”

  “You said you’re a PI. You must find yourself in the same boat every now and then.”

  “As a matter of fact, it happened in the last two weeks.”

  “Then I don’t have to spell out the ethical implications. She paid for the information. It belongs to her.”

  “Don’t you think the statute of limitations has run out where I’m concerned?”

  “Depends on what you want to know.”

  I opened the manila envelope and dumped the letters on his desk. “Know what these are?”

  “Not from down here. You want to hold something up where I can see it?”

  I picked up a handful of letters, which I fanned out and held in view. “Some of these were sent to my Aunt Gin and some to me. All of them were returned unopened. Well, except the first. It looks like Aunt Gin read that one before she put it back in the mail to Grand.”

  “You steal them?”

  “No, but I would have, given half a chance. A cousin of mine came across them when she was going through my grandfather’s files. I figured the letters are mine since they’re addressed to me.”

  “You’d have to take that up with an attorney. I’m not well versed in the laws governing intellectual property,” he said. “What happened to Virginia Kinsey?”

  “She died fifteen years ago.”

  “Ah. Well, I’m sorry to hear.”

  “I was the sole beneficiary of her estate, which means her letters are mine as well.”

  “You won’t catch me arguing the point.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “I met her in the line of duty, so to speak.”

  “You want to hear my theory?”

  “I can’t prevent you from voicing an opinion.”

  “In the two or three years after my parents’ death, my grandmother was hell-bent on gaining custody of me. It’s all in the letters. I’m guessing you were hired to investigate my Aunt Gin in hopes of impugning her parenting ability.”

  Hale Brandenberg said nothing. His rag went around and around while he squinted in the manner of a man who’s accustomed to working with a cigarette in one corner of his mouth. His was a type I’d run across before. The rugged outdoor sort. His humor was dry and understated, and his persona had a comforting appeal.

  “No comment?” I asked.

  “Don’t think so. I understand your interest, but the same principle applies. You want the information, talk to your granny.”

  “She’s in her nineties and losing it, from what I hear. I doubt she’d remember what you did for her.”

  “That doesn’t mean I’m free to discuss it with you.”

  “Mr. Brandenberg, in less than a month, I’ll be thirty-eight years old. I’m not up for adoption so I don’t see what difference it could possibly make if you confirmed what I’ve said.”

  He smiled faintly. “The name’s Hale and you have a point. At your age, I’m sure the court would take your wishes into consideration before making a decision about placement.”

  “That’s safely nonresponsive. What if I ask about process instead of content?”

  “You can try.”

  “What happened to the written reports? I’ve got invoices but nothing else.”

  “There weren’t any.”

  “How so?”

  He smiled. “I’d have to cite confidentiality agai
n.”

  “Were you supposed to grab me and run?”

  “Oh, god no. I wouldn’t have hired out if that was the point.”

  I sorted through the invoices. “She paid you close to four thousand dollars.”

  “I put in a lot of hours.”

  “Doing what?”

  He was quiet and I could see him brooding.

  I said, “Look. This is all ancient history. There’s nothing at stake. Whatever Grand’s intentions, she couldn’t have succeeded because here I sit.”

  He was quiet for a moment more. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” Surprised, I said, “Sure. I’d like that.”

  I pictured a coffee shop, but Hale had something else in mind. We went into the lobby of an office building three doors down. In one corner, there was a coffee cart, complete with wee containers of half-and-half, sugar packets, stirring sticks, and freshly baked cinnamon buns. He glanced at me. “Have you had lunch?”

  “It’s ten A.M.”

  He smiled. “How about a sticky bun?”

  “Sure, why not? I skipped breakfast this morning along with my three-mile run.”

  He pointed to three big cinnamon buns that the woman behind the cart picked up with a sheet of waxed paper and placed in a sack. He asked for two jumbo coffees to go, which she poured, and then set in a collapsible cardboard tray. He picked up a handful of half-and-half containers the size and shape of bonbons, and then he added a pile of sugar packets.

  After he paid, I followed him out the lobby door and from there to the grassy park across the street. I got the impression this was his morning ritual. The bench he chose was in dappled shade. By the time he sat down, setting the cardboard tray between us, a Disney-like assortment of birds and squirrels had appeared in anticipation of the third pastry, apparently intended for them. Our conversation proceeded by fits and starts while we sipped coffee and munched on sticky buns, tossing nuggets to the little creatures gathered at his feet.

  “You understand I could have my license yanked if this got back to her.”

  “How would it get back to her? I won’t breathe a word of it. Scout’s honor.”

  He sat and thought about it. “What the hell. I’m close to retirement. I’ll take you at your word.”

  “Please.”

  “You’re right about the job. Mrs. Kinsey hired me to do a background check on Virginia.”

  “She wanted proof Aunt Gin was unfit to act as my guardian, right?”

  “Basically. Your grandmother had enough money to pay for the best attorneys. Still does, for that matter. She also had enough to pay for my services, which didn’t come cheap . . . as you so kindly pointed out. She thought she could influence the social workers and the judge and she wasn’t too far wrong. Virginia Kinsey was an odd duck.”

  “ ‘Eccentric’ is the word,” I said. “So what went on?”

  He smiled, conceding the point. “Your parents left no instructions about guardianship if something happened to them. Your aunt had no experience with kids. You must have discovered that yourself if you had half a brain. She was one of a kind. She could knock back whiskey with the best of them and she cussed like a stevedore. I could have made a case for your grandmother being the better equipped to care for a five-year-old.”

  “Is that what you did?”

  “No.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’ll get to that in a bit. Two things I should tell you first. I didn’t like your grandmother then and I don’t like her now. Maybe she reminds me too much of my own granny, who was stingy and bad-tempered, as hateful as they come. Mrs. Kinsey’s the same, self-centered and autocratic, which won’t fly with me. I’ve worked for her a time or two after that job, but it’s been years now, which is why I asked if she was still alive.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Here’s the other thing. That was the only job I ever did strictly for the money. I was just getting into the business. I’d borrowed from the bank to set up my office, but clients weren’t exactly breaking down my door. The loan officer . . . the cranky so-and-so . . . expected payment and I didn’t have a dime. I put him off as long as I could, but I was running out of excuses. I don’t know what the bank would’ve done if I’d defaulted. I figured the last thing they wanted was an empty office filled with my used furniture. I knew the location was good and I was convinced I’d have business enough to support myself—at least modestly—within a short period of time. I just didn’t have the cash in hand.

  “Mrs. Kinsey came along and told me what she had in mind. Even as desperate as I was, I didn’t want to work for her so I named an exorbitant price. She agreed to pay it and I was stuck. I sat surveillance on Virginia off and on for weeks—first in 1955, then again in ’56 and early ’57. In truth, I never saw your aunt as a motherly type. She provided you with the basics, but I didn’t witness much in the way of affection.”

  “I can testify to that.”

  He smiled. “You were a tiny little thing and you clung to her like a monkey. So much so that I wondered about your emotional stability. You’d taken a hit. The loss of your parents was a blow I wasn’t sure you’d recover from. Virginia wasn’t nurturing, but she was solid and she was constant. She was also a firecracker when it came to protecting you. In my opinion, that was enough.”

  “You decided all this sitting in a car parked down the street from us?”

  “Not quite. I’d been out there less than a week when she spotted me. I thought I’d been discreet, but she was sharp. She must have known her mother was up to no good. One day she came out to the car, gestured I should roll the window down, and then invited me in. She said if I was going to spy on her I might as well do it up close and net myself a cup of coffee in the bargain. After that, she knew I was following her, but she made no concessions. She did exactly what she always did. What I thought of her and what I reported was of no concern.”

  “I’m missing something here,” I said. “My grandmother was ancient even then. What made her think she had any chance of gaining custody?”

  “It was the other way around. She thought she had the means to knock your Aunt Gin out of the running. If she managed to do that, who else was going to step in?”

  “My mother was the oldest of five girls. Aunt Gin was next, and after her there was Sarah, Maura, and Susanna. I should think any one of them would have been preferable.”

  “They were financially dependent on the senior Kinseys. All the girls made respectable marriages, but their husbands didn’t have the kind of money your grandparents did. As I heard the story, Sarah and Maura didn’t approve of your mother anyway and neither one of them was willing to defy Mrs. Kinsey once they knew she wanted you.”

  “What kind of leverage did she have aside from that? I’m still not getting it.”

  “I’ve probably said enough.”

  “Come on.”

  “Don’t you ever give up?”

  “It doesn’t hurt to ask. I figure you’ll tell me as much or as little as you want.”

  He took a bite of sticky bun and chewed for a while, then took a sip of coffee. “Your grandmother believed Virginia was a lesbian.”

  I stared at him, astonished. “You’re not serious.”

  “You asked about the leverage. That was it. In those days, the accusation was damaging, even if there wasn’t any proof. That’s why I wouldn’t give her written reports. I didn’t want Mrs. Kinsey to have anything to hold over Virginia’s head.”

  “Aunt Gin was gay?”

  “That’s not what I said. I said I wouldn’t put anything in writing one way or the other.”

  “How’d she come up with the notion in the first place?”

  “I have no idea. When she came to my office, she told me what she wanted, which was to get ‘the goods’ on her daughter. That was the phrase she used. She said no judge would permit custody to go to someone of such a ‘bent.’ I told her I wouldn’t tailor my findings to suit her purposes. She said she’d be happy to hire someone
else who’d give her what she was paying for. I told her I didn’t give a shit who she hired. If she didn’t care about the truth, she wouldn’t be doing business with me.”

  “She let you talk to her that way?”

  “She took offense, but I think she liked it. Hardly anyone stood up to her in those days.”

  “They still don’t. Go on with your story.”

  “She was irritated, but in the end she agreed. The thing about her, she was an egomaniac, but there was a line she was hesitant to cross. Virginia was still a Kinsey. If your grandmother was right, exposing Virginia would be an embarrassment to her as well as to the rest of the family.”

  “You’re saying if she was right, she wouldn’t have used the information?”

  “Not publicly, no. I was worried she would do something underhanded. She was devious and I didn’t want to give her the ammunition.”

  “So you told her Aunt Gin was straight?”

  “She was.”

  I squinted at him. “Are you leveling with me?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? To me, the idea was ridiculous. There was never a shred of evidence Virginia Kinsey was anything other than a dyed-in-the-wool heterosexual. She preferred being single, but that’s not aberrant behavior. A lot of folks are like that. I’m one.”

  “Me, too,” I said. “I don’t understand why Grand would even raise the question.”

  “It must have been the worst thing she could think of, so naturally, she wanted it to be true.”

  “As old-fashioned and proper as she seems, I can’t believe she even knew about such things.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. Even Victorian women had their ‘special’ friends. When two ‘single’ women settled in together, eyebrows went up. The arrangement was referred to as ‘a Boston marriage.’ ”