Sweet After Death
Page 34
“I’ll go get your grandmother.”
Alice nodded.
There was a fireplace in the corner and gardening gloves on a chair. There were three trays of cookies on the kitchen counter—her grandmother must have been baking all night—and roses in a vase on the table.
Alice saw everything and touched nothing—until she saw her mother’s picture in a silver frame on the bookcase. There she was, a few years older than Alice, smiling at someone Alice couldn’t see. The little girl picked up the frame, with hands still a little grubby from Mount Baker’s earth, and couldn’t look away. There she was, younger and happier than her daughter had ever seen her, standing by the fireplace.
Alice let go of the breath she had been holding.
She gazed at the picture of her mother until she heard the voices coming up the stairs, and turned.
Acknowledgments
It is usually in these final paragraphs that I mention that occasionally—while writing about Seattle—I make up street names and addresses so that awful things would not be happening in real homes where real people live. However, in this case, things are a little different: Colville County is an entirely fictional place, and so is the town of Ludlow. Having said that, if they existed that’s exactly what they would be like. I researched the climate and the properties of neighboring counties—Ferry, Stevens, and Pend Oreille—and I have borrowed the name Colville from Fort Colville near the Kettle Falls fur-trading site established in 1825.
Ludlow itself is a combination of Banff in Alberta, Canada, and Friday Harbor on San Juan Island in Washington State. I know both and it was a joy to re-create part of them on paper.
The first time I arrived in Banff the driver had to slow down on Main Street because a massive elk was crossing the road; another time we found a cougar paw print in the snow, yards away from the back of the hotel. That’s the kind of place I wanted to write about.
Writing is solitary, and the people who help and support this rather odd occupation are very precious . . .
First, I’d like to thank the Seattle Police Department for giving me access to its officers and making it possible for me to watch them at work and talk without restrictions.
In particular, I would like to thank police officer Michele Vallor—only recently retired after thirty years in the SPD—who took me along on her shift and showed me what policing downtown Seattle is all about. Michele Vallor is the inspiration for Monica Vincent—Madison’s field training officer—and she is everything a police officer should aim to be. Spending a day with her as she dealt with homelessness, the mentally ill, an assault, generally abusive behavior, and the constant demands of patrol—as well as keeping an eye on me—was humbling. And, as Monica Vincent did with Madison, Officer Vallor took me to Kobe Terrace to show me the cherry trees in blossom at the beginning of the shift on a bright spring morning.
Also my deepest thanks to homicide sergeant Bob Vallor for his frankness, support, and the best challenge coin I will ever have; and to homicide detective Donna Stangeland for her time and her honesty about the pressures of policing and the most important attributes of a detective.
All the officers I met were committed to their jobs and very helpful, and all the mistakes in these pages are mine and mine alone.
My partners in crime were many, and I thank them with all my heart . . .
The Berglunds in Seattle and Mayor Nicola Smith in Lynnwood for their constant support through the years and for giving Madison her home.
The Giambanco family, in Italy and in Atlanta, for their cheerleading. And my sisters for long-distance sisterhood and up-close margaritas.
Kezia Martin, the first person ever to meet Madison years and years ago.
Anita Phillips, the oracle of all things American, brave enough to read an unedited manuscript.
Clair Chamberlain, for professional counsel and for common sense when common sense was needed.
Gerald, for large and small polar bears who guard the door while I’m writing in the cave.
And my mum, who believes in courage, always.
Blacksheep Ltd. gave the books their look and kindly allowed me to use it in other media.
My thanks to the wonderful team at Quercus USA: Nathaniel Marunas, Amelia Iuvino, Amanda Harkness, and Elyse Gregov brought Alice Madison home and managed to make sense of her British accent.
Stef Bierwerth, my editor at Quercus UK, whose passion, determination, and talent are a wonder to behold.
Teresa Chris, my agent, for cracking the whip and being a tireless supporter—her trust in my writing has been the single most important constant in a shifting world.
Valentina Giambanco was born in Italy. After receiving a degree in English and Drama at Goldsmiths, University of London, she worked for a classical music retailer and as a bookseller in her local bookshop. She started in films as an editor’s apprentice in a 35 mm cutting room and since then has worked on many award-winning UK and US pictures, from small independent projects to large studio productions. Valentina lives in London.
www.valentinagiambanco.com
@vm_giambanco