U is for Undertow

by Sue Grafton

  I said, “If they decided to forfeit the ransom, why not just hit the road? Why kill the child?”

  “I can’t believe they meant to hurt her. Greg might have been stupid and greedy, but he’d never harm a child. Not even Shelly could have talked him into going that far. To be fair, I’ve questioned whether she was capable of anything so heinous. Patrick thought it was totally in character. As for the hole being dug on our property … whatever the intention … Greg and Shelly could have chosen the location, thinking it was safe. To my way of thinking, the similarities between Rain’s abduction and Mary Claire’s are too obvious to discount.”

  I said, “The one obvious difference is the introduction of a ransom note during the second kidnapping. As I understand it, when Rain was taken, the contact was strictly by phone.”

  Deborah slowed and I was surprised to see we’d almost reached the wharf by then. I’d been so focused on the conversation I hadn’t been aware of the walk itself. By now the fog had fully enveloped us and the air was so saturated with mist that my sweatshirt was damp. I could see beads of moisture in Deborah’s hair, a veil of diamonds.

  I was quiet, running the information in a quick loop, and I found myself itchy with misgivings. “Something’s off. You and the Suttons were good friends. If Greg was one of the two guys digging in the woods, Michael would have recognized him.”

  “That’s true. On the other hand, Greg and Shelly had their druggie pals who kept them supplied with dope. They sat out in the bus and smoked so much weed, I could have gotten high myself. I realize now I should have turned them in to the police, but I was still hoping the problem would go away of its own accord.”

  “Did you meet their friends?”

  “I never laid eyes on them. They’d park around the corner and approach on foot, which allowed them to bypass the house and go straight to the cabana where the bus was parked. One of them had a motor scooter. I remember that because every time he left, I could hear it puttering down the street.”

  “I wish I could make sense of it.”

  “You and me both,” she said. “Oh, before I forget. Rain’s driving up from L.A. for a few days. She took over the family business after Patrick died. I’m sure she’d be willing to tell you what she remembers. It isn’t much, but you might pick up a useful tidbit.”

  “That’s great. I’ll call and set something up.”

  20

  The four-mile beach walk with Deborah had warmed me, but once I cooled off and my body temperature dropped, I could feel the chill in my bones. I returned to my car and pulled on my socks and running shoes. My feet were still wet and so grubby with sand that the cotton sawed against my flesh like a wood rasp. While I was out and about I made a quick stop at the drugstore and stocked up on blank index cards.

  At 5:00, I unlocked the studio door and let myself in. My first order of business was to strip off my damp clothes and hop in a hot shower, after which I put on my sweats and went down to the living room. For supper I made myself a peanut butter and pickle sandwich. Recently I’d been making an effort to upgrade my diet, which meant cutting down on the french fries and Quarter Pounders with Cheese that had been my mainstays. A peanut butter and pickle sandwich was never going to qualify as the pinnacle on the food pyramid, but it was the best I could do.

  I set my plate and napkin on the table at one end of the sofa, then opened a bottle of Chardonnay and poured myself a glass. I returned to the living room, a round-trip of twenty feet. I found a ballpoint pen and curled up on the sofa with a quilt tucked around my legs. I opened the first packet of index cards and started taking notes.

  I had a lot of ground to cover, consigning everything I’d learned to note cards, one item per card, which reduced the facts to their simplest form. It’s our nature to condense and collate, bundling related elements for ease of storage in the back of our brains. Since we lack the capacity to capture every detail, we cull what we can, blocking the bits we don’t like and admitting those that match our notions of what’s going on. While efficient, the practice leaves us vulnerable to blind spots. Under stress, memory becomes even less reliable. Over time we sort and discard what seems irrelevant to make room for additional incoming data. In the end, it’s a wonder we remember anything at all. What we manage to preserve is subject to misinterpretation. An event might appear to be generated by the one before it, when the order is actually coincidental. Two occurrences may be linked even when widely separated by time and place.

  My strategy of committing facts to cards allowed me to arrange and rearrange them, looking for the overall shape of a case. I was convinced a pattern would emerge, but I reminded myself that just because I wished a story were true didn’t mean that it was. As my Aunt Gin used to say, “It’s like the Singer sewing machine repairman said to the housewife, Kinsey. ‘Wishing won’t make it sew.’ I confess I didn’t get the point until I was in third grade and realized that “sew” and “so” sounded the same but served different functions. More pertinent in my experience was another saying of hers: “Wish in one hand and shit in the other and see which fills up first.” Sometimes a dog tag is just a dog tag, and two guys digging a hole are gathering worms in preparation for a fishing trip.

  I devoted most of Thursday to other business. Despite my fascination with Mary Claire Fitzhugh, I had other work-related responsibilities. I’d been asked to comb public records for hidden assets in a nasty divorce. In that case, a husband was suspected of playing fast and loose with certain real property he claimed he’d never owned. I was also in the process of tracking down a witness to a hit-and-run accident and that required a lot of knocking on doors, so I was out of the office for most of the day. I stopped by at 4:00 and spent the next forty-five minutes transcribing my field notes to rough-draft reports. I’d been so caught up in work I hadn’t noticed the message light blinking on my answering machine.

  I punched Play.

  Tasha said, “Hi, Kinsey. I’m down in Santa Teresa to meet with a client and I was wondering if you’d be available later this afternoon. I have something I think will interest you. It’s roughly noon now, so I’m hoping I’ll hear from you. I’ll be staying at the Beachcomber on Cabana until tomorrow morning.” She recited the number, which I ignored.

  I went back to typing notes, but I’d lost my train of thought. I pressed Play and listened to the message again, this time jotting down the number at her hotel. She must have known me better than I thought, because nothing is more irresistible than veiled references to a topic of interest. I couldn’t imagine what she was up to, but I was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.

  I dialed the number and the switchboard put me through to her room. She was out, but a very pleasant automated woman told me that the party I was calling was not available at this time. She invited me to leave a message at the tone and that’s exactly what I did, saying, “Hi, Tasha. Kinsey here. I just got your message and I was hoping to catch you. I’m on my way home, but if you like, we could meet for a drink. Why don’t you join me at Rosie’s on Albanil, where we met before. The desk clerk can give you directions if you’ve forgotten where it is. The place still looks like a dive, so don’t be put off. Five-thirty works for me if it works for you. Hope to see you soon.”

  I left the office at 5:00 and was home again at 5:10, stripping off my clothes as I scrambled up the stairs. For someone indifferent to her kin, it’s amazing how hard I work at looking good in their eyes. Since I tend to deal with only one aunt or cousin at a time, I don’t want reports going back to the clan that my boots are scuffed or my hair is sticking out in all directions, as is usually the case. I showered and shampooed. I even shaved the requisite legs and armpits just in case I fell in a swoon and one or the other was exposed to view. How did I know how the evening would proceed?

  I stood in front of my closet, wrapped in a towel, staring at my clothes for one full minute, which was a long time, given that in ten minutes more I was expected to present myself fully dressed. I nixed the all-purpo
se dress. Though comfortable, the garment is looking a bit shopworn, which is not to say I won’t be wearing it for years. I considered my tweed blazer, but if I remembered correctly, I was wearing that very blazer the last time Tasha and I met. I didn’t want her to think I had only the one blazer, though that was close to the truth. I pictured Diana Sutton Alvarez. As much as I disliked her, she did dress with class. What was it about her? Black tights, I thought, and quickly rooted through my sock drawer until I came up with a pair. I put on clean choners and then shimmied into the black tights and added a skirt. The fabric was wool and the color was dark so I figured I couldn’t go wrong there. I found my tassel loafers and then struggled to find a top. I put on a white blouse and discovered a button missing. I tucked my shirttail into the waistband of my skirt and then pulled on a hunter green crewneck sweater. The “ensemble” (which means: a bunch of clothes all worn at once) didn’t look half bad, but it needed another touch. I looked around the bedroom. Ah. I’d been using a hand-knit wool scarf along the bottom of the door to the upstairs bath, keeping out the drafts that crept through the crack where there should have been a threshold. I snatched up the scarf, shook off a few woofies, and slung it around my neck. I checked my reflection in the full-length mirror. I was, as they say, a sight for sore eyes.

  I grabbed my jacket, my shoulder bag, and my keys, and headed out the door.

  By 5:27 I was comfortably ensconced in my favorite booth at Rosie’s, my gaze pinned on the door while I feigned indifference. Rosie took one look at me and knew something was up. I wasn’t sure whether it was my hair, still slicked down and damp, or the blusher and mascara I’d taken such care to apply. I could feel myself squirm under her scrutiny.

  As she handed me a menu her penciled-on eyebrows went up. “You heving a date?”

  “I’m meeting my cousin Tasha,” I said, primly.

  “A cousin? Well, that’s heppy news. Is this the one you can’t stand?”

  “Rosie, if you say anything of the sort to her, I’ll sock you in the mouth.”

  “Ooo, I’m loving when you talk tough.”

  I glanced up in time to see Tasha enter. She paused in the doorway to survey the room. I waved and she waved in return. She took a moment to peel off her coat and hang it on one of the wall-mounted hooks near the entrance. She retained the long scarf she’d worn under her coat collar and rearranged it over her sweater and skirt. She wore high heels and I wore flats. Aside from that, the similarities in our outfits were unsettling, as they were in most other aspects of our personal appearances.

  I stood when she reached the table and we did that fake kissing thing, looking like a pair of budgies about to peck each other to death.

  Rosie appeared to be transfixed, the same reaction she’d had on prior occasions when she’d seen Tasha and me. Her gaze shifted from my face to Tasha’s.

  I turned to her. “Rosie, this is my cousin Tasha. I believe the two of you met before.”

  “A cousin. And here, I’m thinking you was an orphing.”

  “Not quite. My parents died, but my mother had four sisters so I still have aunts and cousins in Lompoc.”

  “And a grandmother,” Tasha put in.

  “You hev a grandma?” Rosie said, feigning surprise. “Why you don’t hev her down for visiting?”

  “That’s what I’ve been asking her,” Tasha said, not wanting to pass up the chance to get under my skin. I refused to react. If I offered resistance the two of them would gang up and turn on me like chow dogs.

  Rosie turned to Tasha. “I’m bringing you good wine. Not like your cousin drinks.”

  “Great. I’d appreciate that. The cuisine’s Hungarian?”

  Rosie nearly purred when she heard the word “cuisine,” which she took as a compliment. “You know Hungarian dish what is carp in sour cream? Is special tonight. You be my guest.” She turned to me. “I’m giving you some as well in honor of your friend. You lucky to have someone so close. My own sister Klotilde is died.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Tasha said.

  “No big loss. She wus crabby to the end. I’m getting wine now. You sit and I’m bringing right beck.”

  “Looks like you’ve made a conquest,” I remarked, as Rosie moved away. I took a seat again on my side of the booth and Tasha slid in across the table from me.

  “She’s adorable,” she said.

  “That’s one word for it.”

  “She speaks English well. How long has she been in this country?”

  “Sixty years, give or take.”

  We confined ourselves to chitchat until Rosie returned with the wine in a dusty bottle with an actual cork. For me, she’s quick with a screw-top jug and wine so close to vinegar you could use it to clean windows. The wine she poured for Tasha was like drinking elixir from an orchard—soft, subtle, with a fragrance of apples, pears, and honey.

  We let Rosie order for us, which she’d have done anyway. It was better to give her permission to be bossy and thus retain a modicum of control. She was otherwise a food dominatrix. The carp with sour cream turned out to be lovely. Maybe I’d have dinner here with Tasha more often.

  As is the case every time we meet, I couldn’t help making a secret study of her. She looks not the way I look, but the way I think I look when I’m at my best. We have the same square teeth, the same nose, though mine has suffered a few indignities where hers has survived in its original state. My eyes are hazel where hers are dark brown, but the shape is the same. I could tell she plucked her eyebrows, and I envied her both the skill and the courage. Sometimes I try, usually closing my eyes while doing so in hopes it won’t hurt. Inevitably, I pull out the wrong hair, which makes my brows look patchy and incomplete. Then I have to use eyebrow pencil to fill in the blanks, which gives me the fierce demeanor of a Kabuki.

  When we’d finished our meal and Rosie had removed the plates, Tasha reached into her tote and pulled out a bulky manila envelope. I expected her to hand it across the table to me, but she held it against her chest.

  “I’ve been sorting and cataloging Grandfather Kinsey’s papers for the historical preservation group that raised the money to move the house. Grand asked me to take charge because his files are so voluminous and so disorganized. She’s never had the patience to tackle them herself. She wants me to put together a chronological account of the house—when it was built, the architect, the plans, and that sort of thing. Grandfather Kinsey kept everything—and I mean everything—so with a bit of digging I’ve been able to come up with summaries of his meetings with the builder, various construction proposals, invoices and receipts documenting the project from beginning to end. In the midst of it, I came across some letters that by rights belong to Grand. I haven’t told her I found them, because there’s no way to predict what she’d do with them. Destroy them, most likely. I thought you should see them first.”

  “Well, you’ve got my attention.”

  “I hope so,” she said.

  I held out my hand and took the envelope. While she watched, I unfolded the clasp, opened the package, and peered in. There were three or four sheets of letterhead stationery and a series of letters bound together with two thick rubber bands, old ones apparently, because both snapped when I tried removing them. I did a finger walk through the envelopes, some of which were addressed to me and some to Virginia Kinsey, my Aunt Gin. The postmarks were assorted dates in the latter half of 1955—the same year my parents were killed—starting in June and extending through the next two calendar years. One had been opened but the rest were still sealed. Across the front of each envelope there was either an emphatic “RETURN TO SENDER!! ADDRESSEE UNKNOWN!” in Aunt Gin’s unmistakable bold printing or equally forceful messages delivered by way of post office rubber stamps with a purple-ink finger pointing accusingly at the return address. You’d think a federal crime had been committed from the savagery expressed.

  I knew what I was looking at. In one of my last conversations with Tasha, we’d argued this very point. Her mother
, my Aunt Susanna, had said that the day my parents were killed, they were traveling to Lompoc in hopes of a reconciliation with my grandparents. She claimed that after they died, Grand tried for years to establish contact with me and had finally given up. I’d assumed it was all bullshit, Aunt Susanna’s attempt to put a better spin on the tale of my abandonment. Having never spoken to my grandmother, the gist of my quarrel with her was that she’d been content to let me languish, bereft of family solace and support, for the twenty-nine years following my parents’ deaths. Aunt Gin’s parenting, while adequate, had been curiously deficient in matters of warmth and affection. Her remoteness might well have been something she learned at her mother’s knee, but whatever the origin, I was affected. She’d taught me many valuable lessons about life, most of which still serve me, but of comfort, closeness, and nurturing, there was little. The letters were proof Grand had made an effort that Aunt Gin had rebuffed.

  I found myself without a word to say. I might have mustered a weak protest, but what would have been the point? I’d been wrong in my assumption. Grand wasn’t to be faulted for neglect. Aunt Gin had refused her letters, thus cutting off communication. I cleared my throat. “I appreciate this.”

  “Go ahead and open them if you want.”

  “I’d prefer to be alone if it’s all the same to you. Unless the letters turn out to be too personal or too painful, I’ll be happy to make copies and get them back to you.”

  “Take your time.”

  “Will you tell Grand you found them?”

  “I don’t know yet. If you return the letters, I won’t have much choice. The minute Grand sees the seals are broken, she’ll know the secret’s out, whatever it may be.”

  “And if I don’t return them?”

  “Let’s put it this way, she’s never going to ask. She might not even realize they were sitting in the files. Actually, there’s something else that may prove more important.”