Women on the Case

by Sara Paretsky

  Gracie

  The pigeons’ve deserted me, guess they know I’m not really with them anymore. I’m mostly back there in the smoky neon past and the memories’re really pulling hard now. The unsuspecting look on my little boy’s face and the regret in my heart when I tucked him in, knowing it was the last time. The rage on his father’s face when I said I was leaving. The lean times that weren’t really so lean because I sure wasn’t living like I am today. The high times that didn’t last. The painful times when I realized they weren’t going to keep their promises.

  It’ll be all right. We’ll arrange everything.

  But it wasn’t all right and nothing got arranged. It’ll never be all right again.

  Cecily

  Grade’s hidey-hole is an abandoned trash Dumpster behind a condemned building on 18th Street. I had quite a time finding it. The woman acts like a criminal who’s afraid she’s being tailed, and it took three nights of ducking into doorways and-hiding behind parked cars to follow her there. I watched through a hole in the fence while she unloaded the plastic bags from her cart to the Dumpster, then climbed in after them. The clang when she pulled the lid down was deafening, and I can imagine how noisy it is in there when it rains, like it’s starting to right now. Anyway, Gracie’s home for the night.

  Tomorrow morning after she leaves I’m going to investigate that Dumpster.

  Gracie

  Rain thundering down hard, loud and echoing like applause. It’s the only applause old Grade’s likely to hear anymore.

  Old Gracie, that’s how I think of myself. And I’m only thirty-nine, barely middle-aged. But I crammed a lot into those last seventeen years, and life catches up with some of us faster than others. I don’t know as I’d have the nerve to look in a mirror anymore. What I’d see might scare me.

  That red-haired woman was following me for a couple of nights—after my gold, for sure—but today I didn’t see her. How she knows about the gold, I don’t know. I never told anybody, but that must be it, it’s all I’ve got of value. I’m gonna have to watch out for her, but keeping on guard is one hell of a job when you’re feeling like I do.

  It must be the rain. If only this rain’d stop, I’d feel better.

  Cecily

  Checking out that Dumpster was about the most disgusting piece of work I’ve done in years. It smelled horrible, and the stench is still with me—in my hair and on my clothing. The bottom half is covered with construction debris like two-by-fours and Sheetrock, and on top of it Grade’s made a nest of unbelievably filthy bedding. At first I thought there wasn’t anything of hers there and, frankly, I wasn’t too enthusiastic about searching thoroughly. But then, in a space between some planking beneath the wad of bedding, I found a cardboard gift box—heart-shaped and printed with roses that had faded almost to white. Inside it were some pictures of a little boy.

  He was a chubby, little blond, all dressed up to have his photo taken, and on the back of each somebody had written his name—Michael Joseph—and the date. In one he wore a party hat and had his hand stuck in a birthday cake, and on its back was the date—March 8, 1975—and his age—two years.

  Gracie’s little boy? Probably. Why else would she have saved his pictures and the lock of hair in the blue envelope that was the only other thing in the box?

  So now I have a lead. A woman named Grade (if that’s her real name) had a son named Michael Joseph on March 8, 1973, perhaps in Oroville. Is that enough information to justify a trip up to Butte County to check the birth records? A trip in my car, which by all rights shouldn’t make it to the San Francisco county line?

  Well, why not? I collected yet another rejection letter yesterday. I need to get away from here.

  Grade

  I could tell right away when I got back tonight—somebody’s been in my hidey-hole. Nothing looked different, but I could smell whoever it was, the way one animal can smell another.

  I guess that’s what it all boils down to in the end: We’re not much different from the animals.

  I’ll stay here tonight because it’s raining again and I’m weary from the walk and unloading my cart. But tomorrow I’m out of here. Can’t stay where it isn’t safe. Can’t sleep in a place somebody’s defiled.

  Well, they didn’t find anything. Everything I own was in my cart. Everything except the box with the pictures of Mikey. They disappeared a few years ago, right about the time I moved in here. Must’ve fallen out of the cart, or else somebody took them. Doesn’t matter, though; I remember him as clear as if I’d tucked him in for the last time only yesterday. Remember his father, too, cursing me as I went out the door, telling me I’d never see my son again.

  I never did.

  I remember all the promises, too; my lawyer and my manager were going to work it all out so I could have Mikey with me. But his father made it difficult and then things went downhill and then there was the drug bust and all the publicity—

  Why am I letting the past suck me in? All those years I had such good control. No more drink, no more drugs, just pure, strong control. A dozen years on the street, first down south, then up here, and I always kept my mind on the present and its tiny details. My pigeons, the people passing by, the cracks in the sidewalk …

  It’s like I’ve tumbled into one of those cracks. I’m falling and I don’t know what’ll happen next.

  Cecily

  Here I am in Oroville, in a cheap motel not far from the Butte County Courthouse. By all rights I shouldn’t have made it this far. The car tried to die three times—once while I was trying to navigate the freeway maze at Sacramento—but I arrived before the vital statistics department closed. And now I know who Gracie is!

  Michael Joseph Venema was born on March 8, 1973, to Michael William and Grace Ann Venema in Butte Hospital. The father was thirty-five at the time, the mother only sixteen. Venema’s not a common name here; the current directory lists only one—initial M—on Lark Lane. I’ve already located it on the map, and I’m going there tomorrow morning. It’s a Saturday, so somebody’s bound to be at home. I’ll just show up and maybe the element of surprise will help me pry loose the story of my neighborhood bag lady.

  God, I’m good at this! Maybe I should scrap my literary ambitions and become an investigative reporter.

  Gracie

  I miss my Dumpster. Was noisy when it rained, that’s true, but at least it was dry. The only shelter I could find tonight was this doorway behind Gino’s, and I had to wait for them to close up before I crawled into it, so I got plenty wet. My blankets’re soaked, but the plastic has to go over my cart to protect my things. How much longer till morning?

  Well, how would I know? Haven’t had a watch for years. I pawned it early on, that was when I was still sleeping in hotel rooms, thinking things would turn around for me. Then I was sleeping in my car and had to sell everything else, one by one. And then it was a really cheap hotel, and I turned some tricks to keep the money coming, but when a pimp tried to move in on me, I knew it was time to get my act together and leave town. So I came here and made do. In all the years I’ve lived on the street in different parts of this city, I’ve never turned another trick and I’ve never panhandled. For a while before I started feeling so bad I picked up little jobs, working just for food. But lately I’ve had to rely on other people’s kindnesses.

  It hurts to be so dependent.

  There’s another gust of wind, blowing the rain at me. It’s “raining like a son of a bitch tonight. It better let up in the morning.

  I miss my Dumpster. I miss …

  No. I’ve still got some control left. Not much, but a shred.

  Cecily

  Now I know Gracie’s story, and I’m so distracted that I got on the wrong freeway coming back through Sacramento. There’s a possibility I may be able to reunite her with her son Mike—plus I’ve got my novel, all of it, and it’s going to be terrific! I wouldn’t be surprised if it changed my life.

  I went to Mike’s house this morning—a little prefab on
a couple of acres in the country south of town. He was there, as were his wife and baby son. At first he didn’t believe his mother was alive, then he didn’t want to talk about her. But when I told him Gracie’s circumstances he opened up and agreed to tell me what he knew. And he knew practically everything, because his father finally told him the truth when he was dying last year.

  Grade was a singer. One of those bluesy-pop kind like Linda Ronstadt, whom you can’t categorize as either country or Top 40. She got her start singing at their church and received some encouragement from a friend’s uncle who was a sound engineer at an L.A. recording studio. At sixteen she’d married Mike’s father—who was nearly twenty years her senior—and they’d never been very happy. So on the strength of that slim encouragement, she left him and their son and went to L.A. to try to break into the business.

  And she did, under the name Grace Ventura. The interesting thing is, I remember her first hit, “Smoky Neon Haze,” very clearly. It was romantic and tragic, and I was just at the age when tragedy is an appealing concept rather than a harsh reality.

  Anyway, Mike’s father was very bitter about Gracie deserting them—the way my husband was when I told him I was leaving to become a writer. After Gracie’s first album did well and her second earned her a gold record, she decided she wanted custody of Mike, but there was no way his father would give him up. Her lawyer initiated a custody suit, but while that was going on Gracie’s third album flopped. Gracie started drinking and doing drugs and couldn’t come up with the material for a fourth album; then she was busted for possession of cocaine, and Mike’s father used that against her to gain permanent custody. And then the record company dropped her. She tried to make a comeback for a couple of years, then finally disappeared. She had no money; she’d signed a contract that gave most of her earnings to the record label, and what they didn’t take, her manager and lawyer did. No wonder she ended up on the streets.

  I’m not sure how Mike feels about being reunited with his mother; he was very noncommittal. He has his own life now, and his printing business is just getting off the ground. But he did say he’d try to help her, and that’s the message I’m to deliver to Grade when I get back to the city.

  I hope it works out. For Grade’s sake, of course, and also because it would make a perfect upbeat ending to my novel.

  Gracie

  It’s dry and warm here in the storage room. Deirdre found me crouched behind the garbage cans in the alley a while ago and brought me inside. Gave me some blankets she borrowed from one of the folks upstairs. They’re the first clean things I’ve had next to my skin in years.

  Tomorrow she wants to take me to the free clinic. I won’t go, but I’m grateful for the offer.

  Warm and dry and dark in here. I keep drifting—out of the present, into the past, back and forth. No control now. In spite of the dark I can see the lights—bright colors, made hazy by the smoke. Just like in that first song … what was it called? Don’t remember. Doesn’t matter.

  It was a good one, though. Top of the charts. Didn’t even surprise me. I always thought I was one of the lucky ones.

  I can see the faces, too. Seems like acres of them, looking up at me while I’m blinded by the lights. Listen to the applause! For me. And that didn’t surprise me, either. I always knew it would happen. But where was that? When?

  Can’t remember. Doesn’t matter.

  Was only one face that ever mattered. Little boy. Who was he?

  Michael Joseph. Mikey.

  Funny, for years I’ve fought the memories. Pushed them away when they tugged, kept my mind on the here and now. Then I fell into the crack in the sidewalk, and it damn near swallowed me up. Now the memories’re fading, except for one. Michael Joseph. Mikey.

  That’s a good one. I’ll hold on to it.

  Cecily

  Gracie died last night in the storeroom at the Lucky Shamrock. Deirdre brought her in there to keep her out of the rain, and when she looked in on her after closing, she was dead. The coroner’s people said it was pneumonia; she’d probably been walking around with it for a long time, and the soaking finished her.

  I cried when Deirdre told me. I haven’t cried in years, and there I was, sobbing over a woman whose full name I didn’t even know until two days ago.

  I wonder why she wasn’t in her hidey-hole. Was it because she realized I violated it and didn’t feel safe anymore? God, I hope not! But how could she have known?

  I wish I could’ve told her about her son, that he said he’d help her. But maybe it’s for the best, after all. Gracie might have wanted more than Mike was willing to give her—emotionally, I mean. Besides, she must’ve been quite unbalanced toward the end.

  I guess it’s for the best, but I still wish I could’ve told her.

  This morning Deirdre and I decided we’d better go through the stuff in her cart, in case there was anything salvageable that Mike might want. Some of the plastic bags were filled with ragged clothing, others with faded and crumbling clippings that chronicled the brief career of Grace Ventura. There was a Bible, some spangled stage costumes, a few paperbacks, a bundle of letters about the custody suit, a set of keys to a Mercedes, and other mementos that were in such bad shape we couldn’t tell what they’d been. But at the very bottom of the cart, wrapped in rags and more plastic bags, was the gold record awarded to her for her second album, “Soft Summer Nights.”

  On one hand, not much to say for a life that once held such promise. On the other hand, it says it all.

  It gives me pause. Makes me wonder about my own life. Is all of this worth it? I really don’t know. But I’m not giving up—not now, when I’ve got Gracie’s story to tell. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if it changed my life.

  After all, aren’t I one of the lucky ones?

  Aren’t I?

  LIA MATERA has written ten mysteries featuring either the left-wing lawyer Willa Jansson or tough defense attorney Laura Di Palma. Her books have been nominated for Edgar, Anthony, and Macavity awards. The New York Times described Willa Jansson as “one of the most articulate and surely the wittiest of women sleuths at large in the genre.” Matera herself is a recovering lawyer, but in “Performance Crime” she abandons the world of lawyers and writes about another kind of performance artist.

  Performance Crime

  Lia Matera

  I was about as stressed out as I could be. In addition to my work year starting at the university, I was trying to help get the Moonjuice Performance Gallery’s new show together. After last year’s fiasco, Moonjuice needed something accessible. And that would never happen unless someone displayed some sense, however tame that might seem to the artists.

  But the artists weren’t the main problem, the main problem was Moonjuice’s board of directors. The “conservative” members were two wannabe-radical university professors. The middle-of-the-roaders were a desktop publisher and an aspiring blues guitarist. On the avant-garde extreme was self-proclaimed bad girl and dabbling artist Georgia Stepp. I, an untenured associate professor, was so far to the right of other board members it was laughable. I was a fiscally responsible Democrat, which practically opened me to charges of fascism.

  I was trying to make my point about being sensible to Georgia.

  “We have to be careful after last year,” I insisted.

  “Last year was fun.” Georgia opened her long arms for emphasis. She wore a satin camisole, emphasizing a fashionable bit of muscle. Her nails were long and black. Her blond hair was cut short and dyed black this year. “We freaked out all the prisses.”

  She meant “prissy” board members who’d resigned in protest, convincing our sponsors to defund us and our program advertisers to boycott us.

  These were liberal restaurateurs and bookshop owners, hardly Republicans.

  “We have less than a quarter of last year’s budget because of that show! We’ve got artists working for free”—that got her—“and feminist university students volunteering elsewhere.”

&n
bsp; “Art can’t follow money like a dog in heat!”

  “It can’t treat sponsors like fire hydrants, either. There just aren’t that many patrons of the arts around,” I pointed out. “Especially an by lesbians. And we lost their support over what? Way-out, nonpolitical—”

  “Way-out is political.” Georgia looked happy. And there’s no one more beautiful than Georgia when she’s happy. But that doesn’t make her any less wrongheaded.

  “Clothespins with glued-on feathers don’t make a statement, I’m sorry.” The “art” that made our advertisers bail included a woman in studded leather pinning feathers on her naked partner.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be a statement.” Georgia leaned closer. “It was a dance. A dance, serious one.”

  “Clothespins on my nipples always make me want to dance.”

  “But it was about artists, not you.” Georgia certainly hit the nail on the head.

  “Yeah, well it wasn’t about our advertisers, either. Not to mention Viv and Claire.” The two former board members. “We’ve got to get our sponsors and advertising back, Georgia. It doesn’t matter what kind of show we put on this year if no one’s willing to pay for the next one. We’re not Andy Hardy. We’re not putting on shows to pass the summer.”

  She shot me a look. To her, practicality is somehow demeaning.

  Marlys, legal secretary and blues guitarist, strolled in. Georgia considers her a best friend and ally. Which Marlys proved by changing the subject.

  “You guys see the paper this morning?” She was short and heavy, with the usual layered haircut. The look she gave Georgia made me wonder if she minded Georgia’s going to bed with every dominatrix and poet to cross our stage.

  “What, daaaaarling?” Georgia liked to do Kate Hepburn, imitating gays in drag. I was never sure if I thought it was funny or disrespectful.

  “Somebody broke into Greg Purl’s house and shot all his cereal.” Marlys was flushed, eyes sparkling as she watched Georgia.