by Sue Grafton
“Could be,” I said. “When did the Unruhs sell the house?”
“You got me there. It’s been at least fifteen years. I’d say closer to twenty.”
“Did they buy another house in the area?”
“No. They moved to a gated community in Los Angeles. He owned a manufacturing plant, making uniforms, sports gear, and outerwear. He worked down there through the week and drove up here weekends.”
“You think he wanted a place closer to his business?”
“That’d be my guess. The move was abrupt, which I thought was odd. They were here one day, gone the next. I remember chatting with them at a barbecue a few days before and neither said a word about plans to relocate. Next thing I know there’s a moving van in the drive and guys are loading up the household goods.”
“Do you remember when this was?”
“Not a clue. One of the other neighbors might know. The gal next door, Avis Jent, kept in touch for a while. She could tell you more.”
“What about you? No exchange of Christmas cards?”
“We weren’t close friends, more like social acquaintances. Patrick was killed in a plane crash a couple of years ago. After that, I heard Deborah moved back here, but I’ve never had it confirmed. A town this size, you’d think you’d run into people all the time, but you don’t.”
“Do you think she remarried? I ask because I’m wondering if she’s still using the name Unruh.”
“Probably. From what I saw of them, they were one of those magic twosomes who mate for life. They even looked alike. Both tall and trim, fair-haired.”
“Any children?”
“Just one, a boy named Greg. She and Patrick ended up raising his daughter, Rain, so that might count as two kids.”
“What’s the story on him?”
“Typical of the times. Early sixties, he went off to college as a clean-cut kid and came home looking like a bum. I believe it was the summer after his sophomore year, he and this little gal showed up in a yellow school bus. He’d been traveling across the country, thinking what a free spirit he was while he borrowed money from his folks. Turned out his girlfriend was pregnant and the two of them were broke. Deborah and Patrick offered them a place to stay. Nothing permanent, just until the baby came. The girl already had one kid, five or six years old. Greg parked the bus on one side of the cabana and that’s where they hung out. I used to see the little boy running around the front yard without a stitch of clothes on. Deborah and Patrick were fit to be tied. To top it off, once the baby was born, Greg and what’s-her-face took off with the boy and left the little girl behind. After two years of no contact and no financial support, the court terminated their parental rights and the Unruhs adopted her.”
“Sounds like a soap opera.”
“It was. They thought they’d seen the last of them, but here they came again some time later, in the same yellow school bus, only now it was covered with peace signs in psychedelic paint. It was the talk of the neighborhood. Greg had changed his name to Creed and she was Destiny. I forget what her name was before. Her son was ten or eleven by then. They called him Sky Dancer, Sky for short.”
“Oh dear,” I said. “And the daughter was Rain?”
“Patricia Lorraine. The shortened version came before it occurred to them to rename themselves.”
“Why’d they come back?”
“Beats me. They left again abruptly some weeks later. By then, Deborah was worried the day would come when the bio-mom would try getting her daughter back so that might have been another reason she and Patrick packed up and left. ‘Gone, no forwarding’ as far as those hippies were concerned.”
“Could the bio-mom have done that, reclaimed the child?”
“Hard to say. The courts can be capricious when it comes to the welfare of a child. Judges sometimes put too much stock in nature and not enough in nurture. Deborah and Patrick were terrific parents, but why take the risk?”
“Who left first, Greg or his parents?”
“He did, definitely. It was the second time he’d decamped with his common-law wife. Deborah had no intention of putting up with that again.”
“What happened to him?”
“Last I heard, he and Destiny were heavy into free love and dope. Flower children. That’s what they called themselves. Remember that? Sticking daisies down the rifle barrels of the National Guardsmen, like that would make a difference.”
I laughed. “That’s right—1967 was the Summer of Love. What were they thinking?”
He smiled and shook his head. “That’s how you know you’re getting old—when you start looking back with kindness on things you knew for sure were ridiculous at the time.”
“At least they believed in something. Kids I see these days don’t seem to have passions of any kind.”
“That’s the other way you know you’re getting old. When you say crap like that,” he said with a laugh. “Anyway, I didn’t mean to get sidetracked. Do you think the dog’s burial is significant?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll tell you what’s bugging me. That dog’s body was stolen from the veterinarian who put him to sleep. Does that make sense to you?”
“Not much.” He nodded at the house next door. “Before you give up, you might want to talk to Avis.”
“I didn’t say I was giving up. I think the pieces are there. I just don’t understand how they fit.”
I left his house, walking past my car on my way to her place next door. In truth, I was talked out for the day and I would have preferred to head home. I had a lot to absorb and I wanted to make notes while the information was fresh. At the same time, the woman lived no more than fifty yards away and I figured I might as well make contact while I was close. I hadn’t known her name before Felix mentioned it, but I’d put her on my mental list, along with the neighbors in the houses across the street. It had been a while since I’d done an old-fashioned canvass, trotting from door to door, introducing myself. As a PI apprentice, under the tutelage of Ben Byrd and Morley Shine, this was how it was done. You followed a trail of crumbs through the forest and pecked them up one by one. Thus far, I was still lost, but my appetite hadn’t been satisfied so on I went.
Mrs. Jent’s one-story house was plain, a typical 1950s construction that would probably hop off its foundation at the next big earthquake. I hoped her insurance premiums were up to date. While the neighborhood was affluent, there was the occasional house like hers tucked among the more prestigious properties. Once disaster struck, someone would come along and offer her top dollar just to get their hands on the lot.
In the meantime, there wasn’t much to be said for the exterior: rough stucco painted a melon color with a low-pitched roof covered with rocks the size of popcorn embedded in tar. By way of contrast, the lawn was a lush green and the landscaping was well designed, which lent the house more grace than would otherwise have been in evidence.
When I rang the front bell, I found myself staring at one of Felix’s stained-glass panes in the door. The design must have been one of his early ones, a simply rendered cluster of grapes beside a wineglass, shaped like a U on a stick and half filled with red wine. This was a portent since the woman who answered the door carried a wineglass much like it, only cloudy with fingerprints. In her other hand she held a cigarette. Her eyes were brown and her hair was a dark carroty red, cut into short wispy strands that curled up around her head like flames. I placed her in her fifties, though she might have been younger and suffering the aging effects of booze and smokes. She was barefoot and wore a vibrant green silk kimono.
“Mrs. Jent?”
“I am.”
“Felix suggested I talk to you . . .”
Her movements were liquid and she swayed in my direction. “Sure. I can do that. You have a name?”
“Kinsey Millhone.”
“You caught me at the cocktail hour. Would you care to join me?” Without waiting for a reply, she turned and the kimono blossomed out around her like a matador’s cape. Fortu
nately, she had her back to me by then so I wasn’t subjected to anything unseemly. Was she wearing underpants? She padded down the hallway, talking over her shoulder while I followed in the wake of smoke and alcohol fumes.
Surreptitiously, I checked my watch. It was 2:30.
“Don’t be a fussbudget,” she said, apparently catching my move out of the corner of her eye.
“Sorry. Wine would be great.”
“White or red?”
“White.”
“Chardonnay or Sauvignon Blanc?”
“Chardonnay.”
She held a finger up. “Bingo! That’s correct.”
The interior of the house was surprisingly modern. The living room walls were painted cobalt blue and the hall was done in rust. The floors were polished hardwood and the furniture design was stark and uninviting. The paintings were oversized and abstract, bright splashes of red, white, and yellow.
“I’m Avis, by the way. That ‘Mrs. Jent’ malarkey is for the birds. Archie Jent was my third. I was married to him the longest, but I’m not anymore. He was an engineer, if you know the type. He walked around looking like he was trying to shit a bowling ball. I went on the wagon for a while and realized I liked him better when I was drunk. I decided to keep his last name as long as he’s paying my rent. Are you married?”
“Not now.”
“How many times?”
“Twice.”
“Oh, good. We can compare notes. I had a couple stinkers. How about you?”
“I wish I could say they were at fault, but I carried half the blame.”
“Oh, please. Don’t pretend you’re fair-minded. It’s unbecoming.” We’d arrived in the kitchen, which was stark white, anchored by dark green marble surfaces. The appliances were stainless steel. Copper pots hung from a rack. She opened the door to an under-counter, glass-fronted wine cooler, pulling out first the top rack and then the next one down. She removed a bottle and read the label, saying, “Talbott, Diamond T.”
She held it out so I could see the label as well. “You know the wine?”
“I don’t.” I peered at the year, which was 1985, and wondered if that was a good one.
“Well, you’re in for a treat. I go through a case of Diamond T every other week. In between assorted other cocktails. Shit.” She’d knocked the live ember from her cigarette and it settled on the floor near her bare foot like a small red bug. “Would you get that for me? Paper towels are under the sink.”
I stepped on the ember and then found the roll of paper toweling. I tore off a sheet, wet it, and made quick work of the ash, which I tossed in the wastebasket.
While she struggled to uncork the wine, I said, “Mind if I look around?”
“Have at it.”
I circled the kitchen, glancing into the three adjoining rooms—a glassed-in back porch that ran the width of the house, formal dining room, and den. By the time I finished my minitour, she’d taken out an enormous wineglass and poured me enough Chardonnay to float a small school of fish.
“We can sit on the porch unless you have a better idea.”
“I’m with you,” I said.
I tagged after her as she crossed the kitchen in a billow of silk. Windows, mounted above wainscoting, now enclosed what had probably once been a bare concrete patio. A sisal carpet covered much of the floor, and the windows could be protected with roll-up blinds if the sun hit at a blinding angle at odd times of the day. The furniture was white wicker, old-fashioned compared to the rest of the house. Looking out, I realized the house to the right of hers was where the Unruhs had lived. I couldn’t see the spot where the techs had gone to work, but it felt odd to know I was in range of a site that had occupied so much of my imagination of late.
She settled on one of two love seats that faced each other across a wicker coffee table. She leaned forward and snagged an ashtray, pulling it closer so she could light another cigarette. The ashtray was metal and the spent paper match made a tinking sound when she tossed it in. She took a deep drag on her cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke, lifting her head slightly to avoid blowing it in my face. “Now then. Why did Felix send you over here? Natural charm aside, I’m sure you have a deeper purpose in mind.”
“I’m interested in talking to Deborah Unruh. Felix thought you might put me in touch.”
“Really. And what’s your interest?”
“I’m a PI.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m a private investigator. My client was the one who motivated the cops to dig up the Unruhs’ backyard.”
“How did your ‘client’ talk them into it? That must have been a trick.”
“He remembered something that happened when he was six years old and thought it was connected to a crime.”
“And what crime was that?”
“I’d prefer not to say.”
“I see. So you want information from me, but you won’t pony up yourself.”
“Good point. I’m talking about the Mary Claire Fitzhugh kidnapping.”
“What’s that have to do with Deborah? They dug up a damn dog. I don’t see the relevance.”
“The dog was buried in 1967 when she and Patrick were still living in the house.”
“I’d say ‘So what,’ but I don’t want to sound rude.”
“It was right around the time Mary Claire Fitzhugh disappeared.”
She studied me briefly. “You’re not drinking your wine.”
“It’s a little early in the day for me.”
“I usually start at noon, so this is late as far as I’m concerned. You really ought to loosen up. One little taste won’t kill you.”
I took a sip of wine, which I confess was head and shoulders above the crap I’m used to drinking. “Wow. That’s really lovely.”
“Told you so.” She was silent for a moment, pressing a wrinkle out of the silk in her lap. “Funny you should mention Mary Claire.”
“How so?”
She studied the end of her cigarette. “Don’t think I’m telling tales out of school here, but Deborah had a similar experience. Her grand-daughter, Rain, was abducted maybe ten days before Mary Claire was kidnapped. Happily, Rain was returned unharmed, but Deborah believed Rain was what she called the ‘practice child.’ Rehearsal in preparation for the real deal.”
18
JON CORSO
Summer 1967
The Amazing Mona had arranged an eight-week trip to France and Italy, departing after the school year ended in June. She and the girls had been to Europe when she was married to her former husband, and now she wanted to relive the joys of foreign travel with Lionel in tow. Lionel saw the trip as an opportunity to do research for a book on the lesser-known American expatriates writing in Paris after World War I. In May of Jon’s senior year at Santa Teresa High, his academic performance was still so poor that it was clear he wasn’t going to graduate. As a consequence, he was excluded from the family vacation.
He was three credits short of what was required for his diploma and he’d managed to exasperate just about everyone, including his English teacher, Mr. Snow, who snagged him one afternoon after class. Mr. Snow was thirty-five years old, dedicated and energetic, new to Santa Teresa High School, where he taught English and creative writing. He’d had two novels published and he was working on his third. He perched on the edge of his desk, with his grade book open in front of him. He ran his finger down the column of Jon’s classroom grades, many of which read “incomplete.” He shook his head while Jon sat in the front row, posing as a kid busy contemplating his sins.
Mr. Snow said, “I don’t know what to do with you, Jon. This class is an elective. This is all you needed to graduate and you blew it. You’re a bright kid and you write well—when and if you get around to do it. You might even have some talent lurking in that thick skull of yours. If you’d done even half the assignments, you’d have passed with no problem. Why are you doing this?”
Jon shrugged. “The topics are boring. I can’t relate.”
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“You can’t relate. Are you kidding me?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Where’s this horseshit coming from? That’s what I don’t get. You did well at Climp, until your junior year. I know because I called the school and checked. Now your GPA is in the toilet. I don’t think you’ve lost any IQ points, so what gives?”
Jon shrugged. He kept his eyes pinned on Mr. Snow’s but his expression was blank.
Mr. Snow stared at him. “Are you having problems at home?”
“Not really.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
Mr. Snow closed his eyes for a beat and tried another tack. “You have plans for college?”
“City College maybe. I haven’t decided yet.”
“Well, you better pull your thumb out. If you don’t get into some college, you risk being called up.”
“I thought they were mostly taking older guys.”
“You want to take that chance? The last two years, they’ve bumped up the draft to thirty-five thousand a month. That’s a lot of young men.”
“Yes, sir. I’m aware of that,” he said, polite but unyielding.
Mr. Snow set the grade book aside. “Do you like to write? I’m asking because when you bother to do it, you’re not half bad.”
“Writing’s okay. I like it pretty well. I mean, not all the time, but sometimes.”
Mr. Snow studied him. “Here’s what I’m willing to do. I’ll set you up in an independent-studies program, just the two of us. You turn in the work and you’ll pass. I guarantee it. Mr. Albertson might even let you go through the graduation ceremony. He can leave your diploma blank and we’ll take care of it at the end of summer school, assuming you haven’t dropped the ball.”
“What would I have to do?”
“Well, Jon, this is a writing class. You’d have to write, as wacky as that might seem. If you’re bored with my topics, you can tackle your own.”
“Like what?”
