by Sue Grafton
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.”
I stared, unable to imagine what could trump the ace she’d laid on the table the moment before.
She took the envelope from my hand and pulled out a thin sheaf of letterhead stationery. She offered me the pages, which I read through rapidly. They were invoices submitted to Grand by a private investigator named Hale Brandenberg, with an office address in Lompoc. The information was sketchy—no reports attached—but a cursory look at his charges suggested he’d been in her employ for more than a year. He’d billed her four thousand bucks and change, not a trivial amount given his rates, which were low by today’s standards.
Tasha said, “Grandfather Kinsey was still living when this was done, so she either browbeat him into paying for it or she did this behind his back. In any case, the work was done.”
“I don’t see any reference to what he was hired to do.”
“It’s possible the invoices became separated from his reports or maybe the reports were destroyed. Grand hates to lose and she hates being thwarted, so nothing of this was leaked to the rest of us. I believed Mom when she said Grand tried to make contact, but I was startled to see the proof. I have trouble believing she’d go so far as to hire an investigator, but there it is. I’m guessing when all those letters came flying back, Hale Brandenberg was the next logical step.”
I said, “Well.”
I thought she was on the verge of taking my hand, but she made no move. Instead, she watched me with a sympathy I chose to ignore. She said, “Look. I know this is hard for you. Once you’ve read the letters, you might end up feeling the same alienation, but at least you’ll know more than you do now. If you’re like me, you’d rather deal with hard facts than speculation and fantasy.”
“That’s been my claim,” I said, with a pained smile.
“I’ll leave you to it then.” She turned and opened the handbag sitting on the seat beside her, looking for her wallet.
“I’ll take care of it,” I said.
She hesitated. “Are you sure?”
“Of course. You brought me a gift.”
“Let’s hope that’s what it is.”
“If not, you owe me a dinner.”
21
DEBORAH UNRUH
May 1967
Deborah picked up Rain at preschool and dropped her off at a friend’s house for a playdate. She had a couple of hours to kill and thought she’d give the kitchen and bathrooms a good scrub. This was midweek and she wanted to get meals planned for the next few days so she wouldn’t have to think about it once Patrick got home. He reserved the weekends for the family, the three of them going off on outings of one sort or another. Deborah liked to have all the work done, leaving the time free to play.
She talked to Patrick three and four times a day, consulting about his business dealings and her household decisions, trading perspectives and advice. Rain stories charmed him, and Deborah tried to pass along the adorable moments as they occurred. Only another smitten parent would understand what constituted “cute” where a child was concerned. Rain was pretty and precocious, sweet-tempered, sunny. She wasn’t perfect only in their eyes. Everybody else agreed she was remarkable, especially after Deborah and Patrick browbeat them into it.
As she turned from Via Juliana onto Alita Lane, she caught sight of a vehicle parked in the drive. It was Greg’s yellow school bus, the paint job embellished by crude red, blue, and green peace symbols and antiwar slogans. She pulled the station wagon over to the side of the road and sat for a moment, engine running, thinking, Shit!
She tilted her forehead against the steering wheel, wondering if there was still time to escape. As long as they hadn’t spotted her, she could turn the car around, fetch Rain from her playdate, check into a motel, and then let Patrick know where they were. She and Annabelle had talked about this at length, the possibility that the three of them would make another appearance one day. She’d been a complete wuss where Shelly was concerned. Looking back, she couldn’t believe she’d allowed herself to be so mistreated. How had Shelly managed to intimidate her? Shelly was a pipsqueak, a twerp. She was half Deborah’s age. Deborah knew a hell of a lot more about how the world worked than Shelly had ever dreamed. If Deborah didn’t face the girl now, she was only postponing the inevitable.
She took a deep breath. She had to do this or she wouldn’t be able to live with herself. She certainly wouldn’t be able to face Annabelle, who’d given her strict instructions. Deborah put her foot on the accelerator and pulled away from the berm, then continued the few hundred feet to the house, where she eased into the garage. She entered the house through the door that opened into the kitchen. Of course, they’d let themselves in. Greg knew where the key was hidden, and even if she and Patrick had been clever enough to move it, he’d have found his way in.
The house had been spotless when she left, less than an hour before, but Greg and Shelly had made themselves at home, unloading backpacks, sleeping bags, and duffels by the door to the dining room. This was territorial marking, like a dog pissing in each corner of the yard. She wasn’t sure why they hadn’t left their stuff in the bus . . . unless they anticipated being houseguests. Oh lord, she thought.
She called, “Greg?”
“Yo!”
She crossed the kitchen and looked into the den where the three of them were sprawled, almost unrecognizable. They looked like ruffians, people who’d wandered in off the street. Greg had a scraggly beard and mustache. Patrick had never been able to grow convincing facial hair and usually ended up looking like someone on a Wanted poster. Greg had inherited the same sparse fuzz. He’d let his hair grow long, dark and frizzy and unkempt. She wondered if he knew how unattractive he looked. Or maybe that was the point.
Shelly was sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch with her bare feet out in front of her while she smoked a cigarette, using one of Deborah’s Limoges saucers for an ashtray. She wore the familiar black turtleneck, torn black tights, and a long skirt. She’d kicked off her Birkenstocks and those lay in the middle of the room. Her earrings were big silver hoops. In the tangled mass of dark hair, she now sported a series of small braids with beads woven into the ends. She was no longer the petite, thin creature she’d been. She had an earthy air about her, the residual weight of two pregnancies having caught up with her.
Most alarming was the boy, Shawn, who was ten years old now, according to Deborah’s calculations. His dark hair was shaggy, worn long enough to brush his shoulders. His cheeks were so gaunt he looked like a young Abraham Lincoln. He had Shelly’s huge hazel eyes set in darkly smudged sockets, which gave his face the solemnity of a lemur’s. He was tall for his age, and very thin. His flannel shirt was pale from wear or too many runs through the washing machine. The cuffs rode above his wrists. His hands were thin and his fingers were long and delicate. His pants hung on him.
He’d found a spot in one corner of the room and he had his nose buried in a copy of Frank Herbert’s Dune. Deborah had read it two years before, when it first c
ame out, and she was surprised that his skills were so proficient. Maybe Shelly’s homeschooling hadn’t been so bad after all. It was possible he was only hiding in the pages, pretending to read so he could observe what was going on without having to participate. He glanced at her once and then went back to his book. She wondered how much he remembered of her hostility toward him when he was a child of six. She’d eventually seen him in a kinder light, but her early disapproval had been savage and must have wounded him. She was ashamed that she’d blamed him for his behavior when Shelly was the one who should have been held accountable.
Greg crossed the room and gave her a bear hug. “Good to see you,” he said. “We were on our way south and thought we’d stop by. I hope you don’t mind.” He was treating their arrival as a common occurrence, like they popped in every week.
When Deborah put her arms around him, tentatively returning his embrace, she could feel his rib cage through the fabric of his shirt. She held herself stiffly, unaccustomed to the display of affection. She didn’t reciprocate his feelings, or what he pretended to feel.
He stepped back. “Whoa. What’s this? Are you mad about something?”
“You took me by surprise. I would have appreciated a call,” she said. She could have kicked herself for the stupidity of the comment. This was like coming face-to-face with home invaders, making nice in hopes they wouldn’t slaughter you where you stood.
Shelly snorted. “Yeah, sorry about that. Like we have a phone on the bus.” She hadn’t said “a fucking phone,” but the expletive was buried in her tone.
Deborah ignored her, addressing her attentions to Greg. “When did you get in?”
“Fifteen, twenty minutes ago. Long enough to use the bathroom and take a look at what you’ve done. New paper and paint. The place looks great.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived.”
“We figured you were out running errands. Anyway, we needed time to cool it after being on the road.”
“Can I fix you something to eat?”
Shelly said, “Don’t bother. We already looked in the fridge. What a waste.”
“I’m sure I have something. I went to the store yesterday and stocked up for the weekend. What were you thinking of?”
“Nothing that involves cruelty to animals,” Shelly said.
Greg said, “We’re vegans. No meat, no dairy, no eggs, no animal products of any kind.”
“In that case, I guess you’ll have to have your meals somewhere else. I don’t know the first thing about vegan cooking.”
Shelly sounded put-upon. “We don’t have the money to eat out. We used all our cash to pay for the trip.”
Greg said, “We left San Francisco this morning and drove straight through.”
“Ah. Is that where you’ve been? We had no idea you were so close.”
Shelly said, “Something else while we’re on the subject.” She pointed at Greg, then Shawn, and then herself. “He’s Creed, he’s Sky Dancer, and I’m Destiny.”
Deborah lowered her gaze, keeping her expression neutral. She couldn’t wait to tell Annabelle, who’d howl with laughter. “I see. Since when?”
“Since we realized our birth names were completely meaningless. We each chose a name that represents the future, like a higher calling. Our vision of ourselves.”
“ ‘Destiny.’ I’ll make an effort to remember.”
Greg said, “Don’t worry if you forget. Everybody goofs at first.”
“I can well imagine,” Deborah said. “I’ll see if I can round up some towels for you. I assume you’ll be sleeping in the bus.”
Greg said, “Sure, if that’s what you want.”
From the way he’d phrased his reply, she knew he was waiting for her to offer them the guest rooms, with assurances they were welcome for as long as they liked. Their insistence on living like vagabonds must have lost its appeal. Nothing like clean sheets and flush toilets, especially when someone else is doing all the work. Shelly was giving her the hard stare she’d used so often before. Deborah felt a certain stubbornness take hold. She didn’t intend to let Shelly take advantage of her hospitality.
“We don’t want to put you to any trouble,” Greg added. “I mean, you might be using the guest rooms for something else these days.”
“No, not really. You probably saw for yourselves if you had a look around.”
“Yeah, that’s right. It’s just the way you said that about our sleeping in the bus—”
“Creed,” Shelly said. “It’s obvious she doesn’t care to play hostess, which is her prerogative.”
Greg looked at his mother. “Is that true? You don’t even want us in the house?”
“It’s entirely up to you,” she said. She knew full well they wouldn’t take her up on it. She and Shelly were in a power play. Shelly couldn’t ask for anything. She only won if she could outmaneuver Deborah, who was supposed to extend herself of her own accord, graciously bestowing favors on her guests to save them the discomfort of making their wishes known.
Now it was Greg’s turn to look pained. “Man, this is like a major bummer. We didn’t mean to intrude. We thought you’d be pleased to see us. I guess not, huh?”
“Creed, dear,” Deborah said carefully, nearly tripping on the name. “You and Destiny left four years ago without so much as a by-your-leave. We had no idea where you’d gone or what your intentions were. I don’t think you should expect to be welcomed back with open arms. That’s not how these things work.”
“Sorry we didn’t keep you informed about our busy lives,” Shelly said.
Deborah turned on her in a flash. “I’m not going to put up with any shit from you so you can knock that off.”
Shelly shut her mouth, but she made a comic face, eyes getting wide, mouth pulled down in mock surprise. Like, Lah-di-dah, the nerve. Did you hear what she just said?
Greg made a gesture, indicating that he’d take care of it.
At least he was starting to stand up to her, Deborah thought. Watching them, she felt like she’d developed X-ray vision. She could see all the little nuances in their communication, the ploys, the dodges, the way they tried using emotion to throw her off balance. This was like the children’s game of hot potato, where the object was to leave the other guy holding the bag.
Greg said, “So where’s Rain? Shawn’s been looking forward to seeing her.”
“I’m picking her up at three. How long did you plan to stay?”
“Couple of days. Depends. You know, we haven’t decided yet.”
Shelly cupped a hand to her mouth, like she was making an aside that no one else could hear. “Notice how she’s ducking the subject of Rain,” she said to Greg.
Deborah kept her voice in a singsong range, as though speaking to a child. “Well, Shelly—oh, excuse me. I meant Destiny. What is there to say? We didn’t think you were interested in Rain. There was never a letter or a phone call and not a penny of support for her. The child is ours now.”
“What, like you gave birth to her? News to me.”
Deborah didn’t think it was possible to loathe another human being more than she’d loathed Shelly in the past, but apparently, there were untapped reservoirs of hostility that Deborah could call upon at will. “We adopted her. We went through the court system. Your parental rights were terminated. That’s what they do when parents abandon a baby at the age of five days.”
Shelly said, “Fuck you, bitch. I’m not putting up with any shit from you either!” She got up, agitated, and snatched up her shawl. “Come on, Sky Dancer.” And to Greg, “We’ll be in the bus when you get done kissing butt. Jesus, what a mama’s boy.”
Greg made his excuses shortly afterward. There was no graceful way to exit the conversation. He went out to the bus, and Deborah went upstairs to the master bedroom and called Patrick, who said he’d drive up for the night, but he’d have to return to L.A. first thing the next morning. “Keep away from them if you can,” he said. “I’ll take care of it wh
en I get home.”
“That might not be necessary. Now that Shelly—oh, excuse me, Destiny—has worked herself into such a state of righteous indignation, they may take off of their own volition.”
But such was not the case. Deborah picked up Rain from her playdate, half expecting the yellow school bus to be gone on her return. Instead it was parked where it had been, which seemed curious in itself. Flouncing off in a huff was a typical Shelly move, meant to alert you to her displeasure. Emotional one-upsmanship.
Shawn knocked on the back door soon after Deborah and Rain got home.
“Is Rain here?” he asked.
“Of course.” Deborah let him into the kitchen. He stood by the door, not quite sure what to do with himself. It was almost as though he held a hat in his hands, turning the rim while he waited for what came next. Deborah said, “Did your dad send you?”
“Greg’s not my dad.”
“Sorry.”
“He and my mom are asleep.”
“I see. Well, why don’t you have a seat? Rain went up to her room. I’ll tell her you’re here. She’ll enjoy the company.”
Shawn perched on the edge of a kitchen chair. His tennis shoes were ill-fitting and he wore no socks. Deborah wanted to weep at the sight of his ankles, which looked as frail as a fawn’s.
She said, “I’m happy to see you, Shawn. I mean that.”
