Jonathan Kellerman - The Murderer's Daughter

Grace shook her head.

Ramona said, “You don’t like to talk? Fine, a shake or a nod works just as well. Long as we have an understanding: No matter how you feel, I always try to be fair. Not just with kids, I treat everyone the same, big shots, kids, plain old working folk.”

She waited.

Grace said nothing.

“Catch my drift, Grace? Whether it’s Gary Cooper or the guy who comes to do my roof, they’re the same. Get it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ramona Stage laughed and slapped her knee. “Look at that, a voice issues forth. I actually knew Gary Cooper and he never expected special treatment. Know what I’m talking about?”

“He’s a movie star but okay.”

Ramona’s head cocked backward. “You have no idea who Gary Cooper was, do you? Someone your age never seen his movies.”

Grace shook her head. “I just figured.”

“Ah, good thinking,” said Ramona, looking Grace up and down. “Makes sense, given what I’ve been told about you.”

Heavy footsteps sounded. Wayne’s meaty face appeared at the top of the stairs, then the rest of him.

“We’re doing great,” said Ramona.

“Terrific, Mrs. S. If I could have a word with Gracie.”

No one called her Gracie. He hadn’t until now.

No sense arguing.

Ramona said, “I’ll take her stuff to her room and you can say your au revoirs.” Opening the door to the smallest room, she stepped in.

Wayne said, “Like it?”

“Yes.”

He drummed his fingers on his thigh. Like he was waiting for more.

Grace said, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Gracie. And listen, you got a real good chance of sticking around here because she doesn’t do it for the money, I’m not really sure why she does it, she’s well-heeled — that means she has her own dough. Okay?”

“Okay,” said Grace, not sure what she was agreeing to.

“Only problem is, if it doesn’t work out, and I can’t see any reason it wouldn’t, but if it doesn’t, you can’t call me because as I told you, I’m leaving the department.”

“I know.”

“Good... anyway, I wanted to end on a positive note,” said Wayne. “Doing something for you that can’t always be done. You’re really smart, kid. Given some breaks, you could make something of yourself.”

“You, too,” said Grace.

“Me?”

“Being a lawyer. You’ll make more money.”

Wayne gaped. “You really listen, don’t you?”

Not the last time Grace would hear that.

Ramona Stage and Grace watched Wayne drive away. “That one’s a total bleeding heart, but at least he tries. Okay, to your quarters, young lady, it’s past bedtime.”

The room was narrow, like a closet you could walk into. A single dormer window draped with white muslin let in nothing of the night. The roof sloped sharply and Mrs. Stage pointed that out and said, “Your size, you’ll be okay unless you sit up too sharp in bed, but in general be careful not to bean your noggin, your noggin’s the most important thing God gave you.”

Grace’s eyes were already fixed on the bed. Bigger than any she’d ever slept in, with a brass headboard that had turned greenish brown. Two big pillows in pink flowery cases were plumped against the board, each dimpled in the middle. The bedspread was pink with white stripes and looked new. A metal rack near the window served as hanging space. A two-drawer oak dresser sufficed for what Mrs. Stage called “foldables.”

She and Grace put away Grace’s things and a few times Mrs. Stage refolded something Grace had thought she’d done a good job with.

That done, she walked Grace out to the shared bathroom and sniffed. “Those boys, for the life of them they can’t aim.”

Grace smelled nothing but she kept that to herself. Ramona Stage said, “Brush your teeth good,” and waited as Grace complied.

“Thorough brushing, excellent. Always take care of the body you’ve been gifted with. Now to bed.”

But before they reached the smallest room, Ramona stopped Grace with a finger and cracked the door of the room where the one boy slept and stuck her head in.

Grace heard a faint hissing noise, like a tire losing air.

Ramona closed the door softly. “Okay. Want me to tuck you in?”

“I’m okay.”

“I’ll do it, anyway.”

Tucking in consisted of ordering Grace to get under the covers and “arrange your pillows the way you like, then make sure to think pleasant thoughts because, trust me, life’s too short for disconsolate thoughts.”

The linens smelled sweet, like Grace was lying in a flower bed. Ramona Stage turned off the light and Grace drew the covers up to her chin. Now, with the room all dark, something did filter through the muslin curtains.

Moonglow, satiny silver, lighting on Ramona Stage’s face as she stood in the doorway. It gave her a softness, as if she’d turned younger.

She returned to the bed. “You can do what you want but I suggest this for ultimate comfort,” she said, and folded the covers down, creating a neat flap that bisected Grace’s chest. Positioning Grace’s hands atop her tummy, with the fingertips barely touching, she said, “You’re making a letter V, see? As in you’ve got value. Something to think about, Grace. Now you go ahead and sleep perfectly.”

To Grace’s surprise, she did.

Despite the place’s history as a ranch, Ramona kept no animals. “First the horses went, then the goats, then the geese. Finally, the chickens, because I got the cholesterol and went off eggs. The dogs I kept until they passed naturally.”

It was six o’clock on Grace’s first morning at Stagecoach Ranch. When she peeked out her bedroom door, Ramona was out on the landing, dressed in a plaid shirt, jeans, and flat shoes, her long white hair braided and coiled atop her head. One hand held a coffee cup, as if she’d been waiting for Grace to make an appearance. The two of them went downstairs to the kitchen, where Ramona drank the coffee and Grace had orange juice and some toast.

“You’re sure no eggs or meats?”

“No, thank you.”

“Not a big breakfast gal, huh? Suit yourself but you may change your mind.”

The kitchen was huge, with a view of the mountains. The appliances were white and looked old. Over a mail table hung another photo of that same man in the fancy shirt and the cowboy hat, older than Grace remembered from last night, with a fuller face.

Ramona Stage said, “So no more dogs. You like dogs?”

“Never had one.”

“I’ve had tons of them, they’re as individual as people.” She got up, pulled something out of a drawer, showed it to Grace. Faded photo of two big, sorry-looking mutts stretched on the house’s front porch. “That one’s Hercules, didn’t live up to his name, the other’s Jody, got him from a film crew, sometimes he ate his own poop, you could never predict when, which only made matters worse. After they both went off to doggie heaven, I figured I’d get at least one more because this is a big place to have with nothing else around that’s breathing. But then I got to liking not having to deal with issues so the only zoology you’re going to see here now are unwanted pests like mice and rats, possum and ground squirrels and skunks. For which I got a man named Ed Gonzales to spray regularly. I’m telling you this so should you come across a skinny Mexican man with strange equipment and he seems to be lurking around, you won’t be scared.”

“Okay.”

Ramona studied her. “Toast too well done?”

The toast tasted like cardboard. Grace said, “It’s good,” and ate some as proof.

“I’ll bet not much scares you, am I right?”

“I guess.” Grace’s eyes drifted to the man in the cowboy hat.