Jonathan Kellerman - The Murderer's Daughter

He kept translating phrases Grace already understood like most grown-ups did. The only one who didn’t think she was stupid was Malcolm Bluestone. Except in the beginning, when he also explained too much. But somehow he figured out what Grace understood.

Wayne’s pudgy fingers dangled the card. Grace took it and thanked him a fourth time, hoping that would end the conversation and she could go inside and get back to a book on butterflies and moths.

Danaus plexippus. The monarch. Seeing pictures of them swarming a rooftop, a cloud of orange and black, made Grace look up “monarch” in her dictionary.

A sovereign ruler. A king or queen.

Grace couldn’t see anything kingy or queeny about the butterflies. She’d have called them pumpkin fliers. Or flame bugs, something like that. Maybe the scientist who named them was feeling like a big shot when he—

Wayne was saying, “No need to thank me, just doing my job.”

But he was smiling and looking relaxed.

Make people happy about themselves, they won’t bother you.

Grace smiled back. Winking at her, Wayne turned and trudged to his car.

After he drove away, Grace looked at the card.

The first wastebasket she found was in the corner of the living room and that’s where the card ended up.

Malcolm Bluestone’s appearances were irregular events that Grace looked forward to because he always brought her something interesting: new curriculum materials, books, and best of all, old magazines. Grace found the advertisements the most intriguing features, all those photos and paintings that taught her about the way things used to be.

There were all kinds of magazines. Malcolm was a big reader, too, maybe that’s why he understood her.

Réalités seemed to be for people who wanted to live in France and had a lot of money and ate strange things.

House and Garden was about making your house fancy so people would like you.

Popular Mechanics and Popular Science showed you how to build things you probably wouldn’t use and talked about fantastic things that were supposed to happen but so far hadn’t, like flying cars and movies with smells coming out of holes in the wall of the theater.

Once, after reading four copies of Popular Science cover to cover, Grace had a night of nice dreams imagining herself flying in a car above the desert.

The Saturday Evening Post had bright, colorful paintings of smiling people with shiny hair, and big families, and birthday and Christmas and Thanksgiving parties so crowded you could barely fit into the room. Turkey, too, there was always a huge roast turkey about to be cut up by a clean-looking man with a big knife. Sometimes a ham, with black things sticking out of it and pineapple slices on top.

The smiling people seemed like space aliens. Grace enjoyed the paintings the same way she liked reading about astronomy.

Time and Newsweek wrote about sad, angry, and boring things and gave opinions about books and movies. Grace couldn’t see any difference between the two of them and she couldn’t understand why anyone would use someone else’s opinion rather than their own.

The most interesting magazine was Psychology Today. Malcolm began bringing those when Grace turned ten, as if she’d finally earned something. Right away she got interested in experiments you could do with people, things that made them act smart or stupid, hate or like or ignore each other.

She especially enjoyed the ones where people acted differently when they were alone or in groups.

Also, experiments that showed how you could lead people the way you wanted if you made them feel really good or really bad.

Once, after Malcolm hadn’t shown up in a long time, he asked if he could give Grace a few more tests — “nothing time consuming, just more stories about pictures.” She said, “Sure,” but also waved a copy of Psychology Today. “Do you have more of these?”

“I wondered what you’d think. Piqued your interest?”

“Yes.”

“Sure, Grace, you can have any back copies I can scare up — you know, I think there might be some in the car.”

Grace tagged along as they left the house and walked to his brown Buick station wagon. A woman sat in the front passenger seat, thin-faced with what looked like snow-white hair.

Grace had never thought of Malcolm riding around with anyone.

Then she told herself that was stupid. He was a friendly person, probably had all sorts of friends. A whole world outside the ranch and magazines and psychological tests for fosters.

For some reason, that made Grace’s tummy hurt, right under the middle of her rib cage. She looked away from the woman.

The passenger window lowered. A soft, kind of whispery voice said, “Hey, there.”

Grace, forced to turn and face the woman, noticed her eyebrows first. Perfectly shaped little half circles. The mouth smiling at her was coated with purple-red lipstick.

Straight white teeth. Pointy chin. A dimple on the left cheek. A really attractive woman; she looked like someone in Réalités, wearing haute couture, eating escargots, and drinking Bordeaux in Paris or Cannes or in a grand château in the Loire Valley.

Grace said, “Hi,” so softly she barely heard herself. The white-haired woman got out of the station wagon. She was about Malcolm’s age and tall — nothing like Malcolm’s skyscraper height but still one of the tallest women Grace had ever seen — and thin as a crane. She wore a gray sweater, black pants, and flat silver shoes with gold buckles. Her hair wasn’t white; sunlight transformed it to really light blond, kind of gold at the same time it was kind of silver.

What Réalités called “ash blond.”

Bangs that looked as if they’d been cut with the aid of a ruler reached halfway down a smooth, pale forehead. The eyes beneath the bangs were kind of squinty, widely spaced, with tiny lines at the corners. Deep-blue eyes that settled easily on Grace, and even though the woman was still smiling, Grace felt there was sadness in her.

Malcolm said, “Ms. Grace Blades, this is Professor Sophia Muller. Professor, Grace.”

The blond woman held out her hand to Grace. “Ignore all that foofaraw, I’m his wife. Call me Sophie.”

Her fingers were long, smooth, cool, with pearly nails that shone like chrome on a car. She looked like a queen in a picture book. Like a monarch.

Malcolm was big but he wasn’t really monarch-y. More like Little John in Robin Hood. A kindly giant. Not like the one up the beanstalk...

Professor Sophia Muller said, “Grace is a pretty name.” Wider smile. “For a pretty girl.”

Grace felt her face go hot.

Professor Sophia Muller sensed she’d done something wrong because she looked briefly at her husband.

She’s his wife, be nice to her.

Grace said, “Thank you for the compliment. Pleased to meet you, Professor Muller.”

She’s his wife but she doesn’t use his name?

No one talked for a moment then Malcolm said, “Oh, yeah, Psych Today, ” and unlatched the station wagon’s rear door, emerging with an armload of magazines.

Professor Sophia Muller said, “So he found a way to unload his collection. Grace, I should pay you for making next spring cleaning easier.”

Grace knew she was expected to smile and did.

Malcolm Bluestone said, “I’ll bring these to your room.”

Grace said, “I can do it.”

“Kind of heavy, Grace.”

Sophia Muller said, “Let’s all do it, three people will make it a snap.”