Sue Grafton - U Is For Undertow

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.”

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.