Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

I hesitated on the threshold, still scrambling through my bag of memories, trying to connect a name to the face. Who was this? A neighbor? A former client? “Are you waiting for me?”

She smiled, showing a row of square even teeth. Before she managed to say another word, I felt a silvery note of fear pluck at the base of my spine, like a sandcrab picking its way erratically across guitar strings. She held out her hand. “I’m your aunt Susanna.”

I shook hands with her, trying to compute the term “aunt.” I knew the meaning but couldn’t for the life of me figure out what to do with it.

“Tasha’s mother,” she added. “I hope I didn’t catch you at bad time. She did tell you I’d stop by, didn’t she? How embarrassing for me if she forgot.”

“Sure. Of course. Sorry I drew a blank, but I was thinking of something else. Come on in and have a seat. You want coffee? I was just about to put a pot on for myself.”

She followed me through the front door and into the inner office. “Thank you. I’d like that.” She set down her shopping bag and took a seat in the client chair across the desk. Her eyes were hazel like mine. The air around her was scented with cologne. The fragrance suggested citrus—grapefruit, perhaps—very fresh and light.

“How do you take it?”

“I’m not fussy. Black’s fine.”

“It’ll take me a minute.”

“I’m in no hurry,” she said.

I excused myself and went through the outer office and into the kitchen, where I leaned against the counter and tried to catch my breath. I’d been faking composure since the moment she’d announced herself. This was my aunt, my mother’s sister. I was acquainted with Tasha and Liza, the oldest and youngest of Susanna’s three daughters. The third girl, Pam, I’d heard about but never met. My introduction to the family had been thoroughly disconcerting as I’d known nothing of their existence. A fluke in an investigation three years previously had turned them up like a nest of spiders in the pocket of an old overcoat. In the absence of my parents and Aunt Gin, Susanna had to be one of my closest living relatives.

I patted myself on the chest. This was so bizarre. I don’t remember my mother and I’ve never had a concrete image of her. Even so, I sensed the kinship. All the Kinsey women bore a strong resemblance to one another, at least from what I’d heard. I certainly looked like Tasha, and she’d told me that she and her sister Pam looked enough alike to be mistaken for twins. I looked much less like Liza, but even there, no one could deny the similarities.

I picked up the coffeepot and filled it with water, which I poured into the reservoir of the machine. Filter paper, coffee can. I couldn’t see my hands shake, but the counter near the coffeemaker became gritty with grounds. I grabbed a sponge, dampened it, and wiped the surface clean. I set the pot in the machine and flipped the button to ON. I didn’t trust myself to talk to her, but I couldn’t hang out here until the coffee was done. I took a couple of mugs from the cabinet and set them on the counter. If I’d had brandy on the premises, I’d have downed a slug right then.

I walked back to my office, trying to remember what “normal” felt like so I could imitate the state. “It’ll be ready in a minute. Hope you didn’t have to wait for me long. I was tied up on business.”

She smiled, watching me take my seat across the desk from her. “Don’t worry about that. I’m always capable of amusing myself.” She was pretty; a straight nose, only the slightest touch of makeup to smooth out the palette of her complexion. I could see sun damage or faded freckles and a series of fine lines etched around her eyes and mouth. The red suit was becoming, the jacket set off by the white shell underneath. I could understand where Tasha had developed her taste in clothes.

She held up a finger. “Oh, I nearly forgot. I brought you something.” She leaned down and reached into her shopping bag, coming up with a black-and-white photograph in a silver frame. She held it out and I took it, turning it over so I could see what it was. “That’s me with your mother the day of her coming-out party, July 5, 1935. I was nine.”

“Ah.” I glanced down, but only long enough to take in a flash of the eighteen-year-old Rita Cynthia Kinsey in a long white dress. She was leaning forward, laughing, her arms around her youngest sister. My mother looked unbelievably young, with dark curly hair falling across her shoulders. She must have worn dark red lipstick because the black-and-white photo made her mouth look black. Susanna was done up in a long frothy dress that looked like a miniature version of Rita’s.