Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

I felt my face get hot, but I kept it averted until the rush of feeling passed. The pain was sharp, like the lid of a box being slammed on my fingertips. I wanted to howl with surprise. By sheer dint of will, I put myself in emotional lockdown. I smiled at Susanna, but my face felt tense. “I appreciate this. I’ve never had a photograph of her.”

“That’s my favorite. I had a copy made so that one’s yours to keep.”

“Thanks. Are there any pictures of my father?”

“I’m sure there are. If I’d thought of it, I could have brought the family album. We have everyone in there. Maybe next time,” she said. “You know, you look like your mother, but then so do I.”

I said, “Really,” but I was thinking, This is all too weird. In my dealings with Tasha, it was easy to keep her safely at arm’s length. We used words to hack at each other, establishing a comfortable distance between us. This woman was lovely. For ten cents, I’d have scampered around the desk and crawled up in her lap. I said, “From what I hear, all the Kinsey women look alike.”

“It’s not the Kinseys so much as the LeGrands. Virginia had some of Daddy’s features, but she was the rare exception. Grand’s features dominate. No surprise there since she dominates everywhere else.”

“Why do you call her Grand?”

She laughed. “I don’t know. We’ve called her that ever since I can remember. She didn’t want to be ‘Mummy’ or ‘Mommy’ or any of those terms. She preferred the nickname she’d always had and that’s how we were raised. Once we got to school, I became aware that other kids called their mothers ‘Mama’ or ‘Mom,’ but by then it would have seemed odd to refer to her that way. Maybe, on her part, it was a form of denial—ambivalence about motherhood. I’m not really sure.”

The smell of coffee began to permeate the air. I didn’t want to leave the room, but I got up and circled the desk. “I’ll be right back.”

“You want help?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Just yell if you need me.”

“Thanks.”

Back in the kitchen, I was businesslike, though I noticed, pouring coffee, I was forced to use both hands. How was I going to pass her the mug without spilling coffee in her lap? I took a deep breath and mentally slapped myself around. I was being ridiculous. This was a virtual stranger, a middle-aged woman on a mission of goodwill. I could do this. I could handle it. I’d simply deal with her now and suffer the consequences later when I was by myself again. Okay. I picked up the two mugs, my gaze fixed on the coffee as I walked. I really didn’t spill that much and the rug was so gross it wouldn’t show, anyway.

Once in my office, I placed both mugs on the desk and let her claim hers for herself. I took my seat again and reached for my mug, sliding it toward me across the desk. I wondered briefly if I could just lean down and slurp instead of lifting it to my lips. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course you can, sweetie. What do you want to know?”

Sweetie. Oh dear. Here came the tears, but I blinked them back. Susanna didn’t seem to notice. I cleared my throat and said, “Liza mentioned nephews the first time we met, but that’s the last I’ve heard of them. Arne told me Grand had three sons, all stillborn, but wasn’t there a boy who died in infancy? I thought Liza made reference to that.”

She made that dismissive gesture so familiar to me. I’d used it myself and so had my cousin Liza on the day we met. “She never gets that right. Really, family history isn’t her strong suit. Technically, it’s true. Mother had three boys before Rita was born. The first two were stillbirths. The third lived five hours. All the other boys in the family—nine nephews—are part of the outer circle. Maura’s husband, Walter, has two sisters, and they both have boys. And my husband, John, has three brothers, with seven boys among them. I know it’s confusing, but since most of those peripheral family members also live in Lompoc, they’re included in all the Kinsey gatherings. Grand doesn’t like to share us with our husbands’ families, so at Thanksgiving and Christmas she makes sure her doors are open and the celebrations are so lavish no one can resist. What else do you want to know? Ask me anything you like. That’s why I’m here.”

I thought for a moment, wondering how far I dared go. “I’ve been told you and Aunt Maura disapproved of my mother.” The topic made me feel mean, but that was easier than feeling frail.

“That was Maura and Sarah, both of whom were older than me. Maura was twelve and Sarah fifteen when the ‘war broke out,’ for lack of a better term. Both sided with Grand. I was the baby in the family so I could get away with anything. I just pretended I didn’t know what was going on. I always adored your mother. She was so stylish and exotic. I think I mentioned I was nine when she made her debut. I was always more concerned about my Mary Janes than the larger family issues. I like to think I’m independent, but I’m not the maverick your mother was. She took Grand head on. She never shied away from confrontation. I use diversionary tactics my-self—charm, misdirection. For me, it’s more effective to conform on the surface and do as I please when I’m outside Grand’s presence. It might be cowardice on my part, but it makes life easier on everyone, or that’s what I tell myself.”