X (Kinsey Millhone 24)

“He is. That was the end of August.”

“Oh, well now I feel bad. I liked him. He seemed like such a kind man.”

“He was kind.”

“What happened to him?”

“He was killed in a robbery attempt.”

“That is so sad. I used to run into him in the oddest places.”

“That’s because he was watching over you.”

She looked at me. “I can’t believe you said that. I remember thinking he was like my personal guardian angel, but I thought I was imagining it.”

“Well, you weren’t.”

“Why would he watch over me?”

“I know bits and pieces of the story. I don’t know everything. He felt protective.”

“Fair enough, I guess. So now I don’t understand what he was doing with the envelope.”

“Which puts us in the same boat. I’m piecing the sequence together the same way you are. Father Xavier gave it to him to pass along to you. Fate must have intervened and he died before he could deliver it.”

She was shaking her head. “Doesn’t it seem odd that this is suddenly filtering back to me? This package has been out there for twenty-eight years and now I’m holding it in my hands. It’s like this long-distance gift from my mother is finally reaching me, but why now? You think it’s about the baby?”

“Personally, I don’t believe in coincidence. Some occurrences are bound to be random. I wouldn’t make too much of it.”

“Do you believe in ghosts? Because I do. Well, not ghosts, but spirits.”

I made a noncommittal sound.

“You don’t believe in ghosts?”

“I don’t know if I believe or not. There was one occasion when I was convinced there was a ‘presence,’ for lack of a better word, but my saying so doesn’t mean it’s true.”

In hopes of steering her off the subject, I introduced another one. “There’s something else in that package I should mention. Your mother included a photograph of your father when he was a little boy, sitting in his mother’s lap.”

“Frankie’s another subject we don’t talk about.”

“Ah, that’s right. You said mothers are off the list. Sounds like you and your dad are real close.”

“Actually, we were once upon a time. We traveled everywhere. We ate dinners out. Really nice places, too. He took me to Disneyland for my fourth birthday.”

I was temporarily distracted by the notion that he took her to an amusement park less than two weeks after her mother’s death. “Do you remember your mother at all?”

She shook her head. “I have no image of her. All I remember is feeling anxious. It was fine as long as I was distracted, but at night, or when I was sick, there was just this big yawning dark hole. I can’t tell you how many times I cried myself to sleep. Eventually, I got over it.”

“That’s not something you get over.”

“You can’t live in a place where there’s so much pain. You have to push it down and put a lid on it; otherwise you’d be overwhelmed.”

“Is that what you did?”

“What I did was grow up. We were living down here by then. I think he was hoping I’d never leave, that I’d always be Daddy’s little girl. I was just the opposite. I couldn’t wait to get away. The longest year of my life was between twelve and thirteen. I wanted to be a teenager. Like life would be totally different if I could only reach that age. Then it seemed like forever until I turned sixteen and got my driver’s license. When I graduated from high school, he assumed I’d go to UCST, and I was thinking, ‘Are you insane? I’m gone. I’m out of here.’ The fact is, I didn’t escape, did I? I’m here and he’s a hop, skip, and a jump away in Cottonwood, which is, what, all of six miles?”

“How do you get along with your stepmother?”

She made a face. “Not so great. She’s high-strung. I’m polite, but there’s nothing warm and fuzzy in our relationship.”

“How long have they been married?”

“Four years. He met her at an AA meeting. It was early on, when she first joined. I gather she was a bad drunk. Lost jobs, wrecked cars, binged with the best of them. She finally reached a point where she had to turn it around or die. He knew her all of three months before he proposed. The wedding was two weeks later.”

“Your father’s a member of Alcoholics Anonymous?”

She shook her head. “Briefly. I know it sounds cynical, but I think he was looking for a way to meet women. Celeste still goes to meetings a couple of times a week.”