W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

“Good to know.”

He passed both documents to me after he added the information to his inventory.

I checked the date of birth on his driver’s license. “Catch this. He was born in 1935, which means he’s fifty-three years old. He looked more like seventy when I saw him.”

“Nobody ever said drink, drugs, and cigarettes were the fountain of youth.”

“I guess not.”

Aaron read and passed along paperwork related to the settlement, showing Dace’s receipt of the money, his signature attesting to the fact that this was settlement in full, that he held the state harmless, and so forth. I added that document to the mounting pile of those we’d reviewed.

The next items Aaron passed me were three sixteen-page folios Dace had put together for his children. I recognized his characteristic printing style. The three booklets were handwritten and handbound. The first covered edible California plants; the second, medicinal herbs; and the third was devoted to California wildflowers. Included with the text were delicate drawings, some done in pen and ink and some in colored pencil. There was a note attached to each, indicating which child was meant as the recipient. There was no way to know whether he’d put the folios together while he was still in prison or after his release, but I was struck by the care he’d taken. He couldn’t have executed the intricate illustrations if he was drunk. These were like poems made visible, precise and lovingly rendered. For the first time, I realized Terrence Dace was a talented man, with an innate intelligence and sensitivity few people in his life had reason to appreciate. How many hours had he spent on the project, and how much affection had he lavished on the drawings and the text? I hoped someone would track down his kids and deliver these in his behalf. It might make a dent in whatever ill will they bore him. The guy deserved better.

The next envelope Aaron picked up was five inches by eight and closed with a metal clasp. Aaron opened it and removed four black-and-white photographs. They were the old-fashioned Kodak prints edged in white. Aaron noted the topmost photo and studied it briefly before he picked up the next. I did the same thing as he passed each one along. Even the teller leaned forward to have a look. In the first, a towheaded boy of six was perched on the shoulders of a rangy, good-looking man who was grasping the child’s feet to anchor him in place. The background showed glimpses of flat, empty land. I could see a crumpled fence and two young trees. I pictured farmland and open countryside. On the back of the photograph, in pen, the note said ME AND UNCLE R, SEPTEMBER 1941. The boy had to be Terrence Dace. I’d seen him only once, in death, and while it was a stretch to trace the similarities between the child and the wreck of a man he’d become, the faint link was there.

The second photo showed the same towheaded boy, progressed to age ten. This time he and his Uncle R sat on the front stairs of a white frame house, Uncle R on the top step with Terrence seated between his uncle’s knees one step down. The affection between the two was unmistakable. Behind them, I could see a portion of a screen door. Off the bottom step there was a boot scraper shaped like a dachshund, and on the right, partially obscured, was a cast concrete planter filled with marigolds in desperate need of watering. Now I picked up the family resemblance; the same flop of straight hair, the same tilt to the eyes. This one was also marked ME AND UNCLE R. The date was June 4, 1945.

The third and fourth photos were indoor shots, one with a Christmas tree showing in the background. Uncle R wasn’t visible; in fact, I was guessing he was the photographer. Young Terrence, now perhaps twelve, was the proud possessor of a .22 rifle, the box and wrapping paper still in evidence at his feet. No date on the back. The fourth photo was taken in the kitchen, the same house and the same holiday, judging by Dace’s shirt, which appeared in both. Terrence and his Uncle R toasted the season with clear-glass punch cups held aloft. The drink might have been eggnog, something creamy-looking. The curve of whiskey bottle to the right suggested that Uncle R had greatly improved his libation. He might even have accorded Dace a wee tot of Old Crow. This time Uncle R was sitting at the boy’s side with his free arm slung across his shoulders.

No wonder Dace had come looking for his Uncle R’s kids. Uncle R was family as he remembered it; family as it was in the days when he was young and life was good. If he’d been estranged from his own children it would be natural for him to dream of forging a bond with the only family he had left. He’d wanted to be clean and sober before he presented himself. According to Dandy, he’d been drunk until the day he died. So much for that idea.

I heard the rustle of paper.