“This is Chase. Ignore him. He’ll settle down in a bit.”
I made an effort to ignore the dog while he pranced around, barking happily, and then snagged the hem of my pant leg and began to tug. He emitted a puppy growl, his feet braced on the hall carpet so he could rip my jeans to shreds. I stood there, captive, and said, “Gee, this is fun, Vera. I’m so glad I came.”
She gave me a look, but let the sarcasm pass. She snagged the dog by the collar and dragged him toward the kitchen while I followed. The foyer ceiling was high with a set of stairs to the right, the living room on the left. A short hall led straight to the kitchen across the back. The passage was the usual land mine of wooden blocks, plastic toy parts, and abandoned doggie bones. She shoved Chase into a kennel the size of a steamer trunk. This didn’t dismay the dog, but I felt guilty nonetheless. He placed a baleful eye to one of the air vents in the kennel and stared at me with hope.
The kitchen was large and I could see a wide deck accessible through a set of French doors. The cabinets were dark cherry, the counters dark green marble, with a six-burner stove-top built into a central island. Both the baby and Vera’s son, whom she introduced as Peter, were already bathed and dressed for bed. Near the kitchen sink, a woman in a pale blue uniform was piping a star of yellow filling into each of a dozen hard-boiled egg halves.
“This is Mavis,” Vera said. “She and Dirk are helping, to save the wear and tear on me. I’ve got a babysitter on her way.”
I murmured greetings and Mavis smiled in response, hardly pausing as she squeezed the filling from a pastry bag. Parsley had been tucked around the platter. On the counter nearby there were two baking sheets of canapes ready for the oven and two other serving platters, one arranged with fresh cut vegetables and the other an assortment of imported cheeses interspersed with grapes. So much for Cheez Whiz—which I personally adored, being a person of low tastes. This party had clearly been in the works for weeks. I now suspected the designated blind date had come down with the flu and I’d been elected to take her place…a B-list substitute.
Dirk, in dress pants and a short white jacket, was working near the walk-in pantry where he’d set up a temporary bar with a variety of glasses, an ice bucket, and an impressive row of wine and liquor bottles.
“How many are you expecting?”
“Twenty-five or so. This is strictly last minute so a lot of people couldn’t make it.”
“I’ll bet.”
“I’m still off the booze because of Twinkletoes here.”
The baby, Meg, was strapped in an infant seat in the middle of the kitchen table, looking around with a vague expression of satisfaction. Peter, aged twenty-one months, had been secured in a high chair. His tray was littered with Cheerios and green peas that he captured and ate when he wasn’t squishing them instead.
Vera said, “That’s not his dinner. It’s just to keep him occupied until the babysitter shows. Speaking of which, Dirk can fix you a drink while I take Peter upstairs.” She removed the tray from the high chair and set it aside, then lifted the boy and set him on one hip. “I’ll be back shortly. If Meg cries, it’s probably because she wants to be picked up.”
Vera disappeared down the hall with Peter, heading for the stairs.
Dirk said, “What can I get for you?”
“Chardonnay’s fine. I’d appreciate that.”
I watched while he removed a bottle of Chardonnay from an ice tub behind him. He poured me a glass and added a cocktail napkin as he passed the wine across the makeshift bar.
“Thanks.”
Vera had set out Brie and thinly sliced French bread, bowls of nuts and green olives. I ate one, being careful not to crack my teeth on the pit. I was curious to tour the rest of the downstairs rooms, but I didn’t dare leave Meg. I had no idea what a baby her age was capable of doing while strapped in an infant seat. Could they hop in those things?
One end of the kitchen had been furnished with two sofas upholstered in a floral fabric, two coordinating chairs, a coffee table, and a television set built into an entertainment center that ran along the wall. Wineglass in hand, I circled the periphery, idly studying the silver-framed photos of family and friends. I couldn’t help wondering if one of the fellows pictured was Neil’s brother, Owen. I imagined him, like Neil, on the short side and probably dark-haired as well.
Behind me, Meg made a restless sound of the sort that suggested more to follow at twice the volume. I tended to my responsibilities, setting down my wineglass so I could free the child from her infant seat. I picked her up, so unprepared for how light she was I nearly flung her through the air. Her hair was dark and fine, her eyes a bright blue with lashes as delicate as feathers. She smelled like baby powder and maybe something fresh and brown in her pants. Amazingly, after staring at me briefly, she laid her face against my shoulder and began to gnaw on her fist. She squirmed and the little oinking sounds she made hinted at feeding urges I hoped wouldn’t erupt before her mother returned. I jiggled her a bit and that seemed to satisfy her temporarily.
I had now exhausted my vast fund of infant-care tricks.
I heard a manly trampling outside on the wooden deck. Neil opened the back door bearing a grocery sack bulky with disposable diapers. The guy who came in behind him carried two six-packs of bottled beer. Neil and I exchanged greetings and then he turned to his brother and said, “Kinsey Millhone. This is my brother, Owen.”
I said, “Hi.” The babe in my arms precluded anything in the way of handshakes.
He responded with hey-how-are-you–type things, talking over his shoulder while he delivered the beer into Dirk’s capable hands.
Neil set the sack on a kitchen stool and removed the package of disposable diapers. “Let me run these on up. You want me to take her?” he asked, indicating Meg.
“This is fine,” I said, and surprisingly, it was. After Neil left, I peered down at her and discovered that she’d gone to asleep. “Oh, wow,” I said, scarcely daring to breathe. I couldn’t tell if the ticking I heard was my biological clock or the delayed timing device on a bomb.
Dirk was in the process of making a margarita for Owen, ice clattering in the blender. With his attention occupied I had an opportunity to study him. He was tall, compared with his brother, over six feet while Neil topped out closer to my height at five-feet-seven. His hair was sandy, lightly dusted with gray. He was lean, an ectomorph, where Neil’s build was stocky. Blue eyes, white lashes, a good-size nose. He glanced over at me and I dropped my gaze discreetly to Meg. He wore chinos and a navy short-sleeved shirt that revealed the light downy hair along his forearms. His teeth were good and his smile seemed sincere. On a scale of 1 to 10—10 being Harrison Ford—I’d place him at 8, or maybe even 8 plus plus.
He moved to the counter where I was standing and helped himself to a canape. We chatted idly, exchanging the sort of uninspired questions and answers that tend to pass between strangers. He told me he was visiting from New York, where he worked as an architect, designing residential and commercial structures. I told him what I did and how long I’d done it. He feigned more interest than he probably felt. He told me he and Neil had three other brothers, of which he was the second from the bottom of the heap. Most of the family, he said, was scattered up and down the East Coast with Neil the lone holdout in California. I told him I was an only child and let it go at that.
Eventually, Neil and Vera came downstairs. She took the baby and settled on the couch. Vera fiddled with her shirt, popped a boob out, and began to breast-feed while Owen and I made a point of looking somewhere else. Eventually several other couples arrived. There were introductions all around as each new twosome was incorporated. The kitchen was gradually taken up with guests, standing in small groups, some spilling into the hallway and out onto the deck. When the babysitter arrived, Vera took Meg upstairs and returned wearing a different shirt. The noise level rose. Owen and I were separated by the crowd, which was all right with me as I’d run out of things to say to him.
&n
bsp; I made an effort to be friendly, chitchatting with any poor soul who caught my eye. Everyone seemed nice enough, but social gatherings are exhausting to someone of my introverted nature. I endured it as long as I could and then eased toward the foyer where I’d left my shoulder bag. Good manners dictated that I say thank you and good-bye to host and hostess, but neither were in sight and I thought it’d be expedient to tiptoe away without calling attention to my escape.
As I closed the front door and made my way down the wooden porch stairs, I caught sight of Cheney Phillips coming up the walk in a deep red silk shirt, cream dress pants, and highly polished Italian loafers. Cheney was a local cop, working vice last I heard. I tended to run into him at a dive called the Caliente Café—also known as CC’s—off Cabana Boulevard by the bird refuge. Rumor had it he’d met a girl at CC’s and the two had taken off for Vegas to get married a scant six weeks later. I remembered the pang of disappointment with which I’d greeted the news. That was three months ago.
He said, “Leaving so soon?”
“Hey, how are you? What are you doing here?”
He tilted his head. “I live next door.”
I followed his gaze to the house, another two-story Victorian that appeared to be a twin of the one I’d just left. Not many cops can afford the tab on a Santa Teresa residence of that size and vintage. “I thought you lived in Perdido.”
“I did. That’s where I grew up. My uncle died, leaving me a great whack of dough so I decided to invest it in real estate.” He was probably thirty-four, three years younger than I, with a lean face and a mop of dark curly hair, five-eight or so, and slim. He’d told me that his mother sold high-end real estate and his father was X. Phillips who owned the Bank of X. Phillips in Perdido, a town thirty miles to the south. He’d clearly been raised in an atmosphere of privilege.
“Nice house,” I said.
“Thanks. I’m still getting settled or I’d offer you a tour.”
“Maybe another time,” I said, wondering about his wife.
“What are you up to these days?”
“Nothing much. A little this and that.”
“Why don’t you return to the party and have a drink with me? We should talk.”
I said, “Can’t. I have to be someplace and I’m late as it is.”
“Rain check?”
“Of course.”
I waved, walking backward for a moment before I turned and headed to my car. Now why had I said that? I could have stayed for a drink, but I couldn’t face another minute in that crowd. Too many people and too much chitchat.
I was home again by 6:15, relieved to be alone but feeling let down nonetheless. Given that I hadn’t wanted to meet Vera’s brother-in-law in the first place, I was disappointed—the blind date had turned out to be a bland date. Nice guy, no sparks, which was probably just as well. Sort of. It was entirely possible the regrets were attached to Cheney Phillips instead of Owen Hess, but I didn’t want to deal with that. What was the point?
4
I left for the prison at 6:00 Monday morning. The drive was boring and hot, my route taking me from Santa Teresa down the 101 as far as Highway 126, which cuts inland at Perdido. The road runs between the Santa Clara River on the right and a fencework of power lines on the left, skirting the southern reaches of the Los Padres National Forest. I’d seen contour maps of the area, which detailed numerous hiking trails through that bleak and mountainous terrain. Dozens of creeks are threaded along the canyon floors. There are a surprising number of public campgrounds distributed throughout the 219,700 acres that constitute the wilderness. If I weren’t preternaturally opposed to bugs, black bears, rattlesnakes, coyotes, heat, stinging nettles, and dirt, I might enjoy seeing the rumored sandstone cliffs and pines growing at odd angles along the boulder-strewn hills. In years past, even from the safety of the highway, I sometimes spotted one of the last of the California condors circling in the sky, its ten-foot wingspan stretched out as gracefully as a soaring kite.
I passed countless avocado orchards and citrus groves laden with ripening oranges, with produce stands set up every two to three miles. I caught a red light in each of three small communities of newly constructed housing and lavish shopping malls. An hour and a half later, I reached the junction of the 126 and Highway 5, which I followed to the south. It took me another hour to reach Corona. The incarceration-prone family couldn’t do much better than to serve their separate bids in this area, which has the California Youth Authority, the California Institution for Men, and the California Institution for Women all within shooting range of one another. The land was flat and dusty, interrupted by power lines and water towers, parcels separated by low barbed-wire fences. A thin line of trees appeared at intervals, but it was hard to see the point. They provided no shade and only the sparsest screening from the cars speeding by. The houses had flat roofs and looked shabby, with dilapidated outbuildings. There were thick, knobby trees, whose amputated branches were, if not dead, devoid of foliage. As is true of most raw acreage in California, housing developments were taking root like a slew of weeds.
By 8:30 I found myself sitting in my car in the parking lot adjacent to the Processing Center at the California Institution for Women. For years, the CIW was known as Frontera, the feminine derivative of the word frontier. The 120-acre campus (as they referred to it back then) opened in 1952, and until this year, 1987, it was the only facility in California housing female felons. I’d already been inside the building where I showed the officer my photo ID and told him I was there to pick up Reba Lafferty, whose CDC number was, by an amusing coincidence, the same as my birthdate. The officer checked his roster, found her name, and then called Receiving and Release.
He’d suggested that I wait in the parking lot, so I’d hoofed it back to my VW. So far, the community of Corona seemed a bit grim for my taste. A trail of yellow smog hung on the horizon like something a crop-dusting plane might have left in its wake. The mid-July heat was as thick as soured milk and smelled of feedlots. A buffeting wind was blowing and there were flies everywhere. My T-shirt was sticking to my back and I could feel a sheen of moisture on my face—the sort of clamminess that wakes you from a dead sleep when you’ve just come down with the flu.
The view through the ten-foot chain-link fences was an improvement. I could see green lawns, walkways, and hibiscus plants with showy red and yellow blossoms. Most of the buildings were dun-colored and built close to the ground. Female inmates strolled the yards in groups of two and three. I knew from reading I’d done that construction had just been completed on a 110-bed Special Housing Unit. Total staff was 500, give or take a few, while the prison population varied between 900 and 1,200. Whites were in the majority, with ages bunched in the thirty-to-forty range. The prison provided both academic and vocational programs, including computer programming. Prison industries, largely textiles, produced shirts, shorts, smocks, aprons, handkerchiefs, bandannas, and fire-fighting clothing. Frontera also served as a hub for the selection and training of firefighters, who would be assigned work in the forty-some conservation camps across the state.
For the umpteenth time, I looked at the snapshot of Reba Lafferty taken before her legal ills and her felony quarantine. If she’d abused alcohol and drugs, the excess didn’t show. Restlessly, I returned the photo to my shoulder bag and fiddled with the tuner on the radio. The morning news was the usual disheartening mixture of murder, political shenanigans, and dire economic predictions. By the time the news anchor cut to the station break, I was ready to cut my own throat.
At 9:00A. M. I glanced up and caught sight of activity near the vehicle sally port. The gates had been rolled back and an outbound sheriff’s department van now idled while the driver presented his paperwork to the sally port officer. The two of them exchanged pleasantries. I got out of my car. The van pulled through the gate, made a wide right-hand turn, and then slowed to a stop. I could see a number of women onboard, parolees headed for the real world, their faces turned to the window like
a row of plants seeking light. The doors to the van hissed open and closed, and then the vehicle moved off.
Reba Lafferty stood on the pavement in prison-issue tennis shoes, blue jeans, and a plain white T-shirt without benefit of a brassiere. All inmates are obliged to surrender their personal clothing on arrival at the prison, but I was surprised her father hadn’t sent her something of her own to wear home. I knew she’d been compelled to purchase the outfit she wore since the articles were considered government property. She’d apparently declined the prison-issue bra, which was probably about as flattering as an orthopedic brace. Inmates are also required to leave prison without anything in hand, except their two hundred bucks in cash. Startled, I saw that she looked exactly like the photo. Given Nord Lafferty’s advanced age, I’d pictured Reba in her fifties. This girl was barely thirty.
Her hair was now cropped short and looked damp from a shower. During her incarceration, the blond had grown out and the natural dark strands were spikey, as though she’d stiffened them with mousse. I expected her to be heavy, but she was trim almost to the point of looking frail. I could see the bony hollows of her collarbones beneath the cheap fabric of her T-shirt. Her complexion was clear but faintly sallow, and her eyes were smudged with dark shadows. There was something sensual about her; a defiance in her posture, a touch of swagger in her walk.
I lifted my hand in greeting and she crossed the road, moving in my direction.
“You here for me?”
“That’s right. I’m Kinsey Millhone,” I said.
“Great. I’m Reba Lafferty. Let’s hit the friggin’ road,” she said as we shook hands.
We walked to the car and for the next hour, that was the extent of our conversation.