The Murderer's Daughter (32 page)

Several mornings after signing the adoption documents, Grace came down and found a formal breakfast set up. Starched linen draped over the table, soft-boiled in porcelain egg cups, neatly arrayed chunks of French cheeses on the good china, triangles of whole wheat toast lined precisely in a silver rack.

Coffee
and
tea, no room for error.

Malcolm and Sophie were already seated. Another production? Oh, boy. Grace knew the thought was brutally ungrateful but sometimes all she wanted was to be left with her thoughts and fantasies.

This morning, it was more a matter of fatigue; she hadn't slept much, alternating between flights of glee and pangs of anxiety. Wondering obsessively: What did her new status really mean? Would they at some point want to be called Mom and Dad, were they just waiting for the right psychological moment?

Mom and Dad.

Mother and Father.

Mater and Pater.

Your Lordships…was she now officially a Bullocks Wilshire and Saks Fifth Avenue princess? Had she ever been anything else since arriving on June Street?

Would some prince appear now that she qualified socially?

Would he remain a prince or turn into a frog when she kissed him…worse, a toad.

A lizard.

A serpent.

What did all this
mean
?

The most terrifying question of all:
Is this a dream?

No, it couldn't be. Because she was wide awake, lying on her back in a big, luxuriant bed in a big, luxuriant room, a place they said was hers but was it really?

Was she anything more than an honored guest?

Did it matter?

Now, at the breakfast table, Grace rubbed her eyes and sat down, watching soft-boiled egg shimmy as her hand bumped the cup.

Sophie said, “Tough night?”

As if she understood.

Maybe she did. Maybe Malcolm did, too. He was a psychologist, trained to read emotions, though, to tell the truth, sometimes he seemed oblivious to the world around him; Sophie was the perceptive one. The one who shopped with her. Started off selecting her clothing, then gradually eased out of the process, allowing Grace to make her own decisions.

Sophie made her medical and dental and hairdresser appointments. Sophie had found her the dentist, the pediatrician. Now a gynecologist, a pretty young woman named Beth Levine, who examined Grace gently and offered her the option of birth-control pills.

It was Sophie she smiled at now. “I'm okay. This looks yummy.”

She ate a bit of egg, a nibble of toast, drank most of a cup of coffee, then stopped and smiled at both of them. Letting them know she was patient with whatever they had in mind.

But hopefully, not another bunch of emotion, please no more of that. Yes, her fortune had turned golden, but at some point it was like overeating: You paid with heartburn and sleepless nights.

Malcolm said, “We're feeling great about everything.”

“I am, too. Thank you.”

“Your being happy is all the thanks we need, Grace. We should be thanking you—” He laughed. “Oh, hell, talk about maudlin—hey, let's everyone go round the table and hold hands and sing ‘Kumbaya' and thank everyone else, we'll have a group encounter Thank-a-Thon.”

Grace laughed with him.

Sophie said, “If you don't mind, we do need to talk about college. The way I see it, there are two options: Stay another full year at Merganfield, which would be a holding pattern, but that's okay should you choose it, you're way ahead of the game. Or you could apply for spring acceptance at a college and if you got in, spend only half a year at Merganfield. You'd still be barely sixteen when you started so if that sounds daunting, I—we understand. We just don't want you getting bored.”

“I could get a job.”

“A job?” said Malcolm. “Let me tell you something, work's highly overestimated.”

Chuckling and turning to Sophie for appreciation. She was dead serious, fixed on Grace. “What kind of job?”

“I haven't really thought about it, I'm just offering it as a possibility.”

“Would you prefer to have some time to consider that, dear? Though, frankly, I'm not sure what you could do other than work at a fast-food joint. Not because you're unqualified. It's simply the way things are set up in this society.”

“Flipping burgers, hmm,” said Grace. Flashes of restaurant leftovers in a double-wide caused her to sway. “Maybe not. What's that spring acceptance like?”

“It's tough to pull off, dear. And it can be difficult socially, because you'd be stepping into an environment where everyone else has had months to get acquainted.”

As if I'm going to socialize any more than you do. Than I do.

Grace said, “Why's it tough to pull off?”

“Colleges and universities are the most procedure-bound institutions around and they revolve around fall acceptances. Exceptions are made but they're few and far between.”

Grace said, “There must be empty slots due to people who drop out.”

“There are,” said Malcolm, “but they're mostly filled with transfers from other universities.”

Sophie said, “Still, as I said, exceptions are made. For people such as yourself.” She licked her lips. “I'm going to level with you, dear: We've taken the liberty of inquiring and though it's not a certainty, it is a possibility. There's a problem, though.”

“What's that?”

“Your choices would be limited. There are only two places where Malcolm and I have received positive responses: USC and Harvard.”

“Where you work and where you went to school,” said Grace.

“Go Crimson,” said Malcolm, as if nothing mattered less than attending Harvard. But he read everything Harvard mailed him and wrote occasional checks to various endowments.

Sophie said, “Well, technically, I went to Radcliffe, women weren't accepted at Harvard, back then, but yes, those are places where we have personal relationships. Princeton might be a possibility but they and Stanford refuse to commit to a level where I'd be comfortable taking the risk. Meaning if we turned down USC and Harvard, we might be left with nothing.”

“USC and Harvard,” said Grace. “There are worse choices to make.”

“You need to understand,” said Malcolm. “If you endured the full year at Merganfield and applied for the fall, you'd likely get in everywhere. The Ivies, Stanford, anywhere you choose. Hell, anyplace stupid enough
not
to take you doesn't
deserve
you.”

Sophie said, “So you're narrowing your options, considerably.”

I live in a narrow world. Boundaries keep me safe.

Grace said, “I understand. But trust me, this is great, I'm fine with it. Which do you think I should choose?”

Sophie said, “We can't make that decision, dear. It's really up to you.”

“All right, then. How about some parameters?” Using a word she'd learned from one of Malcolm's statistic books. Great word, she used it at Merganfield whenever she could. Even with Sean Miller.
Time for some new
—ahem—
parameters.

“USC,” said Malcolm, “is a fine, fine institution. Harvard is…Harvard.”

He seemed to be struggling. Grace wanted to save him. “Could I apply to both?”

“Sorry, no, they're both insisting acceptance means commitment.”

“I bear all the risk.”

“Welcome to the world of higher education, Grace.”

Sophie said, “Let's back up a bit. Give you
parameters.
We're talking apples and oranges, on more than an academic level. In one case, you'd stay in L.A., would have the option of dorming in or continuing to live here. In the other you'd be clear across the country and learning to deal with some extremely cold weather.” She smiled. “Though I suppose the opportunity of some nice warm winter clothing isn't half bad. Think shearling, dear.”

Grace smiled back. “Would I get the same education?”

Malcolm said, “You'd get an excellent education at both places. Anywhere, really, the crucial ingredient is the student, not the college. There are plenty of smart kids at USC but it's more…heterogeneous. And while there are stupid people at Harvard, you'd be more likely to meet blocs of individuals closer to your level.”

Who cares?

“There's also,” said Sophie, “and I shudder to say this, the matter of prestige. A Harvard degree is given a lot of weight by employers and such.”

“Far more than deserved,” said Malcolm. “Didn't know a blessed thing when I graduated. Didn't prevent consulting firms from wanting to hire me.”

“You remained there for your Ph.D.,” said Grace.

“I did. I'd planned to go to Chicago or Oxford but I met a gorgeous girl from Radcliffe who was also pursuing her Ph.D. at Harvard.” He shrugged. “The rest is domestic history.”

Sophie said, “Romantic twist, he tells everyone that story. The truth is, he'd decided well before meeting me.”

“I dispute that.”

“Darling, you know we've been through this. When we moved and I cleaned out the apartment, I saw the correspondence between you and Professor Fiacre.”

“Letters of inquiry,” said Malcolm, “are not letters of intent.”

Sophie waved him silent. Their fingers touched. Talking about their student days, however briefly, had brought a flush to their cheeks.

Maybe Harvard was an interesting place.

Grace said, “How would you feel about my staying in L.A.?”

“Of course, we'd be fine with it,” said Sophie. “Whichever you choose.”

“The same goes for Boston?”

A beat.

Sophie said, “Absolutely. We could visit you.”

“Give us a chance to revisit old haunts,” said Malcolm.

Grace waited.

Sophie understood the silence. “Would we be insulted if you left? Think you ungrateful? Absolutely not. At your age it's normal to want to attain autonomy.”

“Develop a sense of yourself,” said Malcolm. “Not that you don't have one, of course. But…it's a growth process. Your self-image at twenty-five won't be the same as it is at sixteen.”

“Sixteen,” said Sophie. “I must confess, I keep thinking about that. Not only would you be stepping into an already established social scene, you'd be younger than almost everyone.”

“But she'd also be a helluva lot smarter,” said Malcolm.

“What would I need to do to apply?” said Grace. “In either place.”

Malcolm said, “Fill out a form, send your transcripts and your SAT, sit for an interview with an alumnus.”

That sounded pitifully simple. Grace said, “There's still the matter of money.”

“The old moochery thing? Don't give it a thought.”

Grace didn't reply.

Sophie said, “Why don't we cross that bridge when we come to it?”

“All right,” said Grace. “I appreciate your setting up contingencies in both places. Could I have a couple of days to think?”

“I'd expect no less than careful contemplation from you,” said Malcolm.

Grace finished her soft-boiled egg.

She'd let the time pass. Ask for a third day in order to appear
contemplative.

But she'd already made up her mind.

G
race stopped in Monterey, finding a casual fish restaurant where, surrounded by families and older couples, she fueled up on grilled salmon, steak fries, and a pot of serious coffee. Thirty-five minutes later, she was back on the road.

Refreshed, purposeful, spotting no cops, she sped.

She pulled into
Berkeley just before nine p.m., encountering clear, starlit skies and plenty of street life. A welcome sense of familiarity took hold, though she hadn't been here in years. But back in her twenties, she had flown up fairly frequently, delivering papers, co-authored with Malcolm, at oh-so-earnest symposia.

He had no professional need to do any of that but indulged in occasional scholarly gregariousness. Grace's purpose had been hanging out with him. She recalled the inevitable after-parties with a smile. Standing on the sidelines, glass of white wine in hand, as Malcolm regaled a generally sour lot of academicians with anecdotes plucked from a life lived well.

He'd been so different from them, a redwood among dry weeds.

In her free time, Grace had explored the university town, always finding it an interesting study in pretense. Berkeley was blessed with gorgeous, rolling topography, bordered by hills where trees and shrubs thrived with little care, graced with stunning views of ocean and bay and bridge, everything centered on the vast emerald spread of a venerable campus.

High-end restaurants abounded—Shattuck Avenue's sobriquet was the Gourmet Ghetto. And neighborhoods like Berkeley Hills and Claremont sported grand old houses dating from an age when Northern California was the financial hub of the state. Despite all that, the city seemed to cultivate shabbiness, like one of those old-money dowagers pretending they hadn't lucked into a life of privilege.

Being overrun with students and hippie-anarchist-nihilist alums who refused to leave didn't help. Nor did a political climate that thrived on class envy and political correctness and welcomed the homeless without elevating them.

Where Berkeley's unique ethos really hit you was when you got behind the wheel. Five minutes after rolling into town, Grace had to brake suddenly to avoid pulverizing a pedestrian who leaped off the sidewalk into nocturnal traffic.

A kid, probably a sophomore, long hair streaming above his chiseled spoiled-brat face as he grinned and flipped her off and continued sprinting straight into the next lane of autos. More sudden stops, more one-fingered salutes.

Two blocks later, two girls did the same thing.

I walk, therefore I am virtuous and own the streets and fuck you gas guzzlers!

In Berkeley, even basic locomotion was a political statement.

Grace continued to explore from behind the wheel. Even more street life on the main drags of Telegraph and University. She veered into quieter nocturnal territory, cruising toward the building on Center Street where Roger Wetter Senior and his adopted son had established their headquarters years ago.

Too dark to make out details from across the street. The six-story structure faced a flat, sparse park ringed with trees but scruffy at the center. Beyond the grass stood the dark bulk of Berkeley High.

Seeing the school reminded Grace of Roger Wetter Senior's enlistment of young thugs to intimidate elderly earthquake victims. Had he found his troops right here?

Something else struck her: Knife-wielding Mr. Benn would've been a young man back then. The likelihood he'd been part of the scam seemed stronger.

As she idled, a figure skulking through the park caught her eye. Stooped, emaciated man, lurching drunkenly, holding something in a paper bag. She drove on, hung a U, parked close to the building.

Six flat stories of characterless night-gray stucco. Ragged black holes in place of doors and windows, the roof mostly gone, rafters tilting upward like splintered chicken bones.

Blocking entry was a chain-link fence. Behind the diamond-shaped holes of the barrier Grace made out an earthmoving machine.

A white placard on the fence was too far to be legible. Movement to her left made her turn quickly. The lurching guy was getting closer. She prepared to leave but he headed up the block, stumbling drunkenly.

Grace hopped out of her SUV and examined the sign. Demolition notice, some sort of government-funded project.

If Alamo Adjustments still existed, she'd have to look elsewhere to find it.

Or maybe she wouldn't. Because it was Mr. Venom she really wanted and if he still owned the structure and dropped by to oversee the government-funded transformation of his property…

Shuffling sounds behind her. Hand in her bag, she rotated carefully.

The lurching figure from the park was back, approaching her, hand out.

Old, bent-over guy reeking of booze. She gave him a buck and he said, “Bless you,” and moved on.

She continued driving
around, taking her time as she searched for appropriate lodging, was intrigued by a drab-looking place smack in the middle of the University Avenue bustle. Arching green neon letters crowned the entry.

OLD HOTEL

No accommodation of the youth culture? Then she edged closer to the sign and saw the out-of-commission
S.

The Olds Hotel occupied a mixed-use building with storefronts at street level and rooms above. A black-painted arrow directing the weary traveler to the top of a grimy flight of concrete stairs.

Grace circled the block. The Olds offered an outdoor parking lot in back, mostly empty now and guarded by a flimsy wooden yardarm. Entry was simple: Push a button and drive through. Exit required a token from the management.

Grace returned to the front of the hotel and examined the businesses below. Two stores to the left, a vintage-clothing store might be of use. Not so the cut-rate hair salon next door.

To the right of the hotel entrance was perfection: a photocopy/self-print outlet advertising discounts for theses and dissertations. More to the point: The place was open twenty-four hours a day.

Grace parked illegally and zipped in. Ignored by a student-aged boy engrossed in
Game of Thrones,
she printed herself a new batch of business cards on cheaper paper than those proffered by M. S. Bluestone-Muller, Security Consultant.

S. M. Muller, Ed.D.

Educational Consultant

claimed a Boston number that would lead to a long-defunct pay phone in the lobby of the main branch of the Cambridge public library. Back in her student days, Grace had used the booth to phone a boy at Emerson, a would-be theater director whom she'd met in a dive bar. He'd swallowed her story about being an L.A.-based aspiring actress and she'd slept with him three times, barely remembered his face. But the booth's phone number remained etched in her memory. Funny the things you held on to.

Returning to the Escape, she drove around to the rear of the Olds Hotel and toted her suitcase up the hotel's rear staircase, also concrete and every bit as grungy.

At the top was a musty-smelling lime-green hallway lined with doors painted to match and carpeted in wrinkled khaki-colored polyester.

At the front of the building was a glassed-in reception desk. The clerk was no older than a sophomore, Indian or Pakistani or Bengali, and like his compadre down in the photocopy shop, he couldn't have cared less about Grace's arrival, choosing instead to continue texting manically.

When Grace informed him, plaintively, that her wallet had been stolen along with her credit cards, would he please accept her business card for I.D. and cash as payment, his thumbs barely faltered as he muttered, “Uh-huh.”

“What's the rate for a room?”

Click click click click.
“Fifty a night, five extra for cleanup service. We only have some a floor up.”

“Fine, and no need for cleanup,” said Grace, forking over two hundred dollars.

The kid ignored the fresh new card. “What's your name?”

“Sarah Muller.”

“Write it down, okay?” Sliding the log book toward her.

She scrawled, he handed her a key attached to a miniature white-plastic milk bottle. “You want orange juice in the morning? We don't serve breakfast but I can tell them to leave you juice but it's not fresh or anything, just bottled.”

“Also not necessary. Any coffee?”

The kid aimed world-weary eyes at the front steps while continuing to click away. “Peets, Local 123, Café Yesterday, Guerrilla Café. Want me to keep going?”

“Thanks,” said Grace. “May I assume you've got WiFi?”

“Down here it's okay,” said the kid. “Up where you'll be it sometimes sucks.” His fingers moved faster. He paused to read a return text. Laughed weirdly.

Grace inspected the milk bottle for a room number: 420.

The kid said, “It's just Forty-Two, I don't know why they add a zero.”

“Top floor?”

“There's only this and one more.” He typed some more. Said, “Clown,” then “Loser,” then “Asshole.”

The room was
surprisingly large, smelling of Lysol and stale pizza, with a pair of twin beds covered in garish floral spreads separated by a particleboard nightstand. A Gideon Bible with most of the pages gone filled the stand's drawer. Two beds but only one pillow, on the right-hand mattress, lumpy as a skin rash, tossed haphazardly.

The walls were stippled green plaster. Floral drapes that matched the bedspreads failed to close completely over a cracked, yellow window shade. Despite that, no annoying light or noise. The window faced the parking lot, shielding Grace from the din on University.

One dresser, of the same flimsy fake wood. Dead silverfish in the top drawer, the others were clean and lined with butcher paper.

The bathroom was cramped, tiled in cracked white hexagons splotched with gray and yellow and rust. A skimpy white towel was embroidered
OH.
The tub would accommodate a toddler. The shower sputtered brown until it finally diluted to a clear trickle. The lidless toilet hissed.

Perfect.

Grace went to sleep.

She was up
at seven thirty the following morning, feeling amazingly refreshed. Trying her laptop, she found the WiFi deficient as advertised. Enduring a lukewarm shower, she dressed in jeans, rubber-soled low-heeled boots, and a charcoal-colored cotton sweater, leaving her wigs in her luggage. Stuffing her little Beretta and its ammo into the center of her suitcase, she swathed both in layers of clothes.

Far from burglar-proof but a lowlife would have to be looking.

The Glock and the laptop ended up at the bottom of her bag.

Time for nourishment.

Nippy morning, University
was already filled with foot traffic.

One thing about college kids and self-styled rebels: They loved to eat. The choice of cuisines was staggering and Grace finally settled for a Parma ham, Bermuda onion, and Anaheim chili omelet, thick slabs of sourdough bread imported from across the Bay in San Francisco, a glass of fresh-squeezed mandarin juice replete with pulp and seeds, and decent coffee at a café that claimed to be local, organic, sustainable, and opposed to any form of military activity.

Sustained gastronomically, she checked out the used-clothing store near her hotel, found a navy peacoat that didn't smell too bad for thirty bucks. Shifting to a bin of hats, she found the odor test tougher to pass but finally came up with an oversized, soft wool gray ski cap that had bypassed mold and must. Her nose did pick up the faintest nuance of hairspray, and she hoped her predecessor had been a stylish, meticulous girl. Inspecting the interior nap for nits or anything else remotely disturbing, she found nothing untoward and bargained the cashier down to five bucks.

The cap slipped over her head, totally concealing her cropped hair. Devoid of makeup and newly clad, she was Berkeley Anonymous.

Leaving the Escape
in the hotel lot, she picked up the
Examiner
from a street stand and walked to Center Street. In daylight, the park across from the condemned building wasn't half bad, the grass greener than she'd expected, the trees at the periphery huge and lush and decently shaped. In the background, kids streamed near the high school, making predictable adolescent noises.