The Murderer's Daughter Read online

  Grace hoped that didn’t mean a big change, some sort of special place. All she wanted was people feeding her and leaving her alone so she could think and read and imagine.

  She was still hoping for all that when Wayne got off the freeway and she read the exit sign and a pain started high up in her belly. It had been a long time but the sign shone through the enveloping darkness and she remembered: The few times Dodie or Ardis had taken her out of the single-wide, this was the way they’d come back home.

  She cracked her window, let in dust and heat and diesel fuel. The sun was gone now but you could still see things and they pricked her memory, too: The fringy tops of those wrinkled plants with their gray leaves. Discarded oil drums and other metal stuff heaped in piles off the side of the road.

  Desert, miles of it.

  And now Wayne had turned off onto a road that made Grace’s heart pound. A sign pointed the way to Desert Dreams. If he wasn’t going so fast, she would’ve tried to jump out of the car.

  Even though she couldn’t escape, she imagined it. Balling her hands into fists so she could punch Wayne on the back of his fat neck, make him stop.

  The desert. How long could she survive by herself?

  Not long, no place to hide. Unless she could make it all the way to the mountains. But maybe it was worse up there, she had no idea, she’d never been.

  All she had on was a Disneyland T-shirt, shorts, sneakers. Up in the mountains it could probably get real cold, even in the summer.

  She knew that because sometimes when Dodie used to complain about living in a damn oven, Grace could see snow atop the mountains.

  It was too dark to tell if there was snow, all Grace could see were the outlines of the mountains, big and sharp.

  Like knives.

  Wayne said, “Almost there. How ya doin’?”

  Terrible, you stupid caseworker.

  Grace said, “Okay.”

  “A little nervous, huh? That’s natural, new surroundings. Tell the truth, kid, I don’t know how any of you do it, the constant shuffling—being moved around.” He chuckled. “Shuffled like cards in a deck. Come to think about it, it is kind of like a game of chance.”

  Grace stared at the back of his neck. Spotted a pimple to the side of his ponytail. If she used her nail to flick it, the pain might be enough to…

  Then she realized he hadn’t turned toward Desert Dreams, this was a road she’d never seen. Skinnier, real dark, and Wayne was muttering something about “out in the boonies” and making his headlights brighter, turning the area in front of the car into a cold, white tube.

  Dust flew up from the tires, like upside-down rain. The sand stretched forever.

  Why was he taking her here?

  Now a different kind of fear crawled into her belly and kept going, lodging in her throat.

  Was he one of those?

  She searched for some detail to remember. It took a long time before anything rose above the desert. But then: A big yard of metal garbage. Broken-up trucks. Part of an old bus, too. Heaps of wheels and metal grilles and things that looked like metal branches.

  As soon as the junkyard was gone, a fenced area that said Water Station: No Admittance.

  Grace put one hand on her seat belt clasp so she could undo it fast if she needed to.

  Wayne was fat, Grace figured she could outrun him.

  He began to hum off-key.

  All of a sudden more buildings appeared outside Grace’s window. A trailer park just like Desert Dreams, this one was called Antelope Palms but with no palms or any other kind of plant around. To her surprise, she was happy seeing the mobiles.

  Wayne kept driving and humming louder. More open space followed by another mobile park. And another. Brightly lit signs chewing their way through the darkness.

  Sunrise Motor Estates.

  Morningview Motorhaven.

  Okay, so she’d end up somewhere like Desert Dreams, but without the memories…okay, that would be okay.

  Despite telling herself that, she shuddered. Hugged herself tight and tried not to be sick.

  Time for good thoughts, she’d been practicing that in order to drive out bad ones, it was hard but she was getting better at it.

  Okay. Breathe. Think good…maybe her new fosters would live in a double-wide with a real bed for her…maybe there’d be a big enough refrigerator so she wouldn’t have to wait for scraps. Maybe—Wayne made a sudden turn and got on another road, this one really, really bumpy.

  They were getting closer to the mountains.

  Nothing out here but more of those fringy trees—Grace suddenly remembered what they were called. Joshuas, they were passing through kind of a forest of Joshuas—another turn, then another, and bigger trees appeared—now there were palms and some roundish ones with clusters of small leaves.

  The road had turned straight and less bumpy and Wayne had stopped humming.

  A gate appeared up ahead. He braked smoothly, slid to a stop. The gate was connected to metal fencing, like for a horse corral, but there were no horses Grace could see.

  Maybe they were in a barn or something, asleep.

  Above the gate was a spotlight that shone on a wooden plaque. Burned in the wood was cursive lettering.

  Stagecoach Ranch

  This caseworker was taking her to be a cowgirl?

  He idled the car, got out, swung the gate open, returned to the driver’s seat. “Pretty cool, no? I figure everything you been through, you deserve something better, kiddo. Guess what this place was used for back in the day?”

  Grace said, “Animals?”

  “Good answer but even better, Ms. Grace Blades. This was a film ranch, they used it to shoot movies.” He laughed. “Who knows, you might even come across some memorabilia—that means old interesting stuff.”

  He drove through the gateway. Up ahead was a house, bigger than Grace had ever seen except in books. Two stories high, wide as two normal houses, with white wooden boards running along the front and up three steps, a front porch that tilted to one side.

  Wayne whistled through his teeth. “Home sweet home, kiddo.”

  He gave a short honk. A woman came out of the house drying a dish with a towel. Old and small, she had white hair that hung below her waist, a sharp nose that reminded Grace of a bird, and skinny arms that moved fast as she kept up the drying.

  Wayne got out and held out his hand for a shake. The woman barely touched his fingers and resumed her towel work. “You’re a bit late, amigo.”

  “Yeah, sorry.”

  “Heck,” said the woman, “it’s not as if I’m booked with appointments.” She approached the car, moving nimbly despite her age. Stooping, but not too much because she was short, didn’t have to lower herself a lot to gaze through the window.

  Peering at Grace, she made a rotary motion that Grace figured meant, “Roll it down.”

  She obeyed and the old woman studied her. “You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you? Nice to have both—brains and looks. I’m telling you that from personal experience.” She laughed like a younger woman. “So what do you like to be called?”

  “Grace.”

  “Simple enough. I’m Ramona Stage and for the most part you can stick with Ramona. When I get grumpy—it does happen, I’m human—you might try Mrs. Stage. But mostly Ramona’ll be fine. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Get your stuff, I’ll show you your room.”

  —

  The house was even bigger inside, with heavy, dark furniture everywhere and wood-plank walls covered with paintings of flowers and photos of a man—the same man, over and over—in a fancy black shirt and white cowboy hat. Grace didn’t have a chance to notice more; she was hurrying up the stairs after Ramona Stage, who’d grabbed Grace’s bags and was moving like she was weightless.

  At the top was a wide, brown-carpeted landing with six doors. The air smelled of tomato soup and maybe some kind of laundry detergent.

  “That,” said Ramona, pointing to the nearest door,
“is my bedroom. Door’s open, you can knock. If I say ‘okay’ or ‘enter’ or ‘come in’ or something along those lines, you can come in. You find the door closed, don’t even try. That room at the far end is a linen closet. The one next to it is the bathroom. I’ve got my own so it’s just for the kids. That leaves three bedrooms for the kids and right now I got two little ones in the left-hand room, one by himself over there, he’s got special circumstances. All boys, but that could change. Meanwhile, you, being the only female, get your own space, which is something I can’t always promise. Obviously it’s going to be the smallest room. That seem unfair to you?”

  Grace shook her head.

  Ramona said, “You don’t like to talk? Fine, a shake or a nod works just as well. Long as we have an understanding: No matter how you feel, I always try to be fair. Not just with kids, I treat everyone the same, big shots, kids, plain old working folk.”

  She waited.

  Grace said nothing.

  “Catch my drift, Grace? Whether it’s Gary Cooper or the guy who comes to do my roof, they’re the same. Get it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Ramona Stage laughed and slapped her knee. “Look at that, a voice issues forth. I actually knew Gary Cooper and he never expected special treatment. Know what I’m talking about?”

  “He’s a movie star but okay.”

  Ramona’s head cocked backward. “You have no idea who Gary Cooper was, do you? Someone your age never seen his movies.”

  Grace shook her head. “I just figured.”

  “Ah, good thinking,” said Ramona, looking Grace up and down. “Makes sense, given what I’ve been told about you.”

  Heavy footsteps sounded. Wayne’s meaty face appeared at the top of the stairs, then the rest of him.

  “We’re doing great,” said Ramona.

  “Terrific, Mrs. S. If I could have a word with Gracie.”

  No one called her Gracie. He hadn’t until now.

  No sense arguing.

  Ramona said, “I’ll take her stuff to her room and you can say your au revoirs.” Opening the door to the smallest room, she stepped in.

  Wayne said, “Like it?”

  “Yes.”

  He drummed his fingers on his thigh. Like he was waiting for more.

  Grace said, “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome, Gracie. And listen, you got a real good chance of sticking around here because she doesn’t do it for the money, I’m not really sure why she does it, she’s well-heeled—that means she has her own dough. Okay?”

  “Okay,” said Grace, not sure what she was agreeing to.

  “Only problem is, if it doesn’t work out, and I can’t see any reason it wouldn’t, but if it doesn’t, you can’t call me because as I told you, I’m leaving the department.”

  “I know.”

  “Good…anyway, I wanted to end on a positive note,” said Wayne. “Doing something for you that can’t always be done. You’re really smart, kid. Given some breaks, you could make something of yourself.”

  “You, too,” said Grace.

  “Me?”

  “Being a lawyer. You’ll make more money.”

  Wayne gaped. “You really listen, don’t you?”

  Not the last time Grace would hear that.

  —

  Ramona Stage and Grace watched Wayne drive away. “That one’s a total bleeding heart, but at least he tries. Okay, to your quarters, young lady, it’s past bedtime.”

  The room was narrow, like a closet you could walk into. A single dormer window draped with white muslin let in nothing of the night. The roof sloped sharply and Mrs. Stage pointed that out and said, “Your size, you’ll be okay unless you sit up too sharp in bed, but in general be careful not to bean your noggin, your noggin’s the most important thing God gave you.”

  Grace’s eyes were already fixed on the bed. Bigger than any she’d ever slept in, with a brass headboard that had turned greenish brown. Two big pillows in pink flowery cases were plumped against the board, each dimpled in the middle. The bedspread was pink with white stripes and looked new. A metal rack near the window served as hanging space. A two-drawer oak dresser sufficed for what Mrs. Stage called “foldables.”

  She and Grace put away Grace’s things and a few times Mrs. Stage refolded something Grace had thought she’d done a good job with.

  That done, she walked Grace out to the shared bathroom and sniffed. “Those boys, for the life of them they can’t aim.”

  Grace smelled nothing but she kept that to herself. Ramona Stage said, “Brush your teeth good,” and waited as Grace complied.

  “Thorough brushing, excellent. Always take care of the body you’ve been gifted with. Now to bed.”

  But before they reached the smallest room, Ramona stopped Grace with a finger and cracked the door of the room where the one boy slept and stuck her head in.

  Grace heard a faint hissing noise, like a tire losing air.

  Ramona closed the door softly. “Okay. Want me to tuck you in?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “I’ll do it, anyway.”

  —

  Tucking in consisted of ordering Grace to get under the covers and “arrange your pillows the way you like, then make sure to think pleasant thoughts because, trust me, life’s too short for disconsolate thoughts.”

  The linens smelled sweet, like Grace was lying in a flower bed. Ramona Stage turned off the light and Grace drew the covers up to her chin. Now, with the room all dark, something did filter through the muslin curtains.

  Moonglow, satiny silver, lighting on Ramona Stage’s face as she stood in the doorway. It gave her a softness, as if she’d turned younger.

  She returned to the bed. “You can do what you want but I suggest this for ultimate comfort,” she said, and folded the covers down, creating a neat flap that bisected Grace’s chest. Positioning Grace’s hands atop her tummy, with the fingertips barely touching, she said, “You’re making a letter V, see? As in you’ve got value. Something to think about, Grace. Now you go ahead and sleep perfectly.”

  To Grace’s surprise, she did.

  —

  Despite the place’s history as a ranch, Ramona kept no animals. “First the horses went, then the goats, then the geese. Finally, the chickens, because I got the cholesterol and went off eggs. The dogs I kept until they passed naturally.”

  It was six o’clock on Grace’s first morning at Stagecoach Ranch. When she peeked out her bedroom door, Ramona was out on the landing, dressed in a plaid shirt, jeans, and flat shoes, her long white hair braided and coiled atop her head. One hand held a coffee cup, as if she’d been waiting for Grace to make an appearance. The two of them went downstairs to the kitchen, where Ramona drank the coffee and Grace had orange juice and some toast.

  “You’re sure no eggs or meats?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Not a big breakfast gal, huh? Suit yourself but you may change your mind.”

  The kitchen was huge, with a view of the mountains. The appliances were white and looked old. Over a mail table hung another photo of that same man in the fancy shirt and the cowboy hat, older than Grace remembered from last night, with a fuller face.

  Ramona Stage said, “So no more dogs. You like dogs?”

  “Never had one.”

  “I’ve had tons of them, they’re as individual as people.” She got up, pulled something out of a drawer, showed it to Grace. Faded photo of two big, sorry-looking mutts stretched on the house’s front porch. “That one’s Hercules, didn’t live up to his name, the other’s Jody, got him from a film crew, sometimes he ate his own poop, you could never predict when, which only made matters worse. After they both went off to doggie heaven, I figured I’d get at least one more because this is a big place to have with nothing else around that’s breathing. But then I got to liking not having to deal with issues so the only zoology you’re going to see here now are unwanted pests like mice and rats, possum and ground squirrels and skunks. For which I
got a man named Ed Gonzales to spray regularly. I’m telling you this so should you come across a skinny Mexican man with strange equipment and he seems to be lurking around, you won’t be scared.”

  “Okay.”

  Ramona studied her. “Toast too well done?”

  The toast tasted like cardboard. Grace said, “It’s good,” and ate some as proof.

  “I’ll bet not much scares you, am I right?”

  “I guess.” Grace’s eyes drifted to the man in the cowboy hat.

  “Who do you think that is?”

  “Your husband?”

  Ramona’s eyes danced. Grace noticed their color for the first time. Brown so dark it verged on black. “You are a smart one. Though I guess it’s the logical assumption seeing as I’ve got him all over the place and I’m too old for a teenage crush.”

  More young-woman laughter. Then Ramona’s lower lip quivered and she blinked. She flashed white teeth, as if to prove she was happy.

  Grace said, “He was a cowboy?”

  “He sure liked to think he was. He also fancied himself an actor and he did do a few B oaters—that means not-so-famous western movies, back when westerns were the thing. You ever see a western?”

  Grace shook her head.

  “He made fourteen,” said Ramona, glancing at the photo. “But he was no Gary Cooper, so finally he got smart and bought this place and started renting it out to big-shot directors and we made a fine living. His movie name was Steve Stage. Think that was his real name?”

  Grace shook her head.

  “Correct,” said Ramona. “But he made it his real name, legally and all, by the time I met him he was Steve Stage so I was Mrs. Stage. In fact, he didn’t tell me different until we were driving to Las Vegas, that’s where we got married, it was kind of a quick thing.”

  She smiled. “Fifty miles before we get to Vegas, he’s already given me the ring and I say sure, so he probably figured he could risk telling me.”

  She showed Grace her hand. A shiny chip glinted in a white metal setting, bright and smooth against dry, weathered skin.

  “Pretty,” said Grace.

  “Pawnshop find,” said Ramona. “Place near the studio—Paramount, that’s in Hollywood. Anyway, fifty miles away, he decides to tell me. Not just his name, his whole family, where he’s from, the works. Guess where he was from.”