U Is For Undertow

“Wow. Whose, then?”

“Who knows? Anyway, if we’ve covered the subject, I’ll get back to work.”

“Sure thing. I may call you later if something new comes up, but for now I appreciate your time. Do you mind if I tell Rain about Memory? I’m sure she knows about you, but I’m guessing she’d want to hear about her sister. Deborah, too.”

“You can tell them anything you like. I’d love to see Rain if she ever has the inclination to come up. Or maybe Memory and I will drive down.”

“If I talk to her, I’ll tell her you said so.”

“Give both of them my love.”

Driving south again I had a lot on my mind. I was still mulling over the account Hale Brandenberg had given me about Grand. When it came to Greg and Shelly’s departure, I confess I felt vindicated. They hadn’t turned around at all, let alone snatched first Rain and then Mary Claire. I understood Deborah’s reasoning, but the points she cited were circumstantial, a crude cause and effect that didn’t hold up to scrutiny. This was the kicker from my perspective: if Greg and Shelly weren’t guilty, then who was?

When I reached the office, I parked, snagged my shoulder bag, and got out of the car, locking it behind me. I noticed a car parked directly across from mine, a sleek white Corvette with a woman in the driver’s seat and a guy in the passenger seat next to her. The sun reflecting off the windshield prevented a clear view of the driver so I shrugged to myself and continued up the walk. I unlocked the office door, and as I was letting myself in I heard two car doors slam in quick succession.

I glanced over my shoulder and saw Diana Alvarez moving in my direction. Her male companion was someone I’d never seen before. Oh, joy, I thought. She looked as buttoned-down as ever-loafers, black tights, and a black corduroy jumper worn over a white turtleneck. I could see that any outfit looked spiffier when paired with black tights, and I vowed to add more to my wardrobe. Since I was already the proud owner of two skirts, I’d be all set.

Diana carried a large leather tote, bulging from the weight of an oversized book. “I’m glad we caught you,” she said. “We were just about to take off. This is my brother, Ryan.”

Belatedly I saw the resemblance. The solemn dark eyes were clearly a family trait. “Nice to meet you,” I said.

Ryan and I shook hands. He wore gray slacks and a charcoal sport coat over a pin-striped dress shirt. His red tie introduced the only note of color. Offhand, I pegged him as a salesman working in the retail clothing business, maybe Sears. I couldn’t imagine why she was back again.

“Mind if we come in?” she asked.

“Might as well.”

I stepped back and let them move into the office ahead of me. They settled in the guest chairs, Diana adjusting her skirt before she placed her tote on the floor. She tilted the case against the modesty panel on the front of my desk. There was something self-satisfied in her demeanor, a quality I’d seen before and one that made me testy.

I sat down in my swivel chair. “What can I do for you?”

Even before she spoke I could tell she’d rehearsed her remarks, eager to present herself as someone organized and in control. “I told Ryan about the conversation we had-”

I interrupted, hoping to throw her off balance. “We’ve actually talked twice-once at the dig and again the next day.”

“I’m referring to our meeting here. Something nagged at me when you talked about Michael’s seeing the two men in Horton Ravine. If you’ll remember, I asked you then what made him so certain of the date and you told me it was because it happened on his sixth birthday.”

“Okay.”

“Even at the time it seemed off and I remember saying so.”

“You know you really don’t have to go through the whole thing again.”

“I’m touching on the salient points,” she said. “I hope you don’t object.”

“Far from it. I’m begging you to get on with it. I’ve got work to do.” She ignored that and went on. I half expected her to whip out her little spiral-bound notebook, but she’d committed her recital to memory. “You told me Mary Claire Fitzhugh was kidnapped on Wednesday, July 19, 1967. Michael claims he saw the two men two days later, on Friday, the twenty-first.”

I waved a hand in the air, dismissing the details, which I didn’t feel bore repeating. As far as I knew, none of this was in dispute.

She shot me a dark look and then went on. “According to his account, Mom dropped him off at the Kirkendalls’. Billie was sick so his mother let Michael wander on the property and that’s when he came across the two men. I’m repeating this for Ryan’s sake since he was the one who pointed out Michael’s error.”

“The error?”

“A whopper,” Ryan said.

“And what might that be?”

Diana reached for her tote and removed what I could see then was a scrapbook, the pages thick with newspaper clippings, programs, souvenirs, and party favors, some of which were sticking out. The assemblage was clearly the work of someone suffering from obsessive-compulsive disorder, who couldn’t bear to throw anything away. She’d marked a particular page and she turned to it, reversing the album so I could see the contents without craning my neck.

Looking down, she said, “I started this when I was eight. To remind you of the family order, by the time Michael turned six, David was ten years old, Ryan was twelve, and I was fourteen.”

“I’m aware of that,” I said. I could see she was stringing it out and I could hardly keep from rolling my eyes.

“I can assure you, you’re unaware of this,” she said. “To celebrate his birthday that year, Mom and Dad took us all to Disneyland. You can see for yourself.”

She pointed to a photograph that showed a costumed Mickey Mouse and Cinderella in the background. All four kids were seated at a table in an outdoor café, leaning toward the center so the photographer could get them all in one shot. Michael and his siblings wore paper hats, all of them gri

I nearly said, So what? I was thinking, Shit, a birthday doesn’t have to be celebrated on the actual day. Parents can throw a party anytime they please.

Diana sensed my response and moved her finger to the date along the bottom of the photograph. July 21, 1967. “You might note these as well if you’re not convinced.”

She turned the pages for me like a teacher reading a picture book upside down so I’d have it in perspective. She’d pasted in dated programs, ticket stubs, receipts, and additional snapshots that showed the kids on a variety of rides. Every item that bore a date supported her claim.

Ryan spoke up as though on cue. “There’s something else.”

“I can hardly wait.”

“It’s about the Kirkendalls.”

He was hoping I’d prompt him, but I was tired of their routine. I said nothing, forcing him to flounder on without an assist. He cleared his throat and coughed once, saying, “Sorry. Keith Kirkendall was a CPA who embezzled $1.5 million from the firm he worked for. The discrepancies showed up during an independent audit and the authorities were closing in. He took his family and vanished overnight.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Good. Then I’ll get to the point. By July 17, when the news of Kirkendall’s crime appeared in the local paper, the family was gone. On Friday, the twenty-first, the house was empty and not a stick of furniture remained. Even if Michael hadn’t been at Disneyland, he couldn’t have been there.”

I was silent for a moment, calculating rapidly. “Maybe it was the week before. July fourteenth instead of the twenty-first.” I was talking off the top of my head, desperate to salvage the story Michael had told me with such conviction.