U Is for Undertow

might wonder what you would do in this big house of ours. We’ve set aside a special bedroom for you with lots of toys and books. We can paint it any color you like. Pink or blue or yellow. Which do you prefer? We have an orchard with some trees that grow big red apples and some that grow oranges. In front of the house, there’s a big oak with a tire swing, and there are grassy fields where you can run to your heart’s content. And guess what else? We have two Shetland ponies and a nanny goat named Joan, who might have babies soon. A baby goat is called a kid. Have you ever seen one? Your cousins are begging you to come so you can all bake cookies in our big kitchen. If you tell us your favorite kind, you can have a dozen and one! I was going to keep this a secret, but I can’t resist . . . we have a new puppy! His name is Skippy and he says “woof, woof,” which means please come to see us.

    The rest of Grand’s letters to me were the same saccharine and simple-hearted tomes, addressed to an imaginary child, as she knew nothing about me. I could hardly fault her for that. It had been years since her mothering had been called upon. She might have done a bang-up job raising five daughters when the role was hers. Here she was, working to insinuate herself into my life while Aunt Gin blocked her every move.
    I had to admit Grand’s question about child care was legitimate. I hadn’t thought about the fact that Aunt Gin, working full-time, would have had to find someone to watch me during the day. I was certain she’d done no such thing. My memory of those early days is sketchy at best, but I would have shrunk in horror if I’d been left in the hands of anyone else. Aunt Gin was my anchor. The death of my parents was probably what triggered the overwhelming sense of timidity with which I lived all through my school days. If Aunt Gin had tried handing me off I’d have set up such an unrelenting howl she wouldn’t have tried it again. I knew she hadn’t asked for time away from her job, as Grand had suggested. From early June until September, she took me into work with her. Virginia Kinsey was high-energy, a tireless worker, with no patience at all for slackers. She’d been with California Fidelity Insurance since she was nineteen years old, probably without having taken a sick day or a vacation day, both of which she considered a form of self-indulgence.
    When I started school that fall, she dropped me off in the morning and then picked me up at twelve-thirty, when she’d usher me into the office with her. I had a little table and chair on one side of her desk, and I would amuse myself with picture books, coloring books, and other quiet pursuits. I wondered how California Fidelity Insurance felt about having a child underfoot. By the time I went to work for the company myself, investigating arson and wrongful-death claims, there was a child-care facility on the ground floor of the building, where parents could drop off their children on their way to work.
    I felt the penny drop. Virginia Kinsey had done that. When she assumed the role of faux mother, it was the ’50s and I was sure CFI had no provision for child care and no interest in initiating such a program. The idea of children on the work premises was years in the future, but she was a force to contend with. It would have been exactly like her to compel the company to bend to her wishes, allowing me to spend half-days with her. CFI would have jumped for joy at the chance to do as she required. Unless they capitulated, they’d have never heard the end of it. My guess was that once she established the precedent, other employees with youngsters leapt at the opportunity to have their little ones close at hand. The company must have balked at providing trained teachers or teachers’ aides—there were none on the premises during my tenure—but they did provide child-care workers whose salaries the parents paid. Having their children under the same roof must have been well worth it.
    I was smiling to myself when the phone rang.
    “What’s this crap I hear about you opening a can of worms in the Mary Claire Fitzhugh case? I can’t believe you’d have the gall to meddle in police business . . .”
    The guy was yelling so loud it took me a minute to figure out who it was. “Lieutenant Dolan?”
    My relationship with Lieutenant Dolan had spanned a number of years. Health issues had forced him to retire, but he was still plugged into the department