calling and letting her know Russ Dancer was gone. Lose-lose situation no matter what I did. So I’d just go ahead and handle it the way I’d been asked to.
Still, I didn’t particularly relish driving over to Marin County and facing Cybil alone. I liked Cybil, she was one of my favorite people, but delivering bad news along with Dancer’s legacy was bound to be a little strained. What I needed was a buffer.
In the car I said to the buffer, “Emily, how’d you like to go visit Grandma Cybil before we go home?”
“Sure! But how come?”
“Well, I have to talk to her.”
“What about?”
“Something private. It won’t take long.”
Emily didn’t try to probe. She was as inquisitive as any eleven-year-old, but also accepting of the fact that there were adults-only issues not meant for her ears and that private meant private. One of her many sterling qualities.
So we crawled out Nineteenth Avenue to the Golden Gate Bridge, Emily chattering the whole way about her schoolwork. She was writing an essay on Firebell Lillie Coit, the woman whose fascination with firefighting had led to the construction of one of the city’s landmarks, Coit Tower, and she regaled me with all sorts of obscure facts she’d dug up in her Internet and book research. Amazing how she’d blossomed psychologically and socially in the past year and a half. When I’d first met her, during the course of a case involving her now-deceased birth mother, she’d been shy, vulnerable, lonely, and deeply withdrawn. Some of the shyness remained, but she was no longer the scared little introvert. She’d learned to trust people, trust herself and her feelings. Kerry’s and my doing, in part- plenty of the love and encouragement her selfish parents hadn’t provided-and a source of pride to both of us.
She’d begun to blossom physically as well. Almost twelve now, and the too-slender little girl had grown three inches and filled out into an attractive young lady approaching puberty. Already in it, for all I knew. If she wasn’t wearing a bra yet-I hadn’t asked Kerry because I didn’t want to know-it was all too obvious she’d have to start pretty soon. Her mother had been a beauty-flawless compexion, perfect features, great luminous eyes, dark silken hair, and a long-legged, high-breasted figure-and Emily looked just like her, with the additional attributes of character and intelligence. She was going to be a knockout by the time she was fifteen or sixteen. Boys were sure to swarm around her, and that worried me already. When she started dating, I was going to have a lot of sleepless nights and a lot more gray hairs. Served me right for becoming a father at my age, with my jumbled code of contemporary and neo-Victorian ethics.
Traffic wasn’t too bad after we got past the toll plaza; we were in the quiet little town of Larkspur before six o’clock. Redwood Village, the seniors’ complex where Cybil had lived the past few years, was tucked back against a grove of ancient redwoods-five acres of duplex cottages, plus a rec room, dining hall, swimming pool, and putting green set among rolling lawns and other greenery. Pretty nice place for those who could afford it. And Kerry’s father, Ivan, who’d made a lot of money writing radio and TV scripts and books on occult and magic themes-and who’d been something of a jerk-had left her well fixed after his death a few years ago. Not even the shaky state of the economy had harmed her finances much; Ivan’s stock portfolio had been extensive and conservative, built and nurtured to weather just about any economic downturn.
She’d been in a bad way for a while after his death. Depressed, lonely, obsessed with a feeling that her own life was all but over. Kerry had talked her into selling her L.A. home and moving in with her-this was before our marriage-but that hadn’t worked out too well for any of us logistically, or improved Cybil’s mental health. Enforced dependence for a woman who had been independent-minded for seventy-some years was not the answer. The answer was for her to take control of her life again, and the move to Redwood Village had accomplished that. In a way it was like a rebirth. She’d flourished in the new environment; she was past eighty now and still going strong.
In the forties and early fifties she’d been almost as prolific a contributor to the detective pulps as Russ Dancer; her Samuel Leatherman byline had appeared on dozens of stories, the bulk of them about a tough L.A. detective named Max Ruffe. When paperback novels and the emergence of television killed off the pulp markets, she’d decided to abandon fiction writing altogether rather than make the transition to full-length novels. Writing had been an avocation with her; Ivan’s success meant she didn’t need to make a living and she’d preferred to devote her time to her family and other pursuits. So Kerry and I were both amazed when Cybil announced one day, six months or so after taking up residency in Redwood Village, that she was writing again. Her first novel, no less. And she hadn’t just dabbled at it; she’d worked as intensely as she had in the old days and produced a finished manuscript in seven months. Eroded skills after a forty-year layoff? Not Cybil’s. The novel, Dead Eye, set in the fifties and embroiling Max Ruffe in the Communist witch hunts in the Hollywood film industry, was pretty good; it had sold on its fourth submission, to a small New York publisher. Strong reviews and decent sales had brought her a contract for a sequel, Glass Eye, which she’d finished in November and which was scheduled for publication this coming fall.
Quite a woman, Cybil Wade. She had my admiration and gratitude, not only for her accomplishments but for producing her one and only offspring. Kerry was her mother’s daughter, thank Christ. If there’d been more than a hint of Ivan the Terrible in her makeup, I might’ve had second thoughts about marrying her.
I revised that thought a little when we reached Cybil’s cottage: there was some of her father’s contentiousness in Kerry after all. When Cybil opened the door she may have been surprised to see Emily, but she wasn’t surprised to see me. There isn’t much guile in her; she doesn’t try to hide her feelings. One look into those tawny eyes of hers-beautiful eyes; Dancer’s “Sweeteyes” tag was right on-and I knew Kerry had called her today after all.
Cybil fussed over Emily for a time; the two of them got along famously. Then she gave the kid a Coke and shooed her out to do her homework on the back patio, out of earshot. I got a bottle of beer, a seat on the couch, and a long somber look from Max Ruffe’s creator.
“I know why you’re here,” she said.
“I figured. Kerry called you, even though I asked her not to.”
“Don’t be angry with her. She felt I’d want to know as soon as possible and she was right.”
Sometimes I get the feeling there is a secret network of communication, understanding, and perspective among women that not only excludes men but that men wouldn’t quite fathom even if they were privy to it. Situations like this make me sure of it. But I went ahead and beat my head against it anyway.
“Why?” I asked her. “You wouldn’t have wanted to see him in the hospital, would you?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“I knew the man for more than fifty years.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“What time did he die?” she asked.
“… What time? Does it matter?”
“I’d like to know.”
“One fifty-seven this afternoon.”
She repeated it. Then, “What did he say about me when you saw him?”
“He said he’d read Dead Eye and it was damn good, you could still write rings around him.”
“What else?”
“Remember D-Day.”
No response; deadpan expression. Kerry told her about that, too, I thought.
“Amazing grace.”
And about that. Same deadpan nonresponse.
“He said you’d understand. Do you?”
“If I do, it’s private.”
“Sure. But you can’t blame Kerry and me for wondering. You didn’t tell her what happened on D-Day either, I take it.”
“Nothing happened on D-Day that involved Russ Dancer. I have no idea where he was that day. I happen to have been in Washington visiting my husband.”
“Okay. What about amazing grace? That ring any bells?”
“If that’s a pun, it’s in poor taste.”
