Four Sue Grafton Novels

by Sue Grafton

  “You have reason to think something might have happened to him?”

  “I’m saying, if he’s alive, you’d think he could have dropped us a card. Thirty-six years married, that’s the least he could do.”

  “What about Charisse’s social worker? What was her name?”

  “Don’t remember. It’s been too many years. Tinker, Tailor—something along those lines. I called and talked to her, and you know what she said? Said she never expected the arrangement to last; Charisse was such a pain. Not those words exactly, but that’s the gist of it. I thought, Oh, thanks. Now she pipes up, after all I went through.”

  “You must have felt terrible.”

  She coughed a thick laugh into her fist, pausing then to cough in earnest. She took a sip of watery bourbon and then recovered herself. “Especially when I found out Wilbur’d emptied all the bank accounts. Excuse me, are you about done here? Because if not, I intend to fix myself another drink—see if I can get some relief from this cough. That was my mother’s remedy—whiskey and honey—though you ask me, it wasn’t the honey that helped.”

  “Just a few more questions and then I’ll let you get some rest. How did Charisse travel? Do you have any idea?”

  “Wasn’t by bus. I know because police checked on that. I suppose she hitched a ride with one of those hoodlums she ran around with once she got to Lockaby.”

  “You remember any of their names?”

  “Couldn’t tell one from the other. They were all the same—skanky-looking boys with bad skin.”

  “You heard about the car that was stolen from the back of Ruel’s shop?”

  “Everybody heard. He was fit to be tied.”

  “Is there any chance Charisse took it?”

  “I doubt it. She didn’t drive. Never passed the test. I offered to help her get her license, but she didn’t get around to it. Afraid to fail, you ask me; worried she’d end up looking like a fool.”

  “How’d she get around if she didn’t drive?”

  “Bummed rides with Justine and Cornell and everyone else. That’s another thing got on people’s nerves. She was a mooch.”

  “Did she work?”

  “Her? That’s a laugh. I couldn’t even get her to pick up after herself.”

  “I know I asked you this before, but is there any way you could pinpoint the date she left?”

  Medora shook her head. “I was just glad to have her gone. Does seem queer to think she’s been dead all these years. I pictured her married with kids. That or living on the street. Wonder who killed her.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out. Do you have a photograph by chance? I’d be interested in seeing how she looked.”

  “I don’t, but you might ask Justine.” She paused, coughing again with such vigor it brought tears to her eyes. “I can’t stand it. My throat’s killing me. You want a drink?”

  “No, thanks.”

  I watched Medora pour herself some whiskey, her hands shaking so badly she could scarcely lift the glass to her lips. She swallowed with relief and then took two deep breaths. “Whoo! That’s better. Whiskey’ll cure just about anything.”

  “Well, I guess that’s it. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help.”

  “You want my opinion, whatever happened to her? She brought it on herself.”

  I was on my way down her walkway, heading for Dolan’s car with the quilt over my arm, when I noticed a sedan had pulled in and parked at the curb. The door on the driver’s side opened and a woman got out. She tucked her keys in her purse and she was halfway up the walk when she caught sight of me and stopped. Her gaze flicked to the quilt and then back to me. This had to be Justine. She and Medora shared the same body type and the same pale flyaway hair. Though their features were unremarkable, I could see the resemblance; something in the shape of their narrow chins and their pale green eyes. Like her husband, Cornell, she appeared to be in her mid-thirties.

  “Excuse me. Are you Justine McPhee?”

  “Yes?”

  “My name’s Kinsey Millhone. I’m a private detective—”

  “I know who you are. I believe we have you to thank for the foul mood my father-in-law’s been in.” Her manner was an odd mixture of composure and agitation, her tone giving vent to something prickly lurking under the surface.

  “I’m sorry about that, but it couldn’t be helped.”

  She glanced toward the house. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was just chatting with your mother about Charisse.”

  Her expression was vacant for an instant and then I could see recognition spark. “Charisse?”

  “That’s right. I don’t know if Cornell mentioned this, but we’re investigating a murder…”

  “That’s what he told me, but surely you’re not talking about her.”

  “We don’t have a positive ID yet, but it does look that way.”

  “I don’t believe it. What happened?”

  “She was stabbed and her body was dumped outside of Lompoc. This was August of ’69. The sheriff’s detectives worked the case for months without progress. Now they’ve decided it’s time to try again.”

  “But what brought you to Quorum? She was only here a few months.”

  “Following our noses. We were lucky to get some breaks.”

  “Like what? I’m sorry for all the questions, but none of this makes sense.”

  “I know it’s tough to absorb,” I said. “When I was at Edna’s, I spotted the quilt and realized the dark blue daisy print was a match for the victim’s home-sewn pants. Edna told me your mother made the quilt, so I came to see her. You thought she’d run away?”

  “Well, yes. It certainly didn’t occur to me the poor girl was dead. I’m sure Cornell and his dad would have helped you if they’d known who it was.”

  “Let’s hope that’s true. At this point, we’re trying to pin down events between the time she took off and the time her body was found.”

  “When was that again?”

  “August third. Your mother said she left in July, but she couldn’t remember the exact date.”

  “Charisse came and went as she pleased. I didn’t even realize she was gone until Mom started screaming about her suitcase. The pants you mentioned must’ve been the pair my mother made for me.”

  “Did you give her the pants or did she take those, too?”

  “I wouldn’t have given them to her. She always helped herself to my stuff.”

  “What about the other items she stole?”

  “I don’t remember anything specific. She had no scruples at all. She didn’t care who she hurt as long as she got what she wanted. The kids at Quorum didn’t want to have anything to do with her.” She adjusted the watchband on her wrist, glancing at the time as she did.

  “You have to go?”

  “I’m sorry, but we’re due at my in-laws for supper and I still have to pick up the girls. I stopped by to see Mom because she hasn’t been feeling well.”

  “What about tomorrow? I’d love to talk to you again.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. I wish I could help, but Ruel’s mad enough as it is. He’d have a fit if he knew I’d even said this much.”

  “You said he’d’ve been cooperative himself if he’d known it was her.”

  “I meant if he’d known about it up front. He’s hard to predict, especially now that he thinks you’ve made a fool out of him.”

  “Well, give it some thought and let me know.”

  “I’d have to talk to Cornell. He’s pissed off, too, because his dad blames him about the car.”

  “That’s dumb. Ruel’s the one who took title and let it sit all those years.”

  “True, but I don’t want to give him reason to come down on me. He complains enough as it is. He thinks I’m controlling. Ha. Like he’s not.”

  “He doesn’t have to know. That’s entirely up to you. I don’t want you getting into trouble on my account.”

  “Trust me. I won’t. You have
to watch your backside around him. He might seem harmless, but he’s a snake.”

  “Well. I better let you go. I’m staying at the Ocean View. I’d appreciate your calling once you’ve talked to Cornell. He might have something to contribute even if you don’t.”

  “I doubt it. He really only knew Charisse because of me.”

  “Speaking of that, your mother told me Charisse hung out with a bunch of hoodlums at Lockaby. You might ask if Cornell remembers anyone in particular. We could use a few names.”

  “You really expect to find her killer after all these years?”

  “We’ve made it this far,” I said. “I hope to hear from you.”

  “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll do what I can.”

  I went back to the motel and put a call through to Dr. Spears. I told Mrs. Gary, his assistant, what I’d learned from Medora Sanders. She remembered Charisse Quinn as soon as she heard the name. She made a note and said she’d pass the information along to him. She assured me that if he had time, he’d search the dead storage boxes for her chart. If he couldn’t do it himself, she promised she’d pitch in. I thanked her profusely. Once I hung up, I sat on the edge of the bed, grinning from ear to ear, finally allowing myself a moment to celebrate. I couldn’t wait to tell Dolan. A match on dental records would confirm my hunch. I was convinced this was her, but we needed concrete proof.

  18

  I went in through the front entrance of Quorum General and asked the volunteer at the reception desk for directions to the CCU. The facility wasn’t large, but it seemed up-to-date, at least judging by the portions of it I saw en route. As it turned out, Dolan had been taken into surgery by the time I reached the floor. The Palm Springs cardiologist had blown in an hour before, and he’d kicked butt in six directions getting the procedure under way. I got a cursory briefing from the charge nurse, who checked with the OR. She assured me everything was going fine, though it’d be a while before Dolan was out of post-op. She suggested I call her at 7:00 to make sure he’d returned.

  Leaving the hospital, I could feel my exhilaration fade. It was 4:30 by then. I had no access to Dolan and no way to know when Stacey Oliphant would appear. At best, I wouldn’t hear from Justine until some time the next day, if I heard from her at all, which left me with no one to talk to and nothing to do. I retreated to the Ocean View. I parked the car in the motel lot and bought a can of Diet Pepsi from the vending machine. I used Dolan’s key to let myself into his room, where I retrieved my Smith-Corona. Once ensconced in my own room, I set up a minioffice, using the motel desk. I typed up my notes, a process that took the better part of an hour and a half.

  At 6:15 I opened the phone book and consulted the yellow pages for the nearest pizza joint. I called and ordered a medium sausage-and-pepperoni pizza with jalapeño peppers and extra cheese on top. Given Dolan’s diet restrictions, there was no way I’d be able to eat such fare in front of him. As a courtesy, I decided to indulge now. While I waited for delivery, I popped out to the vending machine and bought another Diet P. I ate supper sitting on my bed, my back propped against the pillows, watching the news and feeling completely decadent.

  I called the hospital shortly after 7:00 and talked to the ward clerk in CCU. She said Dolan was in his room if I wanted to visit, which, of course, I did.

  It was fully dark outside and the temperature had dropped precipitously by the time I emerged from my room and headed back to the hospital. Despite the halo of light pollution hovering over the town, the stars were as distinct as pinpricks in black construction paper, light shining through from the other side. The moon hadn’t yet risen, but I could see where the darkness would lift and the desert would glow like a silver platter once it mounted the sky. I parked in the hospital lot and walked through the entrance doors for the second time that day.

  All of the interior lights were ablaze, and it lent the premises a warm, cozy air. The lobby was filled with evening visitors. I passed the gift shop and the coffee shop and continued to the elevators, heading for the second floor. In all the semiprivate rooms I peered in, the curtains were drawn and the corner-mounted television sets were tuned to reruns. Dinner had probably been served at 5:30 or so, and the trays were now in the meal carts that still sat in the corridor. I caught glimpses of partially consumed foodstuffs: canned green beans and Salisbury steak (which is a fancy name for meat-loaf) and countless packets of saltines still secured in cellophane. Plastic cups of taut red Jell-O squares sat untouched, and I suspected the hospital dietitian would find herself in a state of despair. These meals, like those in elementary schools, look better on paper than they do to the hapless participants. Half the items end up in the trash.

  CCU was quiet and the lights were subdued. Dolan was in a private room attached by tubes and wires to a bank of monitors. His vital signs were flashed on a digital read-out, like the time and temperature bulletins outside a bank. The decor had been designed to minimize stress. The color scheme consisted of restful blues and pale, soothing greens. There was a bank of windows and a wall-mounted clock, but no television set and no newspapers trumpeting the day’s quota of economic woes, murders, disasters, and fatal accidents.

  One of Dolan’s IV lines had been removed and I could see the bruising in the crook of his arm. His one-day growth of beard already looked like the splayed white bristles on a toothbrush used to clean the bathroom grout. Two clear-plastic oxygen prongs extended from his nose. That aside, he was alert, his color was good, and some of his friskiness had been restored. He seemed tired, but he didn’t look half-dead. Any minute now, he’d get cranky about the absence of booze and cigarettes.

  “Hey, Lieutenant, you look great. How’re you feeling?”

  “Better. Almost human, as a matter of fact.”

  There was a murmur behind me and I turned to find a nurse standing in the doorway. She was in her forties, with dark eyes and shiny brown hair streaked with gold. She wore civilian clothes, but her shoes were crepe-soled and her name tag announced her as CHRIS KOVACH, RN. She said, “Sorry to bother you, but there’s a fellow at the nurses’ station claiming he’s related to you. I checked your chart, but you don’t have him listed as an emergency contact or your next of kin.”

  Dolan’s face went blank.

  Chirpily, I said, “It must be your brother, Stacey. When I called and told him about your heart attack, he said he’d hop in the car and head right down.” I turned to Ms. Kovach. “I know the lieutenant’s not supposed to have more than one visitor at a time, but his brother’s just finished chemo for non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, and it’d be great if we could be together after all these months.”

  I thought the medical angle was a nice touch, but the look she gave me indicated she heard tales like that, on average, three times a day. “His brother? I don’t see the family resemblance.”

  “That’s because he’s bald. With his hair grown in, they look enough alike to be mistaken for twins.”

  “And you’re his daughter,” she said, indicating Dolan with a tilt of her head.

  “Uh-huhn.”

  “So the fellow in the hall is your uncle Stacey, is that correct?”

  “On my mother’s side.”

  She wagged a warning finger. “Just this once, but not for long. I’ve got my eye on the clock. No cheating on the time.”

  Piously, Dolan said, “Thank you, Nurse.”

  His tone was what finally netted us the smile she’d been trying to suppress.

  Stacey appeared in the doorway moments later. I was happy to see he’d doffed his watch cap, exposing an endearing patchwork of bald spots and fuzz. At least the nurse would know I hadn’t lied about that.

  Dolan said, “How’d you get here? I thought you sold your car.”

  “Rented one—a spiffy little Ford I drove like a bat out of hell. I’m surprised I didn’t get a ticket. How are you?”

  “Especially driving without a license.”

  Stacey pulled over a chair, offering it to me. “You want to sit?”r />
  “You take that. I prefer to stand.”

  Since the visit was being limited, we truncated polite talk in favor of a Jane Doe update. I said, “I think I may have a line on her.” I told them about the quilt with the daisy-print patches that led me to Medora Sanders. “From what Medora says, the girl’s name is Charisse Quinn. She was apparently a ward of the State, fostered out through Riverside County Social Services. Both Medora and her daughter said she was a pain in the ass: dishonest, promiscuous, and foul-mouthed. According to Medora, she lived with ’em five months or so and then took off without a word. This was in the summer of ’69. I should also mention that Wilbur Sanders, Medora’s husband, disappeared at about the same time. I asked if the two events could be related, but she hated that idea. Let’s hope Dr. Spears can confirm the ID when he pulls her old chart.”

  “You know the date this girl left?”

  “I’m still trying to pin that one down. The timing’s close enough to work, or so it appears. I hope to talk to Justine again and maybe she can narrow the frame. By the way, she’s married to Ruel’s son, Cornell, if that’s significant.”

  Stacey piped up. “The auto upholstery guy?”

  Dolan said, “That’s him. The Mustang was recovered from his shed.”

  Stacey was squinting. “And this runaway. You’re sure the name’s Charisse Quinn?”

  “Fairly sure,” I said. “Why?”

  “Because she shows up in one of the old reports. You can check for yourself. Her mother called the Sheriff’s Department here a week or so into the investigation. She’d heard her daughter’d been reported missing and wanted us to know she was alive and well.”

  “I remember now. You’re right. I knew I’d read the name, but I couldn’t think where.”

  Dolan said, “Well, she couldn’t be Jane Doe unless she rose from the dead. You said she called in a week or so after the body was found.”

  “The caller said she was Quinn’s mother. Might have been someone else,” Stacey said.