by Sue Grafton
“I don’t expect to hear from her, but if I do, I’ll be happy to tell her. Of course, you’re closer to her than I am.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, hon, she’s in Creosote. I told you that. After she left Santa Teresa, she went looking for Pudgie to see if she could straighten this out.”
“Did Frankie come with her?”
“Lord, I don’t know. I hope not. She never said.”
I didn’t actually groan, but I probably should have. “Let’s don’t worry about that now. Thanks, Annette. You’ve been a big help.”
“Honey, you tell Lieutenant Dolan I’m sending him a big old sloppy kiss.”
“I’ll do that. Just please have Iona call me if you hear from her. You don’t know where she’s staying?”
“Of course not. I’d have said if I did.”
“Great. I thought I better check in case I missed that part.”
22
We cruised Vine, which was the main street of Creosote and all of ten blocks long. There was only the one tavern, done up in the ubiquitous Western theme. We parked and went in, pausing to get our bearings: low ceilings supported by heavy beams, a wooden floor dense with sawdust, rough-hewn log walls chunked with stucco or its equivalent. There was a long, polished mahogany bar with the requisite brass foot railing, eight tables with captain’s chairs, and a Foosball table. The place was deserted, so it didn’t take long to figure out that Pudgie wasn’t there. At one end of the bar, there was an old Orange Julius machine with a perpetual fountain of juice laving the square, glass tank. Behind the bar, there was a rotisserie where old-fashioned hot dogs on skewers circled past a heat source, throwing off an irresistible cheap scent.
Stacey and I made a beeline for the bartender, ordering and consuming two hot dogs each, decorated with a squiggle of mustard, and piled high with a nasty sweet pickle relish and onions minced so fine our eyes were watering. Neither of us said a word until the last bite of bun had been munched and swallowed. I was gratified to hear Stacey making the same low whimpering sounds that accompanied most of my meals.
He chased his lunch down with a Coke and then used a paper napkin to scrub his mouth and fingers. “I’ll be burping weenies for the rest of the day, but it’s worth it. Don’t know how I worked up such an appetite.”
“Well Stacey, we haven’t eaten since noon and it’s after three o’clock.”
“Can I get you anything else?” The bartender was a man in his late fifties, with an egg-shaped face, balding head, and a gap between his two front teeth.
Stacey said, “We’re looking for Pudgie Clifton. His sister, Felicia, thought he might be here.”
“Haven’t seen him today. He usually shows up at eleven when we open the place. He’ll be in later. Happy Hour for sure. He never misses a chance to get his two for one.”
“When he comes in, would you have him get in touch with us? We’re out running around, but he can reach us later at the Ocean View Motel in Quorum.” Stacey made a note on a paper napkin, which the bartender set on the ledge of liquor bottles behind him. I waited while Stacey paid for lunch (my second, his third) and then we returned to the car.
Heading north again on Highway 78, I pointed out the hazy outlines of the Tuley-Belle in the distance, off to the left. “You want to do the tour now or come back?”
“No time like the present.”
Stacey turned into the paved four-lane entrance, noting as I had its deteriorating state. We drove the mile and a half, the desert stretching out on every side of us. When we reached the complex, he parked and we got out. It was still afternoon, and the sun overhead was like a pitiless spotlight, revealing every crack and flaw in the abandoned site. Somehow in my memory, I’d tidied it up a bit, forgetting the garbage and blowing sand, the gaping windows and ruts in the surrounding dirt parking area. I sensed movement and shifted my gaze. I reached out and put a hand on Stacey’s arm and both of us stood stock still. Two coyotes had appeared at a trot. Both were pale gray and scrawny, bony-legged, taller than the average German shepherd, but with the same prominent ears. The first coyote stopped and regarded us with a certain leisurely arrogance. These were desert coyotes, smaller than the ones we saw in Santa Teresa. There, when the drought years eliminated small rodents and ground game, coyote packs were forced down out of the foothills into urban neighborhoods. I’d heard them calling to one another, chilling, high-pitched yelps, when they’d cornered their quarry and were closing in on the kill. I’d seen countless handmade signs stapled to telephone poles, usually displaying photographs and phone numbers, offering plaintive appeals for the return of “lost” cats and small dogs. I knew where they were. In dawn light, in my travels around town, I’d spotted the occasional lone coyote crossing the road with a bundle in its jaws. Out here in the desert, where the heat was extreme and even less rain fell, coyotes ate anything: lizards, insects, carrion, snakes.
The second coyote had trotted on, but now circled back to the first. This must have been the female of the pair, her sides rounded by a litter of pups. The two animals stared up at us with an eerie intelligence. I was aware of their cold yellow eyes and the fathomless round, black pupils. I had no sense that they feared us. This was their territory, sparse and untamed, and their survival rates would always be better than ours out here. Stacey clapped his hands and the two continued on to the road at the same unhurried pace. He turned and watched them, as I did, until they disappeared from view.
The wind picked up. Despite the sun and even in my bomber jacket, I found myself huddled against the cold. “Let’s go inside before I freeze to death.”
We wandered the empty corridors. With Stacey close by, I was willing to venture farther afield. We explored together at first and then separated. While he inspected the partially completed condominium next door, I stumbled across an unfinished wood staircase and picked my way carefully to the second floor. I crossed to a wide, frameless window and looked out at the land; mile after mile of scrub dotted with tumbleweeds. Again, the sound of rapidly flapping plastic. I leaned out, peering to my right. At ground level, I could see a cloudy corner of the sheeting dance forward and back from beneath a pile of rocks. Ghost stories originate from such phenomena. I was surprised the locals hadn’t already generated legends about the place.
Across the way, Stacey emerged from the adjacent building into full sunlight. He saw me and waved. I returned his wave, watching as he rounded the corner of that building and disappeared again. I left the window and joined him down below.
It was close to 4:00 when we pulled in at the motel. I felt we’d done enough for one day and I voted for a break. Stacey said he’d go back to the hospital and spend time with Dolan. Once he dropped me at the room, I changed into my sweats and Sauconys and went jogging. My last run had been Wednesday, before Dolan and I left town. As this was now Saturday, I thought it was high time I did something in my own behalf. For once I was happy about the chilly desert air. Humidity was low and I managed to do the entire three miles scarcely breaking a sweat.
Back again, I found the message light blinking on the face of my phone. I dialed 6 and the operator told me I had a message from Betty Puckett. I wrote down the name and number, but it took me a beat to remember her—the guidance counselor slash typing teacher at Lockaby Alternative High School. I thought about showering but decided to place the call before I got myself cleaned up.
When she picked up on her end, she was already sounding most annoyed with me. “I’m sorry to be peevish, but I’ve called you three times and I expected a call back.”
“Mrs. Puckett, my apologies, but this is the first and only message I’ve ever had from you. When did you call before?”
“Twice yesterday afternoon and again first thing this morning.”
“It must be the desk clerk. She’s terrible with messages and just about everything else. Believe me, I’d have called you if I’d known.”
“Well. I suppose these things happen,” she said, mollified. “Patsy Marcu
m called me shortly after you left the office yesterday. I don’t think I can help, but Patsy thought I should get in touch.”
“We’ve actually made some progress since I talked to her. It now appears possible our murder victim is a girl named Charisse Quinn. Do you remember her?”
“That name doesn’t ring a bell. When was she at Lockaby?”
“This would have been April or May of 1969. She started at Quorum High in March, but she got expelled fairly soon from what I’ve heard. She must have transferred to Lockaby close to the end of the school year.”
“I was afraid you’d say that. I was out during that period on medical leave. I know because I went back through my records and checked my calendar for that year. Otherwise, I’d have done the intake interview.”
“So you didn’t meet with her.”
“I didn’t. I wish I could help.”
“I do, too. We’ve been hearing a lot about her, but most of it’s derogatory. I was hoping to get something more objective from you.”
“Sorry to disappoint. Was the family local?”
“Not as far as I know.” I took a moment to explain the situation with Medora Sanders and her fostering of Charisse.
“I do know the Sanders, or I should say I did. I’m not familiar with Medora’s current circumstances, but in those days, she had a serious drinking problem.”
“How much to you know about Wilbur?”
“Well, I knew him to speak to. We went to the same church, at least when Medora was sober enough to attend.”
“She says he left her mid-June and she hasn’t heard from him since. We’ve been wondering if there’s a link between Charisse’s disappearance and his.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t think so. He did run off with someone, but it wasn’t her. This was a woman he worked with at Sears.”
“How do you know that?”
“Rumors were flying. That’s all anybody ever talked about.”
“I can’t believe Justine and Medora didn’t know,” I said.
“I guess no one was willing to be the bearer of bad news. I heard just recently—and I forget now who told me—that Wilbur married that woman and he’s living in Sacramento under a fictitious name. Sandy Wilburson, or some variation.”
“Really. That’s interesting, because Medora thinks he’s dead.”
“To all intents and purposes, he is.”
“One more thing while I have you on the line. This is probably a long shot, but I’m wondering if you remember a kid named Cedric Clifton. He’s originally from Creosote, but he’s been in trouble since he was nine and he might well have ended up at Lockaby.”
“Yes, I know Cedric, though it’s odd you should ask. He was a student of ours in 1968, a year before the period you were talking about.”
“What’s odd about that?”
“Well, you mentioned the Sanders. He dated their daughter. He was older than she—probably nineteen or so to her sixteen.”
“Justine and Pudgie Clifton? I don’t think so. Didn’t she date Cornell McPhee?”
“Yes, but she dated Cedric first. The two of them broke up after she started dating Cornell and ‘set her cap for him,’ as they used to say. They were both in my daughter’s class at Quorum.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake,” I said. “What’s the deal around here? Everybody knows everybody.”
Betty Puckett laughed. “Welcome to Smalltown, America. What else can I tell you about Cedric?”
“Did he ever do time for grand theft auto?”
“Oh, sure. Among other things,” she said.
“Such as what?”
“Theft by deception, forgery, bad checks.”
“Not violent crime?”
“Not while he was at Lockaby. I have no way of knowing what he’s done since then.”
“Thanks. You’ve been a big help. Sorry you had so much trouble getting through to me,” I said.
I showered and washed my hair, wishing I could rinse off my confusion as easily with the water running down the drain. All the little bits and pieces, the subterranean links. It was like looking for a pattern in the Milky Way. After I was dressed, I sat down at the desk, where I hauled out a pack of index cards and started making notes. Once I’d jotted down everything that seemed relevant, I organized the cards in roughly chronological order, set the Smith-Corona on the desk, and typed up a report. Both Stacey and Dolan were capable of doing the same work and would have done so if pressed, but I was eager to see how the facts would arrange themselves. I could see the connections form and separate, though they made no particular sense: Pudgie working with Frankie; Frankie married to Iona; Pudgie dating Justine before her marriage to Cornell. Iona had grown up in the same town as Pudgie and had hung out with him in her youth. Cornell’s sister, Adrianne, had been friends with the murdered girl, always assuming, of course, that Charisse and Jane Doe were one in the same. Then there were Pudgie’s fingerprints on the stolen car. Now that was an interesting development. I sat and stared at the cards, thinking about the players.
It occurred to me that in 1969, I was only two years older than these “kids” were then. I’d fumbled my way through high school without once achieving academic excellence. I was never elected to class office, never played a sport, and never participated in extracurricular activities. I wasn’t a member of the band, the pep squad, or the chorus. Mostly, I walked around feeling glum and disenfranchised. I made unremarkable to mediocre grades, smoked dope, and hung out with other low sorts, undistinguished and unnoticed. Had I attended Quorum High School, Pudgie would more likely have been a friend of mine than Justine or Cornell. While Cornell was no longer a varsity hero, he was a decent, hard-working guy with a wife and kids to support. Justine was a full-time wife and mom; Adrianne now worked as an administrative assistant in the very high school she’d attended. And Pudgie was still busy getting sent to jail. As for me, I was now a (more or less) respectable, law-abiding citizen who shunned illegal drugs and refused to place burning objects of any sort between my lips. I wondered how Charisse had figured into the grand scheme of things. At least the rest of us had enjoyed the option of making better choices in later life than we’d made in our teens. All of her opportunities had ended in 1969, and one of the decisions she’d made had been her last.
Once I finished typing the report, I sat and shuffled the cards, playing the little game I always play. I laid them out randomly, then like a hand of Solitaire, watching to see how events would look when the chronological order became jumbled. The truth isn’t always immediately apparent, especially when it comes to murder. What appears to be a logical series of incidents might look entirely different when the sequence is turned on its head. The police are always working backward from the homicide itself to events leading up to the fatal blow. Except for random killings, which have become increasingly common these days, murders happen for a reason. There is motive—always motive. In nine cases out of ten, if you know why something happens, you’ll know the “who” as well.
I sorted through the cards again just to see if I’d missed anything. Of course, I’d forgotten to go back to Medora and ask why she’d waited a week to file the missing-persons report on Charisse. I placed that card on top of the stack, turning it upside down as a reminder to myself before I secured them with a rubber band. The point was minor and there was probably an explanation, but it was still a question that needed covering.
At 5:00, I tossed the pack of index cards in the drawer on top of the murder book, stacked the pages of my typed report, tucked them in a folder, and drove them to the local print shop, where I had two copies made. On my way back to the motel, driving east on Main Street, I caught a glimpse of Adrianne Richards heading for the local supermarket. She’d just parked her car and was walking from the side lot to the front entrance. I braked, glancing belatedly in the rearview mirror in hopes the car behind me wouldn’t climb up my tailpipe. I made a hard left-hand turn to the annoyance of several motorists, one of whom shook his fist at me and mout
hed a naughty word. I made a sheepish gesture and blew him a kiss.
I parked and went in. I did a quick walking survey, canvassing the store aisle by aisle. I finally spotted her in the produce section, grocery list between her teeth while she picked through a display of cantaloupes. In her cart, she had a plastic basket of cherry tomatoes, two bunches of green onions, and a cauliflower that looked like a brain wrapped in cellophane.
I said, “Hi. I’ve been hoping to talk to you, but I didn’t know how to get in touch. What’s your husband’s first name?”
“Peter. We’re divorced. He’s in Reno.”
“Mind if I tag along?”
“Fine with me,” she said. She was wearing jeans, tennis shoes, and a twinset of smoky blue cashmere. Her hair was pulled back at the nape of her neck, secured with a barrette. She selected a cantaloupe, sniffed it, and then tucked it in her cart. She moved on, pausing at the dairy case to check the expiration date on a carton of skim milk, which she then placed in her cart. “What can I help you with?”
“Well, I’m curious. When I showed up in the office at Quorum High, didn’t it occur to you I might have been talking about Charisse?”
“Not at all. Why would it? She’s been gone for years.”
“I heard you were good friends.”
“I don’t know about ‘good’ friends. We hung out together some.”
“Did she say anything to you about leaving town?”
“I didn’t even know she was gone. It’s not like I saw her every day.”
“But once you figured it out, didn’t you worry about her?”
“Not particularly. I figured she could take care of herself.”
“Did you ever hear from her again?”
“No, but I didn’t expect to. That’s not how it was. I was a couple of years younger and we didn’t have much in common. I’ve lost touch with a lot of classmates I was closer to than her. Such is life.”