Q Is for Quarry

by Sue Grafton

  "I hope so. I'm looking for Roxanne Faught and this is the only address I have. Any idea where she is ?"

  "Ought to. I'm her dad," he said. "And who might you be?" I showed him my card.

  He squinted and then shook his head. "What's that say? Sorry, but I don't have my specs on me."

  "I'm a private investigator from Santa Teresa."

  "What do you want with Roxanne?"

  "I need information on an old case. Apparently, a girl came into the Gull Cove minimart when Roxanne was working there in 1969. I'd like to ask her some questions about the incident."

  He squeezed the hose nozzle and the spray of water showered like a light rain over the dog's back and haunches. "That the one got killed?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Well. I guess that's all right then. I know a sheriffs deputy came by a couple times asking the very same thing."

  "You're talking about Stacey Oliphant, the guy I'm working with. Is your daughter still in the area?"

  "Close enough. How about this. I'll go give a call and see if she's willing to talk to you. Otherwise, there's no point."

  "That'd be great."

  He laid the hose aside, lifted the dog from the tub, and set him on the grass. The dog gave one of those profound total-body shakes, flinging water in all directions until his coat stood out in spikes. The old man picked up a heavy towel and gave the dog a vigorous rub, then swaddled him in the towel, and handed him to me. "This's Ralph."

  Since I was hoping to curry favor, I took the dog without protest. I could feel warm doggie bathwater seeping from the towel through my shirt front. Ralph lay in my arms, a damp bundle of bones, as trusting as a baby, his eyes pinned on mine. His tongue flopped out the side of his mouth, and I could swear he smiled. I jiggled him a bit, which he seemed to enjoy. I really don't understand how animals persuade human beings to behave like this.

  The old man reappeared, closing the door carefully. He made his way down the steps. He wasn't quick on his feet, but he seemed to get the job done. He had a scrap of paper in his hand. "She's home right now and said it's okay to give you this."

  I handed the dog over and took the paper, glancing down at the phone number and address. "Thanks."

  "It's a little house off the highway. You go down here about ten blocks until you hit North Street and then turn right. Once you get to Riverside you turn right again. She's about five blocks down."

  Roxanne Faught had turned her front porch into an outdoor room, with pale sisal carpet, a dark green painted porch swing, two white wicker rockers, occasional tables, and a double-sided magazine rack, one half stuffed with issues of People and the other with copies of Better Homes and Gardens. Five terra-cotta pots of bright orange marigolds lined the edge of the porch. When I arrived, she was sitting on the swing with a bottle of beer and a freshly lit cigarette. The house itself was white frame and completely nondescript. There were windows and doors in all the proper places, but nothing that made the house distinct. Roxanne was in her sixties and attractive, though the creases in her face were exaggerated by all the makeup she wore. Her hair was, in the main, a coppery blond, showing gray at the roots where four inches of new growth formed a wide band. Her brows were plucked to thin arches and her dark eyes were lined in black. The smoking had darkened her teeth, but they were otherwise straight and uniform, suggesting caps. She wore a long-sleeve navy T-shirt with the sleeves pushed up, jeans, and tennis shoes without socks. She took a sip of beer and pointed at me with the bottle. "You have to be the one Pop just called about. Come on up and have a seat."

  "Kinsey Millhone. I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice. I wasn't sure where you were living so I started with him."

  "I've been in town all my life. I guess I don't have much sense of adventure. My great-aunt died and left me just enough money to get the house paid off. I can survive without working if I watch my step." She paused and picked up a strand of two-toned hair, which she studied critically. "You can see I quit going to the beauty shop. Cheaper to color it myself, when I get around to it. I can't give these up," she said, gesturing with her cigarette. "I smoked so long I'm probably doomed, anyway. Might as well enjoy." She coughed once, loosening something deep in her chest. "What can I help you with? Pop says you're here about that girl got killed, what was it, twenty years ago?"

  "Just about. Eighteen in August."

  "You know what's interesting about her? She's got a grip on folks. Here she is dead all that time and she still has people out there wondering who she is and how to get her back where she belongs."

  "And who killed her," I added. "Yeah, well good luck on that. You got your work cut out. Sit, sit, sit. Can I get you a beer?"

  "I'm doing fine right now, thanks." I settled on one of the white wicker rockers, which creaked under my weight. "I can see where you'd want to spend the day out here, watching traffic go by. Nice."

  "That's the thing about retirement. People keep asking me, don't you miss work? Well, no way, Jose. I could go the rest of my life and never leave this porch. I'm so busy as it is I can't figure out how I ever had time for a job. Between housework and errands, there's half the day gone right there."

  "What else do you do?"

  "Read. I work in the yard, play bridge with some gals I've known for years. How about you? You like the work you do?"

  "I'm not that crazy about being stuck indoors, but the field work's fun."

  "So now. What can I tell you that you don't already know?"

  "One thing I was curious about. Gull Cove is thirty miles south. Seems like a long way to drive for work you could have found in town."

  Roxanne coughed again, clearing her throat. As with other smokers I've known, her coughing was habitual and didn't seem to warrant a remark. "That's easy. I was diddling the owner. That's how I got hired." She laughed. "Seemed like a good idea at the time. He moved on to someone else and I got fired. Big surprise. My fault entirely. It's like Pop used to say, 'Don't shit in your own Post Toasties, Roxanne.'"

  "Live and learn."

  "You got that right. Anyway, I was working seven to three. This was summer and hotter than blue blazes, even with the breeze coming in off the ocean. You know the place at all?"

  "Actually, I stopped off there on the drive up."

  "Then you've seen for yourself. Not a shade tree in sight; building stuck there on the side of the hill. By August the sun's hot enough to boil water. Anyway, this was a Friday morning. I remember because I got paid once a week and I had bills up to here. So I'm working away – it's just me by my lonesome. Business was never heavy and I could handle it myself. This gal comes in. She's checking the aisles, walking up and down like she has some shopping to do. Then I see her move to the rear where we had a coffee machine and a self-serve case of deli sandwiches and sweets. Customers would serve themselves, then come to the register to pay once they had everything they needed. We kept tables and chairs outside on the deck and most of 'em would take their purchases out there and watch the ocean while they ate. You had to look over the four lanes of traffic whizzing by on the toad, but you could see it all the same. Different every day. I never got tired of the sight myself. Any rate, she helped herself to a cup of coffee and a doughnut and had both of them scarfed down by the time she got to the front. She'd tossed the cup somewhere in back, maybe thinking I wouldn't notice she'd just had her fill. Next thing I know, she's halfway out the door. I rang up the charges and then I caught up with her. That's when she told me she was broke. Well, hell, I thought. I've been broke in my day and I don't begrudge anyone some brew and a bite to eat, so I told her I'd take care of it. She said, 'Thanks. I mean that.' Those were her exact words. 'Thanks. I mean that.' And off she went. Couldn't have taken more than four minutes all told, and I'm talking from the time she came in."

  "I'm surprised you remembered her at all."

  "Somebody tries to run out without paying? You better believe I remembered. Especially when she turned up dead." She paused to stub out one cigarette and
light another. "Pardon my manners. I hope this doesn't bother you. Do you smoke?"

  "No, but we're outside and I'm upwind. What else do you recall? Anything in particular?" I wondered how anyone could remember so brief an encounter after so much time had passed.

  "Like what? Ask me questions. It's easier that way."

  "How old would you say?"

  "Twenties."

  "Not in her teens?"

  "Could have been. She was a good-sized girl."

  "You mean fat?"

  "I wouldn't say fat, but she as big. Big wrist bones, big feet. Had what Pop would call good child-bearing hips."

  "You remember her clothes ?"

  "Oh lord, I think I gave that sheriff detective all this same information at the time. Why don't you ask him?"

  "I thought I'd go back over and see if anything new comes to light," I said.

  "Pants and a blousy shirt – you know, big sleeves."

  "Belt?"

  She feigned irritation, giving me a mock cross look. "You get right down to the nitty-gritty, don't you? Scars, moles, other identifying marks? What do you want? I only saw the girl up close once."

  "Sorry. I take it she wasn't wearing a belt."

  "Don't think so."

  I could feel her withdraw and knew I needed to pull her back. "What about her shoes?"

  "I'd say boots if I had to guess."

  "It's not multiple choice. Just whatever comes to mind. Take the pants. Were they patterned or plain?"

  She brightened. "Now, that I do know. It's what I told the cops back then. Daisies."

  "You remember the color?"

  She shrugged. "Daisy-colored. You know, yellow and white. Probably some green in there someplace. Is that important?"

  "I'm just groping around. What about the shirt?"

  "Plain. I hope you don't intend to ask me every little thing." I smiled.

  "Really, I don't. Was the shirt dark or light?"

  "Dark blue voile."

  "Which is what? Sorry, but I don't know the term."

  "I'm not sure myself, but I know that's right because I went back and looked it up."

  "You kept notes?"

  "I kept the clipping from the paper. It's in the other room."

  I could hear a dim alarm bell ring. What I was getting was rehearsed. "Did you get the impression she was local or on the road?"

  "Traveling, definitely. I saw her hitchhiking earlier when I was coming in to work. I'm sure she hadn't eaten in a while. She wolfed her food right down."

  "She could have been stoned," I said.

  "Oh. I hadn't thought about that. She probably was, come to think of it. That might explain where her money went. She spent it all on dope."

  "Just a possibility. I wonder how far she managed to travel without funds. Or do you think she had the money and just didn't choose to spend it on food?"

  "Hard to say. If I hadn't volunteered to pay, she'd have tennis-shoed the place so I'd've been stuck either way. Bet she panhandled, too. Your age, you probably don't remember those days."

  "Actually, I do. I was in my late teens."

  "Point is, all those hippies hung out, cadging any change you had. Smoking these big fat joints. I forget now what they called 'em. Thumbs, I think. Me, I wasn't into that. Well, maybe a little grass, but never any LSD."

  I murmured a response and then said, "Was she wearing jewelry?"

  "Nope. Don't think so."

  "No watch or bracelet? Maybe earrings?"

  "Oh. I remember now. No earrings. Her left earlobe was torn through. Like somebody'd grabbed a hoop and ripped it right off."

  "Was the injury recent?"

  "Nope. It was all healed up, but it was definitely split."

  "What about her fingernails ?"

  "Bitten to the quick. Nearly made me sick. She wasn't all that clean, and she'd picked at her cuticles until they bled. You ever see that? Nails so short the fingertips look all puffy. It's enough to make you lose your lunch."

  "And you're sure you'd never seen her around town before."

  "Not before and not since."

  "How'd you happen to get in touch with the Sheriffs Department?"

  "I didn't 'happen' to do anything. I read about the body in the paper and remembered she'd been in. Like I said before, the incident stuck in my mind because she tried to pull a fast one."

  "What made you so sure it was the same girl?"

  "Who else could it've been?"

  "Ah. Well, this has been a big help. I appreciate your time." I reached out to shake her hand.

  She complied reluctantly. "Don't you believe me? I notice you didn't take notes."

  "I got it all up here." I said, tapping my head.

  Once back in my car, I checked my road map. Roxanne was still on the porch looking out at me, probably wondering at the delay. Maybe she thought I was finally taking notes, recording the bullshit recollections she'd constructed over the years. I didn't think she'd lied. She'd simply told her story too often. By now, she was either vamping like crazy or remembering someone else. I folded the map in half, trying to gauge how far I might be from the ranch. If I continued south on Riverside and made a dogleg right, I'd hit the road that angled south and east, connecting with Highway 101 just about at Gull Cove. According to the map, the road was called Calle LeGrand, presumably named after my great-grandfather LeGrand, whose twenty-three thousand acres filled a sizeable chunk of the area. Twisting hairlike blue lines indicated creeks running through the land.

  I started the VW and waved at Roxanne once as I pulled away. The last I saw of her she was sitting on the porch swing, a fresh cigarette in hand, taking yet another sip of beer.

  I picked up Calle LeGrand and followed the road south, through low rolling gold hills that would turn as green as Ireland when the rains returned. In the areas where there were no structures in sight, I fancied I was looking through the eyes of the early settlers, marveling at the acres of untouched land, bare and silent except for the cries of birds. I missed the turn to the ranch and had to circle back when I realized I'd gone too far. On the return, I saw the side road where Stacey and Dolan and I had met Arne Johanson. The gate now stood open and a haze of dust on the gravel road suggested that a vehicle had recently passed that way.

  I turned in, driving slowly, my attention drawn to the gulley where Jane Doe's body had been found. I could see now that a section of the road angled off to the left, ending in a cul-de-sac, and I remembered the passing reference to the VW van that was seen parked in the turn-around. Also, a red convertible with out-of-state plates. Offhand, I couldn't remember the name of the fellow who'd called it in, but the report might bear revisiting, as Arne had suggested. Somebody Vogel. I'd have to look it up. I eased the car up the hill, following the route Arne had taken in his Jeep. I was really hoping the No Trespassing signs didn't apply to me.

  The house came into view, looking like something in an old horror film. I parked in the driveway and approached with a curious mix of anxiety and excitement. Bare wooden trellises affixed to the porch rails at intervals suggested that roses or morning glories might have climbed there once. Now the beds were overgrown. I climbed the front porch stairs, which seemed remarkably sound. The house, though a shambles, had been built to last. I remembered talk at some point of moving the house into the city limits, restoring it as a possible tourist attraction. I could see where the city would be reluctant to make a claim. Even the idea of renovating the house in situ would be an expensive proposition. To what end?

  I tried the front door and to my surprise I found it unlocked. I pushed it open and went in, assaulted by the dense smell of soot and mildew. I spent the next thirty minutes wandering from floor to floor, sometimes awed at the grandeur that remained. High ceilings, the sweeping staircase in the foyer, all the marble and mahogany still gracing the rooms. A large butler's pantry opened into a vast kitchen with servants quarters built on behind. A second staircase led up to the second floor from there. I could feel memory sti
r. Vague images, shapeless and filled with shadows, moved at the edge of my vision. I could hear sounds, talking and laughing in another room, without being able to distinguish the words.

  I was standing on the wide second-floor landing when I heard someone walking in the hall below. From the bottom of the stairs, someone called, "Kinsey?"

  For one wonderful moment, the voice was my mother's and she'd returned from the dead.

  Chapter 7

  * * *

  I crossed to the banister and peered over the railing. Tasha stood in the stairwell, looking up. "I saw your car parked outside."

  "I'll come down."

  I descended the stairs, embarrassed that I'd been caught poking around the house uninvited. She'd taken a seat on the third step up, leaning against the wall. I settled on the same step, sitting close to the rail.

  "How'd you know I was here?"

  "Arne saw your car pull in and called me. My office isn't that far." She was dressed in lawyer clothes: a crisp navy-blue pantsuit with a white silk shell under the two-button jacket. She wore pearls. I'd always heard you could tell real pearls from fake by running them across your teeth, but I wasn't clear what information that was meant to impart. I thought it'd be rude to ask if I could bite her necklace. She had dark eyes, delicately enhanced with a smoky eyeliner, a straight nose where mine was ever so faintly bumpy from having been broken twice. Her dark hair was tastefully highlighted with blond and pulled into a rope at the nape of her neck. I could see a bow of red chiffon peeking into view from the hair clip behind.

  It's odd to see someone you know looks like you. The face we see in the mirror is always reversed so that our impression of ourselves is Hipped left to right. If you stand in front of a mirror and put your right index finger against your right cheek, the mirror will tell you you're touching left to left. The only way you can see yourself as you appear to others is to hold a mirror to the mirror and check your image in that. What I saw now of Tasha was what others saw of me. Already, I liked her face a lot better than mine. I usually ignore my own looks, not from distaste, but from a sense of despair. So many women have mastered an arsenal of beauty products: foundation, powder, blusher, eye shadow, pencils for lining their eyes, brows, and lips. As a rule, I avoid makeup, having little experience with the selection and application process.