Q Is for Quarry

by Sue Grafton

  "The family's coming for supper and I'm running late. I want to get a pot roast in the oven." Her demeanor had softened, though she seemed ill at ease. Good manners apparently took precedence over any discomfort she felt at my reappearance on the scene. Ruel would have cut me dead, but the removal of the Mustang had little to do with her. It'd been sitting in the garage for years, anyway, and she was probably tired of his procrastination. His collection of classic cars must have seemed like a lousy investment since he'd apparently made no effort to restore even one of them.

  I followed her along the driveway to the back gate and then, since she didn't protest, I continued up the porch steps and through the back door. I put her purse on the Formica counter, waiting to see where she wanted the other bags. The red, white, and blue color scheme was like a tone poem to Americana. I took the time to let my gaze rest on every surface. "What time will Ruel be home?"

  She'd placed her bags on the kitchen table. "Soon, I'd guess. The rest of them – Cornell and his wife and kids and my daughter – are supposed to come at six. You can put those over there," and she gestured toward the window seat.

  I left the grocery sack on the kitchen table and crossed to the window seat, where I placed the department store carryalls. I moved aside a couple of pillows and the patchwork quilt and perched, uninvited. I glanced at my watch. "It's almost two now. Do you mind if I wait?"

  "I'm not sure that's a good idea. Ruel's been upset and I don't want anything to set him off again." She began to put groceries away, leaving out the items she intended to use: a mammoth cellophane-wrapped chuck roast that looked like the whole back end of some unidentified beast, onions, carrots, potatoes, fresh green beans, brown-and-serve rolls. She looked at me. "Did you need him for anything in particular? You know he's madder than spit. There's nothing he hates more than someone trying to put one over on him. You and that detective should have told him the truth."

  "We told Cornell why we were here. He could have mentioned it himself. We're talking about a murder. What difference does it make if Ruel's mad?"

  "Nonetheless."

  "Nonetheless, what?"

  "He won't be happy if he finds you here."

  "Maybe you can help me and I'll be on my way."

  "What do you want?"

  "We're wondering if someone took one of his tarps at the time the car was stolen.

  She paused to think about that and then shook her head. "Not that I recall. He never said anything. I suppose I could ask him and get in touch with you later on."

  "You'd be doing him a service, especially if it turns out the Mustang was used to abduct the girl."

  Edna laid a hand against her chest. "You can't seriously believe he had anything to do with it."

  "It's not up to me." Her anxiety was infectious. I stood up, suddenly eager to be gone. As I picked up my shoulder bag, my glance fell on the red, white, and blue quilt folded neatly on the seat. The pattern consisted of a series of patches stitched together in a traditional log cabin pattern. In repeat rows, running along the diagonal, the fabric was a print of dark blue daisies, a dot of red in each center, on a white background.

  I must have made a sound because Edna looked at me, saying, "What?"

  "Where did you get this?"

  "That was given to me by Justine's mother, Medora – Cornell's mother-in-law. Why?"

  "I need to talk to her."

  Chapter 17

  * * *

  I stood on the front steps of Medora Sanders's house, a modest stucco box with a shallow overhang that served to shield the small concrete porch. The exterior was painted dark gray. The wood trim had shed flakes of white paint, like dandruff, on the shrubs planted along the foundation. At the end of the dirt drive there was a detached single-car garage with its door padlocked shut. Edna had allowed me to borrow the quilt and I carried it draped over one arm. The daisy-print fabric had been pieced into the quilt in seven adjoining sections. While it was true that the fabric might have been sold across the country, the coincidence was too striking to imagine it was unrelated.

  I couldn't find a bell so I opened the wood-framed screen and knocked on the glass pane in the front door. A moment passed and then a woman peered out. She was thin and unkempt, with pale green eyes and pale fly-away hair. Her cheeks and the rim of her nose were patterned with spider veins. She smoothed her hair with a knobby-fingered hand, tucking a loose strand into a disordered chignon before she opened the door a crack. "Yes?"

  "Mrs. Sanders?"

  She wore faded jeans and a red nylon sweater with a runner up one sleeve where a loop of yarn had come loose. I could smell whiskey fumes seeping through her pores like toxic waste. She hesitated, apparently unwilling to confirm or deny her identity until she knew why I asked. "I don't buy door-to-door," she said.

  I held up the quilt. "I'm not selling anything. I came to talk to you about this."

  Her gaze shifted, though her manner remained fuzzy and her eyes were slightly out of focus. She looked like someone chronically inebriated. "Where'd you get that?"

  "Edna McPhee let me borrow it. I'm returning it later, but I have some questions for you first."

  "Why'd she send you over here?"

  "She said since you made the quilt, you might have some information. May I come in?"

  Medora thought about that briefly, probably wishing I'd go somewhere else. "I hope this won't take long. I got other things to do."

  She opened the door and I stepped directly into the living room, I which was small and cramped, with an acoustic-tile ceiling and a stingy-looking brick fireplace. On the mantel there was a cluster of statuettes: angels, milkmaids, and coy-looking kids with the toes of their shoes turned in.

  Medora closed the door, saying, "That Edna's a pill. I don't know how Justine manages to put up with her."

  "The two of you don't get along?"

  "I never said that. Edna's a good person and I know she means well, but she's holier-than-thou. You know the type – doesn't drink, doesn't smoke, and doesn't hold with those who do."

  "Cornell smokes."

  "Not around his mother. He's pure as the driven snow," Medora said. "She disapproves of cards, too. Devil's handiwork, she says. Granddaughters come here, we play Canasta, War, Fish, Slap Jack. Doesn't seem like the Devil's work to me."

  She returned to the couch and sat dead center, causing the cushions to rise on either side of her. A crocheted green-and-black afghan was bunched haphazardly at one end. There was an ashtray full of butts on the coffee table, a cluster of prescription pill bottles, a fifth of Early Times, and a highball glass half-filled with melting ice cubes. Many surfaces looked sticky, and there was a fine haze of dust over everything. "I was taking a little nap. I haven't been feeling well the last couple days. What's your name again?"

  "I should have introduced myself. I'm Kinsey Millhone."

  "Medora Sanders," she said, "but I guess you know that. What's your connection to Edna? I hope it's not through her church. She's always trying to get me roped in."

  "Not at all. Mind if I sit?"

  She waved me into a chair. I moved aside a stack of newspapers and took a seat, keeping the quilt on my lap. There were a number of crafts projects in the room, most from kits, by the look: a wall-hung quilt, embroidered pillows on the couch. In front of the hearth there was a hand-hooked rug bearing the image of a Scottie. There were several framed cross-stitched pieces voicing corny sentiments. She followed my survey. "I used to do a lot of needlework until my joints flared up." She lifted her right hand, displaying a twisted thumb and fingers that did a slow curve outward. It looked like she'd been tortured for information she'd refused to give. "I don't quilt anymore in case you want one for yourself."

  I folded a section of the quilt until the daisy-print fabric was foremost. "Actually, I'm curious about this fabric. Do you remember where you got it?"

  She glanced at the print. "I used to make clothes for my daughter." She reached for a pack of Camels and extracted one. She flicked
her lighter, but it took her two tries to make the flame touch the tip of the cigarette. "That was a remnant. Cheaper to buy that way. I used to check the bin at the fabric shop in town. It's gone out of business now so you can save yourself a trip. Same time I bought that, I picked up six yards of royal blue taffeta that I offered to run up for Justine's prom dress. She about had a cow. Said she'd kill herself before she wore anything homemade. She insisted on store-bought, so I made her pay for it. It's like I told her, 'Money doesn't grow on trees, Justine.' Kids these days don't appreciate that."

  "They're embarrassed," I said. "They want exactly the same clothes every other teenager has. That's how they express their unique individuality."

  "I guess. I had to make do with precious little once her dad ran out."

  "When was that?"

  "Summer of 1969, somewhere around in there. Who keeps track? Fellow wants to take a hike, it's good riddance." She reached for one of her pill bottles and shook out a white tablet that she placed on her tongue. She picked up her highball and took a swallow, frowning slightly when she realized how watered down it was. "I'm on pain medication. Whiskey gives the codeine a little boost. Any rate, what's this in relation to?"

  "I'm trying to identify a young woman who was murdered during that same period. When the body was found, she was wearing home-sewn pants made of this same daisy print."

  Medora's laugh was like a cough, hacking and full of phlegm. "I don't know about a murder, daisy print or no, but I can tell you one thing. You got a big job ahead. Company must've made thousands of yards of that print."

  "I'm sure you're right, but I thought it was worth a shot. The girl I'm referring to would have been somewhere between fifteen and eighteen. This was late July, early August, of 1969. About five foot four, a hundred and twenty-five pounds. Brunette hair she probably dyed blond. She had prominent teeth and the eyetooth on this side was twisted. She'd had a lot of dental work done."

  Her smile had begun to fade.

  "Does any of that sound familiar?"

  Medora crossed her arms and squinted against the smoke, cigarette held close to her face. "Years ago, I had a girl living with me sounds like that. Name was Charisse Quinn."

  I felt my heart thump twice from the hit of adrenaline that shot through my veins. I'd run across the name before, but I wasn't sure where. "What happened to her?"

  "Nothing as far as I know, except she flew the coop. I went in her room one morning and found her bed hadn't been slept in and half her stuff was gone. She'd helped herself to my best suitcase, too. Of course, she stole just about anything wasn't nailed down."

  "The murdered girl I'm talking about was found in Lompoc. You know the area?"

  "Up near San Francisco?"

  "Not that far north. Closer to Santa Teresa."

  "Couldn't prove it by me. I don't travel. Used to, but now I prefer to stay put."

  "Why was she living in your home ?"

  "I was a foster mom-something like that. Reason she ended up with me is I had this woman lived next door asked if I'd help. She'd had a whole string of foster kids trooping through her place. County wanted her to take Charisse, but her husband wasn't well and it was more than she could manage. She asked if I could open my home – that's how she put it-'open my home to someone less fortunate than myself. What a joke. Wilbur barely gave me enough to cover all the household expenses. At any rate, my neighbor told me Social Services paid close to a hundred and eighty dollars a month, so that's why I agreed. Doesn't sound like much, but every little bit helped."

  "How'd the arrangement work out?"

  "Not that good. Girl was foul-mouthed and disrespectful, though, at that age, I'll be the first to admit, Justine was the same. Her and me had troubles enough without Charisse sticking in her two cents' worth."

  "How long was she was with you?"

  "Five, six months, I'd guess. I believe she came here early March."

  "Can you remember the date she disappeared?"

  Medora made a sour face. "I never said she disappeared. I said she took off."

  "Sorry. That's what I meant. When did she take off?"

  "July, I'd say. Doesn't surprise me to hear she came to a bad end. She's a wild one, that girl. Had a bad case of hot pants. Picked up boys every chance she got. Out until all hours. She'd come waltzing in here three in the morning, smelling like crème de menthe and marijuana. I warned her and warned her, but would she listen to me?"

  "What happened to her parents?"

  "Don't know. I never laid eyes on that pair. Must've been druggies or something if the State had to step in."

  "How old was Charisse?"

  "Seventeen. Same as Justine. Girls were both seniors. Of course, Charisse got kicked out of regular high school and sent over to Lockaby. That's the school for dummies and delinquents."

  Bemused, I thought back to my conversation with Eichenberger, the principal of Quorum High, who'd sworn up and down he remembered every student who'd ever passed through his doors. What a pompous old windbag. Charisse had not only been there, but she'd caused enough trouble to get tossed out.

  "You have other children?"

  "Just the one."

  "And you were living here at the time?"

  "I lived here ever since Wilbur and I got married in 1951. We only have the two bedrooms, so the girls had to share. Imagine how popular that was."

  "Must have been hard."

  "Oh, they went through every kind of conflict – spats over clothes and boyfriends – the two went round and round like alleycats, spitting and hissing, fur flying. You never heard the like. Justine didn't want Charisse hanging out with her friends and I could see her point. Always had to raise a fuss. Always had to have her way."

  "Not much of a charmer from the sound of it."

  "She could be charming once she put her mind to it, but only if she wanted something."

  "What about your husband? Where was he?"

  "Well, he lived here in theory, but he was gone half the time."

  "What sort of work?"

  "He hired on at Sears in major appliances – dishwashers, refrigerators, things like that. Worked nights, weekends, and every holiday. Never got us a deal, but that was him in a nutshell. You'd think he could've got me a portable dishwasher at the very least. I had to do everything by hand. Probably why my joints went bad. Made my back hurt, too."

  "So he left about the same time she did?"

  "I suppose so, though 1 never thought of it like that." She frowned at me, taking a drag of her cigarette. "I hope you're not saying he went off with her."

  "I don't know, but it does seem odd. If she was so hot for guys, why not him?"

  "He was close to fifty years old, for one thing. And I can't think why he'd take an interest in someone her age. He never paid any attention to her as far as I could see. He's a skunk, that's for sure, but I can't believe he'd sink that low. That's – what do you call it? – statutory rape."

  "Did he give you any explanation when he left?"

  She took another drag of her cigarette. "None. He went off to work one day and he never came home. He left before she did, now I think of it. I remember because he missed seeing Justine in her prom dress and that was June fourteenth."

  "What'd you do when he left?"

  "Nothing. Gone is gone," she said.

  "What about Charisse? Did you talk to the police when you realized she'd left?"

  "I went to see them that day. Police and the sheriff. I got county funds for her and I knew the social worker would have a fit otherwise. As it was, I had to return the next month's check and with Wilbur gone, I came up short on the bills. Justine tried to tell me Charisse wasn't to blame, but it was typical of her. She'd do anything she could to screw It up or someone else.

  "But you did file a missing-persons report?"

  "I told you, that day, though the deputy didn't offer much encouragement. He found out she'd run off half a dozen times before. And like he said, with her eighteenth birthday coming up she'
d be on her own, anyway. Said they'd do what they could, but he couldn't promise much. He as good as told me to go home and forget about her."

  "Which you did."

  "What else could I do? I didn't even know her mother's name. I guess the social worker called the mother."

  "You think that's where she went, back to her mom?"

  "Don't know and didn't care. With Wilbur gone, I had my hands full just trying to make ends meet. In case you intend to ask, I never heard from her again. Him either. Far as I know, we're still married, unless he's dead. That'd be something, wouldn't it?"

  "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."