Q Is for Quarry

by Sue Grafton

  I sat up and trailed my feet over the side of the bed, rubbing my face while I suppressed a yawn.

  "How was the trip? You sound tired."

  "I've felt perkier," he said. "Stacey dropped me off half an hour ago. He's taking a run to the Sheriffs Department to talk to Mandel. On his way back, he plans to stop by his apartment and pick up his things. I guess we'll think about dinner after that."

  "Is he staying with you?"

  "Temporarily. You know the lease is up on his place and he has to be out by the end of the month. He assumed he'd be six feet underground by then, but I guess the gods fooled him. I asked if he wanted to stay here until he finds some place else. I can use the company."

  "Nice. That should benefit both of you if you can keep from quarreling."

  Dolan had the good grace to laugh. "We don't quarrel. We disagree," he said. "What about things on your end? We felt bad you got stuck holding the proverbial bag. Did you manage to amuse yourself?"

  "Funny you should ask." And then I told him about Pudgie's death, which we discussed in detail. In the midst of dissecting events, Dolan said, "Hang on a second. Stacey just came in. I want to tell him about this."

  He put his hand across the mouthpiece to spare me the replay while he brought Stacey up to speed. Even in its muffled form, I could hear Stacey's expletives.

  He took the handset from Dolan. "That's the last time I'm leaving you. What the hell's going on?"

  "You know as much as I do."

  He had his own set of questions about Pudgie, and then we chatted about Frankie. He said they'd do what they could to track him down and see if he could account for his whereabouts from Friday morning on. "Good news on this end. Charisse's dental chart is a match for Jane Doe's, so at least we nailed that down. Forensics is just about willing to swear the hairs we recovered belong to her as well. Now all we need is a match on that second set of prints and we may be in business. Have the McPhees gone in?"

  "I assume so. I'll check tomorrow morning to make sure," I said. "When are you planning to drive back?"

  "Soon as I can. I'll hit the road the minute things here are under control."

  I heard Dolan rumbling in the background.

  Stacey said, "Oh, right. Dolan left his gun in the trunk of his car. He wants to know if it's still there."

  "I haven't had occasion to open the trunk, but I'll look when I can. What's he want me to do with it?"

  Dolan said something to Stacey. "He says just make sure you get it back to him as soon as you get home."

  "Of course." Dolan said something else to him that I couldn't make out. Stacey said, "Hang on a minute." And to Dolan, "Damn it! Would you quit talking to me when I'm on the phone with her?"

  More mumbling from Dolan. "Horsepucky. You will not." Stacey returned. "Guy's driving me nuts. He says he'll do fine on his own, but he's full of shit. Minute my back is turned, he'll run out and buy himself a pack of cigarettes. They oughta lock him up."

  I heard a door slam in the background. "Same to you, bub!" Stacey yelled. "Anyway, I'll call and let you know when I'm hitting the road. You can talk to the desk clerk and reserve a room."

  After we hung up, I put a call through to Henry. His machine picked up. I left a message, telling him I missed him and that I'd call back. I read for another hour or so and then ordered a pizza. I didn't have the heart to go out and eat a proper meal by myself. Ordinarily, I like eating in a restaurant alone. But with Stacey and Dolan gone, the idea seemed alien. Pudgie's murder had left me spooked. It was one thing dealing with a murder that had happened eighteen years before. Whatever the motivation, time had provided a lengthy cooling-off period. Life had gone on. The killer had managed to strike once and get away with it. I'd assumed there wouldn't be a reason to kill again, but Pudgie's death made it obvious how wrong I was. The stakes were still high. In the intervening years, someone had enjoyed a life that was built on a lie. Now we'd come along threatening the status quo.

  I ate my supper and tossed the box in the trash. I watched a couple of television shows with annoying laugh tracks. At 9:00, I decided I might as well work. Keeping a systematic set of notes has its soothing side effects. I sat down at the desk and opened the drawer.

  Things had been moved.

  I stared and I then looked around the room, wondering if someone had come in. Not if: I wondered who'd come in and handled the contents of the drawer. The last time I'd taken notes must have been Saturday afternoon. Stacey and I had been to Creosote, stopping off at the Tuley-Belle on the way home. Once at the motel, we'd decided to take a j break. I'd had a phone chat with Betty Puckett from Lockaby and then I'd showered, dressed, and started jotting down the tidbits – events, questions, and conversations. At the end of that session, I'd put a rubber band around my index cards and tossed them in the drawer on top, of the murder book. Now they were underneath. It seemed a small j matter, but my memory was distinct.

  I picked up a pen and used it to lift one comer of the murder book so I could slide the cards out. I held the stack along the edges while I peeled off the rubber band. I'd left the top card upside down as a reminder to myself to have a second chat with Medora Sanders. Now the card was reversed, lined up in the same direction as all the other note cards.

  Someone had been in here. Someone had handled the murder book and read my notes.

  I got up abruptly, almost as though a shock had been administered through the seat of the chair. I circled the room, carefully scrutinizing every square foot of it. My duffel and the family photo album were in the closet untouched. Except for what was in the drawer, everything else was as I remembered it. Had the maid tidied up? If so, why would she stop and read the index cards? The maid I'd chatted with had barely spoken English. It could have been another employee. There were probably different women who worked weekday and weekend shifts. Maybe the last maid who'd cleaned my room had been curious and had helped herself, thinking I'd never know. I had trouble believing it, but I couldn't prove otherwise.

  I rebanded the cards and returned them, using the tip of my pen to push the drawer shut. I didn't think it would occur to anyone that I'd have such a clear recollection of how the contents of the drawer had been left. If it wasn't the maid, then how had entry been effected? The room door was kept locked. I went into the bathroom and pulled a tissue from the box, then moved to the door and used the tissue to turn the knob. I examined the exterior of the door, the escutcheon and the face plate, but there were no gouges or scratches, and no evidence of forced entry. The windows were latched on the inside and showed no indications of tampering.

  On the other hand, the means of access could have been simple. While the maid had been cleaning the room on Saturday, she'd left my door propped open with the pile of dirty sheets. She'd had her radio on in the bathroom, music blaring while she cleaned the toilet and the sink. Anyone could have slipped in and searched the desk, which was just inside the door. There wouldn't have been time to read the murder book itself, but the cards were more important. My notes reflected everything I knew about the case and everything I considered relevant. By perusing my notes, someone could figure out where I'd been, who I'd talked to, and what I intended to do. There was an obvious advantage to anticipating my next move. Someone could step in before I'd had the chance to get the information I needed.

  I closed the door and went back to the desk. I studied the stack of cards with Medora's name on top. I didn't think she knew anything she hadn't told me before, but it might be smart to check with her. Briefly, I considered calling Detective Lassiter or someone else at the local Sheriffs Department, but what was I supposed to say? My stack of index cards has been moved an inch? Gasp! I didn't think they'd rush right out and dust for prints. At best, they'd come up with the same suggestion I had, that the maid had opened and closed the drawer in the process of cleaning my room. Big deal. Aside from the rearrangement of my belongings (which they'd have to take my word for), there wasn't any evidence of a break in. The room hadn't been vandalized
and nothing had been stolen, so from their perspective, no crime had been committed.

  I grabbed my bag and my bomber jacket, preparing to leave. I was almost out the door when something occurred to me. I retrieved my family album from the closet and then crossed to the desk drawer and removed the murder book and the index cards. I went out, making sure the door was secured behind me. I locked my armload of valuables in the trunk of Dolan's car and then headed for Medora's house. I was heartened by the lingering image of Dolan's Smith & Wesson in the trunk.

  Chapter 25

  * * *

  The night was cold and windy, but the drive was so brief, there wasn't time enough for Dolan's heater to kick in. There was scarcely a building in Quorum more than two stories tall, so there wasn't much protection from the blasts of chill air sweeping in off the desert. The sky was a brittle black and the presence of stars wasn't as comforting as one might hope. Nature has her little ways of reminding us how small and frail we are: Our existence is temporary while hers will go on long after our poor flesh has failed.

  I parked in Medora's driveway. The house was dark except for one lamp in the living room. As I crossed the patchy stretch of grass I realized the front door was standing open. I could see the vertical strip of dull light expand and contract as the wind ebbed and flowed. I hesitated and then knocked on the screen door frame. "Medora?"

  There was no sound from inside. I opened the screen door and called through the opening. "Medora?"

  I didn't like the idea of intruding, but this was odd, especially given my suspicions about an intruder of my own. If someone had read my notes and spotted her name, her house might well be the next stop. I pushed the door open and eased in, closing it behind me. The room was dark except for a small table lamp. I could see Medora on the couch, lying on her back, her hands folded across her chest. I drew closer. She was snoring, her every exhalation infused with the fumes of metabolizing alcohol. If she woke to find me hovering she'd be startled, but I didn't want to leave until I knew she was okay. A half-smoked cigarette, resting on the lip of the ashtray, had burned down to an inch of ash before it had gone out. The ice in her highball glass had long since melted away. Her prescription pill bottles appeared to be full and the caps were in place. At least she hadn't overdosed in any obvious way, though I knew her practice of mixing whiskey with painkillers was dangerous.

  The house was cold and I could feel a breeze stirring. I crossed to the kitchen and flipped on the light. The back door stood open, creating a cross-ventilation that had drained all the heat from the rooms. I lifted my head and scanned the silence for any hint of sound. I remained where I was and did a visual survey. The back door was intact-no splintered wood, no shattered framing, and no broken glass. The windows were shut and the latches turned to the locked position. The kitchen counters were crowded with canned goods, boxes of cereal and crackers, packages of paper napkins, toilet tissue, paper towels, and cleaning products. It looked as if the dishes hadn't been done in a week, though all she seemed to eat was cereal and soup. The trash can was overflowing, but aside from the mess, it didn't appear that anything had been disturbed.

  I glanced over at Medora, chilled by the notion of how vulnerable she was. Anybody could have walked in, robbed her, assaulted her, killed her where she lay. If a fire had broken out, I doubt she'd have been aware. I closed the back door and locked it. I toured the rest of the house, which comprised no more than one small, dingy bathroom and two small bedrooms. Her housekeeping habits, such as they were, made it impossible to tell if anyone else had been in the rooms doing a quick search.

  I returned to the living room and leaned toward her. "Medora, it's Kinsey. Are you all right?" She didn't stir.

  I placed a hand lightly on her arm, saying, "Hey." Nothing. I shook her gently, but the gesture didn't seem to register. She was submerged in the murky depths of alcohol, where sound couldn't penetrate and no light reached. I shook her again. She made a grunting noise, but otherwise remained unresponsive. I didn't think I should leave her in her present state. I looked for a telephone and finally spotted one in the kitchen, mounted on the wall near the hall door. I searched one drawer after another until I found the phone book. I looked up Justine's number and called her. She answered after four rings.

  "Justine? This is Kinsey. I'm really sorry to bother you, but I stopped by your mother's house just now and found both doors standing open. She seems to have passed out. I think she's okay, but I'm having trouble rousing her. Could you come over here? I don't think I should leave her until you've seen for yourself."

  "Damnation. Oh, hell. I'll be there as soon as possible." She hung up abruptly. I was sorry I'd annoyed her, but such is life. ~ I returned to the couch and perched on the edge of the coffee table. I took Medora's hand and slapped it lightly. "Medora, wake up. Can you wake up?"

  Groggily, she opened her eyes. At first, she couldn't seem to focus, but she finally coordinated her eyes and looked around the room, disoriented.

  "It's me, Kinsey. Can you hear me?"

  She mumbled something I couldn't understand.

  "Medora, did you take something for the pain? Let's get you up, okay?" I slid an arm under her head, trying to lift her into a sitting position. "I'm going to pull you up here, but I need your help."

  She seemed to gather herself, pushing up on one elbow, which enabled me to haul her upright. Her gaze settled on mine with an expression of confusion. "What's happening?"

  "I don't know, Medora. You tell me. Let's get you on your feet and take a walk. Can you do that?"

  "What for? I'm fine. I don't want to walk."

  "Well, sit then and let's talk. I don't want you falling asleep again. Did you take something?"

  "A nap."

  "I. know you took a nap, but your doors, were wide open and I was worried about you. Did you take any pills?

  "Earlier."

  "How many? Show me what you took, was it this?"

  "And the other ones."

  I checked the labels on the bottles: Valium, Tylenol with Codeine, Percocet, Xanax. "This is not a good idea. You're not supposed to take all of these at the same time, especially if you've had a drink. It's not safe. Are you feeling okay?"

  "Dr. Belker gave me those."

  "But you shouldn't take them when you drink. Didn't he explain that?"

  "That case I couldn't take 'em at all. I drink every day." She smiled I at my goofiness, having settled that point.

  We went on in this fashion, with Medora offering short declarative sentences in response to my continued questions. While it was hardly scintillating conversation, it did serve its intended purpose, which was to keep her in contact with reality. By the time Justine arrived, fifteen minutes later, Medora was more alert and in control of herself.

  Justine shed her coat and tossed it on the back of a chair. "Sorry it took so long, but I was waiting for Cornell. I. finally called my next-door neighbor and she came over to watch the girls."

  Medora had focused on Justine with an air of humility and embarrassment. "I didn't tell her to call you. I wouldn't do that."

  Justine sat down beside her mother and took her hand. "How many times have we been through this, Mother? You can't keep doing this. I have a life of my own."

  "All I had was one drink and a pain pill."

  "I'm sure you did. How many?"

  "The usual."

  "Never mind. Just skip it. I shouldn't waste my breath. Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine. You didn't have to leave the girls and come over."

  "She says the doors were wide open. What was that about?"

  "I closed them. I did. I remembered what you said."

  "Let's just get you into bed. We can talk about this later when you're more yourself."

  "I'm myself," she said blearily, as Justine assisted her to her feet. Medora was a bit tottery.

  "You need help?"

  Justine shook her head, intent on maneuvering her mother around the sharp-cornered coffee table, across the
room, and into the short hallway that led to her bedroom. I could hear the two of them murmuring, Medora apologizing while Justine went about the business of getting her to bed.

  Five minutes later, Justine returned, rubbing her arms reflexively. "I swear she's getting worse. I don't know what to do with her. Geez, the place is freezing."

  "It's warmer than it was."

  She went over to the thermostat. "It's turned off. What's she doing, trying to save money on the heating bill? No wonder she gets sick. She had pneumonia two months ago." She adjusted the lever and within seconds, I could hear the furnace click on.

  She sat down on the couch with a sigh that was laden with irritation. "I can't tell you how many times I've talked to her about this. She takes out the garbage or goes to pick up the newspaper from the drive and then she either locks herself out or forgets to latch the door again.

  On a windy night like this, the doors bang and blow open. She never even knows."

  "I'm not sure that's what happened here, but it's giving me the creeps. Could you take a look around and make sure nothing's missing? Suppose someone's been here."

  "Why would anybody bother? There's nothing worth stealing."

  "I understand, but I don't like the feel of it. Can you make a quick circuit for my sake?"

  "All right. You might as well follow me. This won't take long, but you can see for yourself." She leaned over and picked up the whiskey bottle from the coffee table. "Here."

  I took the bottle and waited while she snagged the highball glass and the pill bottles lined up nearby. "Her doctor's out of his mind. I've had this discussion with him a hundred times. They're old friends, so she comes along right after me and talks him into it."

  She gave the kitchen a cursory look while she poured her mother's whiskey down the drain. She emptied all the pills into the trash, where I heard them rattling toward the bottom like a cupful of BB's. She tossed in the empty whiskey bottle. "I'll take care of this later," she said, referring to the overflowing trash can and the pile of dishes in the sink. "Things look fine in here. The place is a pigsty, but no more than usual."