Sue Grafton Novel Collection

by Sue Grafton

  “I already answered that. All my tarps and car covers are accounted for.”

  “You buy those in town?”

  “You think I send off with box tops? Two of you are like dogs, chasing your own tails. Try something new. I’m tired of tarps.”

  Stacey and I exchanged a look while Ruel returned his attention to the TV set. Stacey shifted his weight. “Do you happen to remember a young woman in town by the name of Charisse Quinn? Same age as your kids, so you might have met her through them.”

  “Doesn’t sound familiar. She the one who got killed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t remember things like that.”

  I touched Stacey’s arm, leaning close so I could murmur a question of my own. He nodded, saying, “What’s the story on Justine’s father? Medora told us yesterday the man deserted her.”

  “Poor specimen of a fella, if you want to know the truth.”

  “We heard he was a womanizer.”

  “Everybody knew that…except his wife. Not to speak ill of the woman, but she has a serious drinking problem, has had for years. Edna and I, we don’t hold with hard liquor or spirits of any sort. It’s one thing Justine’s always appreciated about us.”

  “You were talking about her dad’s womanizing. What’s the story on that?”

  “He used to drive up to Palm Springs to meet the ladies. He’d tell Medora he was working late and go keep company with floozies.”

  “You know this for a fact or was that just the gossip around town?”

  “He told me so himself. Wilbur was as fond of drink as Medora, and once he imbibed, he had a tendency to brag about himself. Homely as a monkey, but he must’ve had his ways. Claimed he could walk into a bar and the women’d fall all over him. Married or single didn’t matter to him. He’d order a drink and offer to buy one for the gal sitting next to him. Once she said yes, he’d pull out his wallet and all he’d have on him was a hundred dollar bill. She’d end up paying, assuming he’d pony up by the end of the evening. Next thing you know he’d be getting in her panties and she’d be out that, too. I never figured women for such nitwits, but that’s how he told it.”

  “This Quinn girl I mentioned was a ward of the court. A social worker placed her with the Sanders.”

  Ruel turned and stared at Stacey. “That who you mean? Well, I’ll be. I hadn’t thought of her in years. Quinn. That sounds right. You should have said so in the first place.”

  “We heard her name for the first time yesterday. How well did you know her?”

  “I knew her to speak to, but not otherwise. Cornell said she fooled around with any boy she met. ‘Free with her favors’ is how he put it. She’d take ’em up to the Tuley-Belle and misbehave.”

  “The Tuley-Belle?”

  “Construction site outside town. Big condominium complex some fellas started building in 1968. Leon Tuley and Maurice P. Belle. Got it half-done and went bankrupt so the place’s sat there since. Kids like it because in parts there’s a roof overhead and the walls are up. Plumbing and electrical are torn out, but given what they’re up to, I guess you don’t need that.”

  “Wilbur Sanders ever say anything to you about the Quinn girl?”

  “I didn’t know him well, except as Justine’s dad. Cornell was dating her and the families would get together every now and then. Medora wasn’t often sober. I felt sorry for Justine. She’d sit there trying to cover up her shame and embarrassment. Meanwhile, Wilbur would excuse himself, come out here, and bend my ear about his sexual exploits. Ask me, he should have paid more attention to his wife.”

  “And Charisse?”

  “I don’t know anything about that. Hear Wilbur tell it, he was too much the gent to mention names. Minute they arrived, he’d make excuses and head out here. Always brought a flask of dark rum and we’d smoke our cigarettes. Once he got talking, you could hardly shut him up. Best of my knowledge, he kept his escapades to Palm Springs so Medora wouldn’t get wind.”

  “If she was drinking so much, would she have cared?” I asked.

  “Of course she’d have cared! Infidelity doesn’t sit well with the ladies. They’re apt to tear your head off.”

  I heard a car pull into the driveway and I turned in time to see Cornell park his white pickup. As he came through the back gate, his three daughters made a run at him and piled into his legs, the pup bouncing along behind them like a basketball. Much squealing and hugging, punctuated by the dog’s shrill barks. Cornell extracted himself and headed in our direction, combing his hair with his fingers, tucking in the tail of his shirt where the girls had pulled it loose. He said, “Hey, Dad,” with some enthusiasm. To me, he said hi in a tone as flat as a tumbler of two-day-old Coke.

  I introduced him to Stacey and the two men shook hands. Stacey said, “We’ve just been chatting with your dad about Charisse.”

  Cornell seemed embarrassed by the subject. “Justine told me about that. I was sorry to hear.”

  “Was she a friend of yours?”

  “Well, no, but I’d see her at school. This was before she got kicked out and went over to Lockaby.”

  “Did she have a boyfriend?”

  “She never went steady with anyone I knew. She dated quite a few guys, various classmates of mine.”

  “Who would you say offhand?”

  Cornell thought about it briefly. “I guess Toby Hecht and George Baum. You might start with them.”

  Stacey made a note of the names while Cornell peered over his shoulder and pointed. “That’s B-A-U-M, not B-O-M-B.”

  “Got it. And how could I go about getting in touch with these birds? They still around somewhere?”

  “George is your best bet. He sells new and used cars over in Blythe. Toby, I don’t know about. I haven’t talked to him in years.”

  Ruel had been following the conversation, but now he rose to his feet. “You fellers will excuse me, I got to go see a man about a dog. Nice talkin’ to you.”

  “Same here,” Stacey said, touching his head as though tipping his hat.

  Ruel took off across the grass, heading for the house while Stacey was saying to Cornell, “How about Wilbur Sanders? You ever see her with him?”

  Cornell shifted his weight. He reached in his shirt pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. He shook one loose and lit it, glancing back to make sure neither Edna nor Ruel was watching him. “I’m sorry, but I don’t want to say anything bad about my wife’s dad.”

  Stacey said, “We’re not asking you to tell tales. I’m sure he’s a fine man.”

  Cornell didn’t seem prepared to go that far. “All I know is she doesn’t want to think ill of the man even if he’s gone.”

  “Good point. She doesn’t want to think what, that Wilbur cheated on her mom?”

  “Now I never said that. He put up with a lot.”

  “You’re talking about Medora’s drinking? That’ll certainly throw a family into disarray. At the same time, people have been telling us Charisse was so interested in men, we can’t help but wonder was she interested in him?”

  “I think I’ve said enough. If I were you, I wouldn’t mention this to Justine. She gets touchy on the subject.”

  After that, Cornell stubbed out his cigarette, resisting any further attempts to probe. I watched Stacey come at the matter from a number of directions, but, try as he might, he couldn’t weasel anything more out of him.

  Later, with Stacey at the wheel of the rental car, I said, “What was that about? Talk about resistance.”

  Stacey shook his head. “I can’t decide if he was lying about something and doing a piss-poor job, or trying not to tattle and making a sore botch of that.”

  “How could he be lying? He didn’t say anything.”

  “Maybe you should talk to Justine—you know, woman to woman.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Oh yeah, right. Like she’d break down and confide in me.”

  “Well, she might. Meanwhile, I think we better go by the hospital and see Con. First d
ay without a smoke, he’ll be climbing the walls.”

  “What about you? I haven’t seen you light your pipe since you arrived.”

  “I gave it up; part of the deal I made, hanging on to life.”

  The CCU nurse we’d been dealing with the night before was off duty and wouldn’t be back on the floor until 3:00. Winsome as we were, the current charge nurse, Meredith Snow, couldn’t be persuaded to let us break the rules. I sat in the waiting area, with its bare end table and four upholstered chairs, while Stacey went in to Dolan’s room for the requisite ten-minute visit. In the absence of magazines, I amused myself by cleaning all the woofies, loose hair, and tatty tissues from the bottom of my shoulder bag. In the process, I came across the Quorum phone book that I’d been toting around for days. I sat and thought about the tarp, wondering how to figure out where Ruel bought his. As the entire phone book, white and yellow pages combined, was about the thickness of a modest paperback, I tried the obvious, looking under “Tarpaulins” first. There were two subheadings: “Renting” and “Retail.” I wasn’t sure anyone would rent a tarpaulin to wrap up a corpse, but I suppose stranger things have happened. Dolan’s theory about the killer involved haste and improvisation, so it was always possible a rented tarp was the closest at hand. Ruel didn’t rent his, but someone else might.

  “Tarpaulins—Renting” referred me to “Rental Service Stores” and “Yards.” Of the seven companies listed, four offered heavy equipment: lifts, loaders, backhoes, hand tools, paint sprayers, scaffolding, generators, air compressors, and related items. The remaining three companies were devoted to party supplies, including canopies and tents. I turned a corner of the page down, thinking I might check into them later.

  Under “Tarpaulins—Retail,” there was one company listed, Diamond Custom Canvas. The boxed advertisement went on at some length in the teeniest print imaginable, listing their products, which included: asphalt, lumber, lumite, mesh, polyethylene, steel haulers, vinyl-coated polyester, vinyl laminates, tarps, welding curtains, screens, blankets, roll systems, and drop cloths. The address was on Roberts, one block over from Main. I was still staring at the ad when Stacey reappeared.

  I tucked my finger in the book to mark my place. “You were in there ten minutes? It didn’t seem that long.”

  “Lady came in with a tray to draw blood so I hightailed it out of there.” He noticed the phone book. “Good reading.”

  “Actually, it is,” I said. “Are you going back in?”

  “Nah, he’s grouchy as all get out. I knew he’d turn sour if he didn’t get his fix. I think I’ll take a little trip to Blythe and see if I can find this Baum fellow. Shouldn’t take long; it’s twelve miles. You want to come along?”

  “Nah, I’m going to try something else. Why don’t you drop me at the motel and I’ll pick up Dolan’s car? If you’re finished by noon, we can hit the Burger King in town and pig out on Whoppers.”

  “Sounds like a good plan to me.”

  Diamond Custom Canvas was part of a block of two-story brick buildings, constructed with shared walls, that ran between Twenty-third and Twenty-fourth. There were several warehouses, an abandoned furniture wholesaler, and a discount clothing outlet. Some of the businesses were padlocked shut and the few that were open looked as though they’d fallen on hard times. Diamond was the single exception. Though the location wasn’t a magnet for the walk-in trade, both phones were busy. I stood at one end of the counter, listening idly to one of the two clerks, who was engaged in a lengthy discussion about the volume discount on a shipment of lumite asphalt solid tarps. The second clerk finished her conversation, got up, and disappeared through a side door. While I waited for assistance, I took a visual tour of the place.

  The interior was one vast, gloomy room, twice as long as it was wide. The pressed-tin ceiling was two stories high, with long banks of hanging fluorescent lights. On the left, an ornate wooden stairway, painted an odd shade of turquoise, curved upward to the second floor. Across the back wall, two courses of glass blocks let in a muted light. I could see water marks streaking down the wall, some long-ago plumbing leak or possibly a hole in the roof.

  I picked up and studied a pamphlet that listed the part numbers, cut size, UPC codes, and weights of various twelve-ounce olive-drab tarpaulins. The twenty-by-thirty weighed seventy-nine pounds—tough to tote around, I thought. The tan ten-ounce tarps seemed to be lighter, but I was already worried they wouldn’t hold up as well.

  The second clerk came out of the back room. Glancing up, she spotted me and crossed to the counter. “May I help you?”

  She was probably in her fifties, with heavy eye makeup and dyed black hair that she’d pulled up in a swirl on top. She wore jeans, a sweatshirt, and a pair of black spike-heel boots. Her fingernails were long, perfect ovals, painted dark red with a thin white stripe across each. I was reminded briefly of Iona and I wondered if she’d developed an expertise in nail art.

  I said, “I know this is a weird request, but I hope you’ll bear with me.” I told her about Jane Doe and the tarp that was found when the body came to light. I did a quick summary of our reasons for believing the victim was local and our suspicion that the murder and/or abduction might have taken place down here. “I keep thinking if we could find out about the tarp, we might get a line on the guy.”

  “You mean what kind of work he did?”

  “Something like that. If he did painting or drywall…”

  “Not drywall,” she said. “Those guys usually use a big roll of paper. It would help if I knew the material the tarp was made of. Are you talking about duck, cotton, acrylic, or a blend?”

  “Well, I don’t really know and that’s the point. Looking at this brochure, I can see you make hundreds of tarps, so the question’s probably absurd.”

  “Not really. Many of our products fall into other categories, like cargo control—lumber tarps and steel haulers. I don’t think you’d mistake either for a painter’s drop cloth. They’re too big. Too bad you don’t have it with you. At least I could tell you if it’s one of ours.”

  “Sorry. They’ve got it in the property room up north, under lock and key.”

  “In that case, let’s think how else we might help. Most drop cloths are standard, though we do make two grades—eight-or ten-ounce natural. If I showed you, do you think you’d recognize the difference?”

  “I could try.”

  “My name’s Elfreida.”

  “I’m Kinsey. I appreciate your time.”

  I followed as she came out from behind the counter and clip-clopped across the bare concrete floor to a big worktable where two stacks of folded canvas tarps were sitting side by side. She grabbed a tarp from each stack and opened both across the tabletop, flapping them like bedsheets to shake the folds loose. “Look familiar?”

  “It’s that one, I think,” I said, pointing to the lighter of the two.

  “Here’s the trick,” she said. She held up one edge, showing me the red-stitched seam with a tiny square of red in the corner. “This is not a trademark per se, but we use it on everything.”

  “Oh, wow. I remember that red square from the tarp we have.”

  “It’s actually not a square. It’s a diamond.”

  “The company name,” I said.

  She smiled. “Of course, that doesn’t tell you anything about where it was purchased. Might have been here in Quorum or it might have been somewhere else. Problem is, we distribute to paint stores and hardware stores all across the country, plus places like Target and Kmart. There’s no way you’d ever track the outlet. We don’t code for things like that.”

  “Who buys them?”

  “Painting contractors, for the most part. The average homeowner usually buys a plastic tarp he can dispose of when he’s finished. Makes the job easier. You toss it in the trash and you’re done. Do commercial or residential work, you need something you can use more than once. These things are sturdy. They last for years.” She went on talking, but I found myself snagged agai
n on the issue of painting contractors. Where had I run across mention of a paint contractor? I was sure I’d seen it in one of the county sheriff’s reports. She said, “Looks like I lost you back there.”

  “Sorry. I’m fine. I just remembered where I’d seen mention of a painting contractor. I should go check that out. Thanks so much. You’ve been more help than you can know.”

  20

  After I left Diamond’s, I returned to the motel. The house-cleaning cart was parked on the walk outside my room. The maid had stripped off my sheets and she was using the pile of soiled linens to prop the door open while she went about her work. I peered in, trying to get a sense of where she was in the process. My plastic-covered mattress was bare and a flat stack of clean sheets rested at the foot of the bed. I could hear her in the bathroom with her portable radio tuned to a Spanish-language station. On the night table the message light was blinking on my phone. I heard the toilet flush and the maid emerged with my damp towel across her arm. She toted her carryall of cleaning products.

  I said, “Oh, hi. Sorry to interrupt. How much longer will you be?”

  She smiled broadly and nodded, saying, “Hokay. Sí. Una momento.”

  “I’ll come back,” I said. I trotted across the parking lot to the office and went in.

  The desk clerk was perched on her swivel stool, still chewing bubble gum, her skirt hiked up, swinging one foot while she read the inner pages of the National Enquirer.

  “My message light’s blinking. Can you tell me who called?”

  “How should I know? Pick up the phone and dial 6.”

  “The maid’s in my room so I’m here to ask you.”

  The look she gave me said she was feeling put-upon. “What room?”

  “125.”

  With exaggerated patience, she set the paper aside, swiveled her stool to face her computer, tapped on the keyboard, and read from the screen. She chewed her gum briefly and then her face brightened. “Oh, yeah. I remember now. You got a call from a dentist, Dr. Spears. What’s the problem with your teeth?”