Q is for QUARRY

by Sue Grafton

  “What about something to drink? We have coffee, tea, Coke, and Sprite.”

  Dolan said, “Coke, I guess.”

  “Make that two.”

  Annette took her place behind the counter. She turned on the gas burner under the griddle, removed two hamburger patties from the refrigerator, and slapped them on the grill. “It’ll just be a minute.”

  Dolan said, “Things slow today?”

  “Things are slow every day.”

  She made a quick return trip with a dish of celery, carrot sticks, and green olives. She’d tucked a bottle of ketchup and a squeeze bottle of yellow mustard in her apron pocket and she placed those on the table as well. By the time she got back to the griddle, the patties were done and she assembled our plates. “I forgot to ask how you wanted these,” she said as she unloaded her tray.

  “This is fine,” I said. I was busy doctoring my burger with mustard, ketchup, pickle, and onion. Not up to QP standards, but it would have to do.

  Dolan said, “What are the chances she’s been in touch with Frank?”

  “You think he might’ve had something to do with that young girl’s death?

  “I have no idea. We were hoping Iona could help us fill in some blanks.”

  Across the road at the trailer park, we could see a car pull onto the highway, turn left, and speed off with Iona at the wheel. Annette leaned toward the window, frowning slightly to herself. “Wonder what that’s about?”

  Dolan bit into his burger. “Guess she doesn’t want to talk to us.”

  Chapter 13

  *

  We left the tiny town of Peaches at 2:00, when it finally became apparent Iona wouldn’t return. The ever-loquacious Annette had nattered away, answering every question we asked, though most of the information consisted of her own attitudes. It was clear she was no friend of Frankie’s, and I was reasonably certain she’d told us as much as she knew. Iona, on the other hand, had clearly left the vicinity to avoid being pressed. Annette wanted to believe she was done with Frankie Miracle, but I wasn’t so sure.

  From Highway 14, we took Highway 138 as far as the 15, then angled our way down to the eastbound 10, otherwise known as the San Bernardino Freeway. Despite Dolan’s worries about his heart, there is quite literally no other way to get to Blythe. This 175-mile stretch of highway extends from the eastern edges of Los Angeles and crosses the state line into Arizona at Blythe. For close to three hours, Dolan kept his foot pressed to the accelerator while the road disappeared beneath us. The scenery became monotonous, the typical urban sprawl of tract housing, billboards, industrial plants, shopping malls, and I railroad tracks. The highway was lined with palms, evergreens, and eucalyptus trees. We passed recreational vehicle “estates,” an RV country club, and an RV resort and spa. This was a long stretch of land where no one intended to put down roots. We stopped once for gas in Orocopia and I picked up a copy of the Mobile Home Gazette, ,sixteen pages of coupons for discount dinners, cruise specials, golf lessons, custom dentures, and early-bird bingo.

  After Palm Springs, the land flattened and the color faded from the landscape. For mile after mile, there was only sand and rock, chaparral, power lines, and passing cars. On either side of the road, at the horizon, the land rose to a fringe of foothills that confined the view. Everything was beige and gray and a pale dusty green. California deserts consist, in the main, of pale soils-fawn, cinnamon, sepia, and pink. We passed the state prison, its presence underlined by signs that advised us not to pick up hitchhikers. The speed limit was seventy, but the landscape was so vast that we scarcely seemed to move. Aside from the Salton Sea to the south of us, the map showed only dry lakes.

  I said, “How does anything manage to grow out here?”

  Dolan smiled. “The desert’s a marvel of adaptability. California desert has one rainy season where southern Arizona has two. The rest of the year, you have drought. If you had seeds that germinated right after the rains, the young plants wouldn’t survive the hard sun and heat. Lot of seeds are covered with wax that prevents them from absorbing water until a period of time has passed. Once the wax wears off, they germinate, and that’s where the food chain originates. Rabbits and desert rats turn the vegetation into animal flesh and that provides dinner for the predators. Snakes eat the rodents and then the bobcats eat snakes.”

  “Very nice,” I said.

  “Efficient. Like crime. Everybody’s busy eating someone else.”

  I He went on in this fashion, regaling me with the mating and egg laying habits of various desert insects, including the black widow, the brown widow, and the tarantula hawk, until I sang, “I’m getting sick here.” That shut him up.

  At Blythe, we turned south, taking the two-lane state road that ran twelve miles to the community of Quorum, population 12,676. On the map, the town was little more than a circle. Dolan slowed as the outlying residential properties began to appear. The houses were plain and the yards were flat. We reached the central business district less than a minute later on a main street six lanes wide. Buildings were low, as though by hugging the ground, the inhabitants could escape the penetrating desert sun. Palm trees seemed to flourish. There were numerous motels along the thoroughfare, most with wistful-sounding names, like the Bayside Motor Court and the Sea Shell Motel. Among the commercial establishments, many seemed travel-related: gas stations, car dealerships, tire sales, car washes, camper shells, and automotive repair. Occasionally, I’d catch sight of a locksmith or a beauty shop, but not much else. Here, as in Peaches, there were numerous boarded-up businesses; signs with the glass punched out, leaving only the frame. Jody’s Cafe, Rupert’s Auto Radiator, and a furniture store were among those that had failed. Glancing to my right, I could see that even the secondary streets tended to be four lanes wide. There was clearly nothing out here but space.

  As we drove through town, we made a brief detour, stopping in at the Quorum Police Department and the Riverside County Sheriffs substation, which were next door to each other on North Winter Street. I waited in the car while Dolan talked to detectives in both agencies, letting them know he was in the area and what he was working on. Technically, neither visit was required, but he didn’t want to step on any toes. It was smart to lay the groundwork in case we needed local assistance later. When he got back in the car and slammed the door, he said, “Probably a waste of time, but it’s worked in my favor often enough to make it worthwhile.”

  It was close to 5:30 by then and the afternoon temperatures were dropping rapidly. Dolan’s plan was to find a motel and then cruise the town, looking for a place to eat. “We can have supper and turn in early, then scout out the auto upholstery shop first thing in the morning.”

  “Fine with me.” Most of the motels seemed equivalent, matching rates posted on gaudy neon signs. We settled on the Ocean View, which boasted a pool, a heated spa, and free TV. We checked in at the desk, and I waited while Dolan gave the clerk his credit card, picking up the tab on two rooms and a key for each of us. We hopped back in the car, driving the short distance so he could park in the slot directly in front of his room. Mine turned out to be right around the comer. We agreed to a brief recess during which we’d get settled.

  I let myself into my room. The interior smelled like the Santa Teresa beach, which is to say, faintly of damp and less faintly of mildew. I placed my shoulder bag on the desktop and my duffel on the chair. I christened the facilities, shrugged into my windbreaker, and met Dolan at his door. Not surprisingly, his goal was to find a restaurant with a cocktail lounge attached. Failing that, he’d opt for a decent bar somewhere, after which we could eat pizza in our rooms. We stopped in the motel office, where the desk clerk recommended the Quorum Inn, two blocks down, on High Street. I’d miscalculated the chill in the desert air at night. I walked with my arms crossed, hunched against the brisk wind whipping down the wide streets. The town seemed exposed, laid open to the elements, low buildings the only hope of shelter from the desert winds.

  The Quorum Inn was alread
y packed when we arrived: the late-afternoon martini crowd firing up cigarettes, alternating bites of green olives with the mixed nuts on the bar. The walls were varnished pine and the booths were upholstered in red Naugahyde. The free-standing tables were covered with red-and-white checked cloths. Most of the menu choices were either steak or beef. The side dishes were french fries, fried onion rings, and batter-fried zucchini. You could also order a foil-wrapped baked potato smothered in butter, sour cream, bacon, and/or cheese. We sat at the bar for the first hour while Dolan downed three Manhattans and I sipped at a puckery white wine that I diluted with ice. Once we retired to a table, he asked for a well-done twenty-two-ounce sirloin and I settled for an eight-ounce filet. By 8:00, we were back at the motel, where we parted company for the night. I read for a while and then slept the way you do with a tummy full of red meat and a shit-load of cholesterol coursing through your veins.

  At breakfast, I had my usual cereal while Dolan had bacon, eggs, pancakes, four cups of coffee, and five cigarettes. When he pulled out the sixth, I said, “Dolan, you have to quit this.”

  He hesitated. “What?”

  “The booze and cigarettes and fatty foods. You’ll trigger another heart attack and I’ll be stuck doing CPR. Haven’t you read the Surgeon General’s report?”

  He gestured impatiently. “Nuts to that stuff! My granddaddy lived to ninety-six and he smoked hand-rolled cigarettes from the time he was twelve until the day he died.”

  “Yeah, well I’ll bet he hadn’t had two heart attacks by the time he was your age. You keep ragging on Stacey and you’re worse than he is.”

  “That’s different.”

  “It is not. You want him alive and that’s exactly what I’m bugging you about.”

  “If I’m interested in your opinion, I’ll be sure to ask. I don’t need a lecture from someone half my age.”

  “I’m not half your age. How old are you?”

  “I’m sixty-one.”

  “Well, I’m thirty-six.”

  “The point is, I can do anything I want.”

  “Nah, nah, nah. I’ll remind you of that next time Stacey threatens to blow his brains out.”

  Dolan crushed out his cigarette butt in the ashtray. “I’m tired of jawing. Time to go to work.”

  McPhee’s Auto Upholstery was located on Hill Street in the heart of town. We parked across from the shop and took a moment to get our bearings. The morning was filled with a flat, clean sunlight. The air felt pleasant, but I was guessing that by afternoon the heat, while dry, would feel oppressive. By the time the sun went down, it’d be as cold t as it had been the night before. Behind the shop, we could see a small lot where six cars had been parked, each shrouded in an automobile cover. That part of the property was enclosed by heavy chain-link fence topped with razor wire. The building itself was constructed of corrugated metal with three bays on one side, the doors rolled up to reveal the shop’s interior. It looked like a gas station, surrounded with the usual cracked asphalt. We could see two men at work.

  “You really think the car we’re after is the one C. K. saw?”

  “That’s what we’re here to find out,” he said. “We know it was stolen from here.”

  “If it was parked near the quarry, then what?”

  “Then we’ll see if we can establish a connection between the car and Jane Doe.”

  We got out and crossed the street to the front entrance. Under the big plate glass window, a large concrete planter sat empty except for packed dirt. To the right of the shop there was a lumberyard; to the left, a long-distance hauling company with a lot full of tractor rigs and detached semitrailers. This was a commercial neighborhood made up of businesses that catered to customers in pickups and vans.

  The showroom was an extension of the shop area out back. The floor was done in black-and-white vinyl tile. Behind a glass case filled with service manuals, there was a metal desk, metal file cabinets, and a Rolodex. The top surface of the glass case was piled high with sample books showing automobile and marine vinyls, “Performance-rated fabrics for heavy-duty application.” Rear and side camper windows in a variety of styles had been mounted on pegboard and hung on the wall. We picked our way through a cluster of bench and bucket car seats still exhibiting their tom upholstery. A display board was set up to show the leather/vinyl match for Ford, GM, Chrysler-Jeep Eagle, Honda, and Toyota interior upholstery. You could order any number of convertible tops, tonneau covers, floor mats, and glass or plastic window curtains.

  An open door led from the showroom into the first of the three connecting bays, where one of the two men looked up. I pegged him in his mid-thirties. He was medium height, clean-shaven, his complexion ruddy. His hair had the kind of blond streaks that women pay money for. He wore it parted in the middle with strands falling loosely on either side of his face. Most of his teeth were good. There were creases around his mouth where his smile had made inroads. His hands were dirty, his nails permanently underlined with black like a lady’s French tip manicure in reverse. Blue-plaid flannel shirt, jeans, desert boots. He was built like a high school football player-which is to say, some guy who’d get creamed if he played football today. I tried to decide whether I’d have been attracted to him when I was sixteen. He looked like the type I’d have had a crush on from a distance. Then again, most guys in high school were like that as far as I was concerned.

  He was using a crescent wrench and a pair of pliers to dismantle a car seat that was propped up in front of him. The workbench, which extended the length of the wall behind him, was stacked with bolts of vinyl, hoses, coffee cans, sheets of foam rubber, toolboxes, cans of latex paint, tires. Two fans were blowing, thus circulating the smell of synthetics. Beside him there was a garbage bin full of scraps. A second ripped and cracked auto seat sat on a counter nearby. He was smoking a cigarette, but he put it out casually before he spoke to us. “Help you?”

  Dolan put his hands in his pants pockets. “We’re looking for Ruel McPhee.”

  “That’s my dad. He’s retired. Who are you?”

  “Lieutenant Dolan, Santa Teresa Police Department. This is my colleague, Ms. Millhone. I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Cornell McPhee. Are you the one who left the phone message?”

  “That’s my partner, Detective Oliphant. As a matter of fact, he left four and says your father never called him back.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t realize it was urgent. I gave Dad the messages and he said he’d take care of it. I guess it slipped his mind.”

  The second man in the shop was older, possibly in his fifties. He’d returned to his work as soon as he figured out the conversation had nothing to do with him.

  “Your dad still in town?”

  Cornell put down his crescent wrench and wiped his hands on a rag. “Sure. What’s this about?”

  “We’re hoping to track down a vehicle stolen from his shop in 1969.”

  Cornell’s brow shifted slightly. “That car was recovered. It belonged to a guy in Arizona.”

  Dolan smiled briefly. “We know about him. DMV says the car’s now registered to Ruel McPhee.”

  “What brought this up again?”

  “We’re looking at the possibility of a link between the car and a homicide back then.”

  “A homicide?”

  “That’s right,” Dolan said. “We’re taking another run at it.”

  “I’m still not clear why you want to talk to him.”

  “We have a witness who says he saw a red Mustang in the area shortly before the body was found. We’re wondering if the vehicle’s the same one stolen from his shop.”

  “You can ask him if you want. He and Mom live on Fell. 1520. It’s just a few blocks away. You go down two blocks, take a left at Ruby. You’ll find Fell five blocks down. You want me to call and make sure he’s there?”

  “That’s fine. We can swing by later if he’s out somewhere,” Dolan said. He indicated the seat Cornell was working on. “How long’s it take to do a job like tha
t?”

  “‘Couple of days. Depends on the condition. You have some work you need done?”

  “Might.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “Chevy. 1979.”

  “Leather seat?”

  “No, cloth.”

  Cornell smiled. “Throw a bedspread over it. You’d be better off.”

  “That’s my idea. I just wondered what you’d say. Appreciate your help.”

  “Sure, no sweat. I wish you luck.”

  The house at 1520 Fell was a red-brick ranch with detached two-car garage on the right hand side of the drive. Behind the house, at a distance, I caught sight of the rear of an outbuilding that looked like a large storage shed or second garage. A basketball backboard was still planted in concrete on a wide asphalt apron set aside for guest parking. Cornell probably spent his leisure time in high school practicing his free throws. I imagined him lettering in three sports, elected pep king or treasurer of his senior class. A check of the yellow pages had indicated that McPhee’s was the only game in town, so he must be doing well financially even if his job lacked glamour and pizzazz.

  Dolan parked at the curb out in front and we made our way along the walk to the porch, where we rang the bell. The door was opened by a girl who was probably six years old, judging by the number of missing teeth. Her hair was still a white blond that would probably darken over time. She wore glasses with pink plastic frames and a pair of barrettes with a row of pink and blue flowers. Her dress was pink-and-blue plaid with rows of white smocking across the bodice.

  Dolan said, “Hey there, young lady. Is your grandpa at home?”

  “Just a minute.” She shut the door and a moment later her grandmother opened it, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. A mild, vanilla-smelling breeze wafted out from behind her. She was heavyset and wore small rimless glasses and a knee-length striped apron over a loose floral-print housedress. Her gray hair had a fringe of curls around her face while the rest was cut short. “Yes?”

  “Good morning. We’re looking for Ruel McPhee. Cornell, over at the shop, gave us this address.”