Q is for QUARRY

by Sue Grafton

  I pulled my bag onto my lap and checked my notebook for the address I’d been given, then consulted the minimap. The town of Quorum was roughly twenty-five streets wide, transected by five big boulevards that ran east and west. A series of smaller east-west streets further defined a grid that made navigation easy. Dr. Nettleton’s daughter lived on Banner Way in a small subdivision on the northern outskirts. I released the hand brake and backed out of the space with caution, then eased the car through the lot and onto the main drag. Drive time was approximately four minutes.

  The house number I was looking for turned out to be another one-story brick ranch set among full-grown trees. The two-car garage had been incorporated into the main structure, and I was guessing it now served as guest quarters. Large tubs of pink begonias were lined up across the porch with its wide overhang.

  I rang the bell and waited. The door was opened by a woman in her late forties. I’d caught her in the middle of her morning exercise, pink-faced and out of breath. In the background, I could see Jane Fonda doing leg lifts.

  “I’m looking for Dr. Nettleton. Are you his daughter?”

  “That’s right. I take it you’re the private detective. Alana Gary told me you might be stopping by. Come on in.”

  “I’m Kinsey Millhone.”

  “Vonda Landsberg,” she replied. “Dad’s in his room down the hall, the last door on the right. If you don’t mind, I’ll let you find your own way.”

  “Sure. Is he expecting me?”

  “Hard to say. His mind is sharp, but his memory comes and goes. He can still beat the pants off my husband at chess, but he’s easily exhausted, so please don’t stay long.”

  “Fifteen minutes tops.”

  Vonda returned to her exercise mat while I went down the hallway to the back bedroom. The door was ajar. I pushed it open. Dr. Nettleton was sitting in a bentwood rocker, staring out the window, which was open about six inches. On the sill outside, someone had scattered sunflower seeds. A squirrel was perched up on its haunches peering in at him.

  The old man looked ninety; frail and bent, hunched in his chair with a shawl across his knees. His face was long and his earlobes drooped like melting candle wax. Most of his hair was gone, but what he had was pure white and clipped close to his head. Flesh-colored hearing aids filled his ear cavities like flattened wads of bubble gum.

  “Dr. Nettleton?”

  Rheumy-eyed, he turned in my direction and cupped a hand behind one ear. “What say?” His voice was powdery and dry, as though dust had accumulated on his windpipe.

  “May I join you?”

  “Are you the visiting nurse?”

  “I’m a private detective.” I spotted a small wooden desk chair that I pulled close to his. I sat down. He seemed perfectly accepting of my appearance on the scene. Perhaps at his stage in life, he’d given up the notion of personal boundaries and privacy. In a slightly elevated voice, I explained who I was and what I needed from him. As I talked, Dr. Nettleton kept his head tilted, his trembling right hand cupped behind his ear. “Come again?”

  I pulled my chair closer and went through it again, speaking louder this round. I could see the intelligence in his eyes, though I wasn’t at all certain he was following me. When I finished, the ensuing silence went on so long I wondered if he’d caught any of what I’d said. The squirrel picked up a sunflower seed and nibbled rapidly, cracking the shell, tail twitching. Dr. Nettleton smiled with such sweetness I nearly wept.

  “Dr. Nettleton?”

  He turned his head. “Yes?”

  “I was wondering about the girl. Did you ever have a patient like her?”

  He pulled himself upright, staring at a spill of sunlight on the floor. “The last year I had my practice, there was one girl fits that description. I was forced to retire when I was seventy-five. Hands weren’t steady and I couldn’t take standing on my feet all day. I forget her name now, but I remember the fuss I made when I saw her teeth. Told her, ‘Cavities like that can undermine your health.’”

  I blinked at him. Maybe he’d misunderstood. “She had the buckteeth I mentioned?”

  “Oh, yes. Occlusion was pronounced and her upper left cuspid was pointed anteriorly and slightly outward. That’s this one right here,” he said, pointing to his eyetooth. “Left third .molar hadn’t yet erupted and I warned her she might have a problem with it II it didn’t come through shortly. She had considerable plaque, of course, and her gums tended to bleed. Teeth spoiled her looks. Pleasant-looking girl otherwise, though if I remember rightly, she had behavioral problems.”

  “Like what?”

  “Not sure. Something off about her. She’d been taken from her natural parents and placed in foster care. Must’ve had their hands full with her. Boisterous. Inappropriate. I believe she had a tendency to take things that weren’t hers. She’d come in for an appointment and the next thing we knew, the stapler’d be missing or the paper clip dispenser. I took care of her fillings and then referred her to Dr. Spears for orthodontic evaluation. Don’t know what happened to her after that. Doubt she had the work done. Didn’t seem the type. Pity, if you ask me.”

  “Can you remember the name of the foster family?”

  His focus shifted to the wall. “Not offhand. They weren’t patients of mine. I forget now who they went to.”

  “What about the girl? Do you remember her name –first, last? Anything that might help?”

  He gave his head a shake like a horse irritated by a fly. “I had to sedate her to get the work done and that affected her badly. Sometimes happens. Made her wild. I did one quadrant at a time, but she fought me every step. Novocaine didn’t seem to take either. I must have stuck her four times for every tooth I filled.”

  I wiped my damp palm casually against my jeans, my dental phobia and my needle phobia having collided midair. “Did she attend the local high school?”

  “Must have. State law. Pretty girl I’d say until she opened her mouth. Bad teeth spoil your looks and I told her so. Uncooperative. Missed two appointments and she came late for the ones she made. My hygienist could have told you the name, but she died. Can’t believe I outlived her. Fit as a fiddle; worked for me thirty-two years and never took a sick day.”

  “What’d she die of?” I said, sidetracked.

  “Heart. Weeding a pansy bed and toppled over sideways. She was out like a light. Yard work’ll do that. Wretched way to spend time. I prefer indoors. Always have.”

  “Anything else about the girl?”

  He squinted at me, shifting in his chair. “What’s that?”

  I said, “Anything else about the girl?”

  He studied his hands, which seemed to move of their own accord, plucking at the shawl. “I remember the foster mother raised a fuss about the bill. Sent to her in error; a simple clerical mistake. You should have heard her carry on. Had my office girl in tears. I never liked the woman after that. She’d bring the girl in, but I wouldn’t go out to greet her like I did everyone else. Figured she could sit there by herself. My hygienist was the one who said the woman drank. Can’t understand how Social Services considered her fit. She wasn’t, in my opinion, but then they never asked me what I thought.” He was silent for a moment. “That’s all.”

  I touched his arm. “Thanks so much. This has been a big help. I’ll leave my phone number with your daughter. You can have her call me if you think of anything else.”

  His wandering gaze met mine. “You play chess?”

  “I don’t, but I hear you’re good at it.”

  “I should be. My pa taught me when I was seven and now I’m ninety-three years old. Son-in-law plays badly. Hasn’t got the head for it, if you know what I mean. Requires you to think. You have to ‘plan in advance, maybe ten to fifteen moves. I’d be happy to teach you if you have a desire to learn.”

  “I’m afraid not, but thanks.”

  “All right.” He was silent briefly and then pointed a dancing index finger at a jar on the chest of drawers. “You might fetch a few
more sunflower seeds for that squirrel. Good company for me. More personality than some folks I’ve known and he’s easily amused.”

  I sprinkled a handful of seeds on the ledge. Dr. Nettleton was already sinking, the energy fading from his face. As I opened the door, he said, “Don’t remember your name, but I thank you for the visit. I enjoyed the conversation and hope you did, too.”

  “Believe me, I did.” I wanted to put him in the car and take him with me. I waved from the door, but I don’t think he caught the gesture.

  I headed back to the motel. Surely we were on the right track. While I Dr. Nettleton couldn’t supply the name, the details he’d given me were consistent with what we knew. A thought struck me – a quick stop I could make before I reconnected with Dolan. I slowed the car and then pulled over to the curb. I picked up my map and looked for a small black square with a tiny flag on top. I did a U-turn on Chesapeake and drove back in the direction I’d been coming from.

  Quorum High, which was part of the Unified School District, occupied a flat, two-block stretch of land on the northeast side of town. The grass looked patchy and the flagpole was bare. The classrooms were dispersed among a number of low-slung outbuildings that appeared to be prefabricated, with walls you could probably pierce with an X-Acto knife. I counted six trees on campus; not enough to pass for landscaping, but sufficient to offer the occasional shallow puddle of shade. The administration building looked like the first story of something far more grand. Maybe the school was in the process of raising funds, driving everyone insane with endless telethons on the local TV station. People will pay big bucks to get their regular programs back: sit-coms and soaps instead of all those amateur rock bands playing songs they’ve written without training of any kind.

  I parked in the lot in a space marked VISITOR. I locked the car and trotted across the flattened grass to the entrance, pushing through the double glass doors and into the main corridor. It was dead quiet, though there must have been students somewhere on the premises.

  The portable classrooms outside weren’t large enough to house the auditorium or the gym. I was guessing that a goodly number of classes were held in this building as well. I could smell sweat and hair spray, hormones and hot gym shoes– the scents of teen misery. Bad skin, no power, too few choices, too much sexual pressure, and not enough wisdom to see you through until you reached eighteen. How many lives were out of whack by then? Girls pregnant, guys dead in cars before the beer cans had quit rolling across the floorboards.

  Ahead of me, down the hall, I spotted a sign indicating the principal’s office. I could feel my anxiety mount as it had every day of my life during my high school years. I’d been so out of it, such a dork. I’d survived by rebelling-smoking dope and hanging out with other misfits like me. Here I was again, only all grown up (allegedly), crossing the threshold voluntarily, looking for answers to questions I’d never even I dreamed of when I was young.

  The school secretary was in her early thirties with brown eyes and short silky hair the color of pecan shells. A gossamer array of freckles lay across her nose and upper cheeks. She was casually dressed: beige slacks, short-sleeve brown sweater, and flat-heeled shoes. Her laminated name tag read ADRIANNE RICHARDS, and under that, in smaller letters, ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT. She got up when she saw me and came to the counter. “May I help you?”

  “I hope so,” I said. “I’m a private investigator from Santa Teresa. I’m working with a couple of police detectives trying to identify a homicide victim, who died in August of ‘69.”

  “You mean here?”

  “We’re not sure.” I took a brief time-out, giving her a verbal sketch of the girl we were trying to identify. “We’ve been down here talking to local dentists, hoping to locate her through her old, dental records. I just talked to Dr. Nettleton. He thinks she was a patient, but he can’t remember her name. I thought if I could talk to a couple of teachers, my description might ring a bell. Do you have any idea who was on the faculty back then?”

  She stared at me blankly. I could almost see her compute the possibilities. I thought she might speak, but her expression shut down she dropped her gaze. “You’d have to talk to Mr. Eichenberger. He’s the principal. All our student records are confidential.”

  I don’t want her records. I just want to know her name.”

  Mr. Eichenberger doesn’t allow us to give out information like that.” You mean you know her?”

  Her cheeks had begun to color. “Of course not. I’m talking about policy.”

  I stared at her, annoyed. Maybe as administrative assistant she was accustomed to people talking back. I’d be lucky if I didn’t end up detention myself. “I don’t understand the problem.”

  Mr. Eichenberger’s the only one authorized to discuss the students’ files.”

  Fine. Is he available?”

  “I’ll check, but I’d have to see proper identification first.”

  I removed my wallet from my shoulder bag and opened the flap to the photocopy of my license. I passed it across the counter.

  May I take this?”

  “As long as I get it back.”

  “Just a moment.”

  She crossed the office, approaching a closed door that bore the name plate, LAWRENCE EICHENBERGER, PRINCIPAL. She knocked once went in. After perhaps a minute, the door opened and Mr. Eichenberger emerged with Adrianne Richards right behind him. She handed my wallet and then returned to her desk, where she busied herself with paperwork so she could eavesdrop without appearing interested. Eichenberger was a man in his early sixties with sparse, soft-looking white hair, glasses, and a bulbous nose. His complexion looked sunburned, and I picked up the scent of his aftershave, which smelled like incense. He wore a vivid blue dress shirt, a dark sweater and a hand-tied bow tie. His manner was officious, his expression suggesting he was hellbent on thwarting me. “I understand you have a problem with one of our students.”

  “Not quite,” I said. Mentally, I could feel my eyes cross. No wonder “I’d hated high school, where I’d been wholly at the mercy of guys just like him. I went through my entire explanation again, feigning a patience I didn’t really feel.

  Mr. Eichenberger said, “Ms. Millburn, let me make something clear. I’ve been here since the mid-sixties. As a matter of fact, I’m retiring in May. I came to the job when I was forty and I’ve enjoyed every minute of it. I don’t mean to brag, but I remember just about every student who’s come through those doors. I make it my priority to know who they are and what they’re about. That’s what these kids need – not a buddy or a pal, they need guidance from adults with their best interests at heart. We’re in the business of getting these kids shaped up to face the real world. They need skills-reading and writing primarily – all in preparation for productive, well-paid work. If they’re not college material, we make sure they find trades. Truancy, gangs, drug problems – we don’t see much of that here, despite our proximity to Los Angeles.”

  I flicked a look over my shoulder. Were we being filmed? It’s not that his sentiments weren’t admirable, but the spiel sounded canned and had nothing to do with me. “Excuse me, but is this relevant?”

  He seemed to collect himself, as though recovering from a momentary lapse of consciousness. “Yes. Well. You were talking about a student. It would help if you’d give me the details. I can’t be of assistance without that.”

  Ever obliging, I repeated my tale while his assistant moved papers randomly across her desk. Before I could finish my account, Mr. Eichenberger shook his head. “Not here. Not during my administration. You might try Lockaby. That’s the alternative high school.”

  “Really. I didn’t know there was one.”

  “It’s over on the Kennedy Pike; a white frame building across from the town cemetery. You can’t miss it.”

  “Is there someone in particular I should ask for?”

  “Mrs. Bishop is the principal. She might be able to help.”

  “You didn’t know the girl yourself?”
/>   “lf I had, I’d say so. I wouldn’t withhold information in a murder investigation.”

  “What about your assistant?”

  “Mrs. Richards wasn’t working here back then.”

  “Too bad. I thought it was worth a try,” I said. I took out a business card and made a note of the motel number on the back. “I’m at the Ocean View for the next couple of days. I’d appreciate a call if you think of anything that might help.”

  “You mentioned a foster family. I’d try Social Services.”

  “Thanks. That’s a good suggestion. I’ll do that.”

  I decided not to make another move until I’d brought Dolan up to speed. For the second time that morning, I was headed back to the t motel. I left the car in the parking space in front of his room and gave a rap at his door. From inside, I caught the muffled sounds of the blaring television set. Dolan must not have heard me because he didn’t answer my knock. Head tilted against the door, I waited and then tried it again. No deal. I turned and stared off across the parking lot toward the office. I let my eyes stray to the alcove that housed the soft-drink and Coke machines. No sign of him. I knocked again, this time sounding like the ATF at the outset of a drug raid. Maybe he was in the shower or otherwise indisposed.

  I crossed the parking lot to the office and poked my head in the door. The desk clerk, a girl in her twenties, was sitting on a swivel stool, flipping through a copy of People magazine. I’d interrupted her in the middle of an article about Princess Di. The clerk was dark-haired, pretty in a sulky sort of way, with a mouth way too wide. Her lipstick was dark red and her lashes were so thick I thought they must be false. She was wearing a navy skirt and white blouse, topped by a smart red blazer with a phony crest on the patch pocket. The outfit I must have been provided by the motel because it didn’t look like anything she’d have worn without the threat of being fired. To compensate, she’d shortened the skirt and left the top three buttons of her blouse undone. She was chewing gum, a habit I’d been warned against when I was in tenth grade. My French teacher swore it made you look like a cow and I haven’t chewed gum since. I hadn’t even liked the teacher, but the admonition stuck.