by Sue Grafton
I took his hand, wagging it. “How’re you doing?”
He opened his eyes. “I’m good.”
“You were in big trouble, you dork. You should have called for help.”
“Heard you knock. Couldn’t move. Glad you got in.” He spoke carefully, as though his lips had been injected with novocaine.
“Me and my little key picks. Don’t tell.”
His eyes closed again and he put a finger to his lips.
I said, “I put a call in to Stacey and told him where you were. He says his X-rays are clear and he’s coming down.”
“Said the same to me. No point arguing.”
“Tell me about it. I tried to talk him out of it, but he was adamant. I figured as long as you’re stuck in here, he might as well pitch in. We can’t do much for now, but maybe we can stir things up. I’m hoping Forensics will come up with something good. I think we’ll put him in your room if I can have the key.”
“Hang on.” Dolan revived himself long enough to fumble in his pants pocket and extract his key. I tucked it in my shoulder bag, thinking I’d stop by and pick up my typewriter before Stacey arrived.
The desk clerk appeared at the curtain with a plastic hospital bracelet and a sheaf of documents affixed to a clipboard. “I have your jewelry, Lieutenant Dolan. I just need your signature and you’ll be on your way.”
He roused himself, lazily gestured her in. “Sign away my life.” He turned to me. “You okay on your own?”
“Don’t worry about me. You take care of yourself and get some rest. I’ll stop by this evening. You behave.”
“Good deal.”
Before I left Quorum General, I put a call through to Henry. He was out. I left a message on his machine, telling him about Dolan’s heart attack. I also mentioned that Stacey’d be stopping by. I told him where my jacket was and said I’d call later when there was more to report. It was 1:35 when I emerged from the hospital and returned to the parking lot. I hadn’t realized how tense I was until I’d unlocked the car door and slipped behind the wheel. I took a good deep breath and did a neck roll. Anxiety was roiling through my body now that I was on my own. I hadn’t realized how dependent I’d become on Dolan. It was nice to compare notes, nice to share meals, even fun to knock heads. My attachment didn’t contain a shred of romance, but it did trigger a longing to be connected to someone. I’d trained with two old guys, who’d taught me the business many years before. Maybe it was them I missed.
I flipped through my note cards. The next obvious move was to chat with the principal at the alternative high school. I wished Dolan were on hand so he could handle it. Though I hated to admit it, he’d be subjected to a lot less guff. Mano a mano. Once he flashed that badge of his, people tended to respond. I picked up my minimap and located the Kennedy Pike, then fired up the Chevy and pulled out of the lot. On the way down Main Street, I detoured into a filling station and pumped gas into the tank. I stood there clutching the pump, watching the gallons go in while the total sales price went up. The process took so long I thought the tank must have sprung a leak. I’m accustomed to my VW with its gas tank the size of a bucket of paint. $29.46 later, I nosed out of the station and turned right.
Once I reached Kennedy Pike, I drove west, scanning for sight of the cemetery and the white frame structure across the street from it. This section of Quorum was made up of endless flat, empty fields stitched together with lines of trees that served as windbreaks. When I finally spotted the cemetery, it looked as flat as the fields around it. There was only a smattering of visible headstones. Most were laid flat in the ground. I could see a few concrete benches and a sparse assortment of plastic bouquets that had been left near graves. The surrounding fence was iron and without ornament. Square brick support posts appeared at fifteen-foot intervals. There were seven full-sized trees of an indeterminate type, but the branches hadn’t leafed out yet and the limbs looked frail against the April sky.
Just beyond the cemetery entrance and across the street, I saw the Lockaby Alternative High School. I wondered if the students made the same melancholy association: from Youth to Death with only a stone’s throw between. When you’re of high school age, the days go on forever and death’s little more than a rumor at the end of the road. Dolan and I knew death was just a heartbeat away.
I parked in the lot and followed the walkway to the front porch, up a flight of wide wooden steps. This must have been a farmhouse once upon a time. It still carried an air of small rooms and cramped hopes. I let myself into the foyer, where eight kids were sprawled on the floor with sketchbooks, doing pencil drawings of the staircase. The teacher glanced up at me and then continued moving from student to student, making brief suggestions about perspective. From upstairs, I could hear another class in progress. Laughter trickled down the treads like leaking water. I don’t remember anything funny from my high school days.
To my right, the former parlor served as the main office, complete with the original fireplace. The hearth and surround were dark red brick and the whole of it was topped with a dark mahogany mantel-piece. There was no counter separating the reception area from the office secretary, whose desk had been arranged facing the wide bay window. She interrupted her typing to turn and look at me. She seemed pleasant; dark-haired, plump, probably in her forties, though it was hard to tell. When she said, “Yes, ma’am?” several dimples appeared in her cheeks. She pulled out a chair and patted the seat.
I crossed the room and sat down, introducing myself. “I’m looking for Mrs. Bishop.”
“She’s in district meetings all day, but maybe I can help. I’m Mrs. Marcum. What can I do for you?”
“Here’s the problem,” I said, and launched into the tale. I’d told it so often that I had it down pat; the search for Jane Doe’s identity in fifty words or less. For the umpteenth time, I described Jane Doe and the series of interviews that had led me to Lockaby. “Do you remember anyone like that?”
“Not me, but I’ve only been here ten years. I’ll ask some of the teachers. Mrs. Puckett, who teaches typing, doubles as the guidance counselor. She’d be the one who’d recognize the girl if anyone did. Unfortunately, she’s out today – we all get a mental-health day every couple of months. She’ll be in first thing tomorrow morning if you want to come back.”
“If she does recognize the girl, would you have her records somewhere?”
“Not going back that far. We had a fire here eight years ago. Between the smoke and water damage, we lost the majority of our files. It’s a wonder the whole place didn’t go up in flames. The fire department saved us. They were here in seven minutes and knocked it down in thirty before it had a chance to spread.”
“How’d it happen?”
“Fire chief said electrical. We had wiring that dated from the original construction – 1945. He said it was a wonder it hadn’t happened before. Now we have smoke detectors, heat detectors, and a sprinkling system-the works. We’re lucky we weren’t wiped out. Happily for us, there weren’t any injuries or loss of life. Paperwork, who cares? It accumulates faster than I can file it.”
“The kids like it here?”
“They seem to. Of course, we’re a magnet for the troublemakers – dropouts, truants, delinquents. We get them when everyone else gives up. We only have a handful of teachers and we keep the classes small. Most of our students do poorly in an academic setting. Basically, they’re good kids, but some are slow. Short attention spans. They’re easily frustrated and most of them suffer from poor self-images. With a regular high school curriculum, they lose heart. Here the emphasis is practical. We cover the basics – reading, writing, and math – but we teach them how to write a resume, how to dress for a job interview, simple etiquette. Art and music, too, just to round them out.”
“Sounds like something every school should do.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”
The phone on her desk rang, but she made no move. “You want to answer that?”
“They’ll
try back. I’m often out of the office and they’ve learned. You have a business card?”
“Sure.”
“Why don’t you give me a number. I’ll try to reach Betty Puckett and have her give you a call.”
“That’d be great.” I took out a card and jotted down the name of the motel, the phone number, and my room number on the back. “I appreciate this.”
“I can’t swear she’ll know the girl, but if she was ever a student here, I promise you, Betty dealt with her.”
“One more question: Dr. Nettleton seemed to think this girl was in a foster home, so I’m wondering if Social Services might help?”
“I doubt it. They closed that office years ago, and I have no idea how you’d locate the old files. It’d be Riverside County, but that’s as much as I know. You’ll have a battle on your hands. They’re worse than schools are about access to records, especially on a juvenile.”
“Too bad. I had hopes, but I guess not.”
“Sorry.”
“I’ll figure it out eventually. It’s just a question of time.”
When I left Lockaby, I was no better informed, but I was feeling encouraged. Once in the car again, I sat for a moment, beating out a little rhythm on the steering wheel. Now what? In the confusion of the moment, I hadn’t thought to ask Dolan what he’d learned from the Quorum PD and the sheriffs office about the old missing-persons reports. I’d ask him when I went to visit. I did a mental check of our list. The only item we hadn’t covered yet was the issue of the tarp and whether one had been stolen at the time the Mustang was taken. I started the car and backed out of the slot, took a left on the Kennedy Pike, and returned to town.
The McPhee’s red-brick ranch house looked deserted when I arrived-doors shut, curtains drawn, and no cars in the drive. I passed the house, cruising slowly, and at the next intersection, did a V-turn and drove back. I parked across the street. I disliked the idea of seeing Ruel again, but who else could I ask about the tarp? While I’d remained largely in the background during the impounding of the Mustang, he’d still associate me with his loss of face.
I sat and studied the house, wondering if I could handle the question by phone. Chickenshit idea. Where possible, it’s always better to deal in person. I was on the verge of taking off, postponing the visit until later in the day, when an approaching car slowed and turned into the drive. Edna.
Once she turned off the engine, I could see her fussing in the front seat, gathering packages. After a bit of maneuvering, she got out with her purse over her shoulder, a grocery bag in one hand, and two department store carryalls clutched in the other. She pushed the door shut with one hip and moved to the rear of the car, setting down the carryalls while she opened the trunk. She placed her purse and the grocery bag on the driveway, reached into the trunk, and removed several additional grocery bags. I could see her debate whether she could manage everything in one trip or if she’d be forced to make two. I took the opportunity to get out of my car and cross the street at a trot. “Hi, Edna. Kinsey. Can I give you a hand?”
She looked up with surprise, coloring slightly at the sight of me. “I can manage.”
“There’s no sense in making two trips. Why don’t I take these and you can handle the rest?” I leaned forward and picked up her purse, one grocery sack, and the two large paper carryalls. “You must have spent all morning running errands.”
“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 flyaway 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.”