by Sue Grafton
“I don’t. Well, sort of. The jury’s still out.”
“Got it,” he said. “I’ll leave you to open it. Good-night.”
“‘Night,” I said.
In the privacy of my room, I turned on the light and set my jacket aside. I left my shoulder bag on the chair and then I sat on the bed, turning the mailing pouch over in my lap. On the back, there was a pull tab that opened a seam along one edge. I pulled the strip and peered in. I removed the leather-bound album she’d sent. I remembered her mentioning family pictures, but never imagined she’d actually send them to me. I leafed through page after page of heavy black paper on which black-and-white photographs had been mounted by means of paper seals affixed to the corners and glued into place. Some of the pictures had come loose and the photos were tucked into the spine of the book. Under each, someone had written in white ink, identifying the subject, the date, and the circumstance.
There they were. All of them. My mother. Various uncles and aunts. The wedding of my grandfather Kinsey and my grandmother Cornelia Straith-LeGrand. Babies in white christening dresses that trailed to the floor. Group photos, complete with cousins, servants, and family dogs. In most, the faces were solemn, the poses as stiff as paper dolls assembled on the page. A Christmas at the ranch with everyone gathered in front of an enormous pine tree laden with ornaments, garlands, and lights. A summer picnic near the house, with wooden harvest tables set out on the grass. Long dresses, pinafores, straw hats with wide brims freighted with artificial flowers; women looking buxom and broad-shouldered, their waists pinched by corsets that made their ample hips look twice as wide. Two men had been photographed in the army uniforms of World War I. One of the two appeared at later family gatherings while the other was never seen again. Sometimes the men were in shirt sleeves, dark vests, and black bowlers; sometimes striped summer jackets and white straw boaters. I could see the passing years reflected in women’s rising hems, their arms increasingly bare. Thanksgiving of 1932, suddenly all the little girls were decked out like Shirley Temple. Nothing of the Great Depression seemed to have touched the house or its occupants, but time did march on.
Many of these people were dead by now. The adults had grown old. The children had married and given birth to children of their own. There was my mother in that long white dress again at her coming out party, July 5, 1935. There were other snapshots of the occasion. In one, I could have sworn the photographer caught my father in the background, his eyes fixed on her. I’d never actually seen a picture of him, but I felt I’d recognized him nonetheless. After that, the pages I were abruptly blank, the entire last third of the album empty. That was If odd. I thought about it, puzzled that the family history so carefully recorded up to that point should suddenly be abandoned.
Oh. Could that be right?
My parents had eloped. I’d seen a copy of their marriage license dated November 18, 1935. My grandmother had been horrified. She’d had her heart set on Rita Cynthia’s marrying someone she considered worthy of her firstborn daughter. Instead, my mother had fallen in love with a common mail-carrier, who was moonlighting as a waiter on the day of her debut. There was apparently no Thanksgiving that year. And precious little in the way of celebrations since.
Chapter 19
*
Saturday morning after breakfast, Stacey and I drove to the McPhees’. The day was clear and sunny. The wind had died down and the desert stretched out in a haze of beige and mauve. Cactus, mesquite, and creosote bushes grew at neatly spaced intervals, as though planted by an arborist. Out there, unseen, the bobcats, foxes, owls, hawks, and coyotes were feeding on the smaller vertebrates. I’d read that jackrabbits constitute half the diet of breeding coyotes, so that when hard times reduce the rabbit population, the coyote population shrinks, as well, thus maintaining the balance in Nature’s culinary scheme. We paused briefly on the street and I pointed across the pasture to the shed where we’d found the Mustang. Stacey said, “I wonder why he got himself in such a lather when the car was impounded?”
“Territorial, I guess. You’d do the same in his place.”
“I’m not so sure about that. Sounds like a man who knows more than he’s letting on.”
“Maybe he’s just another cranky old geezer, used to having his way.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“Stace, I wasn’t talking about you.”
I rang the bell and the two of us stood on the porch, waiting for someone to respond. From the backyard, I could hear children giggling and shrieking while a dog barked.
When Edna finally opened the door, she seemed somewhat taken aback. “Oh. I didn’t expect to see you here again,” she said. She averted her gaze politely from Stacey’s patchy head.
“Hi, Edna. How are you? This is Detective Oliphant from the Santa Teresa Sheriffs Department. Have we caught you at a bad time?”
“I have my Baptist Church Auxilliary Committee here and we’re busy.” I held out the quilt. “We won’t take long. I wanted to return your quilt.”
She took it, murmuring “Thank you,” and then moved to shut the door. I put a restraining hand on the frame. “We were hoping to see Ruel.
“s he here?”
“He’s in the garage.”
“Mind if we talk to him?”
With a tiny flicker of irritation, she gave in. “You might as well come through the house and I’ll send you out the back. It’s quicker than going all the way around.”
The two of us stepped inside while she closed the door and then we followed her down the hall.
She said, “Did you talk to Medora?”
“I did. She was great. Thanks so much.”
In the kitchen, there were five women sitting at the table, which was stacked high with flyers and long white envelopes. All five glanced up at us, smiling expectantly as we moved toward the backdoor. Edna did a brief detour, returning the quilt to its place on the window seat. I noticed she didn’t stop to introduce us, probably reluctant to explain the arrival of an out-of-town sheriffs detective and a private eye.
On the counter, she’d set up a big Thermos of coffee, a plate of sweetrolls, and a pile of paper napkins. The one empty chair was clearly hers. Two women folded the flyers, while another two stuffed them in the envelopes. The last woman in line licked the flaps and applied the stamps. I recognized this one: the light brown hair, brown eyes, the sprinkling of freckles across her nose. I’d seen her at Quorum High, where she worked as Mr. Eichenberger’s assistant.
I paused, saying, “Hi. How’re you?”
“Fine.
“I’m Kinsey Millhone. I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Adrianne Richards.”
Edna hesitated and then said, “Adrianne’s my daughter.”
“Ah. Well, it’s nice seeing you again. This is Detective Oliphant,” I said, thus forcing a round of introductions. I really hate to be pushy, but what’s a poor girl to do?
One of the women piped up and said, “I’m Mavis Brant. This is Chalice Lyons, Harriet Keyes, and Adele Opdyke.”
Stacey tipped an imaginary hat, which the ladies seemed to like.
I smiled at them briefly, my attention returning to Adrianne. “You’re Cornell’s sister? I didn’t realize that. Small world.”
“Isn’t it?” She offered me a thin smile before she turned to the woman at the end of the table. “Excuse me, Harriet, could you pass me some envelopes?”
Harriet handed a batch of envelopes to Adele who passed them on to Adrianne, who was busy being busy. She must have been married, because if her office name tag had read “McPhee,” I’d have asked if she was related. She flicked a look in my direction and then engaged the woman next to her in conversation.
“Well, we don’t want to hold you up,” Edna said to us, ushering us on. Stacey and I went out the back door and trooped down the stairs, heading for the garage. Edna’s granddaughter, Cissy, and her two older tow-headed sisters were racing across the yard in the throes of hysteria
, a little yappy dog bouncing after them, nipping at their heels. As we watched, the dog caught a mouthful of Cissy’s sock. Growling, he tugged, trying to dig in his paws while she dragged him across the grass. I envisioned dog bites, blood, and tetanus shots later in the afternoon. There was no sign of Justine, so I was guessing the girls had been parked with the grandparents while she was off somewhere.
I smelled Ruel’s cigarette before we caught sight of him. He was in the same wooden desk chair with the same straw hat pushed to the back of his head. He looked small and harmless, and I could sense that Stacey was perplexed that I’d expressed any uneasiness about him. He was close to Stacey’s age, in his early seventies I’d guess. He was watching another television show with all the concentration of a kid. This time, it was a cartoon so completely asinine that even the little girls preferred being chased and bitten by a dog.
Without looking up, Ruel said, “Back again, I see. Who’s your friend?”
Stacey stepped forward, extending his hand. “Stacey Oliphant, Mr. McPhee. I’m a homicide detective with the Santa Teresa Sheriffs Department. Nice to make your acquaintance.”
Ruel gave him an obligatory handshake. “Suppose you’re here to confiscate something else. It’s a damn shame you can walk in and take anything you want.”
“I can understand your point. Then again, the law’s the law. We don’t make it up; we just carry it out,” Stacey said.
“True enough,” Ruel said. “Nothing I can do about it now. You just be sure that car comes back without a scratch.”
I said, “Wait a minute. How’s that supposed to happen? The car was banged up to begin with.”
Ruel rolled his eyes with annoyance. “I meant, no damage aside from that.”
Stacey eased back in. “Mr. McPhee, I only drove in last night so I’m new on the scene. If it’s not too much trouble, I wonder if I can ask you to bring me up to speed.”
“Ask her, she’s so smart. I got better things to do.”
“She tells me you made quite a deal on that car.” Like a recording, Ruel recited the details of his good fortune. “I got that Mustang free of charge back in 1969. Fella left it at the shop to have the seats repaired. Car was stolen and once it came back, he didn’t want anything to do with it.”
“Is that right? Good deal,” Stacey said, as though impressed. “And what inspired you to keep the car all these years?”
“My son and I intended to restore it, though now they’ve as good as told me it was used in some kind of criminal enterprise. Homicide, is that right?”
“Yes, sir. Naturally, we’re interested in taking a closer look.”
“You ought to talk to the previous owner. Feller name of Gant. He culd’ve stolen the car himself. Have you ever thought of that?”
“I don’t believe we have. Wonder why he’d steal his own car and then turn around and give it to you?”
“Why does anyone do anything? Man might’ve been nuts.”
“Always possible. Happens he’s dead now.”
“Too bad. Otherwise, you could pester him instead of me,” Ruel said. He paused to light a cigarette with a wood match that he dropped in his jar. “Point is, I don’t know beans about a murder and my son knows less. Cornell should be here shortly to fetch the girls and that nasty dog of theirs. Talk to him yourself. Waste of time, you ask me.”
“That could well be. Police work, we pursue a lot of lines that don’t pan out. For instance, we’ve been curious about a tarp that was dumped with the girl’s body. Anybody mention that?”
“What kind of tarp?”
“Canvas. Looks like a car cover or a drop cloth. Ms. Millhone saw a couple tarps at the shop and wondered if one of yours might’ve come up missing at the time.”
“Nope. Can’t help. Happens I own a bunch of tarps, but I never had one taken and couldn’t care less if I did. Tarps are cheap. Take a stroll through the Kmart, if you doubt my word.”
“What about a car cover? You remember if there was one on the Mustang when it was taken?”
“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 lone 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 allover 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 pullout 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 tom 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 wi
nd.”
“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?”