Q is for QUARRY

by Sue Grafton

  When I got to the Burger King it was 12:15 and Stacey’s rental car was already parked in the side lot. I went in, scanning the crowd until I spotted him at a table on the far side of the room. Even here, there were Easter decorations-big posterboard eggs and posterboard Easter bunnies. Stacey waved when he saw me.

  I slid in across from him, saying, “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “Who said anything about waiting? I already had a Whopper and an order of fries.”

  “Well, good for you. I hope you don’t mind sitting while I grab a bite myself.”

  “Oh, I’ll be eating again. The Whopper was good, but it didn’t fill me up. I’ve been thinking we should do a study – purely scientific – a side-by-side tasting, a Whopper and a Big Mac, to see which we prefer. Or go vertical – McDonald’s hamburger, cheeseburger, a QP with Cheese, and a Big Mac. What do you think?”

  “You sit. I’ll go. You want a Coke with that Whopper?”

  “I’d prefer a chocolate shake.”

  Over lunch (my first, his second), I brought Stacey up to date on my visit to the canvas shop and my review of the murder book with its reference to Lennie Root. “How was your interview with George Baum?”

  “What a pain,” he said. “He’s the consummate salesman – all capped teeth and phony charm. He tried talking me into a BMW, but I nixed that idea. Point is, when I asked him about Charisse, he sidestepped the whole subject. He thought he was being slick; like I never heard a guy equivocate. I’m guessing he diddled her, but now that he knows she was murdered, he’d like to distance himself. He nearly shit when I told him where I got his name. He’s maneuvering like crazy, doing anything he can to get me off his back, so he gives me some information I think you’ll find interesting. He tells me Charisse and Cornell’s sister were thick as thieves.”

  “Well, that’s a new one.”

  “Isn’t it? He says he used to see the two of them allover town. He swears Charisse had the hots for Cornell and sucked up to Adrianne to get close to him.”

  “Kind of makes you wonder why Adrianne didn’t speak up. To hear Cornell tell it, he barely knew Charisse. Justine certainly gave me that impression.”

  “It’s worth a chat with Adrianne if not the other two.”

  “You want to do that while I talk to the painting contractor?”

  “I’d rather you take care of both. My energy’s running low. I need a nap. As soon as you finish, stop by the motel. I should be up, and if not, feel free to wake me. We’ll go back to the hospital and let Dolan know what’s going on.”

  Once Stacey and I parted company, I sat in my car debating which interview to do first. At the moment, I was more interested in hearing about Adrianne’s friendship with Charisse than I was in talking to Justine, Cornell, or the painting contractor. However, when I consulted the phone book, there were eight “Richards” listed, and Adrianne didn’t seem to be among them. I had no idea what her husband’s name was. Since it was Saturday, I knew she wouldn’t be at the school. Quelle bummeur. This brought the matter down to a toss-up between the painting contractor and the younger McPhees. Again, according to the phone book, I was only four blocks from Cornell and Justine’s, so they won by default.

  Their house turned out to be a bright yellow board-and-batten, with white trim and diamond-paned windows flanked by dark green shutters. Pink geraniums grew in flower boxes across the front. The yard was enclosed by a white two-board fence. The two-car garage stood open, and I could see six-year-old Cissy and her two older sisters arranged in a cluster around Cornell’s workbench.

  I parked in front and approached, moving up the driveway past a tangle of bikes. Cornell looked up, greeting me without interrupting his work. “Hey, how’re you?”

  “I’m great. Is that a doghouse you’re building?”

  “You bet, and I’m almost done as soon as I finish this roof. Girls are all set to paint it. You meet my daughters?”

  “I met Cissy on Thursday. I saw all three of them at your parents’ house this morning.”

  “Oh, that’s right. So you did. This is Amelia and Mary Francis.”

  I said, “Hi.” I couldn’t tell which was Amelia and which was Mary Francis, but it probably didn’t matter. Most children seem interchangeable to me, anyway. “Is Justine at home?”

  “Doing laundry. You can go in through there. Utility room’s just inside the door. Cissy, why don’t you show her where it is.”

  I hesitated, tempted to ask him about Charisse before I broached the subject with Justine, but with his children present, it didn’t seem like a good idea. Cissy was tugging at my hand so I allowed her to lead me through the rear of the garage and into the utility room. She skipped back to her dad and his Saturday-morning project.

  I found Justine in her sock feet, wearing an olive green sweatsuit. Her back was to me and she was cramming filthy blue jeans and work shirts into the washing machine. Beside her, the dryer was already in service, filling the room with a rich, damp heat while a garment with buckles clattered endlessly as it tumbled in the drum. I said, “I hope you don’t mind my dropping by without notice.”

  She jumped and gave a yelp. “Shit, you scared me to death. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. Cornell suggested I come in this way. I guess he figured you’d never hear me if I rang the front bell.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “The usual. I’m nosing around. Mind if we talk?”

  “I’ve already told you everything I know.”

  “Indulge me, okay?”

  She stared at the floor, curbing her annoyance, but I could see her relent, albeit unhappily. “Let me finish this and we’ll go into the kitchen.”

  She shoved in the last of the load of clothes, added liquid detergent and bleach, then closed the lid and set the program knob. She pushed the Start button. She washed her hands at the utility sink, drying them on a terry cloth towel she retrieved from the pile of soiled linens.

  I followed her into the kitchen, which was immaculate, a far cry from her mother’s house with its grunginess and knickknacks. I don’t know how women with active kids manage to keep a house picked up. She offered me coffee, probably to atone for her snappishness. I accepted with an eye to stringing out the visit. She poured me a mug and popped it in the microwave to heat. She was not a pretty girl. There was something washed-out about her looks, as though vital blood supplies had been suppressed for years, leaving her pale and depleted. The green sweatsuit added more color to her eyes than I’d seen before, but it still wasn’t much. The microwave pinged and she removed the mug.

  When she set it in front of me, a wave of coffee slopped over the rim. She handed me a paper napkin. “Did you want something in particular? We haven’t eaten lunch. I need to go to the market to pick up some bread.”

  “This shouldn’t take long,” I said, busy cleaning the spill. I decided to take an indirect route getting to the subject of Adrianne and Charisse. “Did you have a chance to talk to Cornell?”

  “About what?”

  “You were worried he’d get mad at you if you talked to me.”

  “He got over that. He said he saw you at his dad’s so I guess all’s forgiven. Lucky you,” she said. She brought sugar and half-and-half to the table and then sat down, tucking her hands under her thighs.

  “That’s because Detective Oliphant was there. He and Ruel seemed to hit it off. Did you meet Stacey?”

  She shook her head. “I heard there was a second detective in town, but I haven’t met him yet. They must be going all out.”

  “They are. They’re very serious about this.”

  “Well, good, though I don’t get why it matters after all these years.”

  “Cops are funny that way. They never really give up. They just wait.”

  “Look, I don’t mean to be rude about it, but I really have to scoot. The kids’ll get cranky.”

  “Sorry. I’ll get down to it,” I said. “This mo
rning, when Stacey spoke to Cornell, he mentioned a high school classmate of yours named George Baum.”

  “Sure, I know George. Why was he talking about him?”

  “Cornell seemed to think he was involved with Charisse.”

  “Involved?”

  “That’s a dainty way of saying he screwed her.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. He did not. George had a girlfriend, a cheerleader named Swoozie Franks. They went together for years, since junior high at least. They got married a month after graduation.”

  “Swoozie?”

  “It’s a nickname. I forget her real one.”

  “Maybe Swoozie wouldn’t put out so George got relief from Charisse instead.”

  Justine made a face. “That’s a tacky idea.”

  “Why? You’ve all been saying what a slut she was.”

  “Well, yes, but I can’t believe George would do something like that. Did he admit it?”

  “Not as far as I know, but he did tell Stacey that Charisse and Adrianne were close. I was curious why no one mentioned that to us.”

  “That’s not true at all. Why would he say that? He’s crazy.” Dubiously, I said, “I don’t know, Justine. He says Charisse had a crush on Cornell and hung out with Adrianne to have access to him. You’d think Adrianne would’ve volunteered the information as soon as she heard Charisse was dead.”

  “You said you weren’t even sure it was her.”

  “Well, the ill isn’t positive, but now we have her dental records so we’re getting close. I would have mentioned it this morning, but it didn’t seem appropriate in front of Edna’s church group. Besides, that was the first time I realized who Adrianne was. You can imagine my surprise. I see her at Quorum High. I find out she’s Cornell’s sister, and then I hear she and Charisse were such good pals.”

  “They weren’t pals. George doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Charisse’s so-called pals were a bunch of losers from Lockaby. They were more her speed.”

  “Really. Your mother said she made a real pest of herself, wanting to hang out with the two of you.”

  “We took her with us sometimes, but she was an embarrassment.”

  “Did you know Charisse was so smitten with him?”

  “Oh, please.”

  “Why would George lie to us?”

  “I didn’t say he lied. I said he got it wrong. The guy’s a dimwit. Besides, even if she had a crush on Cornell, what difference did that make? A lot of girls had crushes. He was the most popular guy in our high school class.”

  “But how’d you feel about it? Didn’t it bother you?”

  “I knew we’d end up together, so who cared about them?”

  “I mean Charisse in particular.”

  “She was nothing. A pig. I couldn’t have cared less about her.”

  “Geez, that’s amazing. When I was in high school, I was insecure. You must have had a lot more self-confidence.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. It just seemed like fate. The minute I saw Cornell, that was it for me. That was grade school. We went to different junior high schools and reconnected in high school in our senior year.”

  “Love at first sight.”

  “Right.”

  “So really, it didn’t matter if Charisse and Adrianne were friends –in terms of its effect on you.”

  “Charisse could do anything she liked. No skin off my back.” She glanced at her watch, signaling time was up. She could have been a shrink, given her skill in silent communication.

  I held up a hand. “Just one other thing and then I’ll let you go. Doesn’t it seem a trifle coincidental that your father disappeared just about the same time she did?”

  Justine stared at me. “I don’t get what you mean.”

  “Come on, Justine. You’re not that naive.”

  “You’re implying the two of them went off together?”

  “Didn’t it ever cross your mind?”

  “Of course not. Daddy left in June. She was with us for months and months after that.”

  “Actually, it was only until the end of July. Maybe six weeks or so. What if they were having an affair?”

  Justine laughed. “Oh, that’s gross. I don’t like to think he had sex with my mother, let alone with someone like her. That’s disgusting.”

  “Disgusting to you perhaps, but in the annals of human history it’s not exactly a first. I said the same thing to your mom. Charisse was promiscuous, so why not him?”

  Justine clamped her mouth shut, staring at the floor. Agitated, she tucked a strand of pale hair behind one ear.

  I said, “Look, I’m not making any claims here. None of us have the facts. This is purely speculation.”

  “Well, it’s in bad taste,” she said. She stood up.

  “I guess I better let you go. Maybe I should have a chat with Cornell.”

  “I’m not sure he’s interested.”

  “He didn’t seem opposed to my talking to you.”

  “He was being polite.”

  “A quality I’ve always admired in a man. Anyway, you needn’t fret because I can’t do it now. I have something else to do.”

  Hazelwood Springs on my California map was a microdot on Highway 78 ten miles south of Quorum. The town turned out to be so small that I drove straight through without realizing it. I made a three-point turn, using the next convenient driveway, and then doubled back. The entire town consisted of a minimart, two side roads, a scattering of houses, and a two-pump gas station of the old-fashioned variety, where some guy actually came outside, filled your tank, cleaned the windshield, and passed the time of day. I ended up putting another twenty bucks’ worth of gas in Dolan’s boat, but in return, the fellow was kind enough to point out Lennie Root’s place, which was just across the road.

  Lennie Root’s small white frame house sat on pylons of raw cinder block, thus creating the crawl space he used to store his miscellaneous painting equipment. There was a flowery ceramic plaque affixed to the wood frame above the front door that read THE ROOTS, MYRA AND LENNIE.

  Lennie responded to my knock. He was a man in his sixties with a narrow, sagging face and heavy bags beneath his eyes. His bushy gray hair was peppered with tiny specks of dried red paint. Over his chinos and white T-shirt he wore a full-length apron with a ruffle around the bib. He held a wrinkled white dress shirt like an errant tomcat he intended to boot out the door.

  “Mr. Root? My name’s Kinsey Millhone. I’m hoping you can answer a few questions about a former employee. You remember Frankie Miracle?”

  “What makes you ask? Because if you’re working for OSHA or state disability insurance, I want it on record-the injury was fake.”

  “I’m not here about that. I’m actually a private investigator, doing follow-up on a homicide investigation. This was August of ‘69. Frankie says he worked for you shortly before that.”

  He blinked. “How much do you know about ironing?”

  “Ironing?”

  “My wife’s out of town at her mother’s until next Monday and I’m supposed to be at my daughter’s for supper tonight. I need to iron this shirt, but I don’t know how. My wife always sprinkles ‘em with water and leaves ‘em in a wad, but I never paid attention to what comes next. You show me how to do this and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  I laughed. “Mr. Root, you’re in luck. You got a deal.”

  He handed me the shirt and I followed him through a modest living room to the kitchen at the rear. There were dirty dishes piled in the sink, and the counter was littered with additional glasses, flatware, and plates. On the breakfast table, there was a large broken-rimmed plastic basket piled with freshly laundered clothes. The door to the utility room stood open and Lennie crossed the kitchen to retrieve an ironing board with a floral padded cover and scratched metal legs. When he opened it, the sustained screech of metal on metal sounded like the mating call of an exotic bird. He plugged in the iron. I moved the setting to Cotton and waited for the iron to heat.


  “My aunt Gin taught me to do this when I was seven years old, primarily because she hated to do the ironing herself.” I licked an index finger and touched it to the hot iron. It made a spatting sound. “Watch this.” I took the dampened shirt by the yoke, holding it between my hands, and straightened the puckered seams with one efficient snap.

  “That’s first?”

  “Unless your shirt doesn’t have a yoke. Then you start with the collar.” I placed the shirt on the ironing board and explained the strategy: the yoke, followed by the collar, then the cuffs, the two sleeves, and finally the body of the garment.

  He watched with care until I’d finished the shirt and buttoned it onto a wire hanger. I handed him a second shirt from the basket and had him try his hand. He was slow and a bit clumsy, but he did a credible job for his first time out. He seemed pleased with himself, and I had a brief vision of him whipping through the entire basket of ironing as the afternoon wore on. He turned off the iron, moved the basket aside, and gestured me into a chair.

  As soon as we were seated, he said, “Now. What can I tell you about Frankie, aside from the fact he’s the biggest punk who ever lived?”

  “How long did he work for you?”

  “Six months. Drunk most days; incompetent the rest.”

  “Did you hire him or did your business partner?”

  “I don’t have a partner.”

  “I thought your company was called R&R Painting. I figured it was your brother, your son, or your dad.”

  “No, no. It’s just me. I put that other R in there to reassure the public. One-man painting company, people worry you don’t have the manpower to get the job done. This way I give the estimate and get the contract signed and then when it turns out it’s just me, well, what’s it to them. I’m fast, I’m thorough, and I’m meticulous.”

  “How’d you end up hiring Frankie?”

  “Did someone a favor. Biggest mistake I ever made. This fellow knew Frankie’s brother and he asked me if I’d give him a job. He’d just gotten out of jail and no one else would take a chance. I wasn’t all that crazy about the idea myself, but I’d just taken on a big project and I was desperate for help.”