Q is for QUARRY

by Sue Grafton

  Stacey settled on the couch while I chose a bright yellow molded plastic chair to his left. Felicia couldn’t quite settle down, and I wondered if she cleaned to calm her anxieties, as I sometimes did. She’d worked hard to make the place attractive though the furnishings seemed to be an odd assortment of seconds, thrift shop finds, and discount sales.

  “What sort of work do you do?” Stacey said, trying to strike a friendly tone.

  “I manage a dry-cleaning establishment. My whole life’s about that – cleaning up other people’s messes.”

  Stacey said, “I imagine Cedric’s been a problem.”

  “Oh, go ahead and call him Pudgie. Everybody else does. I don’t know why I insist on ‘Cedric.’ It’s ridiculous given the sort of person he is.” She perched on a plastic chair that was a mate to mine. She reached out and straightened a stack of magazines, then idly, took out her dust rag and ran it around the table, picking up unseen particles of dust.

  Stacey cleared his throat. “Is it just the two of you?”

  “Just us. He’s been a source of aggravation as long as I remember. Our parents split when he was only eighteen months old. Mom ran off with this guy who sold galvanized pipe. Daddy drank himself to death a little over two years ago. I was eight when my brother was born. Daddy was useless by then so I raised him myself. You can imagine how that went.”

  “Tough job at that age.”

  “You can say that again. I must not’ve done too good a job because Cedric’s been in trouble since he was nine. I know I should quit coming to his rescue, bailing him out, trying to get him on his feet again. It doesn’t do any good. His only talent is avoiding work; plus he sometimes steals cars.”

  I said, “What’s he been doing since he got out of jail?”

  “Same thing he always does. Drinks, smokes, borrows money from me, and lies around on his butt. Occasionally he helps out, but only if I scream loud enough. Then he’ll sometimes do dishes or he’ll grocery shop. I guess I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

  “Has he been looking for work?”

  “Says he has, but in this town, there isn’t much to do. There’s an opening at the Dairy Queen, but he thinks that’s beneath him. I don’t know where he got that. He’s down so low, there’s nothing under him as far as I can see. It’s only a matter of time before he blows it again. I don’t get how that works. Every time a guy screws up, there’s always some gal around to feel sorry for him. In this case, it’s me.”

  “I know one of those,” I said, thinking of Iona.

  “It’s guilt,” Stacey said.

  “Is that it? Well, I guess. He always seems so sincere. Every time I look at him, I see him at nine. He got caught when he stole two silver picture frames from a neighbor lady across the street. What in hell did he want with two silver picture frames? Then he cried like a baby and swore up and down he’d never do it again.”

  “How long did that last?”

  “About a month. I forget what he stole next-something equally useless. I can lecture him all I like; scream and yell. He knows exactly what to say to reel me in again. He’s not dumb by any stretch, but he’s lazy as all get out. He does whatever works in the moment without a thought in his head about the consequence. I’m sorry, I don’t know how I got off on that. You want me to have him call you when he gets back?”

  “If you would, that’d be great,” Stacey said, taking out a ballpoint pen. “You have a piece of paper? I can give you the number.”

  “You can write it on the cover of that Cosmopolitan. I never throw those out.”

  Stacey jotted down the name of our motel, the number, and our two room numbers on the cover of the magazine.

  “You might write your names down so I don’t forget,” she said, meaning that she already had.

  Stacey scribbled our names, then clicked his pen and tucked it away. “When he goes out, do you have any idea where? We’ll be happy to scout around and see if we can find him ourselves.”

  “There’s a tavern – just a little hole-in-the-wall – over on Vine. You might try there. I can’t think where else he might be, unless he drove into Blythe.”

  “Who’s he hang out with?”

  “No one that I know. He’s been in jail so many times, he doesn’t have many friends left. He did get a couple of phone calls Thursday night.

  The first, I don’t know about. He took that himself. The second time I answered and it turned out to be a woman he dated years ago…”

  “Not Iona Mathis,” I said.

  “That’s exactly who. You know her?”

  “I met her a few days ago.”

  “She’s nice. I like her. Too bad he didn’t end up with her. I hear she married someone else.”

  “Why’d she call him?”

  “I don’t know, but she must have been pissed because I heard him backpedaling like crazy, swearing up and down he didn’t do whatever it was she was so aggravated about. Then some guy got on the line and it started allover again.”

  “Frankie Miracle?”

  “Could be. I think so. I wasn’t paying that close attention. Phone’s in the kitchen. The call came during my favorite TV show, so after a few minutes of his yammering, I got up and shut the door.”

  “After the call, he didn’t say anything about going out last night?”

  “No, but then it’s not like he tells me half of what he does.”

  “You think he might have gone off to meet Iona?”

  “Oh god, no. I sincerely hope not. As mad as she was? He’d be smart to keep his distance.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” I said when Stacey and I were in the car again. “Why don’t you find a gas station and we’ll see if there’s a pay phone.”

  “Who’re you going to call?”

  “Annette up in Peaches. Iona’s mom.”

  There were two gas stations on the main drag; a Chevron at the corner of First and Vine and an Arco station at the comer of Hollywood and Vine. Somebody had a sense of humor here, at any rate. Stacey pulled in at the Arco. The two of us emptied our pockets and came up with a handful of change. He waited in the car while I dialed Directory Assistance and got the number for the Moonlight Cafe. Within minutes, I had Annette on the other end of the line.

  “Hi, Annette. This is Kinsey Millhone. Lieutenant Dolan and I…”

  “I remember you,” she said. “How’s that lieutenant? I forget his first name…”

  “Conrad. People call him Con. As a matter of fact, he had a heart attack yesterday. He’s in the hospital in Quorum.”

  “Well, forevermore. I’m so sorry to hear that. The poor man. How’s he doing?”

  “Well, he’s got good doctors and they seem to think he’ll be okay.”

  “Thank goodness. You tell him I intend to keep him in my prayers.”

  “I’ll do that. In the meantime, I have a question for Iona. Is she working today?”

  “Honey, don’t I wish. She left Peaches shortly after you did and drove straight to Santa Teresa. She called later that same day to say she was at Frank’s. I can’t believe my own flesh and blood’s so dumb. I told her to stay away from him, but would she listen? Of course not.”

  “How’d that happen? Last I heard he didn’t even know where she was.”

  “Baby, that was daydreaming on my part. Now I find out she was in touch with him the whole time he was in prison. They’re on the phone with each other just about every day.”

  “What sent her running to him?”

  “You don’t know how protective she is where he’s concerned. She’s worse than a mama bear. She’s sure he didn’t have anything to do with that other poor girl’s death-you know, the one you were here asking about? If he did, she’d be first in line volunteering an alibi for him.”

  “Could she do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Provide him an alibi for the two days after Cathy Lee’s death? She was awfully vague on that score.”

  “Iona’s convinced
there’s an explanation, but so far I haven’t heard a word of it. I think that’s why she went, to find out where he was for that two days. I know she was fretting about the quarry where the girl was dumped.”

  I held the receiver out and squinted at the mouthpiece. “Why would Iona fret about that?”

  “Oh, she knows the place well. She used to play there as a kid. She has a couple cousins-this is my sister’s two kids. Iona stayed with them every summer for two weeks. They’d ride their bikes over to the quarry and have rock fights.”

  “In Lompoc ?”

  “What did I just get through saying to you?”

  “Why didn’t you tell Lieutenant Dolan?”

  “I must not’ve been thinking or I’d have spoken right up.”

  “Are you sure it’s the same one? There must be others in the area.”

  “I guess that’s what Iona’s trying to find out.”

  “Did she mention Pudgie at all?”

  “In regard to what?”

  “I’m wondering if she said anything to Frankie about him?”

  “Well, she must have. You know Pudgie and Frankie were in jail together right around that same time. If anybody pointed a finger, it almost had to be him. She figures Pudgie threw Frankie’s name in the hat, hoping to make some kind of deal for himself.”

  “Oh geez, that’s not true. There wasn’t any deal,” I said. “Look, do me a favor. If she gets in touch, will you have her call me? I’m in Quorum at the Ocean View Motel, room 125.”

  “I don’t expect to hear from her, but if I do, I’ll be happy to tell her. Of course, you’re closer to her than I am.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Well, hon, she’s in Creosote. I told you that. After she left Santa Teresa, she went looking for Pudgie to see if she could straighten this out.”

  “Did Frankie come with her?”

  “Lord, I don’t know. I hope not. She never said.”

  I didn’t actually groan, but I probably should have. “Let’s don’t worry about that now. Thanks, Annette. You’ve been a big help.”

  “Honey, you tell Lieutenant Dolan I’m sending him a big old sloppy kiss.”

  “I’ll do that. Just please have Iona call me if you hear from her. You don’t know where she’s staying?”

  “Of course not. I’d have said if I did.”

  “Great. I thought I better check in case I missed that part.”

  Chapter 22

  *

  We cruised Vine, which was the main street of Creosote and all of ten blocks long. There was only the one tavern, done up in the ubiquitous Western theme. We parked and went in, pausing to get our bearings: low ceilings supported by heavy beams, a wooden floor dense with sawdust, rough-hewn log walls chunked with stucco or its equivalent. There was a long, polished mahogany bar with the requisite brass foot railing, eight tables with captain’s chairs, and a Foosball table. The place was deserted, so it didn’t take long to figure out that Pudgie wasn’t there. At one end of the bar, there was an old Orange Julius machine with a perpetual fountain of juice laving the square, glass tank. Behind the bar, there was a rotisserie where old-fashioned hot-dogs on skewers circled past a heat source, throwing off an irresistible cheap scent.

  Stacey and I made a beeline for the bartender, ordering and consuming two hot dogs each, decorated with a squiggle of mustard, and piled high with a nasty sweet pickle relish and onions minced so fine our eyes were watering. Neither of us said a word until the last bite of bun had been munched and swallowed. I was gratified to hear Stacey making the same low whimpering sounds that accompanied most of my meals.

  He chased his lunch down with a Coke and then used a paper napkin to scrub his mouth and fingers. “I’ll be burping weenies for the rest of the day, but it’s worth it. Don’t know how I worked up such an appetite.”

  “Well Stacey, we haven’t eaten since noon and it’s after three o’clock.”

  “Can I get you anything else?” The bartender was a man in his late fifties, with an egg-shaped face, balding head, and a gap between his two front teeth.

  Stacey said, “We’re looking for Pudgie Clifton. His sister, Felicia, thought he might be here.”

  “Haven’t seen him today. He usually shows up at eleven when we open the place. He’ll be in later. Happy Hour for sure. He never misses a chance to get his two for one.”

  “When he comes in, would you have him get in touch with us?

  We’re out running around, but he can reach us later at the Ocean View Motel in Quorum.” Stacey made a note on a paper napkin, which the bartender set on the ledge of liquor bottles behind him. I waited while Stacey paid for lunch (my second, his third) and then we returned to the car.

  Heading north again on Highway 78, I pointed out the hazy outlines of the Tuley-Belle in the distance, off to the left. “You want to do the tour now or come back?”

  “No time like the present.”

  Stacey turned into the paved four-lane entrance, noting as I had its deteriorating state. We drove the mile and a half, the desert stretching out on every side of us. When we reached the complex, he parked and we got out. It was still afternoon, and the sun overhead was like a pitiless spotlight, revealing every crack and flaw in the abandoned site.

  Somehow in my memory, I’d tidied it up a bit, forgetting the garbage and blowing sand, the gaping windows and ruts in the surrounding dirt parking area. I sensed movement and shifted my gaze. I reached out and put a hand on Stacey’s arm and both of us stood stock still. Two coyotes had appeared at a trot. Both were pale gray and scrawny, bony-legged, taller than the average German shepherd, but with the same prominent ears. The first coyote stopped and regarded us with a certain leisurely arrogance. These were desert coyotes, smaller than the ones we saw in Santa Teresa. There, when the drought years eliminated small rodents and ground game, coyote packs were forced down out of the foothills into urban neighborhoods. I’d heard them calling to one another, chilling, high-pitched yelps, when they’d cornered their quarry and were closing in on the kill. I’d seen countless handmade signs stapled to telephone poles, usually displaying photographs and phone numbers, offering plaintive appeals for the return of “lost” cats and small dogs. I knew where they were. In dawn light, in my travels around town, I’d spotted the occasional lone coyote crossing the road with a bundle in its jaws. Out here in the desert, where the heat was extreme and even less rain fell, coyotes ate anything: lizards, insects, carrion, snakes.

  The second coyote had trotted on, but now circled back to the first. This must have been the female of the pair, her sides rounded by a litter of pups. The two animals stared up at us with an eerie intelligence. I was aware of their cold yellow eyes and the fathomless round, black pupils. I had no sense that they feared us. This was their territory, sparse and untamed, and their survival rates would always be better than ours out here. Stacey clapped his hands and the two continued on to the road at the same unhurried pace. He turned and watched them, as I did, until they disappeared from view.

  The wind picked up. Despite the sun and even in my bomber jacket, I found myself huddled against the cold. “Let’s go inside before I freeze to death.”

  We wandered the empty corridors. With Stacey close by, I was willing to venture farther afield. We explored together at first and then separated. While he inspected the partially completed condominium next door, I stumbled across an unfinished wood staircase and picked my way carefully to the second floor. I crossed to a wide, frameless window and looked out at the land; mile after mile of scrub dotted with tumbleweeds. Again, the sound of rapidly flapping plastic. I leaned out, peering to my right. At ground level, I could see a cloudy corner of the sheeting dance forward and back from beneath a pile of rocks. Ghost stories originate from such phenomena. I was surprised the locals hadn’t already generated legends about the place.

  Across the way, Stacey emerged from the adjacent building into full sunlight. He saw me and waved. I returned his wave, watching as he rounded the com
er of that building and disappeared again. I left the window and joined him down below.

  It was close to 4:00 when we pulled in at the motel. I felt we’d done enough for one day and I voted for a break. Stacey said he’d go back to the hospital and spend time with Dolan. Once he dropped me at the room, I changed into my sweats and Sauconys and went jogging. My last run had been Wednesday, before Dolan and I left town. As this was now Saturday, I thought it was high time I did something in my own behalf. For once I was happy about the chilly desert air. Humidity was low and I managed to do the entire three miles scarcely breaking a sweat.

  Back again, I found the message light blinking on the face of my phone. I dialed 6 and the operator told me I had a message from Betty Puckett. I wrote down the name and number, but it took me a beat to remember her – the guidance counselor slash typing teacher at Lockaby Alternative High School. I thought about showering but decided to place the call before I got myself cleaned up.

  When she picked up on her end, she was already sounding most annoyed with me. “I’m sorry to be peevish, but I’ve called you three times and I expected a call back.”

  “Mrs. Puckett, my apologies, but this is the first and only message I’ve ever had from you. When did you call before?”

  “Twice yesterday afternoon and again first thing this morning.”

  “It must be the desk clerk. She’s terrible with messages and just about everything else. Believe me, I’d have called you if I’d known.”

  “Well. I suppose these things happen,” she said, mollified. “Patsy Marcum called me shortly after you left the office yesterday. I don’t think I can help, but Patsy thought I should get in touch.”

  “We’ve actually made some progress since I talked to her. It now appears possible our murder victim is a girl named Charisse Quinn. Do you remember her?”

  “That name doesn’t ring a bell. When was she at Lockaby?”

  “This would have been April or May of 1969. She started at Quorum High in March, but she got expelled fairly soon from what I’ve heard. She must have transferred to Lockaby close to the end of the school year.”