by Sue Grafton
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."
"I was afraid you'd say that. I was out during that period on medical leave. I know because I went back through my records and checked my calendar for that year. Otherwise, I'd have done the intake interview."
"So you didn't meet with her."
"I didn't. I wish I could help."
"I do, too. We've been hearing a lot about her, but most of it's derogatory. I was hoping to get something more objective from you."
"Sorry to disappoint. Was the family local?"
"Not as far as I know." I took a moment to explain the situation with Medora Sanders and her fostering of Charisse.
"I do know the Sanders, or I should say I did. I'm not familiar with Medora's current circumstances, but in those days, she had a serious drinking problem."
"How much to you know about Wilbur?"
"Well, I knew him to speak to. We went to the same church, at least when Medora was sober enough to attend."
"She says he left her mid-June and she hasn't heard from him since. We've been wondering if there's a link between Charisse's disappearance and his."
"Oh, I wouldn't think so. He did run off with someone, but it wasn't her. This was a woman he worked with at Sears."
"How do you know that?"
"Rumors were flying. That's all anybody ever talked about."
"I can't believe Justine and Medora didn't know," I said.
"I guess no one was willing to be the bearer of bad news. I heard just recently – and I forget now who told me – that Wilbur married that woman and he's living in Sacramento under a fictitious name. Sandy Wilburson, or some variation."
"Really. That's interesting, because Medora thinks he's dead."
"To all intents and purposes, he is."
"One more thing while I have you on the line. This is probably a long shot, but I'm wondering if you remember a kid named Cedric Clifton. He's originally from Creosote, but he's been in trouble since he was nine and he might well have ended up at Lockaby."
"Yes, I know Cedric, though it's odd you should ask. He was a student of ours in 1968, a year before the period you were talking about."
"What's odd about that?"
"Well, you mentioned the Sanders. He dated their daughter. He was older than she – probably nineteen or so to her sixteen."
"Justine and Pudgie Clifton? I don't think so. Didn't she date Cornell McPhee?"
"Yes, but she dated Cedric first. The two of them broke up after she started dating Cornell and 'set her cap for him,' as they used to say. They were both in my daughter's class at Quorum."
"Oh for heaven's sake," I said. "What's the deal around here? Everybody knows everybody."
Betty Puckett laughed. "Welcome to Small-town, America. What else can I tell you about Cedric?"
"Did he ever do time for Grand Theft Auto?"
"Oh, sure. Among other things," she said.
"Such as what?"
"Theft by deception, forgery, bad checks."
"Not violent crime?"
"Not while he was at Lockaby. I have no way of knowing what he's done since then."
"Thanks. You've been a big help. Sorry you had so much trouble getting through to me," I said. I showered and washed my hair, wishing I could rinse off my confusion as easily with the water running down the drain. All the little bits and pieces, the subterranean links. It was like looking for a pattern in the Milky Way. After I was dressed, I sat down at the desk, where I hauled out a pack of index cards and started making notes. Once I'd jotted down everything that seemed relevant, I organized the cards in roughly chronological order, set the Smith-Corona on the desk, and typed up a report. Both Stacey and Dolan were capable of doing the same work and would have done so if pressed, but I was eager to see how the facts would arrange themselves. I could see the connections form and separate, though they made no particular sense: Pudgie working with Frankie; Frankie married to Iona; Pudgie dating Justine before her marriage to Cornell. Iona had grown up in the same town as Pudgie and had hung out with him in her youth. Cornell's sister, Adrianne, had been friends with the murdered girl, always assuming, of course, that Charisse and Jane Doe were one in the same. Then there were Pudgie's fingerprints on the stolen car. Now that was an interesting development. I sat and stared at the cards, thinking about the players.
It occurred to me that in 1969, I was only two years older than these "kids" were then. I'd fumbled my way through high school without once achieving academic excellence. I was never elected to class office, never played a sport, and never participated in extracurricular activities. I wasn't a member of the band, the pep squad, or the chorus.
Mostly, I walked around feeling glum and disenfranchised. I made unremarkable to mediocre grades, smoked dope, and hung out with other low sorts, undistinguished and unnoticed. Had I attended Quorum High School, Pudgie would more likely have been a friend of mine than Justine or Cornell. While Cornell was no longer a varsity hero, he was a decent, hard-working guy with a wife and kids to support. Justine was a full-time wife and mom; Adrianne now worked as an administrative assistant in the very high school she'd attended. And Pudgie was still busy getting sent to jail. As for me, I was now a (more or less) respectable, law-abiding citizen who shunned illegal drugs and refused to place burning objects of any sort between my lips. I wondered how Charisse had figured into the grand scheme of things. At least the rest of us had enjoyed the option of making better choices in later life than we'd made in our teens. All of her opportunities had ended in 1969, and one of the decisions she'd made had been her last.
Once I finished typing the report, I sat and shuffled the cards, playing the little game I always play. I laid them out randomly, then like a hand of Solitaire, watching to see how events would look when the chronological order became jumbled. The truth isn't always immediately apparent, especially when it comes to murder. What appears to be a logical series of incidents might look entirely different when the sequence is turned on its head. The police are always working backward from the homicide itself to events le
ading up to the fatal blow. Except for random killings, which have become increasingly common these days, murders happen for a reason. There is motive-always motive. In nine cases out of ten, if you know why something happens, you'll know the "who" as well.
I sorted through the cards again just to see if I'd missed anything. Of course, I'd forgotten to go back to Medora and ask why she'd waited j a week to file the missing-persons report on Charisse. I placed that card on top of the stack, turning it upside down as a reminder to myself before I secured them with a rubber band. The point was minor and there was probably an explanation, but it was still a question that needed covering.
At 5:00, I tossed the pack of index cards in the drawer on top of the murder book, stacked the pages of my typed report, tucked them in a folder, and drove them to the local print shop, where I had two copies made. On my way back to the motel, driving east on Main Street, I caught a glimpse of Adrianne Richards heading for the local supermarket. She'd just parked her car and was walking from the side lot to the front entrance. I braked, glancing belatedly in the rearview mirror in hopes the car behind me wouldn't climb up my tailpipe. I made a hard left-hand turn to the annoyance of several motorists, one of whom shook his fist at me and mouthed a naughty word. I made a sheepish gesture and blew him a kiss.
I parked and went in. I did a quick walking survey, canvassing the store aisle by aisle. I finally spotted her in the produce section, grocery list between her teeth while she picked through a display of cantaloupes. In her cart, she had a plastic basket of cherry tomatoes, two bunches of green onions, and a cauliflower that looked like a brain wrapped in cellophane.
I said, "Hi. I've been hoping to talk to you, but I didn't know how to get in touch. What's your husband's first name?"
"Peter. We're divorced. He's in Reno."
"Mind if I tag along?"
"Fine with me," she said. She was wearing jeans, tennis shoes, and a twin set of smoky blue cashmere. Her hair was pulled back at the nape of her neck, secured with a barrette. She selected a cantaloupe, sniffed it, and then tucked it in her cart. She moved on, pausing at the dairy case to check the expiration date on a carton of skim milk, which she then placed in her cart. "What can I help you with?"
"Well, I'm curious. When I showed up in the office at Quorum High, didn't it occur to you I might have been talking about Charisse?"
"Not at all. Why would it? She's been gone for years."
"I heard you were good friends."
"I don't know about 'good' friends. We hung out together some."
"Did she say anything to you about leaving town?"
"I didn't even know she was gone. It's not like I saw her every day."
"But once you figured it out, didn't you worry about her?"
"Not particularly. I figured she could take care of herself."
"Did you ever hear from her again?"
"No, but I didn't expect to. That's not how it was. I was a couple of years younger and we didn't have much in common. I've lost touch with a lot of classmates I was closer to than her. Such is life."
"You don't seem upset about the murder. Doesn't that bother you?"
"Look, I'll be honest. I'm sorry for what happened, but I'm not sad. Why would I be? I knew her four months at best."
"Tell me about the friendship, such as it was."
"I don't know what to say. I thought she was funny. She didn't care what she said and she really didn't care what other people thought. I was feeling rebellious. She did things I didn't have the nerve to do. I was a good girl. She was bad. I guess opposites attract."
We turned left, ambling down an aisle stocked with canned vegetables, dried pasta, white and brown rice, and dried legumes. She picked up a package of lentils.
I said, "Do you know Pudgie Clifton?"
"Sure. He dated Justine."
"How long did they go together?"
"A year or so, less. Personally, I thought he was a bum, but she liked him. Even after they broke up, they stayed friends."
"He seems like an odd choice for her."
"You should have seen the guy I dated. Talk about a misfit."
"Did Pudgie know Cornell?"
"We all knew each other."
"What about Frankie Miracle and Iona Mathis?"
"I've heard the names, but I don't know either one."
"Did Pudgie spend much time at your house?"
She seemed mildly baffled. "A fair amount. What makes you ask?"
"Do you think he could have stolen the Mustang from your father's shop?"
I could see her consider. "It's possible. He stole other cars back then." She moved over to the shelves, choosing a can of tomato sauce and two cans of pork and beans.
"Did you suspect him at the time?"
"It might have crossed my mind."
"Did you ever mention that to your dad?"
"No. I didn't see Pudgie do it so why get him in trouble when I didn't know for sure. I figured he was trying to impress Justine."
"Hadn't they broken up by then?"
"Well, yes, but he was hoping to get her back."
"Did she know he took the car?"
"I don't even know that. It's just a guess on my part. I don't understand what you're getting at."
"I think he not only stole the car, but drove up to Lompoc with Charisse." I didn't mention dead in the trunk."
"So what?"
"You never asked him if he knew what happened to her?"
"I'm sure if he'd known something he would have spoken up."
"Didn't anybody seem concerned?"
"Not really. Medora reported her missing so we all assumed the police would take care of it. I'm sorry if that sounds mean."
By now she'd turned onto an aisle lined on both sides with freezer cases: ice creams, frozen pies, pizzas, and bags of frozen vegetables. Adrianne opened a glass door and removed a bag of baby peas.
I studied her with puzzlement. "Why do I have the feeling you know I something you're not telling me?"
"I'm sure I know lots of things I haven't told you."
"About Charisse."
"I don't want to make trouble. I told you that before."
"Who would you be making trouble for?"
"I'm speaking in generalities, not about anyone specific."
"Let's hope that's true. Thanks for your time."
She moved on and I remained where I was, watching the efficiency' with which she went about her business.
I stopped by the motel. Stacey's car was gone. He hadn't left me a note, so I figured I'd catch him later. I drove on over to Quorum Genera!, where I found Dolan sleeping, his dinner tray pushed to one side,! I tiptoed to his bedside and tucked one copy of the report, sealed in a manila envelope, under the edge of the blanket folded at his feet. On my way past the nurses station, I had a quick chat with Ms. Kovach, who told me he was being transferred out of CCU and onto a regular medical floor. I told her to tell him I'd been in and had left him an update at the foot of his bed.
"I'll be sure and tell him," she said. As I eased out of the parking lot, Stacey was just pulling in. We both rolled down our windows and had a chat, car to car. I passed him the second copy of the notes I'd typed and included a quick account of my conversation with Adrianne, plus the gossip I'd picked up from Betty Puckett regarding Wilbur Sanders's decampment and his subsequent bigamy.
Stacey said, "Sorry to hear Pudgie spent so much time at the McPhees. I hate rooting against the guy, but we could use a break about now."
"So what if he knew them? He still could have stolen the car, don't you think?"
"How're we going to prove it? I thought the prints would turn out to be significant," he said. "Oh, well. I'll ask the boys to get to work on Wilbur. Shouldn't be hard to track him down. Might as well cook his goose while we're at it."
"Yeah, Medora's in bad shape. It'd be nice to see him taking some responsibility. Meanwhile, where were you? I stopped by the motel and you were gone."
"I went over to the
sheriff's office and talked to a couple of detectives. They said they'd take a set of elimination prints on the McPhee's if I can talk them into it."
"You think they'll agree?"
"I can't think why not. By the way, I want you to go to the Baptist Church with me. It's Easter and Edna tells me the McPhees will all be there. Two services tomorrow, but I think the nine o'clock's our best bet. Afterward, they're going back to Edna's for a big Sunday dinner. Easter, I bet she does a spiral-cut ham."
"What makes you say that?"
"She's just like my mother. We had ham every Easter, along with yams and green beans. We'll follow them to the house and have a quick chat with them while they're all there together."
"I don't know, Stacey. Maybe you should go alone. I'll only end up irritating Ruel."
"I want you with me. I promise we'll keep it brief."
A car pulled up behind me and the driver gave a quick, polite beep of his horn.
I said, "I'll catch you later at the motel."
"Give me fifteen minutes."
We ate supper in Dolan's room, which Stacey had by now adopted as his own. Both of us sat on the king-size bed, sharing a bucket of franchised fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, and watery com on the cob. Once we finished, I gathered the chicken bones, empty cartons, and used plasticware and tossed everything in the trash. Stacey wanted me to stay and watch a movie, but I was ready for a break. I'm not accustomed to spending so much time in the company of others. "If you need me, I'll be in my room. Otherwise, I'll see you in the morning."
"Great. I'll knock on your door at eight. That'll give you time to shower and get dressed."
"Oh shoot. I just remembered. The only thing I have with me are blue jeans."
"No problem. We don't have to go in. We can wait in the parking lot and follow them home."
"Why not go straight to the house?"
"What if they change their minds and decide to go out for Sunday lunch? This may be the only chance we have to talk to them together."
"You think she'd give up the chance to cook her big Easter dinner?"
"Probably not, but I want to see the congregation all dressed up," he said. "We used to do that as kids."
