Q is for QUARRY

by Sue Grafton

  “Cornell smokes.”

  “Not around his mother. He’s pure as the driven snow,” Medora said. “She disapproves of cards, too. Devil’s handiwork, she says. Granddaughters come here, we play Canasta, War, Fish, Slap Jack. Doesn’t seem like the Devil’s work to me.”

  She returned to the couch and sat dead center, causing the cushions to rise on either side of her. A crocheted green-and-black afghan was bunched haphazardly at one end. There was an ashtray full of butts on the coffee table, a cluster of prescription pill bottles, a fifth of Early Times, and a highball glass half-filled with melting ice cubes. Many surfaces looked sticky, and there was a fine haze of dust over everything. “I was taking a little nap. I haven’t been feeling well the last couple days. What’s your name again?”

  “I should have introduced myself. I’m Kinsey Millhone.”

  “Medora Sanders,” she said, “but I guess you know that. What’s your connection to Edna? I hope it’s not through her church. She’s always trying to get me roped in.”

  “Not at all. Mind if I sit?”

  She waved me into a chair. I moved aside a stack of newspapers and took a seat, keeping the quilt on my lap. There were a number of crafts projects in the room, most from kits, by the look: a wall-hung quilt, embroidered pillows on the couch. In front of the hearth there was a hand-hooked rug bearing the image of a Scottie. There were several framed cross-stitched pieces voicing corny sentiments. She followed my survey. “I used to do a lot of needlework until my joints flared up.” She lifted her right hand, displaying a twisted thumb and fingers that did a slow curve outward. It looked like she’d been tortured for information she’d refused to give. “I don’t quilt anymore in case you want one for yourself.”

  I folded a section of the quilt until the daisy-print fabric was foremost. “Actually, I’m curious about this fabric. Do you remember where you got it?”

  She glanced at the print. “I used to make clothes for my daughter.” She reached for a pack of Camels and extracted one. She flicked her lighter, but it took her two tries to make the flame touch the tip of the cigarette. “That was a remnant. Cheaper to buy that way. I used to check the bin at the fabric shop in town. It’s gone out of business now so you can save yourself a trip. Same time I bought that, I picked up six yards of royal blue taffeta that I offered to run up for Justine’s prom dress. She about had a cow. Said she’d kill herself before she wore anything homemade. She insisted on store-bought, so I made her pay for it. It’s like I told her, ‘Money doesn’t grow on trees, Justine.’ Kids these days don’t appreciate that.”

  “They’re embarrassed,” I said. “They want exactly the same clothes every other teenager has. That’s how they express their unique individuality.”

  “I guess. I had to make do with precious little once her dad ran out.”

  “When was that?”

  “Summer of 1969, somewhere around in there. Who keeps track? Fellow wants to take a hike, it’s good riddance.” She reached for one of her pill bottles and shook out a white tablet that she placed on her tongue. She picked up her highball and took a swallow, frowning slightly when she realized how watered down it was. “I’m on pain medication. Whiskey gives the codeine a little boost. Any rate, what’s this in relation to?”

  “I’m trying to identify a young woman who was murdered during that same period. When the body was found, she was wearing home-sewn pants made of this same daisy print.”

  Medora’s laugh was like a cough, hacking and full of phlegm. “I don’t know about a murder, daisy print or no, but I can tell you one thing. You got a big job ahead. Company must’ve made thousands of yards of that print.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, but I thought it was worth a shot. The girl I’m referring to would have been somewhere between fifteen and eighteen. This was late July, early August, of 1969. About five foot four, a hundred and twenty-five pounds. Brunette hair she probably dyed blond. She had prominent teeth and the eyetooth on this side was twisted. She’d had a lot of dental work done.”

  Her smile had begun to fade.

  “Does any of that sound familiar?”

  Medora crossed her arms and squinted against the smoke, cigarette held close to her face. “Years ago, I had a girl living with me sounds like that. Name was Charisse Quinn.”

  I felt my heart thump twice from the hit of adrenaline that shot through my veins. I’d run across the name before, but I wasn’t sure where. “What happened to her?”

  “Nothing as far as I know, except she flew the coop. I went in her room one morning and found her bed hadn’t been slept in and half her stuff was gone. She’d helped herself to my best suitcase, too. Of course, she stole just about anything wasn’t nailed down.”

  “The murdered girl I’m talking about was found in Lompoc. You know the area?”

  “Up near San Francisco?”

  “Not that far north. Closer to Santa Teresa.”

  “Couldn’t prove it by me. I don’t travel. Used to, but now I prefer to stay put.”

  “Why was she living in your home ?”

  “I was a foster mom-something like that. Reason she ended up with me is I had this woman lived next door asked if I’d help. She’d had a whole string of foster kids trooping through her place. County wanted her to take Charisse, but her husband wasn’t well and it was more than she could manage. She asked if I could open my home – that’s how she put it-‘open my home to someone less fortunate than myself. What a joke. Wilbur barely gave me enough to cover all the household expenses. At any rate, my neighbor told me Social Services paid close to a hundred and eighty dollars a month, so that’s why I agreed. Doesn’t sound like much, but every little bit helped.”

  “How’d the arrangement work out?”

  “Not that good. Girl was foul-mouthed and disrespectful, though, at that age, I’ll be the first to admit, Justine was the same. Her and me had troubles enough without Charisse sticking in her two cents’ worth.”

  “How long was she was with you?”

  “Five, six months, I’d guess. I believe she came here early March.”

  “Can you remember the date she disappeared?”

  Medora made a sour face. “I never said she disappeared. I said she took off.”

  “Sorry. That’s what I meant. When did she take off?”

  “July, I’d say. Doesn’t surprise me to hear she came to a bad end. She’s a wild one, that girl. Had a bad case of hot pants. Picked up boys every chance she got. Out until all hours. She’d come waltzing in here three in the morning, smelling like crème de menthe and marijuana. I warned her and warned her, but would she listen to me?”

  “What happened to her parents?”

  “Don’t know. I never laid eyes on that pair. Must’ve been druggies or something if the State had to step in.”

  “How old was Charisse?”

  “Seventeen. Same as Justine. Girls were both seniors. Of course, Charisse got kicked out of regular high school and sent over to Lockaby. That’s the school for dummies and delinquents.”

  Bemused, I thought back to my conversation with Eichenberger, the principal of Quorum High, who’d sworn up and down he remembered every student who’d ever passed through his doors. What a pompous old windbag. Charisse had not only been there, but she’d caused enough trouble to get tossed out.

  “You have other children?”

  “Just the one.”

  “And you were living here at the time?”

  “I lived here ever since Wilbur and I got married in 1951. We only have the two bedrooms, so the girls had to share. Imagine how popular that was.”

  “Must have been hard.”

  “Oh, they went through every kind of conflict – spats over clothes and boyfriends – the two went round and round like alleycats, spitting and hissing, fur flying. You never heard the like. Justine didn’t want Charisse hanging out with her friends and I could see her point. Always had to raise a fuss. Always had to have her way.”

  “Not
much of a charmer from the sound of it.”

  “She could be charming once she put her mind to it, but only if she wanted something.”

  “What about your husband? Where was he?”

  “Well, he lived here in theory, but he was gone half the time.”

  “What sort of work?”

  “He hired on at Sears in major appliances – dishwashers, refrigerators, things like that. Worked nights, weekends, and every holiday. Never got us a deal, but that was him in a nutshell. You’d think he could’ve got me a portable dishwasher at the very least. I had to do everything by hand. Probably why my joints went bad. Made my back hurt, too.”

  “So he left about the same time she did?”

  “I suppose so, though 1 never thought of it like that.” She frowned at me, taking a drag of her cigarette. “I hope you’re not saying he went off with her.”

  “I don’t know, but it does seem odd. If she was so hot for guys, why not him?”

  “He was close to fifty years old, for one thing. And I can’t think why he’d take an interest in someone her age. He never paid any attention to her as far as I could see. He’s a skunk, that’s for sure, but I can’t believe he’d sink that low. That’s – what do you call it? – statutory rape.”

  “Did he give you any explanation when he left?”

  She took another drag of her cigarette. “None. He went off to work one day and he never came home. He left before she did, now I think of it. I remember because he missed seeing Justine in her prom dress and that was June fourteenth.”

  “What’d you do when he left?”

  “Nothing. Gone is gone,” she said.

  “What about Charisse? Did you talk to the police when you realized she’d left?”

  “I went to see them that day. Police and the sheriff. I got county funds for her and I knew the social worker would have a fit otherwise. As it was, I had to return the next month’s check and with Wilbur gone, I came up short on the bills. Justine tried to tell me Charisse wasn’t to blame, but it was typical of her. She’d do anything she could to screw It up or someone else.

  “But you did file a missing-persons report?”

  “I told you, that day, though the deputy didn’t offer much encouragement. He found out she’d run off half a dozen times before. And like he said, with her eighteenth birthday coming up she’d be on her own, anyway. Said they’d do what they could, but he couldn’t promise much. He as good as told me to go home and forget about her.”

  “Which you did.”

  “What else could I do? I didn’t even know her mother’s name. I guess the social worker called the mother.”

  “You think that’s where she went, back to her mom?”

  “Don’t know and didn’t care. With Wilbur gone, I had my hands full just trying to make ends meet. In case you intend to ask, I never heard from her again. Him either. Far as I know, we’re still married, unless he’s dead. That’d be something, wouldn’t it?”

  “You have reason to think something might have happened to him?”

  “I’m saying, if he’s alive, you’d think he could have dropped us a card. Thirty-six years married, that’s the least he could do.”

  “What about Charisse’s social worker? What was her name?”

  “Don’t remember. It’s been too many years. Tinker, Tailor – something along those lines. I called and talked to her, and you know what she said? Said she never expected the arrangement to last; Charisse was such a pain. Not those words exactly, but that’s the gist of it. I thought, Oh, thanks. Now she pipes up, after all I went through.”

  “You must have felt terrible.”

  She coughed a thick laugh into her fist, pausing then to cough in earnest. She took a sip of watery bourbon and then recovered herself. “Especially when I found out Wilbur’d emptied all the bank accounts.

  Excuse me, are you about done here? Because if not, I intend to fix myself another drink –see if I can get some relief from this cough. That was my mother’s remedy – whiskey and honey – though you ask me, it wasn’t the honey that helped.”

  “Just a few more questions and then I’ll let you get some rest. How did Charisse travel? Do you have any idea?”

  “Wasn’t by bus. I know because police checked on that. I suppose she hitched a ride with one of those hoodlums she ran around with once she got to Lockaby.”

  “You remember any of their names?”

  “Couldn’t tell one from the other. They were all the same – skanky-looking boys with bad skin.”

  “You heard about the car that was stolen from the back of Ruel’s shop?”

  “Everybody heard. He was fit to be tied.”

  “Is there any chance Charisse took it?”

  “I doubt it. She didn’t drive. Never passed the test. I offered to help her get her license, but she didn’t get around to it. Afraid to fail, you ask me; worried she’d end up looking like a fool.”

  “How’d she get around if she didn’t drive?”

  “Bummed rides with Justine and Cornell and everyone else. That’s another thing got on people’s nerves. She was a mooch.”

  “Did she work?”

  “Her? That’s a laugh. I couldn’t even get her to pick up after herself.”

  “I know I asked you this before, but is there any way you could pin-point the date she left?”

  Medora shook her head. “I was just glad to have her gone. Does seem queer to think she’s been dead all these years. I pictured her married with kids. That or living on the street. Wonder who killed her.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out. Do you have a photograph by chance? I’d be interested in seeing how she looked.”

  “I don’t, but you might ask Justine.” She paused, coughing again with such vigor it brought tears to her eyes. “I can’t stand it. My throat’s killing me. You want a drink?”

  “No, thanks.”

  I watched Medora pour herself some whiskey, her hands shaking so badly she could scarcely lift the glass to her lips. She swallowed with relief and then took two deep breaths. “Whoo! That’s better. Whiskey’ll cure just about anything.”

  “Well, I guess that’s it. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help.”

  “You want my opinion, whatever happened to her? She brought it on herself.”

  I was on my way down her walkway, heading for Dolan’s car with the quilt over my arm, when I noticed a sedan had pulled in and parked at the curb. The door on the driver’s side opened and a woman got out. She tucked her keys in her purse and she was halfway up the walk when she caught sight of me and stopped. Her gaze flicked to the quilt and then back to me. This had to be Justine. She and Medora shared the same body type and the same pale flyaway hair. Though their features were unremarkable, I could see the resemblance; something in the shape of their narrow chins and their pale green eyes. Like her husband, Cornell, she appeared to be in her mid-thirties.

  “Excuse me. Are you Justine McPhee?”

  “Yes?”

  “My name’s Kinsey Millhone. I’m a private detective –”

  “I know who you are. I believe we have you to thank for the foul mood my father-in-law’s been in.” Her manner was an odd mixture of composure and agitation, her tone giving vent to something prickly lurking under the surface.

  “I’m sorry about that, but it couldn’t be helped.”

  She glanced toward the house. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was just chatting with your mother about Charisse.”

  Her expression was vacant for an instant and then I could see recognition spark. “Charisse?”

  “That’s right. I don’t know if Cornell mentioned this, but we’re investigating a murder…”

  “That’s what he told me, but surely you’re not talking about her.”

  “We don’t have a positive ill yet, but it does look that way.”

  “I don’t believe it. What happened?”

  “She was stabbed and her body was dumpe
d outside of Lompoc. This was August of ‘69. The sheriffs detectives worked the case for months without progress. Now they’ve decided it’s time to try again.”

  “But what brought you to Quorum? She was only here a few months.”

  “Following our noses. We were lucky to get some breaks.”

  “Like what? I’m sorry for all the questions, but none of this makes sense.”

  “I know it’s tough to absorb,” I said. “When I was at Edna’s, I spotted the quilt and realized the dark blue daisy print was a match for the victim’s home-sewn pants. Edna told me your mother made the quilt, so I came to see her. You thought she’d run away?”

  “Well, yes. It certainly didn’t occur to me the poor girl was dead. I’m sure Cornell and his dad would have helped you if they’d known who it was.”

  “Let’s hope that’s true. At this point, we’re trying to pin down events between the time she took off and the time her body was found.”

  “When was that again?”

  “August third. Your mother said she left in July, but she couldn’t remember the exact date.”

  “Charisse came and went as she pleased. I didn’t even realize she was gone until Mom started screaming about her suitcase. The pants you mentioned must’ve been the pair my mother made for me.”

  “Did you give her the pants or did she take those, too?”

  “I wouldn’t have given them to her. She always helped herself to my stuff.”

  “What about the other items she stole?”

  “I don’t remember anything specific. She had no scruples at all. She didn’t care who she hurt as long as she got what she wanted. The kids at Quorum didn’t want to have anything to do with her.” She adjusted the watchband on her wrist, glancing at the time as she did.

  “You have to go?”

  “I’m sorry, but we’re due at my in-laws for supper and I still have to pick up the girls. I stopped by to see Mom because she hasn’t been feeling well.”

  “What about tomorrow? I’d love to talk to you again.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. I wish I could help, but Ruel’s mad enough as it is. He’d have a fit if he knew I’d even said this much.”

  “You said he’d’ve been cooperative himself if he’d known it was her.”