Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

“Which means what?”

“Resistant, but less flinty. It’s a big improvement.”

The comment seemed patronizing, but I shrugged it off. Why take offense when she might not have actually meant it that way? I said, “It feels like unfinished business and that bothers me. Regardless of how it comes out, I’d like to think I’m doing the right thing.”

“That works both ways. We’re having to go back and revisit the past, which is good for all of us. The point is, we have time to work this out.”

“Thirty-two years of it so far.”

“So what’s thirty-two more? We can’t settle a long-standing quarrel in a few casual talks.” She glanced at her watch and then rose. “I have to get back to work. Did you finish the tour?”

I pulled myself up. “Essentially. I hoped I’d remember something, but I’m drawing a blank.” The two of us paused simultaneously to brush off the backs of our pants.

We crossed to the front door, our shoes making scratching sounds in the grit that had accumulated on the marble floor. She said, “What do you think of the place?”

“It must have been beautiful in its day.”

Tasha turned back, letting her eyes travel across the foyer and up the stairs. “You know Grand moved out shortly after Aunt Rita’s death.” Rita Cynthia Kinsey was my mother’s maiden name.

“I didn’t know that.”

“Granddaddy Kinsey was fit to be tied, but she finally got her way. That’s when they bought the house in town. You remember him at all?”

I shook my head.

“Maybe I can find some family photographs.”

“I’d like that. I don’t think I’ve ever seen pictures of anyone. Aunt Gin discounted sentiment as a form of sniveling. She refused to let either of us sink to such depths.”

“She was tough.”

“That she was.”

“Well. I better go.”

“Me, too,” I said. “I do have one request. I know you’ve already talked to your mother about me, but please don’t bring Grand into this.”

“My lips are sealed.”

It was 4:35 by the time I reached Santa Teresa. I made a stop at the public library, leaving my car in the adjacent four-story parking structure. My conversation with Roxanne Faught had raised unsettling questions, namely, what did she know and when did she know it? I wondered if there was any way to check. I trotted down the carpeted stairs to the periodicals room, where I asked the reference librarian for the microfilm records of the Santa Teresa Dispatch from the week of August 3, 1969. Since the body was found that Sunday, I didn’t expect the news to hit the paper for another day or two. Once I had the box of film in hand, I sat down at the machine and unreeled the strip, which I threaded under the lens, catching the sprocket holes. I hand-cranked it until the strip caught properly and then pressed a button and watched the Sunday paper speed by in a blur. My eyes picked up a remarkable amount of information on the fly. I bypassed the sports, the business section, and the classified ads. I slowed now and then just to see what was going on. The oil spill off the Santa Teresa coast was in its 190th day. Funny Girl and Goodbye Columbus were playing at the local movie theater along with Planet of the Apes. There was talk that Don Drysdale’s fourteen-year pitching career might be coming to an end because of a recurrent injury, and a Westinghouse 2-Speed Automatic Washer was selling for $189.95.

When I reached Monday’s paper, I slowed to a dead stop and scanned it page by page. On Monday, August 4, five column inches were devoted to the discovery of the body near the Grayson Quarry in Lompoc. Con Dolan and Stacey Oliphant were both mentioned by name, but there was little to report. The next day, August 5, in a column called “North County Events,” I caught the second squib. By then the autopsy had been done and the cause of death was detailed. The same few physical traits were noted—hair and eye color, height and weight—in hopes of identifying the girl. I cranked the reel forward, through Wednesday and Thursday of the same week. Thursday’s paper included a brief follow-up, with the same information I’d read in the initial account. Both gave a brief description of the girl’s clothing, detailing the dark blue voile blouse and the daisy-patterned pants. Neither article specified the color of the pants. I knew from police reports that the daisies were dark blue, a red dot at each center, on a ground of white, but if you relied strictly on this data, it would be natural to assume the daisies were “daisy-colored,” as Roxanne Faught had so aptly summed it up. Factoring in her certainty about the torn earlobe, the big feet, the big-boned wrists, and the closely bitten nails, I doubted the girl she’d dealt with was actually our Jane Doe. It was always possible, of course. Eye-witness testimony is notoriously shaky, easily influenced, subject to subtle modification with each telling of the tale. Roxanne had admitted she’d gone back to reread the very clippings I was looking at myself. I didn’t wholly discount what she said, but I wondered at its relevance to our investigation.Stacey had hoped to establish a time line, working backward from Roxanne’s encounter to Cloris Bargo’s sighting of the girl hitchhiking outside Colgate. Now Cloris had recanted and I suspected Roxanne’s observations were too tainted to be of use. I fast-forwarded. That same week, on August 9, five people, including film and television actress Sharon Tate, were found slain in a Bel Air home. Two days later, Leno and Rosemary LaBianca were discovered murdered in a manner similar to the Tate slayings. I tracked forward again, but there was no further mention of Jane Doe. I jotted a few notes on my index cards and then made copies of the news stories, paid for them at the counter, and returned to my car.