Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

“No, no. Don’t worry about that. Arne called on Friday and said someone might be in touch. You want to know about the van I saw, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir. It is.”

“Tell you the truth, I didn’t say much at the time. I had a brother-in-law worked for the Sheriff’s Department—this was my sister Madge’s husband, fella named Melvin Galloway. He’s since died. Two of us never did get along. He’s a damn know-it-all. Had an opinion about everything and hear him tell it, he’s always right. I couldn’t abide the man. Might not sound Christian, but it’s the truth. I told him twice about that van, but he pooh-poohed the idea, said if he stopped to track down every half-assed theory the John Q. Public volunteered, he wouldn’t get anything else done. Not that he did much to begin with. He’s the laziest son of a gun I ever came across. After ’while, I figured I’d done what I could and said to hell with him. What struck me afterward was not the hippie van so much as that other car I saw. Snappy-looking red convertible with Arizona plates.”

“Arne mentioned the red car, but I got the impression it was the van you thought was suspicious. Did I get that wrong?”

“No, ma’am. I noticed the van on account of the paint job—peace symbols and that sort, in the wildest colors imaginable. It was parked right there in that fork in the road when I first became aware of it.”

“I know the location.”

“Reason the other car caught my attention was because I later read in the paper they recovered a stolen car matching that description.”

“You remember the make?”

“I don’t, but I saw that car on three occasions. First time near the quarry, just a little piece down the road, and the second time over town. I was driving to the doctor’s office to have a cyst removed and passed the wrecker pulling it up out of the ravine, all banged up. Looked like whoever took the car let the handbrake loose and pushed it down a hill into a bunch of brush. Must have hit a goodly number of trees on the way, judging from all the scratches and dents. Wasn’t spotted for a week, but the fella where I take my car for repairs was the one the Sheriff’s Department called when they needed it towed. I saw it at the repair shop the next day when I was having work done on my carburetor. That was the third time. Never saw it again after that.”

“I remember mention of a stolen car. Was there anybody in it when you saw it the first time?”

“No, ma’am. It was setting on the side of the road just inside the entrance to your grandma’s property. Top down, sun beating hard on those fine black leather seats. I slowed as I went by because I wondered if someone’d had engine trouble and had wandered off to get help. I didn’t see a note on the windshield so I drove on. Next time I passed, the car was gone.”

“Did you tell Melvin about that one?”

“I told Madge and she told him, but that’s the last I heard. I didn’t want to force my observations on a fella doesn’t want to hear. He’d have pooh-poohed that, too. Trouble with Melvin is he didn’t believe a thing unless it come from him.

He’s the type if he didn’t know something, he made it up. If he didn’t feel like doing something, he claimed he did it anyway. You couldn’t pin the man down. Ask him a question, he’d act like he’d been accused of negligence.”

“Sounds like a pain.”

“Yes, he was. Madge, too.”

“Well. I appreciate the information. I’ll mention this to the guys and see if it’s something they want to pursue.” Inwardly, I was still hung up on the fact that he’d mentioned my “grandma.” I never thought of Grand that way. I had a grandmother. How bizarre.

As though reading my mind, he said, “I knew your mama once upon a time.”

“Really.”

“Yes ma’am. You know Arne Johanson worked for the Kinseys from the age of seventeen. He was sweet on her himself, but Rita wouldn’t give him the time of day. He figured it’s because he was too old for her and then she up and marries your dad, the same age as him. He got his nose out of joint, I can tell you that. I told him don’t be ridiculous. In the first place, she was never going to take up with a cowpoke. Second place, she’d rather die than get stuck where she is. She was wild, that one, and pretty as they come. Restless as all get out. She’d have taken up with anyone to get off the ranch.”

“That’s flattering,” I said. In truth, this was the first concrete image I’d ever had of her. In that careless vignette, he’d captured the entire story of her life. My cousins, Liza and Tasha, had spoken of her in ways that seemed larger than life. She’d taken on the aura of family myth, a symbol of that legendary clash of wills. “I understand she and my grandmother didn’t get along.”