Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

She held her hand out to Iona, who studied the smudge. She wet her index finger and rubbed it lightly on the smear of red polish, effectively smoothing it out.

Dolan said, “You must have known Pudgie well.”

“He mostly messed around with kids from somewhere else.”

“Except for weekends when he went off with you,” he said.

She looked up sharply. “We took some road trips, okay? He liked driving my car. Doesn’t mean I screwed him. We were friends.”

“Did he and Frankie know each other back then?”

“How would I know? I’m not in charge of either one of them.”

There was a tap at the door. “Iona, honey? Sorry to interrupt.” A woman stood on the porchlet, peering in at us.

Iona said, “My next appointment. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. We’ll wait and talk to you when you get off work.”

Annette scooted over from behind the table, her bare thighs creating fart sounds against the plastic seat. I stood up to make room for her while Dolan stepped outside. Annette was already chatting with Iona’s client, wagging her fingers in the air. “Hey, sugar, take a look. This is called Cherries Jubilee. The shade would look gorgeous with your coloring.”

The other woman, in her forties, didn’t seem that excited by the prospect, as her coloring was blah.

Annette clomped down the trailer step on her canvas wedgies and tucked her hand through Lieutenant Dolan’s arm. “Iona won’t be long. I’m working lunch today. Why don’t you walk me over to the Moonlight and have a bite to eat. It’s on me.”

I said, “Great. Let’s do that. What hours do you work?”

She said, “Usually lunchtime on. We’re open from five in the morning until ten at night. The only other restaurant is the Mountain View so people go back and forth, depending on their mood.”

The three of us walked down the rutted driveway and across the two-lane road. Once in the café, we had our pick of the empty tables. Annette said, “It’s mostly drinks and cold sandwiches. I can fry up some burgers if you want something hot.”

“Sounds good to me. How about you, Kinsey?”

“Fine.”

“What about something to drink? We have coffee, tea, Coke, and Sprite.”

Dolan said, “Coke, I guess.”

“Make that two.”

Annette took her place behind the counter. She turned on the gas burner under the griddle, removed two hamburger patties from the refrigerator, and slapped them on the grill. “It’ll just be a minute.”

Dolan said, “Things slow today?”

“Things are slow every day.”

She made a quick return trip with a dish of celery, carrot sticks, and green olives. She’d tucked a bottle of ketchup and a squeeze bottle of yellow mustard in her apron pocket and she placed those on the table as well. By the time she got back to the griddle, the patties were done and she assembled our plates. “I forgot to ask how you wanted these,” she said as she unloaded her tray.

“This is fine,” I said. I was busy doctoring my burger with mustard, ketchup, pickle, and onion. Not up to QP standards, but it would have to do.

Dolan said, “What are the chances she’s been in touch with Frank?”

“You think he might’ve had something to do with that young girl’s death?

“I have no idea. We were hoping Iona could help us fill in some blanks.”

Across the road at the trailer park, we could see a car pull onto the highway, turn left, and speed off with Iona at the wheel. Annette leaned toward the window, frowning slightly to herself. “Wonder what that’s about?”

Dolan bit into his burger. “Guess she doesn’t want to talk to us.”

13

We left the tiny town of Peaches at 2:00, when it finally became apparent Iona wouldn’t return. The ever-loquacious Annette had nattered away, answering every question we asked, though most of the information consisted of her own attitudes. It was clear she was no friend of Frankie’s, and I was reasonably certain she’d told us as much as she knew. Iona, on the other hand, had clearly left the vicinity to avoid being pressed. Annette wanted to believe she was done with Frankie Miracle, but I wasn’t so sure.

From Highway 14, we took Highway 138 as far as the 15, then angled our way down to the eastbound 10, otherwise known as the San Bernardino Freeway. Despite Dolan’s worries about his heart, there is quite literally no other way to get to Blythe. This 175-mile stretch of highway extends from the eastern edges of Los Angeles and crosses the state line into Arizona at Blythe. For close to three hours, Dolan kept his foot pressed to the accelerator while the road disappeared beneath us. The scenery became monotonous, the typical urban sprawl of tract housing, billboards, industrial plants, shopping malls, and railroad tracks. The highway was lined with palms, evergreens, and eucalyptus trees. We passed recreational vehicle “estates,” an RV country club, and an RV resort and spa. This was a long stretch of land where no one intended to put down roots. We stopped once for gas in Orocopia and I picked up a copy of the Mobile Home Gazette; sixteen pages of coupons for discount dinners, cruise specials, golf lessons, custom dentures, and early-bird bingo.