Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

I pulled my bag onto my lap and checked my notebook for the address I’d been given, then consulted the minimap. The town of Quorum was roughly twenty-five streets wide, transected by five big boulevards that ran east and west. A series of smaller east-west streets further defined a grid that made navigation easy. Dr. Nettleton’s daughter lived on Banner Way in a small subdivision on the northern outskirts. I released the hand brake and backed out of the space with caution, then eased the car through the lot and onto the main drag. Drive time was approximately four minutes.

The house number I was looking for turned out to be another one-story brick ranch set among full-grown trees. The two-car garage had been incorporated into the main structure, and I was guessing it now served as guest quarters. Large tubs of pink begonias were lined up across the porch with its wide overhang.

I rang the bell and waited. The door was opened by a woman in her late forties. I’d caught her in the middle of her morning exercise, pink-faced and out of breath. In the background, I could see Jane Fonda doing leg lifts.

“I’m looking for Dr. Nettleton. Are you his daughter?”

“That’s right. I take it you’re the private detective. Alana Gary told me you might be stopping by. Come on in.”

“I’m Kinsey Millhone.”

“Vonda Landsberg,” she replied. “Dad’s in his room down the hall, the last door on the right. If you don’t mind, I’ll let you find your own way.”

“Sure. Is he expecting me?”

“Hard to say. His mind is sharp, but his memory comes and goes. He can still beat the pants off my husband at chess, but he’s easily exhausted, so please don’t stay long.”

“Fifteen minutes tops.”

Vonda returned to her exercise mat while I went down the hallway to the back bedroom. The door was ajar. I pushed it open. Dr. Nettleton was sitting in a bentwood rocker, staring out the window, which was open about six inches. On the sill outside, someone had scattered sunflower seeds. A squirrel was perched up on its haunches peering in at him.

The old man looked ninety; frail and bent, hunched in his chair with a shawl across his knees. His face was long and his earlobes drooped like melting candle wax. Most of his hair was gone, but what he had was pure white and clipped close to his head. Flesh-colored hearing aids filled his ear cavities like flattened wads of bubble gum.

“Dr. Nettleton?”

Rheumy-eyed, he turned in my direction and cupped a hand behind one ear. “What say?” His voice was powdery and dry, as though dust had accumulated on his windpipe.

“May I join you?”

“Are you the visiting nurse?”

“I’m a private detective.” I spotted a small wooden desk chair that I pulled close to his. I sat down. He seemed perfectly accepting of my appearance on the scene. Perhaps at his stage in life, he’d given up the notion of personal boundaries and privacy. In a slightly elevated voice, I explained who I was and what I needed from him. As I talked, Dr. Nettleton kept his head tilted, his trembling right hand cupped behind his ear. “Come again?”

I pulled my chair closer and went through it again, speaking louder this round. I could see the intelligence in his eyes, though I wasn’t at all certain he was following me. When I finished, the ensuing silence went on so long I wondered if he’d caught any of what I’d said. The squirrel picked up a sunflower seed and nibbled rapidly, cracking the shell, tail twitching. Dr. Nettleton smiled with such sweetness I nearly wept.

“Dr. Nettleton?”

He turned his head. “Yes?”

“I was wondering about the girl. Did you ever have a patient like her?”

He pulled himself upright, staring at a spill of sunlight on the floor. “The last year I had my practice, there was one girl fits that description. I was forced to retire when I was seventy-five. Hands weren’t steady and I couldn’t take standing on my feet all day. I forget her name now, but I remember the fuss I made when I saw her teeth. Told her, ‘Cavities like that can undermine your health.’”

I blinked at him. Maybe he’d misunderstood. “She had the buckteeth I mentioned?”

“Oh, yes. Occlusion was pronounced and her upper left cuspid was pointed anteriorly and slightly outward. That’s this one right here,” he said, pointing to his eyetooth. “Left third molar hadn’t yet erupted and I warned her she might have a problem with it if it didn’t come through shortly. She had considerable plaque, of course, and her gums tended to bleed. Teeth spoiled her looks. Pleasant-looking girl otherwise, though if I remember rightly, she had behavioral problems.”