Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

I crossed the room and sat down, introducing myself. “I’m looking for Mrs. Bishop.”

“She’s in district meetings all day, but maybe I can help. I’m Mrs. Marcum. What can I do for you?”

“Here’s the problem,” I said, and launched into the tale. I’d told it so often that I had it down pat; the search for Jane Doe’s identity in fifty words or less. For the umpteenth time, I described Jane Doe and the series of interviews that had led me to Lockaby. “Do you remember anyone like that?”

“Not me, but I’ve only been here ten years. I’ll ask some of the teachers. Mrs. Puckett, who teaches typing, doubles as the guidance counselor. She’d be the one who’d recognize the girl if anyone did. Unfortunately, she’s out today—we all get a mental-health day every couple of months. She’ll be in first thing tomorrow morning if you want to come back.”

“If she does recognize the girl, would you have her records somewhere?”

“Not going back that far. We had a fire here eight years ago. Between the smoke and water damage, we lost the majority of our files. It’s a wonder the whole place didn’t go up in flames. The fire department saved us. They were here in seven minutes and knocked it down in thirty before it had a chance to spread.”

“How’d it happen?”

“Fire chief said electrical. We had wiring that dated from the original construction—1945. He said it was a wonder it hadn’t happened before. Now we have smoke detectors, heat detectors, and a sprinkling system—the works. We’re lucky we weren’t wiped out. Happily for us, there weren’t any injuries or loss of life. Paperwork, who cares? It accumulates faster than I can file it.”

“The kids like it here?”

“They seem to. Of course, we’re a magnet for the trouble-makers—dropouts, truants, delinquents. We get them when everyone else gives up. We only have a handful of teachers and we keep the classes small. Most of our students do poorly in an academic setting. Basically, they’re good kids, but some are slow. Short attention spans. They’re easily frustrated and most of them suffer from poor self-images. With a regular high school curriculum, they lose heart. Here the emphasis is practical. We cover the basics—reading, writing, and math— but we teach them how to write a résumé, how to dress for a job interview, simple etiquette. Art and music, too, just to round them out.”

“Sounds like something every school should do.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

The phone on her desk rang, but she made no move.

“You want to answer that?”

“They’ll try back. I’m often out of the office and they’ve learned. You have a business card?”

“Sure.”

“Why don’t you give me a number. I’ll try to reach Betty Puckett and have her give you a call.”

“That’d be great.” I took out a card and jotted down the name of the motel, the phone number, and my room number on the back. “I appreciate this.”

“I can’t swear she’ll know the girl, but if she was ever a student here, I promise you, Betty dealt with her.”

“One more question: Dr. Nettleton seemed to think this girl was in a foster home, so I’m wondering if Social Services might help?”

“I doubt it. They closed that office years ago, and I have no idea how you’d locate the old files. It’d be Riverside County, but that’s as much as I know. You’ll have a battle on your hands. They’re worse than schools are about access to records, especially on a juvenile.”

“Too bad. I had hopes, but I guess not.”

“Sorry.”

“I’ll figure it out eventually. It’s just a question of time.” When I left Lockaby, I was no better informed, but I was feeling encouraged. Once in the car again, I sat for a moment, beating out a little rhythm on the steering wheel. Now what? In the confusion of the moment, I hadn’t thought to ask Dolan what he’d learned from the Quorum PD and the sheriff’s officeabout the old missing-persons reports. I’d ask him when I went to visit. I did a mental check of our list. The only item we hadn’t covered yet was the issue of the tarp and whether one had been stolen at the time the Mustang was taken. I started the car and backed out of the slot, took a left on the Kennedy Pike, and returned to town.

The McPhee’s redbrick ranch house looked deserted when I arrived—doors shut, curtains drawn, and no cars in the drive. I passed the house, cruising slowly, and at the next intersection, did a U-turn and drove back. I parked across the street. I disliked the idea of seeing Ruel again, but who else could I ask about the tarp? While I’d remained largely in the background during the impounding of the Mustang, he’d still associate me with his loss of face.