Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

I folded a section of the quilt until the daisy-print fabric was foremost. “Actually, I’m curious about this fabric. Do you remember where you got it?”

She glanced at the print. “I used to make clothes for my daughter.” She reached for a pack of Camels and extracted one. She flicked her lighter, but it took her two tries to make the flame touch the tip of the cigarette. “That was a remnant. Cheaper to buy that way. I used to check the bin at the fabric shop in town. It’s gone out of business now so you can save yourself a trip. Same time I bought that, I picked up six yards of royal blue taffeta that I offered to run up for Justine’s prom dress. She about had a cow. Said she’d kill herself before she wore anything homemade. She insisted on store-bought, so I made her pay for it. It’s like I told her, ‘Money doesn’t grow on trees, Justine.’ Kids these days don’t appreciate that.”

“They’re embarrassed,” I said. “They want exactly the same clothes every other teenager has. That’s how they express their unique individuality.”

“I guess. I had to make do with precious little once her dad ran out.”

“When was that?”

“Summer of 1969, somewhere around in there. Who keeps track? Fellow wants to take a hike, it’s good riddance.” She reached for one of her pill bottles and shook out a white tablet that she placed on her tongue. She picked up her highball and took a swallow, frowning slightly when she realized how watered down it was. “I’m on pain medication. Whiskey gives the codeine a little boost. Any rate, what’s this in relation to?”

“I’m trying to identify a young woman who was murdered during that same period. When the body was found, she was wearing home-sewn pants made of this same daisy print.”

Medora’s laugh was like a cough, hacking and full of phlegm. “I don’t know about a murder, daisy print or no, but I can tell you one thing. You got a big job ahead. Company must’ve made thousands of yards of that print.”

“I’m sure you’re right, but I thought it was worth a shot. The girl I’m referring to would have been somewhere between fifteen and eighteen. This was late July, early August, of 1969. About five foot four, a hundred and twenty-five pounds. Brunette hair she probably dyed blond. She had prominent teeth and the eyetooth on this side was twisted. She’d had a lot of dental work done.”

Her smile had begun to fade.

“Does any of that sound familiar?”

Medora crossed her arms and squinted against the smoke, cigarette held close to her face. “Years ago, I had a girl living with me sounds like that. Name was Charisse Quinn.”

I felt my heart thump twice from the hit of adrenaline that shot through my veins. I’d run across the name before, but I wasn’t sure where. “What happened to her?”

“Nothing as far as I know, except she flew the coop. I went in her room one morning and found her bed hadn’t been slept in and half her stuff was gone. She’d helped herself to my best suitcase, too. Of course, she stole just about anything wasn’t nailed down.”

“The murdered girl I’m talking about was found in Lompoc. You know the area?”

“Up near San Francisco?”

“Not that far north. Closer to Santa Teresa.”

“Couldn’t prove it by me. I don’t travel. Used to, but now I prefer to stay put.”

“Why was she living in your home?”

“I was a foster mom—something like that. Reason she ended up with me is I had this woman lived next door asked if I’d help. She’d had a whole string of foster kids trooping through her place. County wanted her to take Charisse, but her husband wasn’t well and it was more than she could manage. She asked if I could open my home—that’s how she put it—‘open my home to someone less fortunate than myself.’ What a joke. Wilbur barely gave me enough to cover all the household expenses. At any rate, my neighbor told me Social Services paid close to a hundred and eighty dollars a month, so that’s why I agreed. Doesn’t sound like much, but every little bit helped.”

“How’d the arrangement work out?”

“Not that good. Girl was foul-mouthed and disrespectful, though, at that age, I’ll be the first to admit, Justine was the same. Her and me had troubles enough without Charisse sticking in her two cents’ worth.”

“How long was she was with you?”

“Five, six months, I’d guess. I believe she came here early March.”

“Can you remember the date she disappeared?”