Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

Medora made a sour face. “I never said she disappeared. I said she took off.”

“Sorry. That’s what I meant. When did she take off?”

“July, I’d say. Doesn’t surprise me to hear she came to a bad end. She’s a wild one, that girl. Had a bad case of hot pants. Picked up boys every chance she got. Out until all hours. She’d come waltzing in here three in the morning, smelling like crème de menthe and marijuana. I warned her and warned her, but would she listen to me?”

“What happened to her parents?”

“Don’t know. I never laid eyes on that pair. Must’ve been druggies or something if the State had to step in.”

“How old was Charisse?”

“Seventeen. Same as Justine. Girls were both seniors. Of course, Charisse got kicked out of regular high school and sent over to Lockaby. That’s the school for dummies and delinquents.”

Bemused, I thought back to my conversation with Eichenberger, the principal of Quorum High, who’d sworn up and down he remembered every student who’d ever passed through his doors. What a pompous old windbag. Charisse had not only been there, but she’d caused enough trouble to get tossed out.

“You have other children?”

“Just the one.”

“And you were living here at the time?”

“I lived here ever since Wilbur and I got married in 1951. We only have the two bedrooms, so the girls had to share. Imagine how popular that was.”

“Must have been hard.”

“Oh, they went through every kind of conflict—spats over clothes and boyfriends—the two went round and round like alleycats, spitting and hissing, fur flying. You never heard the like. Justine didn’t want Charisse hanging out with her friends and I could see her point. Always had to raise a fuss. Always had to have her way.”

“Not much of a charmer from the sound of it.”

“She could be charming once she put her mind to it, but only if she wanted something.”

“What about your husband? Where was he?”

“Well, he lived here in theory, but he was gone half the time.”

“What sort of work?”

“He hired on at Sears in major appliances—dishwashers, refrigerators, things like that. Worked nights, weekends, and every holiday. Never got us a deal, but that was him in a nut-shell. You’d think he could’ve got me a portable dishwasher at the very least. I had to do everything by hand. Probably why my joints went bad. Made my back hurt, too.”

“So he left about the same time she did?”

“I suppose so, though I never thought of it like that.” She frowned at me, taking a drag of her cigarette. “I hope you’re not saying he went off with her.”

“I don’t know, but it does seem odd. If she was so hot for guys, why not him?”

“He was close to fifty years old, for one thing. And I can’t think why he’d take an interest in someone her age. He never paid any attention to her as far as I could see. He’s a skunk, that’s for sure, but I can’t believe he’d sink that low. That’s— what do you call it?—statutory rape.”

“Did he give you any explanation when he left?”

She took another drag of her cigarette. “None. He went off to work one day and he never came home. He left before she did, now I think of it. I remember because he missed seeing Justine in her prom dress and that was June fourteenth.”

“What’d you do when he left?”

“Nothing. Gone is gone,” she said.

“What about Charisse? Did you talk to the police when you realized she’d left?”

“I went to see them that day. Police and the sheriff. I got county funds for her and I knew the social worker would have a fit otherwise. As it was, I had to return the next month’s check and with Wilbur gone, I came up short on the bills. Justine tried to tell me Charisse wasn’t to blame, but it was typical of her. She’d do anything she could to screw it up for someone else.”

“But you did file a missing-persons report?”

“I told you, that day, though the deputy didn’t offer much encouragement. He found out she’d run off half a dozen times before. And like he said, with her eighteenth birthday coming up she’d be on her own, anyway. Said they’d do what they could, but he couldn’t promise much. He as good as told me to go home and forget about her.”

“Which you did.”

“What else could I do? I didn’t even know her mother’s name. I guess the social worker called the mother.”