Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

“Tarpaulins—Renting” referred me to “Rental Service Stores” and “Yards.” Of the seven companies listed, four offered heavy equipment: lifts, loaders, backhoes, hand tools, paint sprayers, scaffolding, generators, air compressors, and related items. The remaining three companies were devoted to party supplies, including canopies and tents. I turned a corner of the page down, thinking I might check into them later.

Under “Tarpaulins—Retail,” there was one company listed, Diamond Custom Canvas. The boxed advertisement went on at some length in the teeniest print imaginable, listing their products, which included: asphalt, lumber, lumite, mesh, polyethylene, steel haulers, vinyl-coated polyester, vinyl laminates, tarps, welding curtains, screens, blankets, roll systems, and drop cloths. The address was on Roberts, one block over from Main. I was still staring at the ad when Stacey reappeared.

I tucked my finger in the book to mark my place. “You were in there ten minutes? It didn’t seem that long.”

“Lady came in with a tray to draw blood so I hightailed it out of there.” He noticed the phone book. “Good reading.”

“Actually, it is,” I said. “Are you going back in?”

“Nah, he’s grouchy as all get out. I knew he’d turn sour if he didn’t get his fix. I think I’ll take a little trip to Blythe and see if I can find this Baum fellow. Shouldn’t take long; it’s twelve miles. You want to come along?”

“Nah, I’m going to try something else. Why don’t you drop me at the motel and I’ll pick up Dolan’s car? If you’re finished by noon, we can hit the Burger King in town and pig out on Whoppers.”

“Sounds like a good plan to me.”

Diamond Custom Canvas was part of a block of two-story brick buildings, constructed with shared walls, that ran between Twenty-third and Twenty-fourth. There were several warehouses, an abandoned furniture wholesaler, and a discount clothing outlet. Some of the businesses were padlocked shut and the few that were open looked as though they’d fallen on hard times. Diamond was the single exception. Though the location wasn’t a magnet for the walk-in trade, both phones were busy. I stood at one end of the counter, listening idly to one of the two clerks, who was engaged in a lengthy discussion about the volume discount on a shipment of lumite asphalt solid tarps. The second clerk finished her conversation, got up, and disappeared through a side door. While I waited for assistance, I took a visual tour of the place.

The interior was one vast, gloomy room, twice as long as it was wide. The pressed-tin ceiling was two stories high, with long banks of hanging fluorescent lights. On the left, an ornate wooden stairway, painted an odd shade of turquoise, curved upward to the second floor. Across the back wall, two courses of glass blocks let in a muted light. I could see water marks streaking down the wall, some long-ago plumbing leak or possibly a hole in the roof.

I picked up and studied a pamphlet that listed the part numbers, cut size, UPC codes, and weights of various twelve-ounce olive-drab tarpaulins. The twenty-by-thirty weighed seventy-nine pounds—tough to tote around, I thought. The tan ten-ounce tarps seemed to be lighter, but I was already worried they wouldn’t hold up as well.

The second clerk came out of the back room. Glancing up, she spotted me and crossed to the counter. “May I help you?”

She was probably in her fifties, with heavy eye makeup and dyed black hair that she’d pulled up in a swirl on top. She wore jeans, a sweatshirt, and a pair of black spike-heel boots. Her fingernails were long, perfect ovals, painted dark red with a thin white stripe across each. I was reminded briefly of Iona and I wondered if she’d developed an expertise in nail art.

I said, “I know this is a weird request, but I hope you’ll bear with me.” I told her about Jane Doe and the tarp that was found when the body came to light. I did a quick summary of our reasons for believing the victim was local and our suspicion that the murder and/or abduction might have taken place down here. “I keep thinking if we could find out about the tarp, we might get a line on the guy.”

“You mean what kind of work he did?”

“Something like that. If he did painting or drywall . . .”

“Not drywall,” she said. “Those guys usually use a big roll of paper. It would help if I knew the material the tarp was made of. Are you talking about duck, cotton, acrylic, or a blend?”

“Well, I don’t really know and that’s the point. Looking at this brochure, I can see you make hundreds of tarps, so the question’s probably absurd.”