Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

“Well, that’s a new one.”

“Isn’t it? He says he used to see the two of them all over town. He swears Charisse had the hots for Cornell and sucked up to Adrianne to get close to him.”

“Kind of makes you wonder why Adrianne didn’t speak up. To hear Cornell tell it, he barely knew Charisse. Justine certainly gave me that impression.”

“It’s worth a chat with Adrianne if not the other two.”

“You want to do that while I talk to the painting contractor?”

“I’d rather you take care of both. My energy’s running low. I need a nap. As soon as you finish, stop by the motel. I should be up, and if not, feel free to wake me. We’ll go back to the hospital and let Dolan know what’s going on.”

Once Stacey and I parted company, I sat in my car debating which interview to do first. At the moment, I was more interested in hearing about Adrianne’s friendship with Charisse than I was in talking to Justine, Cornell, or the painting contractor. However, when I consulted the phone book, there were eight “Richards” listed, and Adrianne didn’t seem to be among them. I had no idea what her husband’s name was. Since it was Saturday, I knew she wouldn’t be at the school. Quelle bummeur. This brought the matter down to a toss-up between the painting contractor and the younger McPhees. Again, according to the phone book, I was only four blocks from Cornell and Justine’s, so they won by default.

Their house turned out to be a bright yellow board-and-batten, with white trim and diamond-paned windows flanked by dark green shutters. Pink geraniums grew in flower boxes across the front. The yard was enclosed by a white two-board fence. The two-car garage stood open, and I could see six-year-old Cissy and her two older sisters arranged in a cluster around Cornell’s workbench.

I parked in front and approached, moving up the driveway past a tangle of bikes. Cornell looked up, greeting me without interrupting his work. “Hey, how’re you?”

“I’m great. Is that a doghouse you’re building?”

“You bet, and I’m almost done as soon as I finish this roof. Girls are all set to paint it. You meet my daughters?”

“I met Cissy on Thursday. I saw all three of them at your parents’ house this morning.”

“Oh, that’s right. So you did. This is Amelia and Mary Francis.”

I said, “Hi.” I couldn’t tell which was Amelia and which was Mary Francis, but it probably didn’t matter. Most children seem interchangeable to me, anyway. “Is Justine at home?”

“Doing laundry. You can go in through there. Utility room’s just inside the door. Cissy, why don’t you show her where it is.”

I hesitated, tempted to ask him about Charisse before I broached the subject with Justine, but with his children present, it didn’t seem like a good idea. Cissy was tugging at my hand so I allowed her to lead me through the rear of the garage and into the utility room. She skipped back to her dad and his Saturday-morning project.

I found Justine in her sock feet, wearing an olive green sweatsuit. Her back was to me and she was cramming filthy blue jeans and work shirts into the washing machine. Beside her, the dryer was already in service, filling the room with a rich, damp heat while a garment with buckles clattered endlessly as it tumbled in the drum. I said, “I hope you don’t mind my dropping by without notice.”

She jumped and gave a yelp. “Shit, you scared me to death. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. Cornell suggested I come in this way. I guess he figured you’d never hear me if I rang the front bell.”

“What are you doing here?”

“The usual. I’m nosing around. Mind if we talk?”

“I’ve already told you everything I know.”

“Indulge me, okay?”

She stared at the floor, curbing her annoyance, but I could see her relent, albeit unhappily. “Let me finish this and we’ll go into the kitchen.”

She shoved in the last of the load of clothes, added liquid detergent and bleach, then closed the lid and set the program knob. She pushed the Start button. She washed her hands at the utility sink, drying them on a terry cloth towel she retrieved from the pile of soiled linens.

I followed her into the kitchen, which was immaculate, a far cry from her mother’s house with its grunginess and knick-knacks. I don’t know how women with active kids manage to keep a house picked up. She offered me coffee, probably to atone for her snappishness. I accepted with an eye to stringing out the visit. She poured me a mug and popped it in the microwave to heat. She was not a pretty girl. There was something washed-out about her looks, as though vital blood supplies had been suppressed for years, leaving her pale and depleted. The green sweatsuit added more color to her eyes than I’d seen before, but it still wasn’t much. The microwave pinged and she removed the mug.