Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

“We’re looking for Felicia Clifton. Is that you?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Stacey Oliphant, with the Santa Teresa Sheriff’s Department, and this is Kinsey Millhone...”

Felicia closed her eyes. “If this is about Cedric, I’ll kill myself. I swear to god, I will.”

“He’s not in trouble, Ms. Clifton—at least as far as I know—but we’d like to have a word with him if he’s here.”

“Well, he’s not. He went out late last night or first thing this morning. I’m really not sure which. He didn’t even leave a note about where he was going or when he’d be back.”

“Would you mind if we stepped into the house?”

Felicia hesitated, scanning the street as though the neighbors might be peering through their curtains at us. “I guess I can’t have you standing in the yard.”

We found ourselves stepping directly into the living room, which was probably ten feet by ten. We could see the kitchen from where we stood, and I was guessing the rest of the house consisted of two small bedrooms with a bath between. The air was scented with cleaning products. I could see where she’d swabbed a wet mop across the kitchen floor, leaving residual streaks of Pine-Sol. I picked up whiffs of Pledge furniture polish, Comet, Lysol toilet bowl cleaner, and perhaps a soupçon of household bleach.

“Have a seat,” she said.

Stacey settled on the couch while I chose a bright yellow molded-plastic chair to his left. Felicia couldn’t quite settle down, and I wondered if she cleaned to calm her anxieties, as I sometimes did. She’d worked hard to make the place attractive though the furnishings seemed to be an odd assortment of seconds, thrift shop finds, and discount sales.

“What sort of work do you do?” Stacey said, trying to strike a friendly tone.

“I manage a dry-cleaning establishment. My whole life’s about that—cleaning up other people’s messes.”

Stacey said, “I imagine Cedric’s been a problem.”

“Oh, go ahead and call him Pudgie. Everybody else does. I don’t know why I insist on ‘Cedric.’ It’s ridiculous given the sort of person he is.” She perched on a plastic chair that was a mate to mine. She reached out and straightened a stack of magazines, then idly, took out her dust rag and ran it around the table, picking up unseen particles of dust.

Stacey cleared his throat. “Is it just the two of you?”

“Just us. He’s been a source of aggravation as long as I remember. Our parents split when he was only eighteen months old. Mom ran off with this guy who sold galvanized pipe. Daddy drank himself to death a little over two years ago. I was eight when my brother was born. Daddy was useless by then so I raised him myself. You can imagine how that went.”

“Tough job at that age.”

“You can say that again. I must not’ve done too good a job because Cedric’s been in trouble since he was nine. I know I should quit coming to his rescue, bailing him out, trying to get him on his feet again. It doesn’t do any good. His only talent is avoiding work; plus he sometimes steals cars.”

I said, “What’s he been doing since he got out of jail?”

“Same thing he always does. Drinks, smokes, borrows money from me, and lies around on his butt. Occasionally he helps out, but only if I scream loud enough. Then he’ll sometimes do dishes or he’ll grocery shop. I guess I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“Has he been looking for work?”

“Says he has, but in this town, there isn’t much to do.

There’s an opening at the Dairy Queen, but he thinks that’s beneath him. I don’t know where he got that. He’s down so low, there’s nothing under him as far as I can see. It’s only a matter of time before he blows it again. I don’t get how that works. Every time a guy screws up, there’s always some gal around to feel sorry for him. In this case, it’s me.”

“I know one of those,” I said, thinking of Iona.

“It’s guilt,” Stacey said.

“Is that it? Well, I guess. He always seems so sincere. Every time I look at him, I see him at nine. He got caught when he stole two silver picture frames from a neighbor lady across the street. What in hell did he want with two silver picture frames? Then he cried like a baby and swore up and down he’d never do it again.”

“How long did that last?”

“About a month. I forget what he stole next—something equally useless. I can lecture him all I like; scream and yell. He knows exactly what to say to reel me in again. He’s not dumb by any stretch, but he’s lazy as all get out. He does whatever works in the moment without a thought in his head about the consequence. I’m sorry, I don’t know how I got off on that. You want me to have him call you when he gets back?”