Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

“We’re not doing so well. Last I heard Edna had gone in, but none of the other four.”

“What’s up with that? I don’t like them thinking they can bypass us. Go back and threaten. Tell them it looks bad, like maybe one of them has something to hide.”

“So how’s Dolan doing?”

“He’s good. I’d say good. Doing better than I thought.”

“You think the living arrangements are going to work?”

“Jury’s still out on that. I could probably do worse— though, frankly, the guy’s a colossal pain in the ass. Of course, he says the same thing about me.”

“Makes you the perfect pair,” I said. “Better than some of the marriages I’ve seen.”

“Amen to that. What’s the latest down there?”

“I haven’t heard anything since I was at the Tuley-Belle last night, but I can stop by the sheriff’s office and talk to Lassiter.”

“Do that and call me back. I’ve been trying to get in touch with him, but so far no luck. Meantime, we’ll see what we can find out about Frankie’s whereabouts on Friday night.”

“Great. Tell Dolan I said hi. I really miss you guys.”

Stacey said, “Ditto. And you take care of yourself.”

I retrieved Dolan’s car and drove the few short blocks to the Sheriff’s Department. Todd Chilton and a civilian clerk seemed to be the only ones in. He was chatting with one of the church ladies I’d seen at Edna’s. She was in her seventies, wearing a pale green leisure suit. Her hair had just been done and it puffed out as nicely as a dandelion. She’d placed a parking ticket on the counter, and I waited politely while she wrote out a check and tore it from her register. I flicked a quick look at the name printed on the face of the check: Adele Opdyke.

“How are you, Adele? We met at Edna’s on Saturday. Nice seeing you again.”

“Nice seeing you, too.” She seemed flustered to realize I was standing close enough to see what she was doing. “Don’t go thinking this ticket’s mine. It’s my husband’s. He parked in a fire lane Friday night, late going to a movie. He’s always doing that. Doesn’t matter how many times I tell him not to.”

Deputy Chilton said, “Why are you the one paying? He’ll never learn this way.”

“You’re right, you’re right. I’m entirely too good to him. I should make him take care of it. It would serve him right.” She glanced at me. “You’re that private detective, but I forget your name. Edna told us all about the fabric in her quilt.”

“Kinsey Millhone,” I said. “Did you get that mailing out?”

“It’s done and it’s been delivered by now.” She turned back to Chilton. “How’s the investigation? That poor Cedric had a sorry life and what a terrible end.”

“We’re all working overtime, doing everything we can. Quorum PD’s pitching in so we’re on it.”

“That’s good.” She tucked her checkbook in her handbag. “Well, I’m off to run my errands. I wanted to get this done first before I forgot. Nice talking to you.”

As soon as she left, I said, “I was looking for Detective Lassiter, but I gather he’s not here.”

“He’s at the Tuley-Belle. The coroner thinks Pudgie was killed with a tire iron, which hasn’t turned up yet. Detective Lassiter thinks it’s possible it’s still out there—dumped or buried. Detective Oliphant left a couple of messages for him, but they’ll have to wait. I know he’s concerned about this business with the McPhees’ fingerprints, but we’ve got all our personnel at the crime scene, so even if they came in there’s nothing we could do.”

“Well. First things first. I’ll tell Stacey someone will get back to him later in the day. I’m sure he’d like an update.”

26

I sat in the car in front of the Sheriff’s Department, thinking about tire irons. As murder weapons go, the lowly tire iron has the virtue of being genderless and easily obtainable. Lots of people have tire irons. They’re probably not as common as a set of kitchen knives, but they’re cheap, readily available, have no moving parts, and no one would think to question your possessing one. You don’t need a license to buy one and you don’t have to worry about a three-day waiting period while your local hardware salesman runs a background check.

I’d seen a tire iron in the past week. I knew it was only one of millions in the world, and the chances were remote that I’d seen the very tire iron used on Pudgie’s head. Still, it seemed like a good mental exercise. Where had I seen tools? McPhee’s automobile upholstery shop, both in the two-car garage where he sat to smoke and in the second garage where Dolan and I had found the Mustang. Also Cornell’s garage where I’d seen him at work constructing a dog house for his daughters’ pup. The question was, did any of these locations warrant another look? It seemed like a waste of time except for the fact that I had nothing else to do. While Detective Lassiter and the deputies were out combing the area surrounding the Tuley-Belle, the killer might have scrubbed the blood and brains off the murder weapon and put it back where it’d been. So finding it wouldn’t mean anything and not finding it wouldn’t mean anything, either. Well, that was dumb. I decided to try something more productive.