Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

“Yes, she was.”

I shook my head. “I read the autopsy report.”

She stared at me, a hand lifting to her mouth as though pulled by strings. “Oh, shit. She made it up?”

“Apparently. So when she disappeared, what’d you think? That she’d gone off on her own to spare him the disgrace?”

“I didn’t know she was lying. I thought she might have decided to have an abortion.”

“If she’d been pregnant in the first place.”

There was another long silence and I stepped in again. “When you heard Medora’d filed a missing-persons report, weren’t you worried they’d find her?”

“I hoped they wouldn’t, but it did worry me.”

“But there might have been a way to head them off.”

“Head who off?”

“The cops who were looking for her.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“The phone call.”

She looked at me blankly, but I didn’t know her well enough to know if she was faking.

I said, “Someone called the Sheriff’s Department, claiming to be Charisse’s mother, saying she was home again, alive and well. The Lompoc Sheriff’s Department and the one down here were on the verge of linking the two—the missing girl and Jane Doe. Then the call came in and that was the end of that.”

“Well, it wasn’t me. I swear. I didn’t call anyone.”

“I’m not the one you have to persuade.” I got up and brushed off the back of my pants. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“I sincerely hope not.”

I went into the kitchen, feeling hyped up and tense. I was treading dangerous ground, but I couldn’t help myself. These people had been sitting on their secrets far too long. It was time to kick in a few doors and see who’d been hiding what. I wondered where Cornell was the night that Pudgie was killed. That was a subject worth pursuing.

In my absence, someone had drained off my entire cup of wine. I tossed the empty plastic in a trash can. As I went into the hall, I glanced into the bedroom Pudgie must have occupied. There was a single bed, covered with a plain spread, the blanket and pillow stacked together at the foot. The room had all the cozy charm of a jail cell. There were no curtains at the window, and the plain white shade had been pulled down halfway. No pictures, no personal possessions. The closet door stood open, revealing an empty hanging rod. Felicia must have swept through, boxing up everything he owned, and then called the Goodwill. I felt a pang of disappointment. Given my curious nature, I’d hoped for the opportunity to search his things. I wasn’t even sure what I thought I’d find— some sense of who he was, some feeling for why he’d died. I didn’t imagine he’d left a note about his final rendezvous, but there might have been a hint of what he’d meant to do in life.

“Bleak,” someone said.

I turned. Justine was standing to my left, making the same sad assessment of the room that I had. I saw her gaze linger on my jacket. “What.”

“Nothing. I used to have a jacket just like that.”

“Really? I’ve had this old thing for years.” I felt a spark of fear and a second lie sprung to my lips. “Hey, what was Cornell up to Friday night? I thought I saw him downtown about ten.”

She gave me a little smile of negation and bafflement. “He was home with the kids. I was out doing stuff for church.”

“He was home alone?”

“Not at all. The kids were there. I told you that.”

“Well, that’s odd. You sure he didn’t pop out to get a video? I could have sworn it was him.”

“It couldn’t have been. I went out at nine after the girls were in bed. He was folding laundry when I left and sacked out on the couch when I got home at midnight.”

“The church is open that late?”

“I wasn’t at the church. I was over at Adele’s, working on a mailing. That’s why he ended up baby-sitting.”

“I thought they did the mailing Saturday at Edna’s.”

“They finished it then. We started Friday night.”

I didn’t point out that Cornell could have driven to Creosote and back in an hour, with plenty of time left for a stop at the Tuley-Belle to deliver forty whacks to Pudgie’s head. She could have done it, too. Three hours would have been more than adequate. I tried to remember what Adele had said when she paid her husband’s parking citation. He’d been ticketed Friday night because he was late for a movie, but I couldn’t remember if she said she’d been with him or not. Changing the subject, I said, “You want some wine? I’m out. I’ll be happy to bring you some.”