Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

“Thanks. You’ve been a big help. Sorry you had so much trouble getting through to me,” I said.

I showered and washed my hair, wishing I could rinse off my confusion as easily with the water running down the drain. All the little bits and pieces, the subterranean links. It was like looking for a pattern in the Milky Way. After I was dressed, I sat down at the desk, where I hauled out a pack of index cards and started making notes. Once I’d jotted down everything that seemed relevant, I organized the cards in roughly chronological order, set the Smith-Corona on the desk, and typed up a report. Both Stacey and Dolan were capable of doing the same work and would have done so if pressed, but I was eager to see how the facts would arrange themselves. I could see the connections form and separate, though they made no particularsense: Pudgie working with Frankie; Frankie married to Iona; Pudgie dating Justine before her marriage to Cornell. Iona had grown up in the same town as Pudgie and had hung out with him in her youth. Cornell’s sister, Adrianne, had been friends with the murdered girl, always assuming, of course, that Charisse and Jane Doe were one in the same. Then there were Pudgie’s fingerprints on the stolen car. Now that was an interesting development. I sat and stared at the cards, thinking about the players.

It occurred to me that in 1969, I was only two years older than these “kids” were then. I’d fumbled my way through high school without once achieving academic excellence. I was never elected to class office, never played a sport, and never participated in extracurricular activities. I wasn’t a member of the band, the pep squad, or the chorus. Mostly, I walked around feeling glum and disenfranchised. I made unremarkable to mediocre grades, smoked dope, and hung out with other low sorts, undistinguished and unnoticed. Had I attended Quorum High School, Pudgie would more likely have been a friend of mine than Justine or Cornell. While Cornell was no longer a varsity hero, he was a decent, hard-working guy with a wife and kids to support. Justine was a full-time wife and mom; Adrianne now worked as an administrative assistant in the very high school she’d attended. And Pudgie was still busy getting sent to jail. As for me, I was now a (more or less) respectable, law-abiding citizen who shunned illegal drugs and refused to place burning objects of any sort between my lips. I wondered how Charisse had figured into the grand scheme of things. At least the rest of us had enjoyed the option of making better choices in later life than we’d made in our teens. All of her opportunities had ended in 1969, and one of the decisions she’d made had been her last.

Once I finished typing the report, I sat and shuffled the cards, playing the little game I always play. I laid them out randomly, then like a hand of Solitaire, watching to see how events would look when the chronological order became jumbled. The truth isn’t always immediately apparent, especially when it comes to murder. What appears to be a logical series of incidents might look entirely different when the sequence is turned on its head. The police are always working backward from the homicide itself to events leading up to the fatal blow. Except for random killings, which have become increasingly common these days, murders happen for a reason. There is motive—always motive. In nine cases out of ten, if you know why something happens, you’ll know the “who” as well.

I sorted through the cards again just to see if I’d missed anything. Of course, I’d forgotten to go back to Medora and ask why she’d waited a week to file the missing-persons report on Charisse. I placed that card on top of the stack, turning it upside down as a reminder to myself before I secured them with a rubber band. The point was minor and there was probably an explanation, but it was still a question that needed covering.

At 5:00, I tossed the pack of index cards in the drawer on top of the murder book, stacked the pages of my typed report, tucked them in a folder, and drove them to the local print shop, where I had two copies made. On my way back to the motel, driving east on Main Street, I caught a glimpse of Adrianne Richards heading for the local supermarket. She’d just parked her car and was walking from the side lot to the front entrance. I braked, glancing belatedly in the rearview mirror in hopes the car behind me wouldn’t climb up my tailpipe. I made a hard left-hand turn to the annoyance of several motorists, one of whom shook his fist at me and mouthed a naughty word. I made a sheepish gesture and blew him a kiss.

I parked and went in. I did a quick walking survey, canvassing the store aisle by aisle. I finally spotted her in the produce section, grocery list between her teeth while she picked through a display of cantaloupes. In her cart, she had a plastic basket of cherry tomatoes, two bunches of green onions, and a cauliflower that looked like a brain wrapped in cellophane.