Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

I heard a door slam in the background.

“Same to you, bub!” Stacey yelled. “Anyway, I’ll call and let you know when I’m hitting the road. You can talk to the desk clerk and reserve a room.”

After we hung up, I put a call through to Henry. His machine picked up. I left a message, telling him I missed him and that I’d call back. I read for another hour or so and then ordered a pizza. I didn’t have the heart to go out and eat a proper meal by myself. Ordinarily, I like eating in a restaurant alone. But with Stacey and Dolan gone, the idea seemed alien. Pudgie’s murder had left me spooked. It was one thing dealing with a murder that had happened eighteen years before. Whatever the motivation, time had provided a lengthy cooling-off period. Life had gone on. The killer had managed to strike once and get away with it. I’d assumed there wouldn’t be a reason to kill again, but Pudgie’s death made it obvious how wrong I was. The stakes were still high. In the intervening years, someone had enjoyed a life that was built on a lie. Now we’d come along threatening the status quo.

I ate my supper and tossed the box in the trash. I watched a couple of television shows with annoying laugh tracks. At 9:00, I decided I might as well work. Keeping a systematic set of notes has its soothing side effects. I sat down at the desk and opened the drawer.

Things had been moved.

I stared and I then looked around the room, wondering if someone had come in. Not if. I wondered who’d come in and handled the contents of the drawer. The last time I’d taken notes must have been Saturday afternoon. Stacey and I had been to Creosote, stopping off at the Tuley-Belle on the way home. Once at the motel, we’d decided to take a break. I’d had a phone chat with Betty Puckett from Lockaby and then I’d showered, dressed, and started jotting down the tidbits— events, questions, and conversations. At the end of that session, I’d put a rubber band around my index cards and tossed them in the drawer on top of the murder book. Now they were underneath. It seemed a small matter, but my memory was distinct.

I picked up a pen and used it to lift one corner of the murder book so I could slide the cards out. I held the stack along the edges while I peeled off the rubber band. I’d left the top card upside down as a reminder to myself to have a second chat with Medora Sanders. Now the card was reversed, lined up in the same direction as all the other note cards.

Someone had been in here. Someone had handled the murder book and read my notes.

I got up abruptly, almost as though a shock had been administered through the seat of the chair. I circled the room, carefully scrutinizing every square foot of it. My duffel and the family photo album were in the closet untouched. Except for what was in the drawer, everything else was as I rememberedit. Had the maid tidied up? If so, why would she stop and read the index cards? The maid I’d chatted with had barely spoken English. It could have been another employee. There were probably different women who worked weekday and weekend shifts. Maybe the last maid who’d cleaned my room had been curious and had helped herself, thinking I’d never know. I had trouble believing it, but I couldn’t prove otherwise.

I rebanded the cards and returned them, using the tip of my pen to push the drawer shut. I didn’t think it would occur to anyone that I’d have such a clear recollection of how the contents of the drawer had been left. If it wasn’t the maid, then how had entry been effected? The room door was kept locked. I went into the bathroom and pulled a tissue from the box, then moved to the door and used the tissue to turn the knob. I examined the exterior of the door, the escutcheon and the face plate, but there were no gouges or scratches, and no evidence of forced entry. The windows were latched on the inside and showed no indications of tampering.

On the other hand, the means of access could have been simple. While the maid had been cleaning the room on Saturday, she’d left my door propped open with the pile of dirty sheets. She’d had her radio on in the bathroom, music blaring while she cleaned the toilet and the sink. Anyone could have slipped in and searched the desk, which was just inside the door. There wouldn’t have been time to read the murder book itself, but the cards were more important. My notes reflected everything I knew about the case and everything I considered relevant. By perusing my notes, someone could figure out where I’d been, who I’d talked to, and what I intended to do. There was an obvious advantage to anticipating my next move. Someone could step in before I’d had the chance to get the information I needed.

I closed the door and went back to the desk. I studied the stack of cards with Medora’s name on top. I didn’t think she knew anything she hadn’t told me before, but it might be smart to check with her. Briefly, I considered calling Detective Lassiter or someone else at the local Sheriff’s Department, but what was I supposed to say? My stack of index cards has been moved an inch? Gasp! I didn’t think they’d rush right out and dust for prints. At best, they’d come up with the same suggestion I had, that the maid had opened and closed the drawer in the process of cleaning my room. Big deal. Aside from the rearrangement of my belongings (which they’d have to take my word for), there wasn’t any evidence of a break-in. The room hadn’t been vandalized and nothing had been stolen, so from their perspective, no crime had been committed.