Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

“You’re full of questions.”

“How can I help if you won’t say what you’re after?”

“Did he indicate how long he’d been in Lompoc before his arrest?”

Pudgie smiled. “I don’t get your fascination with a little puke like him.”

“I’m not fascinated with anything, except the truth.”

“Hey, come on. Tell me the game and I can play for keeps.”

I broke off eye contact. “Well, thanks for your time. Actually, I think that’s it.” I pinned the handset against my ear again while I gathered the mug shots and tucked them in the folder.

“Wait! Don’t go. We’re not done yet. Are we done?”

I paused. “Oh, sorry. I was under the impression you’d told me everything you knew. I didn’t want to waste your time.”

“It’s like this: I might remember more if we could sit and chat awhile. You know, small talk and like that. Ask another question. Maybe it’ll stimulate my brain.”

I smiled at him blandly, getting to my feet. “Why don’t you get in touch if you think of anything useful?”

“About what exactly? At least put me in the ballpark here.”

“I’m not going to feed you lines. If you don’t know anything, that’s fine. We’ll let it go at that.”

“Naw, now don’t get mad. How’s this? I’ll think real hard. Meanwhile, you come back later and bring a carton of smokes.”

“I’m not buying you cigarettes. Why would I do that?”

“It’s the least you can do, compensation for my time.”

I glanced at my watch. “Four minutes’ worth.”

“Smoking helps me think.”

I adjusted my shoulder bag, the handset still at my ear. “Bye now.”

He said, “Okay. Skip the carton. Three packs. Any kind except menthol. I really hate those things.”

“Buy your own,” I snapped.

“I’m out tomorrow. I can pay you back.”

“Quit while you can. That’s my advice.”

“What’s your name again?”

“Millhone. I’m in the book. If you can read.” I returned the handset to the cradle.

“I love you,” he mouthed.

“Yeah, right. I love you too.”

He winked and wiggled his tongue, a gesture I pretended not to see.

On my way home from the jail, I stopped at the supermarket to pick up items for Henry’s return. Traffic permitting, he was due back in town sometime between five and six. He’d left his car in long-term parking at the Los Angeles airport. I’d offered to take them down, but Henry, ever independent, had preferred driving himself. He and Rosie and William had flown to Miami, where they were joined by their older sister, Nell, age ninety-seven, and brothers Lewis and Charles, ages ninety-five and ninety, respectively. This morning, after two weeks in the Caribbean, they’d dock in Miami and three of them would catch a plane to L.A. while the three older siblings returned to Michigan.

I loaded my shopping cart with milk, bread, bacon, eggs, orange juice, bananas, onions, carrots, a four-pound roasting chicken, new potatoes, and fresh asparagus, along with salad mix and a fifth of Jack Daniel’s, Henry’s beverage of choice. Briefly I considered fixing dinner for him myself, but my repertoire is limited and I didn’t think pouring skim milk over cold cereal was that festive. Shopping done, I stopped at a corner kiosk a block from the market and bought a bouquet of zinnias and dahlias, a mass of orange and yellow with a ribbon tied around the stems. I could feel my energy lifting the closer I got to home, and by the time I unloaded groceries in Henry’s kitchen and put away the perishables, I was humming to myself. I arranged the flowers in a silver coffee server and set them in the middle of the kitchen table.

I did a quick circuit of the house. His answering machine was blinking, but I figured he could pick up any messages as soon as he came in. I went into his cleaning closet and hauled out the vacuum cleaner, a dust mop, a sponge mop, and some rags. I made a second circuit of the house, dusting and vacuuming. All I needed were the singing mice to keep me company. After that, I scrubbed the kitchen and bathroom sinks and ran the sponge mop across the kitchen floor until it gleamed. Then I went home and took a serious world-class nap.

I woke at 5:25, at first reluctant to leave the cozy swaddling quilt in which I’d wrapped myself. It was still light outside. The spring days were getting longer, and we’d soon have the equivalent of an extra half-day at our disposal. People getting off work still had time to walk the dog or to sit on the front porch with a drink before supper. Mom could take a moment to read the paper. Dad could mow the lawn or wash the family car.