Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

“Oh, they tangled, those two. Rita was Cornelia’s pride and joy. I felt sorry for her in a way . . .”

“Who, my mother?”

“Your grandma. She liked to maintain she didn’t have a favorite among the five girls, but Rita was her firstborn and Cornelia doted on her. You know the story, I suppose.”

“Well, sure. I heard it once,” I said, lying through my teeth. Somehow gossip seems less pernicious if the person telling the tale thinks it’s one you’ve already heard.

“Cornelia married Burton Kinsey when she was seventeen, exactly half his age. That’s one more reason she didn’t want Rita to marry young like she did. She lost three babies in a row, all of them boys and not a one went to term. Rita was the first of her children to survive. Cornelia’s boys were stillborn. Only the girls made it through alive.”

“What was that about?”

“I don’t think the doctors determined the cause. In those days, medicine was largely good luck and guesswork. People died of diabetes until those two fellows discovered insulin in 1923. Folks died of anemia, too, until liver therapy came along in 1934. Think of it. Eating liver was a cure. We forget things like that; forget how ignorant we were and how much we’ve learned.” He stopped to clear his throat. “Well, now. I didn’t mean to run on at the mouth. Trouble with getting old is you lose all the people you tell your stories to. You let me know if that red car turns out to be anything. I’d like to have a laugh at Melvin’s expense after all these years.”

“Thanks for your time. I’ll be in touch.”

I replaced the handset in the cradle and headed for the elevator, which I took to 6 Central. The doors slid open and I stepped off just as Dolan approached, having exited Stacey’s room. He took a seat on a couch positioned under a window. The area wasn’t designated as a waiting room, but it probably served as a getaway for friends and family members who needed a break. He rose when he caught sight of me.

“Don’t get up,” I said. “What are you doing out here? I thought you’d be down the hall with Stace.”

Dolan sat down again on the couch. “The doctors are in there. Oncologist, radiologist, and another specialist nobody bothered to introduce.”

“What’s going on?”

“Beats me. All three had on those long medical faces so the news couldn’t be good. How’d the phone call go? Did you talk to Vogel?” He scooted over on the couch to make room for me. “Here. Have a seat.”

I perched on the near arm and propped my hand on the back of the couch. “For starters, in the small-world department, it turns out C. K. Vogel was Melvin Galloway’s brother-in-law.” I went on, summarizing the information C. K.’d given me about the red convertible.

“He could be confused. Frankie’s car was red.”

“I know, but he was very specific about it’s being a convertible with black leather seats.”

“Let’s run that by Stacey and see what he says. It can’t hurt to check.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the three doctors emerge from Stacey’s room. I pointed in their direction as they rounded the far corner and disappeared. “Looks like they’re done. You want to go down and find out what they said?”

“No. But I will.”

I let Dolan take the lead as we entered Stacey’s room, thinking that if Stace was upset, I could ease out without calling undue attention to myself. He was in bed, having cranked up the head so he could see the view. He had his knit cap off and I was disconcerted by the sight of his bare head. His hair was wispy, a cross between duck down and baby fuzz, scarcely half an inch long. The watch cap had given him an air of manliness. Without it, he was just a sick old man with a scrawny neck and ears that protruded from the bony shell of his skull. He turned from the view with a smile that came close to merriment unless you knew him. “Never let it be said God doesn’t have a sense of humor.”

Dolan said, “Uh-oh.”

“It’s really not too bad. No meningioma or neurofibroma; in other words, there’re no metastatic tumors along my spine. The business with my back’s benign. Probably a herniated disc, which is the result of degenerative changes not uncommon in a man my age. I’m quoting the doc here just in case you think I’ve started talking strange. The treatment of choice is bed rest, which is something I’m already well acquainted with. Analgesics, a mild tranquilizer, possibly Valium as you suggested. That doesn’t work, they go to plan B, which they haven’t laid out as yet. I’m guessing surgery, but they haven’t actually said as much. Doctor did suggest exercises to strengthen my back once the pain subsides. Fair enough. Unfortunately, the very same X-ray that showed my back problem’s no more than a pain in the ass also revealed a lesion. I’m supposed to be in remission, free and clear.”