Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

Iona began to tidy up her work space. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“Did you know Cathy Lee yourself?” Dolan was clearly working to maintain the contact now that she’d decided to talk.

“Sure. Frankie’d picked up a job painting this house for a friend of his so we’d moved in next door to her the week before. She was a tease, hanging out in her bikini, shaking her tits at him when he was out in the yard. Frankie felt terrible about what happened. He said he wished he could undo it, but by then it was too late.”

“I heard you went back to him when the case went to trial. What was that about?”

“He needed me, that’s what. Everybody else turned their backs on him.”

“Iona’s just like me. Can’t resist a wounded bird. Lars was the pits. Had to count everything. He was great for chopping onions—one, two, three, four, five . . .”

“Is that it, Iona? You see Frankie as a wounded bird?”

“He’s a good person when he’s sober and off drugs.”

“Did he ever talk to you about what happened after Cathy Lee was killed?”

“Like what?”

“I’m wondering what he did between the time he killed Cathy Lee and the time the cops picked him up. There’s a two-day gap when we don’t know where he was.”

Iona shrugged. “Beats me. Frankie and I were busted up by then.”

Annette said, “Shortest marriage on record. Divorce took six times longer, didn’t it?”

Iona declined a response, speaking to Dolan instead. “I don’t know what he did or where he went after I moved out.”

“Baby, I thought you said he ended up at your place. ’Member that? You’d moved into that studio apartment in Santa Teresa . . .”

“Mom.”

“Well, why can’t you tell him that if it’s the truth? Believe me, Lieutenant, Iona knows better than to aid and abet. She fed him a meal and let him stay the night and then said he had to hit the road. I begged her to call the sheriff, but it was no, no, no. She was scared if she turned him in, he’d come back and retaliate.”

“Mother, is there any way you could just shut the fuck up?”

“I’m trying to be helpful. You might think about that yourself. Now what’s this about, Lieutenant?”

“We think he had contact with a young girl hitchhiking in the Lompoc area. It’s possible he picked her up on his way to see his dad.”

“Oh my lord. You don’t mean to tell me he killed someone else?”

“That remains to be seen. Her body was dumped in a quarry on the outskirts of town. Right now, we’re trying to find out who she is.”

Iona stared at him. I thought she was on the verge of volunteering information, but she seemed to catch herself. “Why didn’t you ask him, if you saw him yesterday?”

Dolan smiled. “He said he couldn’t remember. We thought he might’ve said something about her to you.”

Iona focused her attention on her mother’s nails. “First I’ve heard.”

When it was clear she wasn’t going to say more, Dolan glanced at Annette. “I’m curious how the two of you ended up in Peaches.”

She took another drag of her cigarette. “Originally, we’re from a little town out near Blythe. Iona’s grandparents—I’m talking now about my mom and dad—invested in sixty acres; must have been 1946. What we’re sitting on right now is the only parcel left. I was the one had the idea for a trailer park after they passed on. It seemed like a smart move since we already owned the land. We each have our own place and the four other tenants pay rent. I work part-time over at the café; Iona has this business, so the two of us get by.”

“What town?” I asked.

She looked at me with surprise, as though she’d forgotten I was there. “Come again?”

“What town are you from?”

“Oh. Little burg called Creosote. You probably never heard of it. Two miles this side of the Arizona line.”

“You’re kidding. I met someone else from Creosote just two days ago. A guy named Pudgie Clifton.”

Iona’s dark gaze strayed to mine.

Annette perked right up. “Oh, Iona’s known Pudgie since elementary school. Isn’t he the fella you dated before Frank?”

“We didn’t date, Mom. We hung out. There’s a big difference.”

“Looked like dating to me. You went off and stayed weekends with him if memory serves.” When Annette reached for her cigarette again, her hand brushed against the edge of the ashtray, dinging her freshly painted nail. “Oh, shit. Now lookit what I’ve done.”