Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

“Like what?”

“Not sure. Something off about her. She’d been taken from her natural parents and placed in foster care. Must’ve had their hands full with her. Boisterous. Inappropriate. I believe she had a tendency to take things that weren’t hers. She’d come in for an appointment and the next thing we knew, the stapler’d be missing or the paper clip dispenser. I took care of her fillings and then referred her to Dr. Spears for orthodontic evaluation. Don’t know what happened to her after that. Doubt she had the work done. Didn’t seem the type. Pity, if you ask me.”

“Can you remember the name of the foster family?”

His focus shifted to the wall. “Not offhand. They weren’t patients of mine. I forget now who they went to.”

“What about the girl? Do you remember her name—first, last? Anything that might help?”

He gave his head a shake like a horse irritated by a fly. “I had to sedate her to get the work done and that affected her badly. Sometimes happens. Made her wild. I did one quadrant at a time, but she fought me every step. Novocaine didn’t seem to take either. I must have stuck her four times for every tooth I filled.”

I wiped my damp palm casually against my jeans, my dental phobia and my needle phobia having collided midair. “Did she attend the local high school?”

“Must have. State law. Pretty girl I’d say until she opened her mouth. Bad teeth spoil your looks and I told her so. Uncooperative. Missed two appointments and she came late for the ones she made. My hygienist could have told you the name, but she died. Can’t believe I outlived her. Fit as a fiddle; worked for me thirty-two years and never took a sick day.”

“What’d she die of?” I said, sidetracked.

“Heart. Weeding a pansy bed and toppled over sideways. She was out like a light. Yard work’ll do that. Wretched way to spend time. I prefer indoors. Always have.”

“Anything else about the girl?”

He squinted at me, shifting in his chair. “What’s that?”

I said, “Anything else about the girl?”

He studied his hands, which seemed to move of their own accord, plucking at the shawl. “I remember the foster mother raised a fuss about the bill. Sent to her in error; a simple clerical mistake. You should have heard her carry on. Had my office girl in tears. I never liked the woman after that. She’d bring the girl in, but I wouldn’t go out to greet her like I did everyone else. Figured she could sit there by herself. My hygienist was the one who said the woman drank. Can’t understand how Social Services considered her fit. She wasn’t, in my opinion, but then they never asked me what I thought.” He was silent for a moment. “That’s all.”

I touched his arm. “Thanks so much. This has been a big help. I’ll leave my phone number with your daughter. You can have her call me if you think of anything else.”

His wandering gaze met mine. “You play chess?”

“I don’t, but I hear you’re good at it.”

“I should be. My pa taught me when I was seven and now I’m ninety-three years old. Son-in-law plays badly. Hasn’t got the head for it, if you know what I mean. Requires you to think. You have to plan in advance, maybe ten to fifteen moves. I’d be happy to teach you if you have a desire to learn.”

“I’m afraid not, but thanks.”

“All right.” He was silent briefly and then pointed a dancing index finger at a jar on the chest of drawers. “You might fetch a few more sunflower seeds for that squirrel. Good company for me. More personality than some folks I’ve known and he’s easily amused.”

I sprinkled a handful of seeds on the ledge. Dr. Nettleton was already sinking, the energy fading from his face. As I opened the door, he said, “Don’t remember your name, but I thank you for the visit. I enjoyed the conversation and hope you did, too.”

“Believe me, I did.” I wanted to put him in the car and take him with me. I waved from the door, but I don’t think he caught the gesture.

I headed back to the motel. Surely we were on the right track. While Dr. Nettleton couldn’t supply the name, the details he’d given me were consistent with what we knew. A thought struck me—a quick stop I could make before I reconnected with Dolan. I slowed the car and then pulled over to the curb. I picked up my map and looked for a small black square with a tiny flag on top. I did a U-turn on Chesapeake and drove back in the direction I’d been coming from.

Quorum High, which was part of the Unified School District, occupied a flat, two-block stretch of land on the north-east side of town. The grass looked patchy and the flagpole was bare. The classrooms were dispersed among a number of low-slung outbuildings that appeared to be prefabricated, with walls you could probably pierce with an X-Acto knife. I counted six trees on campus; not enough to pass for landscaping, but sufficient to offer the occasional shallow puddle of shade. The administration building looked like the first story of something far more grand. Maybe the school was in the process of raising funds, driving everyone insane with endless telethons on the local TV station. People will pay big bucks to get their regular programs back: sitcoms and soaps instead of all those amateur rock bands playing songs they’ve written without training of any kind.