Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

“You think that’s where she went, back to her mom?”

“Don’t know and didn’t care. With Wilbur gone, I had my hands full just trying to make ends meet. In case you intend to ask, I never heard from her again. Him either. Far as I know, we’re still married, unless he’s dead. That’d be something, wouldn’t it?”

“You have reason to think something might have happened to him?”

“I’m saying, if he’s alive, you’d think he could have dropped us a card. Thirty-six years married, that’s the least he could do.”

“What about Charisse’s social worker? What was her name?”

“Don’t remember. It’s been too many years. Tinker, Tailor—something along those lines. I called and talked to her, and you know what she said? Said she never expected the arrangement to last; Charisse was such a pain. Not those words exactly, but that’s the gist of it. I thought, Oh, thanks. Now she pipes up, after all I went through.”

“You must have felt terrible.”

She coughed a thick laugh into her fist, pausing then to cough in earnest. She took a sip of watery bourbon and then recovered herself. “Especially when I found out Wilbur’d emptied all the bank accounts. Excuse me, are you about done here? Because if not, I intend to fix myself another drink—see if I can get some relief from this cough. That was my mother’s remedy—whiskey and honey—though you ask me, it wasn’t the honey that helped.”

“Just a few more questions and then I’ll let you get some rest. How did Charisse travel? Do you have any idea?”

“Wasn’t by bus. I know because police checked on that. I suppose she hitched a ride with one of those hoodlums she ran around with once she got to Lockaby.”

“You remember any of their names?”

“Couldn’t tell one from the other. They were all the same— skanky-looking boys with bad skin.”

“You heard about the car that was stolen from the back of Ruel’s shop?”

“Everybody heard. He was fit to be tied.”

“Is there any chance Charisse took it?”

“I doubt it. She didn’t drive. Never passed the test. I offered to help her get her license, but she didn’t get around to it. Afraid to fail, you ask me; worried she’d end up looking like a fool.”

“How’d she get around if she didn’t drive?”

“Bummed rides with Justine and Cornell and everyone else.

That’s another thing got on people’s nerves. She was a mooch.”

“Did she work?”

“Her? That’s a laugh. I couldn’t even get her to pick up after herself.”

“I know I asked you this before, but is there any way you could pinpoint the date she left?”

Medora shook her head. “I was just glad to have her gone. Does seem queer to think she’s been dead all these years. I pictured her married with kids. That or living on the street. Wonder who killed her.”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. Do you have a photograph by chance? I’d be interested in seeing how she looked.”

“I don’t, but you might ask Justine.” She paused, coughing again with such vigor it brought tears to her eyes. “I can’t stand it. My throat’s killing me. You want a drink?”

“No, thanks.”

I watched Medora pour herself some whiskey, her hands shaking so badly she could scarcely lift the glass to her lips. She swallowed with relief and then took two deep breaths. “Whoo! That’s better. Whiskey’ll cure just about anything.”

“Well, I guess that’s it. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help.”

“You want my opinion, whatever happened to her? She brought it on herself.”

I was on my way down her walkway, heading for Dolan’s car with the quilt over my arm, when I noticed a sedan had pulled in and parked at the curb. The door on the driver’s side opened and a woman got out. She tucked her keys in her purse and she was halfway up the walk when she caught sight of me and stopped. Her gaze flicked to the quilt and then back to me. This had to be Justine. She and Medora shared the same body type and the same pale flyaway hair. Though their features were unremarkable, I could see the resemblance; something in the shape of their narrow chins and their pale green eyes. Like her husband, Cornell, she appeared to be in her mid-thirties.

“Excuse me. Are you Justine McPhee?”

“Yes?”

“My name’s Kinsey Millhone. I’m a private detective—”