Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

“You didn’t believe ’em when they said math would be useful later in your life?”

“Not even a little bit.”

In the doorway, Chris Kovach cleared her throat and pointed to her watch.

“We’re just going,” Stacey said, rising from his chair.

“You can come back tomorrow, but only one at a time.”

Stacey followed me to the motel in his rental car and we parked in adjoining slots. I walked with him to Dolan’s room and gave him the key. He unlocked the door and put his duffel on a chair. The room had been made up and the furniture was back in place. It was 9:25 and I was ready to say good-night, assuming he was tired and wanted to hit the sack. “If you like, we can have breakfast together. What time do you get up?”

“Not so fast. I drove straight to the hospital after hours on the road. I haven’t had my dinner yet. Wasn’t that an Arby’s I saw out on Main?”

“Sure, but the Quorum Inn’s still open. Wouldn’t you prefer a regular sit-down meal?”

“Arby’s has tables. I’ve never had an Arby-Q. Isn’t that what they’re called? Now you’ve introduced me to fast food, I have some catching up to do.”

I sat with Stacey, watching him plow through an Arby-Q, two orders of curly fries, and a roast beef sandwich, oozing a yellow sauce that was rumored to be cheese. He looked as if he’d picked up a few pounds in the days since I’d seen him last. “You do this often?”

“Couple times a day. I found a cab company that delivers fast food, sort of like Meals on Wheels. Geez, this is great. I feel like a new man. I never would have known if you hadn’t turned me on to this stuff.”

“Happy to be of help. Personally, I never thought of junk food as life-affirming, but there you have it.”

Stacey wiped his mouth on a napkin. “Forgot to mention this to Con. I got a call from Frankie’s PO. Dench says he may be in violation. Looks like he left the county without permission.”

“When was this?”

“Yesterday.”

“That surprises me. To hear Frankie talk, he knew all the rules and regs and wasn’t going to be caught out. Wonder what set him off?”

“Might have been your visit. Con said he seemed cool, but you never know about these things. What’s on for tomorrow?”

“Let’s talk to Ruel. I’ve got the perfect excuse. I still have Edna’s quilt. We can ask him about the tarp when I take it back it to her.”

Stacey leaned forward. “Kinsey, we’re cops. We don’t need excuses. That’s for them to give us.”

Sheepishly, I said, “Oh. You’ve got a point.”

When we reached the motel again it was 10:15. The wind had kicked up and I had my arms crossed, trying to protect myself from the cold.

Stacey said, “Hang on a minute. I have your jacket in my trunk.”

I stood by his rental car while he opened the trunk and extracted my bomber jacket, along with a bulky mailing pouch he handed to me. “What’s this?”

“Henry sent it. He said he found it on your doorstep and didn’t think you’d want to wait. What is it?”

I turned the package to the light. “Beats me. Postmark’s Lompoc, which means it’s probably something from my aunt Susanna.”

“I didn’t think you had folks.”

“I don’t. Well, sort of. The jury’s still out.”

“Got it,” he said. “I’ll leave you to open it. Good-night.”

“’Night,” I said.

In the privacy of my room, I turned on the light and set my jacket aside. I left my shoulder bag on the chair and then I sat on the bed, turning the mailing pouch over in my lap. On the back, there was a pull tab that opened a seam along one edge. I pulled the strip and peered in. I removed the leather-bound album she’d sent. I remembered her mentioning family pictures, but never imagined she’d actually send them to me. I leafed through page after page of heavy black paper on which black-and-white photographs had been mounted by means of paper seals affixed to the corners and glued into place. Some of the pictures had come loose and the photos were tucked into the spine of the book. Under each, someone had written in white ink, identifying the subject, the date, and the circumstance.

There they were. All of them. My mother. Various uncles and aunts. The wedding of my grandfather Kinsey and my grandmother Cornelia Straith LeGrand. Babies in white christening dresses that trailed to the floor. Group photos, complete with cousins, servants, and family dogs. In most, the faces were solemn, the poses as stiff as paper dolls assembled on the page. A Christmas at the ranch with everyone gathered in front of an enormous pine tree laden with ornaments, garlands, and lights. A summer picnic near the house, with wooden harvest tables set out on the grass. Long dresses, pinafores, straw hats with wide brims freighted with artificial flowers; women looking buxom and broad-shouldered, their waists pinched by corsets that made their ample hips look twice as wide. Two men had been photographed in the army uniforms of World War I. One of the two appeared at later family gatherings while the other was never seen again. Sometimes the men were in shirt sleeves, dark vests, and black bowlers; sometimes striped summer jackets and white straw boaters. I could see the passing years reflected in women’s rising hems, their arms increasingly bare. Thanksgiving of 1932, suddenly all the little girls were decked out like Shirley Temple. Nothing of the Great Depression seemed to have touched the house or its occupants, but time did march on.