Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

Many of these people were dead by now. The adults had grown old. The children had married and given birth to children of their own. There was my mother in that long white dress again at her coming-out party, July 5, 1935. There were other snapshots of the occasion. In one, I could have sworn the photographer caught my father in the background, his eyes fixed on her. I’d never actually seen a picture of him, but I felt I’d recognized him nonetheless. After that, the pages were abruptly blank, the entire last third of the album empty. That was odd. I thought about it, puzzled that the family history so carefully recorded up to that point should suddenly be abandoned.

Oh. Could that be right?

My parents had eloped. I’d seen a copy of their marriage license dated November 18, 1935. My grandmother had been horrified. She’d had her heart set on Rita Cynthia’s marrying someone she considered worthy of her firstborn daughter. Instead, my mother had fallen in love with a common mail carrier, who was moonlighting as a waiter on the day of her debut. There was apparently no Thanksgiving that year. And precious little in the way of celebrations since.

19

Saturday morning after breakfast, Stacey and I drove to the McPhees’. The day was clear and sunny. The wind had died down and the desert stretched out in a haze of beige and mauve. Cactus, mesquite, and creosote bushes grew at neatly spaced intervals, as though planted by an arborist. Out there, unseen, the bobcats, foxes, owls, hawks, and coyotes were feeding on the smaller vertebrates. I’d read that jackrabbits constitute half the diet of breeding coyotes, so that when hard times reduce the rabbit population, the coyote population shrinks, as well, thus maintaining the balance in nature’s culinary scheme.

We paused briefly on the street and I pointed across the pasture to the shed where we’d found the Mustang. Stacey said, “I wonder why he got himself in such a lather when the car was impounded?”

“Territorial, I guess. You’d do the same in his place.”

“I’m not so sure about that. Sounds like a man who knows more than he’s letting on.”

“Maybe he’s just another cranky old geezer, used to having his way.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“Stace, I wasn’t talking about you.”

I rang the bell and the two of us stood on the porch, waiting for someone to respond. From the backyard, I could hear children giggling and shrieking while a dog barked.

When Edna finally opened the door, she seemed somewhat taken aback. “Oh. I didn’t expect to see you here again,” she said. She averted her gaze politely from Stacey’s patchy head.

“Hi, Edna. How are you? This is Detective Oliphant from the Santa Teresa Sheriff’s Department. Have we caught you at a bad time?”

“I have my Baptist Church Auxilliary Committee here and we’re busy.”

I held out the quilt. “We won’t take long. I wanted to return your quilt.”

She took it, murmuring, “Thank you,” and then moved to shut the door.

I put a restraining hand on the frame. “We were hoping to see Ruel. Is he here?”

“He’s in the garage.”

“Mind if we talk to him?”

With a tiny flicker of irritation, she gave in. “You might as well come through the house and I’ll send you out the back. It’s quicker than going all the way around.”

The two of us stepped inside while she closed the door and then we followed her down the hall.

She said, “Did you talk to Medora?”

“I did. She was great. Thanks so much.”

In the kitchen, there were five women sitting at the table, which was stacked high with flyers and long white envelopes. All five glanced up at us, smiling expectantly as we moved toward the back door. Edna did a brief detour, returning the quilt to its place on the window seat. I noticed she didn’t stop to introduce us, probably reluctant to explain the arrival of an out-of-town sheriff’s detective and a private eye.

On the counter, she’d set up a big Thermos of coffee, a plate of sweet rolls, and a pile of paper napkins. The one empty chair was clearly hers. Two women folded the flyers, while another two stuffed them in the envelopes. The last woman in line licked the flaps and applied the stamps. I recognized this one: the light brown hair, brown eyes, the sprinkling of freckles across her nose. I’d seen her at Quorum High, where she worked as Mr. Eichenberger’s assistant.

I paused, saying, “Hi. How’re you?”

“Fine.”

“I’m Kinsey Millhone. I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name.”