"Q" is for Quarry (12 page)

“And you’re sure you’d never seen her around town before.”

“Not before and not since.”

“How’d you happen to get in touch with the Sheriff’s Department?”

“I didn’t ‘happen’ to do anything. I read about the body in the paper and remembered she’d been in. Like I said before, the incident stuck in my mind because she tried to pull a fast one.”

“What made you so sure it was the same girl?”

“Who else could it’ve been?”

“Ah. Well, this has been a big help. I appreciate your time.” I reached out to shake her hand.

She complied reluctantly. “Don’t you believe me? I notice you didn’t take notes.”

“I got it all up here,” I said, tapping my head.

Once back in my car, I checked my road map. Roxanne was still on the porch looking out at me, probably wondering at the delay. Maybe she thought I was finally taking notes, recording the bullshit recollections she’d constructed over the years. I didn’t think she’d lied. She’d simply told her story too often. By now, she was either vamping like crazy or remembering someone else. I folded the map in half, trying to gauge how far I might be from the ranch. If I continued south on Riverside and made a dogleg right, I’d hit the road that angled south and east, connecting with Highway 101 just about at Gull Cove. According to the map, the road was called Calle LeGrand, presumably named after my great-grandfather LeGrand, whose twenty-three thousand acres filled a sizeable chunk of the area. Twisting hairlike blue lines indicated creeks running through the land.

I started the VW and waved at Roxanne once as I pulled away. The last I saw of her she was sitting on the porch swing, a fresh cigarette in hand, taking yet another sip of beer.

I picked up Calle LeGrand and followed the road south, through low rolling gold hills that would turn as green as Ireland when the rains returned. In the areas where there were no structures in sight, I fancied I was looking through the eyes of the early settlers, marveling at the acres of untouched land, bare and silent except for the cries of birds. I missed the turn to the ranch and had to circle back when I realized I’d gone too far. On the return, I saw the side road where Stacey and Dolan and I had met Arne Johanson. The gate now stood open and a haze of dust on the gravel road suggested that a vehicle had recently passed that way.

I turned in, driving slowly, my attention drawn to the gulley where Jane Doe’s body had been found. I could see now that a section of the road angled off to the left, ending in a cul-de-sac, and I remembered the passing reference to the VW van that was seen parked in the turnaround. Also, a red convertible with out-of-state plates. Offhand, I couldn’t remember the name of the fellow who’d called it in, but the report might bear revisiting, as Arne had suggested. Somebody Vogel. I’d have to look it up. I eased the car up the hill, following the route Arne had taken in his Jeep. I was really hoping the No Trespassing signs didn’t apply to me.

The house came into view, looking like something in an old horror film. I parked in the driveway and approached with a curious mix of anxiety and excitement. Bare wooden trellises affixed to the porch rails at intervals suggested that roses or morning glories might have climbed there once. Now the beds were overgrown. I climbed the front porch stairs, which seemed remarkably sound. The house, though a shambles, had been built to last. I remembered talk at some point of moving the house into the city limits, restoring it as a possible tourist attraction. I could see where the city would be reluctant to make a claim. Even the idea of renovating the house in situ would be an expensive proposition. To what end?

I tried the front door and to my surprise I found it unlocked.

I pushed it open and went in, assaulted by the dense smell of soot and mildew. I spent the next thirty minutes wandering from floor to floor, sometimes awed at the grandeur that remained. High ceilings, the sweeping staircase in the foyer, all the marble and mahogany still gracing the rooms. A large butler’s pantry opened into a vast kitchen with servants quarters built on behind. A second staircase led up to the second floor from there. I could feel memory stir. Vague images, shapeless and filled with shadows, moved at the edge of my vision. I could hear sounds, talking and laughing in another room, without being able to distinguish the words.

I was standing on the wide second-floor landing when I heard someone walking in the hall below. From the bottom of the stairs, someone called, “Kinsey?”

For one wonderful moment, the voice was my mother’s and she’d returned from the dead.

I crossed to the banister and peered over the railing. Tasha stood in the stairwell, looking up. “I saw your car parked outside.”

“I’ll come down.”

I descended the stairs, embarrassed that I’d been caught poking around the house uninvited. She’d taken a seat on the third step up, leaning against the wall. I settled on the same step, sitting close to the rail.

“How’d you know I was here?”

“Arne saw your car pull in and called me. My office isn’t that far.” She was dressed in lawyer clothes: a crisp navy-blue pantsuit with a white silk shell under the two-button jacket. She wore pearls. I’d always heard you could tell real pearls from fake by running them across your teeth, but I wasn’t clear what information that was meant to impart. I thought it’d be rude to ask if I could bite her necklace. She had dark eyes, delicately enhanced with a smoky eyeliner, a straight nose where mine was ever so faintly bumpy from having been broken twice. Her dark hair was tastefully highlighted with blond and pulled into a rope at the nape of her neck. I could see a bow of red chiffon peeking into view from the hair clip behind.

It’s odd to see someone you know looks like you. The face we see in the mirror is always reversed so that our impression of ourselves is flipped left to right. If you stand in front of a mirror and put your right index finger against your right cheek, the mirror will tell you you’re touching left to left. The only way you can see yourself as you appear to others is to hold a mirror to the mirror and check your image in that. What I saw now of Tasha was what others saw of me. Already, I liked her face a lot better than mine. I usually ignore my own looks, not from distaste, but from a sense of despair. So many women have mastered an arsenal of beauty products: foundation, powder, blusher, eye shadow, pencils for lining their eyes, brows, and lips. As a rule, I avoid makeup, having little experience with the selection and application process.

It was clear at a glance that Tasha knew her stuff. I couldn’t identify all the kinds of goop on her face, but she’d tinted herself with care. Her skin had a healthy glow, her cheeks showed a hint of pink, and her eyes looked enormous because her lashes were so thick. I could see her assessing me while I assessed her. We smiled at the same time, which only furthered the notion we were looking at ourselves. We had identical teeth.

She said, “After our telephone conversation, I had a long talk with Mom. Her version of events is different.”

“Oh, really. How so?”

“She says your parents made that trip to meet with Grand and Granddaddy in hopes of a reconciliation. They were killed on the way. Grand blamed herself. Aunt Gin blamed her, too. Mom says Grand tried to keep in touch, but Gin was having none of it. Finally, Grand gave up, but only after years of trying to make contact.”

“Bullshit. I don’t believe it.”

“I’m not asking you to
believe.
I’m telling you what Mother said.”

“Well, of course she’d say that. She’s still tied into Grand. How can you afford to think ill of someone who has the power to pull the rug out from under you? You’d do just about anything to see them as good no matter what they’ve done.”

“Kinsey, if you really want to find out what went on back then, you can’t start by rejecting the messages you don’t want to hear. There are two sides to every story. That’s why we have the courts. To settle disputes.”

“Oh, right. Compare this to litigation. That’ll win you points,” I said. “Most people can’t stand lawyers. I’m one of the few with any respect for the trade.” I stopped. I stared down at the floor for a moment and then shook my head. “I’m sorry. Forget it. I didn’t mean to get into it with you again.”

Tasha smiled slightly. “I told you we couldn’t talk without hassling.”

“You set me off.”

“That’s not my intent.”

“I know. The hard part is that neither of us has any concrete proof. We can do this ‘Did too! Did not!’ routine until the cows come home. It’s Grand’s word against Aunt Gin’s, or my mother’s word against your mom’s. There is no
fact
of the matter.”

“Probably not. Just keep an open mind. That’s really all I ask.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that. My mind’s been made up since the day I met Liza. I wasn’t interested then and I’m probably not interested now.”

“At least you use the word ‘probably.’ That’s progress, isn’t it? You used to be adamant. Now you’re obdurate.”

“Which means what?”

“Resistant, but less flinty. It’s a big improvement.”

The comment seemed patronizing, but I shrugged it off. Why take offense when she might not have actually meant it that way? I said, “It feels like unfinished business and that bothers me. Regardless of how it comes out, I’d like to think I’m doing the right thing.”

“That works both ways. We’re having to go back and revisit the past, which is good for all of us. The point is, we have time to work this out.”

“Thirty-two years of it so far.”

“So what’s thirty-two more? We can’t settle a long-standing quarrel in a few casual talks.” She glanced at her watch and then rose. “I have to get back to work. Did you finish the tour?”

I pulled myself up. “Essentially. I hoped I’d remember something, but I’m drawing a blank.” The two of us paused simultaneously to brush off the backs of our pants.

We crossed to the front door, our shoes making scratching sounds in the grit that had accumulated on the marble floor. She said, “What do you think of the place?”

“It must have been beautiful in its day.”

Tasha turned back, letting her eyes travel across the foyer and up the stairs. “You know Grand moved out shortly after Aunt Rita’s death.” Rita Cynthia Kinsey was my mother’s maiden name.

“I didn’t know that.”

“Granddaddy Kinsey was fit to be tied, but she finally got her way. That’s when they bought the house in town. You remember him at all?”

I shook my head.

“Maybe I can find some family photographs.”

“I’d like that. I don’t think I’ve ever seen pictures of anyone. Aunt Gin discounted sentiment as a form of sniveling. She refused to let either of us sink to such depths.”

“She was tough.”

“That she was.”

“Well. I better go.”

“Me, too,” I said. “I do have one request. I know you’ve already talked to your mother about me, but please don’t bring Grand into this.”

“My lips are sealed.”

It was 4:35 by the time I reached Santa Teresa. I made a stop at the public library, leaving my car in the adjacent four-story parking structure. My conversation with Roxanne Faught had raised unsettling questions, namely, what did she know and when did she know it? I wondered if there was any way to check. I trotted down the carpeted stairs to the periodicals room, where I asked the reference librarian for the microfilm records of the
Santa Teresa Dispatch
from the week of August 3, 1969. Since the body was found that Sunday, I didn’t expect the news to hit the paper for another day or two. Once I had the box of film in hand, I sat down at the machine and unreeled the strip, which I threaded under the lens, catching the sprocket holes. I hand-cranked it until the strip caught properly and then pressed a button and watched the Sunday paper speed by in a blur. My eyes picked up a remarkable amount of information on the fly. I bypassed the sports, the business section, and the classified ads. I slowed now and then just to see what was going on. The oil spill off the Santa Teresa coast was in its 190th day.
Funny Girl
and
Goodbye Columbus
were playing at the local movie theater along with
Planet of the Apes.
There was talk that Don Drysdale’s fourteen-year pitching career might be coming to an end because of a recurrent injury, and a Westinghouse 2-Speed Automatic Washer was selling for $189.95.

When I reached Monday’s paper, I slowed to a dead stop and scanned it page by page. On Monday, August 4, five column inches were devoted to the discovery of the body near the Grayson Quarry in Lompoc. Con Dolan and Stacey Oliphant were both mentioned by name, but there was little to report. The next day, August 5, in a column called “North County Events,” I caught the second squib. By then the autopsy had been done and the cause of death was detailed. The same few physical traits were noted—hair and eye color, height and weight—in hopes of identifying the girl. I cranked the reel forward, through Wednesday and Thursday of the same week. Thursday’s paper included a brief follow-up, with the same information I’d read in the initial account. Both gave a brief description of the girl’s clothing, detailing the dark blue voile blouse and the daisy-patterned pants. Neither article specified the color of the pants. I knew from police reports that the daisies were dark blue, a red dot at each center, on a ground of white, but if you relied strictly on this data, it would be natural to assume the daisies were “daisy-colored,” as Roxanne Faught had so aptly summed it up. Factoring in her certainty about the torn earlobe, the big feet, the big-boned wrists, and the closely bitten nails, I doubted the girl she’d dealt with was actually our Jane Doe. It was always possible, of course. Eye-witness testimony is notoriously shaky, easily influenced, subject to subtle modification with each telling of the tale. Roxanne had admitted she’d gone back to reread the very clippings I was looking at myself. I didn’t wholly discount what she said, but I wondered at its relevance to our investigation.Stacey had hoped to establish a time line, working backward from Roxanne’s encounter to Cloris Bargo’s sighting of the girl hitchhiking outside Colgate. Now Cloris had recanted and I suspected Roxanne’s observations were too tainted to be of use. I fast-forwarded. That same week, on August 9, five people, including film and television actress Sharon Tate, were found slain in a Bel Air home. Two days later, Leno and Rosemary LaBianca were discovered murdered in a manner similar to the Tate slayings. I tracked forward again, but there was no further mention of Jane Doe. I jotted a few notes on my index cards and then made copies of the news stories, paid for them at the counter, and returned to my car.