"Q" is for Quarry (37 page)

“That’s because Detective Oliphant was there. He and Ruel seemed to hit it off. Did you meet Stacey?”

She shook her head. “I heard there was a second detective in town, but I haven’t met him yet. They must be going all-out.”

“They are. They’re very serious about this.”

“Well, good, though I don’t get why it matters after all these years.”

“Cops are funny that way. They never really give up. They just wait.”

“Look, I don’t mean to be rude about it, but I really have to scoot. The kids’ll get cranky.”

“Sorry. I’ll get down to it,” I said. “This morning, when Stacey spoke to Cornell, he mentioned a high school class-mate of yours named George Baum.”

“Sure, I know George. Why was he talking about him?”

“Cornell seemed to think he was involved with Charisse.”

“Involved?”

“That’s a dainty way of saying he screwed her.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. He did not. George had a girlfriend, a cheerleader named Swoozie Franks. They went together for years, since junior high at least. They got married a month after graduation.”

“Swoozie?”

“It’s a nickname. I forget her real one.”

“Maybe Swoozie wouldn’t put out so George got relief from Charisse instead.”

Justine made a face. “That’s a tacky idea.”

“Why? You’ve all been saying what a slut she was.”

“Well, yes, but I can’t believe George would do something like that. Did he admit it?”

“Not as far as I know, but he did tell Stacey that Charisse and Adrianne were close. I was curious why no one mentioned that to us.”

“That’s not true at all. Why would he say that? He’s crazy.”

Dubiously, I said, “I don’t know, Justine. He says Charisse had a crush on Cornell and hung out with Adrianne to have access to him. You’d think Adrianne would’ve volunteered the information as soon as she heard Charisse was dead.”

“You said you weren’t even sure it was her.”

“Well, the ID isn’t positive, but now we have her dental records so we’re getting close. I would have mentioned it this morning, but it didn’t seem appropriate in front of Edna’s church group. Besides, that was the first time I realized who Adrianne was. You can imagine my surprise. I see her at Quorum High. I find out she’s Cornell’s sister, and then I hear she and Charisse were such good pals.”

“They weren’t
pals.
George doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Charisse’s so-called pals were a bunch of losers from Lockaby. They were more her speed.”

“Really. Your mother said she made a real pest of herself, wanting to hang out with the two of you.”

“We took her with us sometimes, but she was an embarrassment.”

“Did you know Charisse was so smitten with him?”

“Oh, please.”

“Why would George lie to us?”

“I didn’t say he
lied.
I said he got it wrong. The guy’s a dimwit. Besides, even if she had a crush on Cornell, what differencedid that make? A lot of girls had crushes. He was the most popular guy in our high school class.”

“But how’d you feel about it? Didn’t it bother you?”

“I knew we’d end up together, so who cared about them?”

“I mean Charisse in particular.”

“She was nothing. A pig. I couldn’t have cared less about her.”

“Geez, that’s amazing. When I was in high school, I was insecure. You must have had a lot more self-confidence.”

“I wouldn’t say that. It just seemed like fate. The minute I saw Cornell, that was it for me. That was grade school. We went to different junior high schools and reconnected in high school in our senior year.”

“Love at first sight.”

“Right.”

“So really, it didn’t matter if Charisse and Adrianne were friends—in terms of its effect on you.”

“Charisse could do anything she liked. No skin off
my
back.” She glanced at her watch, signaling time was up. She could have been a shrink, given her skill in silent communication.

I held up a hand. “Just one other thing and then I’ll let you go. Doesn’t it seem a trifle coincidental that your father disappeared just about the same time she did?”

Justine stared at me. “I don’t get what you mean.”

“Come on, Justine. You’re not that naive.”

“You’re implying the two of them went off
together
?”

“Didn’t it ever cross your mind?”

“Of course not. Daddy left in June. She was with us for months and months after that.”

“Actually, it was only until the end of July. Maybe six weeks or so. What if they were having an affair?”

Justine laughed. “Oh, that’s gross. I don’t like to think he had sex with my mother, let alone with someone like her. That’s disgusting.”

“Disgusting to you perhaps, but in the annals of human history it’s not exactly a first. I said the same thing to your mom. Charisse was promiscuous, so why not him?”

Justine clamped her mouth shut, staring at the floor. Agitated, she tucked a strand of pale hair behind one ear.

I said, “Look, I’m not making any claims here. None of us have the facts. This is purely speculation.”

“Well, it’s in bad taste,” she said. She stood up.

“I guess I better let you go. Maybe I should have a chat with Cornell.”

“I’m not sure he’s interested.”

“He didn’t seem opposed to my talking to you.”

“He was being polite.”

“A quality I’ve always admired in a man. Anyway, you needn’t fret because I can’t do it now. I have something else to do.”

Hazelwood Springs on my California map was a microdot on Highway 78 ten miles south of Quorum. The town turned out to be so small that I drove straight through without realizing it. I made a three-point turn, using the next convenient driveway, and then doubled back. The entire town consisted of a minimart, two side roads, a scattering of houses, and a two-pump gas station of the old-fashioned variety, where some guy actually came outside, filled your tank, cleaned the windshield, and passed the time of day. I ended up putting another twenty bucks’ worth of gas in Dolan’s boat, but in return, the fellow was kind enough to point out Lennie Root’s place, which was just across the road.

Lennie Root’s small white frame house sat on pylons of raw cinder block, thus creating the crawl space he used to store his miscellaneous painting equipment. There was a flowery ceramic plaque affixed to the wood frame above the front door that read THE ROOTS, MYRA AND LENNIE.

Lennie responded to my knock. He was a man in his sixties with a narrow, sagging face and heavy bags beneath his eyes. His bushy gray hair was peppered with tiny specks of dried red paint. Over his chinos and white T-shirt he wore a full-length apron with a ruffle around the bib. He held a wrinkled white dress shirt like an errant tomcat he intended to boot out the door.

“Mr. Root? My name’s Kinsey Millhone. I’m hoping you can answer a few questions about a former employee. You remember Frankie Miracle?”

“What makes you ask? Because if you’re working for OSHA or state disability insurance, I want it on record—the injury was fake.”

“I’m not here about that. I’m actually a private investigator, doing follow-up on a homicide investigation. This was August of ’69. Frankie says he worked for you shortly before that.”

He blinked. “How much do you know about ironing?”

“Ironing?”

“My wife’s out of town at her mother’s until next Monday and I’m supposed to be at my daughter’s for supper tonight. I need to iron this shirt, but I don’t know how. My wife always sprinkles ’em with water and leaves ’em in a wad, but I never paid attention to what comes next. You show me how to do this and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

I laughed. “Mr. Root, you’re in luck. You got a deal.”

He handed me the shirt and I followed him through a modest living room to the kitchen at the rear. There were dirty dishes piled in the sink, and the counter was littered with additional glasses, flatware, and plates. On the breakfast table, there was a large broken-rimmed plastic basket piled with freshly laundered clothes. The door to the utility room stood open and Lennie crossed the kitchen to retrieve an ironing board with a floral padded cover and scratched metal legs. When he opened it, the sustained screech of metal on metal sounded like the mating call of an exotic bird. He plugged in the iron. I moved the setting to Cotton and waited for the iron to heat.

“My aunt Gin taught me to do this when I was seven years old, primarily because she hated to do the ironing herself.” I licked an index finger and touched it to the hot iron. It made a spatting sound. “Watch this.” I took the dampened shirt by the yoke, holding it between my hands, and straightened the puckered seams with one efficient snap.

“That’s first?”

“Unless your shirt doesn’t have a yoke. Then you start with the collar.” I placed the shirt on the ironing board and explained the strategy: the yoke, followed by the collar, then the cuffs, the two sleeves, and finally the body of the garment.

He watched with care until I’d finished the shirt and buttoned it onto a wire hanger. I handed him a second shirt from the basket and had him try his hand. He was slow and a bit clumsy, but he did a credible job for his first time out. He seemed pleased with himself, and I had a brief vision of him whipping through the entire basket of ironing as the afternoon wore on. He turned off the iron, moved the basket aside, and gestured me into a chair.

As soon as we were seated, he said, “Now. What can I tell you about Frankie, aside from the fact he’s the biggest punk who ever lived?”

“How long did he work for you?”

“Six months. Drunk most days; incompetent the rest.”

“Did you hire him or did your business partner?”

“I don’t have a partner.”

“I thought your company was called R&R Painting. I figured it was your brother, your son, or your dad.”

“No, no. It’s just me. I put that other R in there to reassure the public. One-man painting company, people worry you don’t have the manpower to get the job done. This way I give the estimate and get the contract signed and then when it turns out it’s just me, well, what’s it to them. I’m fast, I’m thorough, and I’m meticulous.”

“How’d you end up hiring Frankie?”

“Did someone a favor. Biggest mistake I ever made. This fellow knew Frankie’s brother and he asked me if I’d give him a job. He’d just gotten out of jail and no one else would take a chance. I wasn’t all that crazy about the idea myself, but I’d just taken on a big project and I was desperate for help.”

“What year was this?”

“Between Christmas of ’68 and the summer of ’69. He claimed he had experience but that was a lie. Worst excuse for a helper you ever saw, him and that friend of his. It’s people like that give prison a bad name.”

“What friend?”

“Clifton. Big guy. Had a funny first name . . .”

“Pudgie.”

Lennie pointed at me. “Him.”

“I didn’t realize Frankie and Pudgie were such buddies back then.”

“Were when they worked for me.”

That was an unexpected nugget of information. I couldn’t wait to tell Stacey, though for the moment I wasn’t sure what it meant—if anything. “From what you said earlier, I gather Frankie filed some kind of worker’s comp claim. Was he injured on the job?”

“Said he was. Oh, sure. Said he fell off a scaffold, but he was working by himself and it was bull. I got notice of the claim and next thing I knew, he was back in jail, this time on a murder rap. Is that the homicide you mentioned?”

“This was a second murder—a young girl stabbed to death within days of the first. Her body was dumped in Lompoc, which is where he was arrested. You remember when he left your employment?”

“June. How I know is because Myra’s and my twenty-fifth wedding anniversary fell on the fifteenth and he was gone by then.”

“How’d he end up in Venice?”

“I heard he got a job in Blythe, doing landscape work—in other words, a grown man cutting grass for minimum wage. He met some sixteen-year-old girl and three weeks later, the two of them got married. He was fired from that job so they moved up to Venice, where he did some painting for a friend.”

“Got it.”

“That other homicide you mentioned, is he a suspect in that?”

“Let’s put it this way. The cops have been taking a long, hard look at him. Unfortunately, at this point, there’s no proof he even knew the victim and nothing to link him to the crime itself.”

“How’d you end up at my door?”

“A drop cloth at the scene was made by the Diamond Custom Canvas Company in Quorum. I was over there a while ago looking at their tarps when I remembered mention of a painting contractor on his arrest sheet. He listed you as his employer.”

“Nah, he was long gone by then. I was all set to fire his butt if he hadn’t quit, which I’m sure he knew. Shortly afterward, the project I was working on went belly-up. It was a bad year for me.”

“I don’t suppose you’d recognize the drop cloth if you saw it again.”

“Should. I’ve used the same ones for years. I buy them in Quorum at the hardware store on Main. You have it with you?”

“I wish I did. It’s in the property room at the Santa Teresa County Sheriff’s Department.”

“Well, you might have ’em check for paint spots. During the time Frankie worked for me, the only exterior color we used was something called Desert Sand. I forget the company—Porter most likely, though it might have been Glidden. Get a match on the paint and it might help tie the tarp to him. I’d be willing to testify.”

“Thanks. I’m impressed. You’ve got a good memory.”

“Desert Sand turned out to be a bad luck color. Biggest job I ever bid. At least to that point,” he said. “I’d’ve made thousands if the complex hadn’t gone in the tank.”

I felt a minor jolt in my chest. “Are you by any chance talking about the Tuley-Belle?”