"Q" is for Quarry (21 page)

I locked the office early, leaving the photo of my mother in the center of my desk. Driving home, I couldn’t resist touching on the issue, much in the same way the tongue seeks the socket from which a tooth has just been pulled. The compulsion resulted in the same shudder-producing blend of satisfaction and repugnance. I needed to talk to Henry. He’d offered counsel and advice (which I’d largely ignored) since the Kinseys had first surfaced. I knew he’d be quick to see my conflict: the comfort of isolation versus cloying suffocation; independence versus bondage; safety versus betrayal. It was not in my makeup to imagine emotional states in between. I saw it as all or nothing, which is what made it difficult to risk the status quo. My life wasn’t perfect, but I knew its limitations. I remembered Susanna’s comment about a passion for autonomy serving as a cover for something else. When she’d said it, I’d been too startled to wonder what she meant. She’d been referring to Aunt Gin, whose hard heart I’d assimilated as a substitute for love. Had she been alluding to me as well?

Once I reached my neighborhood, I spotted an Austin Healy parked in my favorite place. I did a U-turn and found a space across the street. I pushed through my squeaking gate and down the driveway to Henry’s backyard. He’d hauled his lawn furniture out of storage, hosed off the chairs, and added a set of dark green cushions with the tags still attached. Two glasses and a pitcher of iced tea rested on a small redwood table, along with a plate of homemade oatmeal cookies with raisins. At first I thought he’d meant them for me, but then I spotted him in the far corner of the yard, showing off his garden to a woman I’d never seen. The tableau bore an eerie similarity to an earlier occasion when a woman named Lila Sams had waltzed into Henry’s life.

He smiled when he saw me, gesturing me over so he could make the introductions. “Kinsey, this is Mattie Halstead from San Francisco. She stopped off to see us on her way to L.A.” And to Mattie, he said, “Kinsey rents the studio . . .”

“Of course. Nice to meet you. Henry’s talked quite a bit about you.”

“It’s nice meeting you, too,” I said, with a sly glance at him.

He’d had his hair trimmed, and I noticed he was wearing a white dress shirt and long pants. I didn’t think he’d ever gotten that spiffed up for a woman before. Mattie was easily his height and just as trim. Her silver hair was cut short and layered in a windblown mop. She wore a white silk shirt, gray slacks, and stylish low-heeled shoes. The jewelry she wore— matching earrings and a bracelet—were custom-made, hammered silver and amethysts.

She regarded me with intelligent gray eyes. “I was afraid he might be away so I called from Carmel when I arrived there last night. I’m taking my time, stopping to see friends as I travel down the coast.”

“Is this business or pleasure?”

“A little bit of both. I’m delivering some paintings to a gallery in San Diego. I could’ve crated them for shipping, but I needed a break.”

“You were on the cruise Henry took?”

“Yes, but I’m afraid that was work. This is my time off.”

“Mattie teaches drawing and painting, and she lectures on art. Nell took her watercolor class and ended up doing quite well.”

“Better than Lewis,” Mattie said, with a smile. “I felt so bad for him. I’ve never seen anyone quite so enthusiastic.”

“He was flirting,” Henry said reprovingly before turning to me. “Why don’t you join us? We were just about to sit down and have a glass of iced tea.”

“I better pass on that, thanks. I’ve got some reading to do and then I thought I’d sneak in a run. My schedule’s been horsed up and I owe myself one.”

“What about supper? We’re heading up to Rosie’s at six.”

“No way. I don’t intend to go until she gets off this kick of hers. Gourmet entrails. Did Henry mention that?”

“He warned me, but I’m actually a fan of liver and onions.”

“Yeah, but the liver of what beast? I won’t risk it myself. You ought to have him do the cooking. He’s terrific.”

She smiled at him. “Maybe another time. I’ve been looking forward to reconnecting with William and Rosie. They were dear.”

“How long will you be here?”

“Just one night. I have a reservation at the Edgewater, my favorite hotel. My husband and I used to come here for anniversaries,” she said. “I’ll take off in the morning as soon as it’s light. With luck, I can avoid the rush-hour traffic through Los Angeles.”

“Well, it’s too bad we won’t have time to chat. Do you plan to stop by on the return trip?”

“We’ll see how it goes. I don’t want to be a nuisance.”

“Maybe you can talk him into cooking for you then.”

I let myself into the apartment, tossed my bag on the kitchen counter, and headed up the stairs. I didn’t have any reading to catch up on and I’d done my three-mile run at six A.M. I told those tiny fibs to make sure Mattie and Henry had some time alone. I peered out the bathroom window, taking in the truncated view of the two of them down below. It was not quite four o’clock. I managed to kill an hour and a half and then thought about where to go for supper that night. I was serious about boycotting Rosie’s until she abandoned her newfound passion for animal by-product cookery. As it was currently Happy Hour, I knew Dolan would be at CC’s. I could have joined him, but I didn’t want to sit and count his drinks while inhaling his secondhand smoke. I returned to the bathroom window and peered down at the backyard. Henry and Mattie were gone, but their two lawn chairs remained, pulled slightly closer together than they’d been when I’d first arrived home. I could see the lights on in his kitchen, so they were probably fortifying themselves with Black Jack on ice before braving Rosie’s food.

Now that the coast was clear, I grabbed my shoulder bag and a jacket and scooted out the front door. I retrieved my car and drove to the McDonald’s on lower Milagra Street. I’m at the drive-through lane so often, the take-out servers recognize my voice and deal with me by name. On impulse, I ordered extras and went to Stacey’s house. In my opinion, there’s no condition in life that can’t be ameliorated by a dose of junk food.

When I knocked on his screen door, I could see him perched on a cardboard carton in the living room. His desk drawers were open and a shredder was plugged into an extension cord that trailed across the room. He motioned me in.

I held up the white bag. “I hope you haven’t eaten supper. I’ve got Cokes, french fries, and Quarter Pounders with cheese. Very nourishing.”

“I don’t have much appetite, but I’ll be happy to keep you company.”

“Fair enough.”

I left the bag on the desk and moved into the kitchen where I found a package of paper plates and a roll of paper towels. I returned to the living room, put the dinnerware on the floor, and hauled over two boxes from the stack against the wall. I sat on one box and used the second as a table that I arranged between us. I unpacked Cokes, two large cartons of fries, packets of ketchup and salt, and a paper-wrapped QP with cheese for each of us. I squeezed ketchup on the fries, salted everything in sight, and then downed my QP in approximately eight bites. “I’m going for the land speed record here.”

Stacey lifted the top of his bun and eyed his burger with misgivings. “I’ve never eaten one of these.”

I paused in the midst of wiping my mouth. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.” He tried a cautious bite, which he chewed with suspicion, letting the flavors mingle in his mouth. He wagged his head from side to side. With his second bite, he seemed to get the hang of it, and after that he ate with the same dispatch I did.

I reached into the bag and took out another burger that I passed to him. This time, halfway through, a nearly subliminal moan escaped his lips. I laughed.

“Where’d you get that?” I asked, pointing to the shredder with a french fry.

“Fellow next door,” he said, pausing to swallow his bite. “I’m cleaning out my desk. Can’t quite bring myself to shred my receipts. I don’t intend to file a tax return. I figure I’ll be dead before the IRS catches up with me. Even so, I worry about an audit without the proper paperwork on hand.” He licked his fingers and wiped his mouth. “Thank you. That was great. I haven’t had an appetite for weeks.”

“Happy to help.”

He gathered all the trash and put it back in the bag, then turned and made a free throw, tossing it in the wastebasket. He reached into the bottom drawer and took out a cardboard box filled with black-and-white photographs. He set the box in his lap, picked up a handful, and fed them to the machine.

I watched while six images were reduced to slivers. “What are you
doing
?”

“I told you. Cleaning out my desk.”

“But those are family photographs. You can’t do that.”

“Why not? I’m the only one left.”

“But you can’t just
destroy
them. I can’t believe you’d do that.”

“Why leave the job for someone else? At least if I do it, there’s a personal connection.” He sang, “Good-bye, Uncle Schmitty. Bye Cousin Mortimer...” Two more images were converted to confetti in the shredder bin.

I put a hand on his arm. “I’ll take them.”

“And do what? You don’t even know these folks. I can’t identify the better half of ’em myself. Look at this. Who’s he? I swear I never saw this guy before in my life. Must have been a family friend.” He touched the edge of the photo to the shredder teeth and watched it disappear before he picked up the next.

“Don’t shred them. Aren’t those your
parents
?”

“Sure, but they’ve been dead for years.”

“I can’t stand this. Give me those. I’ll pretend they’re mine.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re alone just like me. If I let you take ’em, someone else will end up throwing them in
your
trash.”

“So what? Come on, Stace. Please.”

He hesitated and finally nodded. “Okay. But it’s dumb.”

He handed me the box of photos, which I placed near my bag out of his reach. I was worried he’d change his mind and shred someone else. He turned his attention to a file folder marked AUTO INSURANCE and fed its contents into the shredder. Idly, he said, “I almost forgot to mention, Joe Mandel called with an address for Iona Mathis. She’s living in the high desert, little town called Peaches.”

“Which is where?”

“Above San Bernardino, off Highway 138. There’s no phone in her name so she might be bunking in with someone else. Did I tell you Mandel got a line on the red Mustang? This guy Gant, the original owner, died about ten years ago, but his widow says the car was stolen from an auto upholstery shop in Quorum, California, where he’d taken it to get the seats replaced. Gant had the car towed back from Lompoc, but it was such a mess he turned around and sold it to the guy whose shop it was stolen from—fellow named Ruel McPhee. According to our sources, the car’s now registered to him. I’ve left him four messages, but so far I haven’t heard back. Con thinks it’s worth a trip down there just to see what’s what.”

“Where’s Quorum? I’ve never heard of it.”

“Well, neither had I, but Con says it’s just south of Blythe near the Arizona line. Now here’s the kicker on that. Turns out Frankie Miracle grew up in Quartzsite, Arizona, which is just a few miles from Blythe in the same neck of the woods. Con wants to take a detour through Peaches and talk to Iona Mathis on his way to Quorum.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning he says. I thought I better warn you in case you want to make up an excuse.”

“Not at all. I’ll go. I could use a change of scene. What about you? Are you feeling up to it?”

“You two go on. I’ll wait and see what the doc has to say. They may want me back in the hospital for the third time this month. Talk about tedious.”

“How’re you holding up?”

“I’m not thrilled with this new development, but I don’t see that I have much choice.”

“I’ll hold good thoughts for you.”

“I could use a few,” he said. He hesitated. “This may be out of line, but I’m wondering if Con’s told you about his wife’s suicide.”

“I knew she had cancer, but he never said a word.”

“That’s why he gets so pissy on the subject. He thinks he could have saved her.”

“Could he?”

“Of course not. When it comes right down to it, you can’t save anyone except yourself. Sometimes, you can’t even do that. Anyway, I thought you should know.”

He smiled to himself for reasons I suspect were unrelated to me. I watched while his army discharge papers disappeared into the shredder with a grinding sound.

My packing for the trip took all of five minutes. At most, I figured we’d be gone for two days, which meant a toothbrush, toothpaste, two clean T-shirts, a sweatshirt, two pairs of socks, four pairs of underpants, and the oversized T-shirt I sleep in. I shoved it all into a duffel the size of a bolster pillow. Since I was wearing jeans and my Sauconys, the only other items I’d need were my running sweats, my windbreaker, and my little portable Smith-Corona. Dolan had opted for an early start, which in his terms translated to a 9:30 departure. This gave me time to sneak in a three-mile run, followed by a supersetting weight session at the gym. I was racking up virtue points in case I didn’t have the chance to exercise while I was on the road.

By the time Dolan pulled up, I was sitting on the curb, reading a paperback novel with my shoulder bag, typewriter, and duffel. At my side, I had two rubber-band-bound stacks of index cards in my bag. He must have run his vehicle through a car wash because the exterior was clean and the floorboards were free of gas receipts and discarded fast-food wrappers.

Now that we were cohorts, he didn’t feel required to escort me around the car and let me in. I hauled the door open, while he reached over the seat and shoved his suitcase to one side. “You can put your things back there with mine unless you’d rather leave ’em in the trunk.”