"Q" is for Quarry (8 page)

“I’ll tell her.”

“Great. That’s fine. Not a problem.”

“I don’t want you to take offense, but I hope you’ll be polite.”

“Gee, Tasha, I’ll try to behave myself. It’ll be a struggle, of course.”

I could hear the smile in her voice. “You have to give me credit for persistence.”

“Right. Duly noted. I have you down for that.”

“You don’t have to be sarcastic.”

“That’s my dry sense of humor.”

“Why are you such a pain in the butt? Couldn’t you try meeting me halfway?”

“I don’t understand why you insist on pursuing me.”

“For the same reason you insist on rebuffing me. Being pigheaded is a family trait.”

“I’ll give you that. It still pisses me off that Grand thinks she could treat my parents like shit and then waltz in years later and make it all evaporate.”

“What’s that got to do with us? Pam and Liza and I didn’t do anything to your parents
or
Aunt Gin. Why should we be held accountable for Grand? Yes, she behaved badly. Yes, she’s a bitch, but so what? Maybe your mother and Aunt Gin delivered tit-for-tat. At the time your parents died, we were only kids. We didn’t know what was going on and neither did you. It seems ridiculous to nurse such bad feelings. To what end? We’re family. You’re stuck with us whether you like it or not.”

“So far, I’ve done very well without ‘family.’ So why can’t you drop the subject and get on with life?”

“Why can’t you?” She paused, trying to gain control of herself. “I’m sorry. Let’s try again. I don’t understand why every time I call we get into these
wrangles.
”

“We don’t get into wrangles
every
time.”

“Yes, we do.”

“No, we don’t!”

“Name one conversation when we didn’t come to blows.”

“I can name three. You hired me for a job. We had lunch together that day and we got along fine. Since then, we’ve chatted on the phone two or three times without bickering.”

“That’s true,” she said, reluctantly, “but I’m always aware of the anger percolating just under the surface.”

“So what? Look, Tasha, maybe in time we’ll find a way to settle our differences. Until then, we’re not going to get anywherearguing about whether or not we’re arguing. I don’t claim to be rational. I’m nuts. Why don’t you let it go at that?”

“Okay. Enough said. We just wanted you to know we’re still interested. We hoped yesterday’s visit to the ranch would provide an opening.”

“Ah, that. How’d you find out?”

“Arne Johanson called Pam. He said he saw someone who looked so much like your mother, it gave him goose bumps. I was surprised you’d even step a foot on the family ranch.”

“I wouldn’t have if I’d known.”

“Oh, I’ll bet.”

“That aside, I do recognize what it costs you to keep in touch. I don’t mean to be quite so belligerent.”

“No apologies necessary.”

“Uh, Tasha? That wasn’t an apology.”

“Skip it. I got that. My mistake,” she said. “The point is, I’m a lawyer. I deal with belligerence on a daily basis.”

“I thought you did estate planning. How could anyone get belligerent about that? It sounds so dull.”

“Shows what you know. Anytime you talk money, there’s the potential for folks to get nasty. Nobody wants to talk about dying and nobody wants to give up control of the family purse. When it comes to the beneficiaries, there’s usually an undercurrent of entitlement,” she said, and then hesitated. “On a related topic, you probably heard there’s talk of razing the Manse.”

“The ‘Manse’? Is that what it’s called? I thought a manse had something to do with Presbyterians.”

“It does. Our great-great-grandfather Straith was a Presbyterian minister. In those days, the Church didn’t have the money to build a parsonage so he paid for it himself. I think he intended to deed it over to the Church when he died, but cooler heads prevailed. At any rate, the house is a mess. It’d be cheaper, at this point, to tear it down.”

“I take it Grand doesn’t want to spend the money to bring the old place back.”

“Right. She’s tried to enlist the support of a couple of historic-preservation groups, but no one’s interested. The location’s remote and the house itself is a hybrid. Turns out it’s not even a good example of its kind.”

“Why not leave it as it is? It’s her land, isn’t it?”

“It’s hers for now, but she’s ninety years old and she knows none of her heirs has the money or the passion for undertaking the job. Besides, she’s got another house in town. She hardly needs two.”

“That’s right. I remember now. Liza told me most of the family live within blocks of her.”

“We’re a cozy bunch,” she said, dryly. “Meanwhile, she’s got all kinds of developers sniffing around. Mostly local vintners with an eye on the slopes. Turns out the soil’s perfect. Plus, she gets a lot of coastal fog, which means a longer growing period.”

“How much land does she have?”

“Twenty-three thousand acres.”

There was a silence while I tried to compute what she’d just said. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m serious.”

“I had no idea.”

“Doesn’t matter for now because she’ll never sell. Great-Granddaddy made her promise she’d keep it just as it is. The issue won’t get sticky until she goes.”

“Hasn’t she put the estate in some kind of trust?”

“Nope. Most of those old trusts were established in the thirties—people in the east who’d had wealth in the family for generation after generation. Out here, all we had were ranchers, down-to-earth types much more likely to form limited family partnerships. At any rate, nothing’s going to happen as long as she’s alive,” she said. “Meanwhile, if you change your mind about that drink just give me a call. You still have my number?”

“I better take it down again.”

Once I hung up, I had to sit down and pat my chest. I’d actually ended up entertaining a few warm feelings about her. If I didn’t watch myself, I was going to end up
liking
the woman and then where would I be?

On my way over to Stacey’s, I popped by the office to make sure all was in order. I opened a window briefly to let in a little fresh air and checked my machine for messages. I took care of a few routine matters and then locked up again. I left my car where it was and walked the five blocks to his house, arriving in advance of Con Dolan. Stacey’d left his front door open and his screen unlatched. I knocked on the frame. “Hey, Stacey? It’s me. Mind if I come in?”

He responded with a muffled “Make yourself at home.”

I stepped inside and closed the screen door behind me. The floors were bare of carpeting, and the windows had no curtains or drapes, so my very presence seemed to set up an echo. I could smell coffee being brewed, but otherwise the place felt unoccupied. The room was stripped down, as though someone were moving in or out with the job only partially completed. The interior of the house couldn’t have been more than eight hundred square feet, most of which was visible from where I stood. The space was divided into living room, kitchen, a bedroom, and a bath, though the door to that was closed. The floor was linoleum, printed in a pattern of interconnected squares and rectangles, blue on gray with a line of mauve woven in at intervals. The woodwork was stained dark; the walls covered with yellowing paper. In places I could see tears that revealed the wall coverings from three lifetimes down; a small floral print covered by a layer of pinstripes that, in turn, covered blowsy bouquets of faded cabbage roses.

Under the windows to my right, there was a mattress, neatly made up with blankets. A TV set rested on the bare floor nearby. To my left, there was an oak desk and a swivel chair. There was not much else. Six identical cardboard boxes had been stacked against the far wall. All were sealed with tape and each bore a hand-printed label that listed contents. A closet door stood open, and I could see that it had been emptied of everything except two hangers.

I tiptoed to the kitchen door and peered in at a small wooden table and four mismatched chairs. A Pyrex percolator sat on the stove, a low blue flame under it. The clear glass showed a brew as dark as bittersweet chocolate. The doors to all the kitchen cabinets stood open, and many shelves were bare. Stacey was obviously in the process of wrapping and packing glassware and dishes into assorted cardboard boxes. A heavy ream of plain newsprint lay on the counter, wide sheets that must have measured three feet by four. He was clearly dismantling his house, preparing his possessions for shipping to an unknown location.

“See anything you like, it’s yours. I got no use for this stuff,” Stacey said, suddenly behind me.

I turned. “How’s your back?”

Stacey made a face. “So-so. I’ve been sucking down Tylenol and that helps.”

“You’ve been busy. Are you moving?”

“Not exactly. Let’s say, I may be going away and wanted to be prepared.” Today his watch cap was navy blue. With his bleached brows and his long, weathered face, he looked like a farmer standing in a fallow field. He wore soft, stone-washed jeans, a pale blue sweatshirt, and tan sheepskin boots.

“You own this place?”

“Rent. I’ve been here for years.”

“You’re organized.”

“I’m getting there. I don’t want to leave a mess for someone else to clean up. Con’s the one who’ll come in.” The unspoken phrase
after I’m dead
hung in the air between us.

“Con told me they were trying new drugs.”

Stacey shrugged. “Clinical trials. An experimental cocktail designed for people with nothing left to lose. Percentages aren’t good, but I figure, what the hell, it might help someone else. Some survive. That’s what the bell curve’s all about. I just think it’s foolish to assume I’m one.”

Con Dolan knocked at the front door and then let himself in, appearing half a second later in the kitchen doorway. He carried a brown paper grocery bag in one hand and a smaller white bag in the other. “What are you two up to?”

Stacey put his hands in his pockets and shrugged casually. “We’re talking about running away together. She’s arguing for San Francisco so we can cross the Golden Gate Bridge. I’m holding out for Vegas and topless dancing girls. We were just about to toss a coin when you came in.” Stacey moved toward the stove, talking to me over his shoulder. “You want coffee? I’m out of milk.”

“Black suits me fine.”

“Con?”

Dolan held up a white sack spotted with grease. “Doughnuts.”

“Good dang deal,” Stacey said. “We’ll retire to the parlor and figure out what’s what.”

Con took his two bags into the living room while Stacey produced a tower of nested Styrofoam cups and poured coffee in three. He returned to the counter and picked up the pile of newsprint and a marker pen. “Grab those paper towels, if you would. I’m out of napkins and the only kind I’ve seen are those economy packs. Four hundred at a crack. It’s ridiculous. While you’re at it, you can nab that sealing tape.”

I picked up the roll of tape and my coffee cup, while Dolan returned to grab two of the kitchen chairs. Then he came back and picked up the two remaining cups of coffee, which he placed on the desktop in the living room. He reached into the larger of the two bags and hauled out three wide black three-hole binders. “I went over to the copy shop and made us each one. Murder books,” he said, and passed them out. I flashed on my early days in elementary school. The only part of it I’d loved was buying school supplies: binder, lined paper, the pen-and-pencil sets.

Stacey taped two sheets of blank newsprint to the wall, then unfolded a map of California and taped it to the wall as well. There was something of the natural teacher in his manner. Both Dolan and I helped ourselves to doughnuts and then pulled up chairs. Stacey said, “I’ll take the lead here unless someone objects.”

Con said, “Quit being coy and get on with it.”

“Okay then. Let’s tally what we know. That’ll show us where the gaps are. For now, you probably think we have a lot more gaps than we have facts in between, but let’s see what we’ve got.” He uncapped the black marker and wrote the name “Victim” at the top of one sheet and “Killer” at the top of the next. “We’ll start with Jane Doe.”

I pulled a fresh pack of index cards from my shoulder bag, tore off the cellophane, and started taking notes.

He printed rapidly and neatly, condensing the information in the file as we talked our way through. “What do we have first?” He lifted his marker and looked at us. Like any good instructor, he was going to make sure we supplied most of the answers.

Dolan said, “She’s white. Age somewhere between twelve and eighteen.”

“Right. So that means a date of birth somewhere between 1951 and 1957.” Stacey made the requisite note near the top of the paper.

“What about the estimated date of death?” I asked.

I thought Dolan would consult the autopsy report, but he seemed to know it by heart. “Dr. Weisenburgh says the body’d been there anywhere from one to five days, so that’d be sometime between July 29 and August 2. He’s retired now, but I had him go back over this and he remembered the girl.”

“All right.” Stacey wrote the DOD on the paper under Jane Doe’s date of birth. He went on writing, this time dictating to himself. Rapidly, we went through the basics: height, weight, eyes, hair color.

Dolan said, “Report says blond, though it was probably a dye job. There was some suggestion of dark roots.”

I said, “She had buckteeth and lots of fillings, but no orthodontic work.”

Stacey’s mouth pulled down. “Maybe we should stop and have a chat about that.”

Dolan shook his head. “They didn’t do braces much when I was growing up. My family was big—thirteen kids—and we all had crooked teeth. Look here. Bottoms buckled up, but these top guys are good.” He turned to me. “You have braces as a kid?”

“Nope.”