"Q" is for Quarry (28 page)

His wandering gaze met mine. “You play chess?”

“I don’t, but I hear you’re good at it.”

“I should be. My pa taught me when I was seven and now I’m ninety-three years old. Son-in-law plays badly. Hasn’t got the head for it, if you know what I mean. Requires you to think. You have to plan in advance, maybe ten to fifteen moves. I’d be happy to teach you if you have a desire to learn.”

“I’m afraid not, but thanks.”

“All right.” He was silent briefly and then pointed a dancing index finger at a jar on the chest of drawers. “You might fetch a few more sunflower seeds for that squirrel. Good company for me. More personality than some folks I’ve known and he’s easily amused.”

I sprinkled a handful of seeds on the ledge. Dr. Nettleton was already sinking, the energy fading from his face. As I opened the door, he said, “Don’t remember your name, but I thank you for the visit. I enjoyed the conversation and hope you did, too.”

“Believe me, I did.” I wanted to put him in the car and take him with me. I waved from the door, but I don’t think he caught the gesture.

I headed back to the motel. Surely we were on the right track. While Dr. Nettleton couldn’t supply the name, the details he’d given me were consistent with what we knew. A thought struck me—a quick stop I could make before I reconnected with Dolan. I slowed the car and then pulled over to the curb. I picked up my map and looked for a small black square with a tiny flag on top. I did a U-turn on Chesapeake and drove back in the direction I’d been coming from.

Quorum High, which was part of the Unified School District, occupied a flat, two-block stretch of land on the north-east side of town. The grass looked patchy and the flagpole was bare. The classrooms were dispersed among a number of low-slung outbuildings that appeared to be prefabricated, with walls you could probably pierce with an X-Acto knife. I counted six trees on campus; not enough to pass for landscaping, but sufficient to offer the occasional shallow puddle of shade. The administration building looked like the first story of something far more grand. Maybe the school was in the process of raising funds, driving everyone insane with endless telethons on the local TV station. People will pay big bucks to get their regular programs back: sitcoms and soaps instead of all those amateur rock bands playing songs they’ve written without training of any kind.

I parked in the lot in a space marked VISITOR. I locked the car and trotted across the flattened grass to the entrance, pushing through the double glass doors and into the main corridor. It was dead quiet, though there must have been students somewhere on the premises. The portable classrooms outside weren’t large enough to house the auditorium or the gym. I was guessing that a goodly number of classes were held in this building as well. I could smell sweat and hair spray, hormones and hot gym shoes—the scents of teen misery. Bad skin, no power, too few choices, too much sexual pressure, and not enough wisdom to see you through until you reached eighteen. How many lives were out of whack by then? Girls pregnant, guys dead in cars before the beer cans had quit rolling across the floorboards.

Ahead of me, down the hall, I spotted a sign indicating the principal’s office. I could feel my anxiety mount as it had every day of my life during my high school years. I’d been so out of it, such a dork. I’d survived by rebelling—smoking dope and hanging out with other misfits like me. Here I was again, only all grown up (allegedly), crossing the threshold voluntarily, looking for answers to questions I’d never even dreamed of when I was young.

The school secretary was in her early thirties with brown eyes and short silky hair the color of pecan shells. A gossamer array of freckles lay across her nose and upper cheeks. She was casually dressed: beige slacks, short-sleeve brown sweater, and flat-heeled shoes. Her laminated name tag read ADRIANNE RICHARDS, and under that, in smaller letters, ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT. She got up when she saw me and came to the counter. “May I help you?”

“I hope so,” I said. “I’m a private investigator from Santa Teresa. I’m working with a couple of police detectives trying to identify a homicide victim, who died in August of ’69.”

“You mean here?”

“We’re not sure.” I took a brief time-out, giving her a verbal sketch of the girl we were trying to identify. “We’ve been down here talking to local dentists, hoping to locate her through her old dental records. I just talked to Dr. Nettleton. He thinks she was a patient, but he can’t remember her name. I thought if I could talk to a couple of teachers, my description might ring a bell. Do you have any idea who was on the faculty back then?”

She stared at me blankly. I could almost see her compute the possibilities. I thought she might speak, but her expression shut down and she dropped her gaze. “You’d have to talk to Mr. Eichenberger. He’s the principal. All our student records are confidential.”

“I don’t want her
records.
I just want to know her name.”

“Mr. Eichenberger doesn’t allow us to give out information like that.”

“You mean you know her?”

Her cheeks had begun to color. “Of course not. I’m talking about school policy.”

I stared at her, annoyed. Maybe as administrative assistant she was unaccustomed to people talking back. I’d be lucky if I didn’t end up in detention myself. “I don’t understand the problem.”

“Mr. Eichenberger’s the only one authorized to discuss the students’ files.”

“Fine. Is he available?”

“I’ll check, but I’d have to see proper identification first.”

I removed my wallet from my shoulder bag and opened the flap to show the photocopy of my license. I passed it across the counter.

“May I take this?”

“As long as I get it back.”

“Just a moment.”

She crossed the office, approaching a closed door that bore the nameplate, LAWRENCE EICHENBERGER, PRINCIPAL. She knocked once and went in. After perhaps a minute, the door opened and Mr. Eichenberger emerged with Adrianne Richards right behind him. She handed me my wallet and then returned to her desk, where she busied herself with paperwork so she could eavesdrop without appearing interested.

Mr. Eichenberger was a man in his early sixties with sparse, soft-looking white hair, glasses, and a bulbous nose. His complexion looked sunburned, and I picked up the scent of his aftershave, which smelled like incense. He wore a vivid blue dress shirt, a dark sweater vest, and a hand-tied bow tie. His manner was officious, his expression suggesting he was hell-bent on thwarting me. “I understand you have a problem with one of our students.”

“Not quite,” I said. Mentally, I could feel my eyes cross. No wonder I’d hated high school, where I’d been wholly at the mercy of guys just like him. I went through my entire explanation again, feigning a patience I didn’t really feel.

Mr. Eichenberger said, “Ms. Millhone, let me make something clear. I’ve been here since the mid-sixties. As a matter of fact, I’m retiring in May. I came to the job when I was forty and I’ve enjoyed every minute of it. I don’t mean to brag, but I remember just about every student who’s come through those doors. I make it my priority to know who they are and what they’re about. That’s what these kids need—not a buddy or a pal, they need guidance from adults with their best interests at heart. We’re in the business of getting these kids shaped up to face the real world. They need skills—reading and writing primarily—all in preparation for productive, well-paid work. If they’re not college material, we make sure they find trades. Truancy, gangs, drug problems—we don’t see much of that here, despite our proximity to Los Angeles.”

I flicked a look over my shoulder. Were we being filmed? It’s not that his sentiments weren’t admirable, but the spiel sounded canned and had nothing to do with me. “Excuse me, but is this relevant?”

He seemed to collect himself, as though recovering from a momentary lapse of consciousness. “Yes. Well. You were talking about a student. It would help if you’d give me the details. I can’t be of assistance without that.”

Ever obliging, I repeated my tale while his assistant moved papers randomly across her desk. Before I could finish my account, Mr. Eichenberger shook his head. “Not here. Not during my administration. You might try Lockaby. That’s the alternative high school.”

“Really. I didn’t know there was one.”

“It’s over on the Kennedy Pike; a white frame building across from the town cemetery. You can’t miss it.”

“Is there someone in particular I should ask for?”

“Mrs. Bishop is the principal. She might be able to help.”

“You didn’t know the girl yourself?”

“If I had, I’d say so. I wouldn’t withhold information in a murder investigation.”

“What about your assistant?”

“Mrs. Richards wasn’t working here back then.”

“Too bad. I thought it was worth a try,” I said. I took out a business card and made a note of the motel number on the back. “I’m at the Ocean View for the next couple of days. I’d appreciate a call if you think of anything that might help.”

“You mentioned a foster family. I’d try Social Services.”

“Thanks. That’s a good suggestion. I’ll do that.”

I decided not to make another move until I’d brought Dolan up to speed. For the second time that morning, I was headed back to the motel. I left the car in the parking space in front of his room and gave a rap at his door. From inside, I caught the muffled sounds of the blaring television set. Dolan must not have heard me because he didn’t answer my knock. Head tilted against the door, I waited and then tried it again. No deal. I turned and stared off across the parking lot toward the office. I let my eyes stray to the alcove that housed the soft-drink and Coke machines. No sign of him. I knocked again, this time sounding like the ATF at the outset of a drug raid. Maybe he was in the shower or otherwise indisposed.

I crossed the parking lot to the office and poked my head in the door. The desk clerk, a girl in her twenties, was sitting on a swivel stool, flipping through a copy of
People
magazine. I’d interrupted her in the middle of an article about Princess Di. The clerk was dark-haired, pretty in a sulky sort of way, with a mouth way too wide. Her lipstick was dark red and her lashes were so thick I thought they must be false. She was wearing a navy skirt and white blouse, topped by a smart red blazer with a phony crest on the patch pocket. The outfit must have been provided by the motel because it didn’t look like anything she’d have worn without the threat of being fired. To compensate, she’d shortened the skirt and left the top three buttons of her blouse undone. She was chewing gum, a habit I’d been warned against when I was in tenth grade. My French teacher swore it made you look like a cow and I haven’t chewed gum since. I hadn’t even liked the teacher, but the admonition stuck.

I said, “Sorry to bother you, but I’m wondering if you’ve seen the fellow from room 130? I know he’s expecting me, but he doesn’t answer his door.”

She leaned over and checked the register, flipping back a page. While she did this, she pushed her tongue through the wad of gum until it bulged like a small pink lung being extruded through her lips. “You’re talking about the old guy?”

“He isn’t
old
,” I said, offended.

“Yeah, right. The day he checked in? He got an AARP discount. Fifteen percent off. You can’t get that unless you’re old. You have to be fifty at least.”

“I’m fifty myself.”

She said, “Far out. You look forty.” She blew a bubble and popped it to punctuate her point. She looked at me. “Oops, sorry. You were kidding, right?”

“Never mind. I asked for that,” I said. “Did he leave the motel for some reason?”

“He went out for cigarettes, but I saw him come back.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Hour. He stopped by to pick up messages and then he went to his room.”

“Had any calls come in?”

“Ask him yourself, you’re such a pal.”

“Ring his room for me, okay?”

“Sure.” She picked up the phone, blowing another bubble as she punched the number in. It must have rung fifteen times. “He must have gone out again. Lotta old people get antsy. Too much energy. Have to be on the go or it drives ’em nuts.”

“I appreciate your assessment. Can you come with me to his room and use your key?”

“Nope. I’m here by myself and I can’t leave the desk. Why don’t you go around the back and bang on his bathroom window? He might be on the pot.”

I didn’t like this at all. I returned to his room and knocked again about as loudly as the villagers at Frankenstein’s castle door. Nothing. I circled the building, counting off the intervening rooms until I reached one I assumed was his. All the bathroom windows were too high off the ground to do me any good. I went back to his front door and stood there, undecided, while I thought about life. Why wasn’t he answering? I reached for my shoulder bag and pulled out my wallet. In the windowed compartment under my driver’s license, I keep a simple set of lock picks. This was not the battery-operated device I own that opens just about anything. I’d left that one at home, primarily because if I happened to get caught with it, the cops would take a dim view. What I had in hand was a set of the old-fashioned picks, a little hook and a tiny torque wrench, for occasions such as this. In my bag, I also carry a pin light and a folding screwdriver, neither of which would be necessary for today’s B&E.

I knocked one more time and called Dolan’s name in bullish tones. The guy in the next room opened his door and stuck his head out. “Hey! Keep it down, for cripes sake? And while you’re at it, you can tell that jerk to turn off his TV set. It’s been blasting since ten o’clock and I’m sick of it. Some of us have to work.”

“Sorry. He’s handicapped,” I said, and tapped my ear. “Severe hearing deficit, the poor guy.”

The man’s expression shifted from annoyance to something less. “Oh. I didn’t realize . . .”