"Q" is for Quarry (42 page)

Stacey and I remained where we were. Some of the church windows were open, and we were treated to organ music and an assortment of hymns. The sermon itself didn’t carry that far. Stacey had bought a copy of the
Palo Verde Valley Times,
and while the service went on, we occupied ourselves with the local news. He said, “What’d you hear from Pudgie?”

“Not a word. I called last night, but Felicia said he hadn’t showed. I’ll call again this afternoon. With luck, he’ll be back and we can talk to him. I’ll bet you money he has a story cooked up to explain his prints on the Mustang.”

I read the front section and the funnies, and Stacey entertained himself by reading aloud ads for cheap desert real estate. I looked up. “You ought to do it, Stacey. Now that you’re a homeless person, you could live down here.”

“Too hot. I’ve been thinking to ask Dolan about moving in with him.”

“Hey, I like that. He needs someone to ride herd on his profligate lifestyle.”

“I’d have to sneak out for junk food. That’s the only thing worries me.” With a rattle, Stacey flipped the page, his attention shifting to sports.

“It wouldn’t hurt you to cut down.”

“Speaking of which, what would you like to try next? Taco Bell, Long John Silver’s, or Jack in the Box?”

“I thought we were going to McPhee’s.”

“I’m talking about later. A fella has to eat.”

After the church service ended, we waited until the family headed out, and we followed them to the house. Ruel and Edna turned off a block early. “What’s that about? Are they ducking us?” I asked, peering back at them.

“They do that every week—visit a shut-in before Sunday lunch.”

“You’re too much,” I said. “Is there anything you don’t know?”

Justine let us in. She and Adrianne were apparently in charge of the kitchen until Edna got home. The house smelled of the baked ham she must have put in the oven before she left for church. I detected whiffs of pineapple and brown sugar and the burnt sugar smell of baking sweet potatoes oozing sap onto the oven floor. Justine’s girls had settled at the coffee table in the living room, playing a board game with only minor squabbling. I could see their Easter baskets on the floor where they’d left them. Judging from the bits of crumpled foil, it looked as though the girls had already begun to sample the hollow chocolate bunnies and foil-wrapped chocolate eggs. All three had received bright yellow plush ducks. The dining room table had been set with the good china. The centerpiece was an enormous arrangement of Easter lilies I could smell from where I stood.

Justine proceeded down the hall ahead of us. “We’re out here in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on lunch.”

“No problem,” Stacey said as we followed her.

The kitchen was densely heated, in part by the kettle of green beans simmering on the stove. Of course, I was starving, hoping to get on with this so Stacey and I could hit the junk food circuit. I’d already decided it wasn’t my job to help Stacey reform. I’d set him on this path so I might as well keep him company while he stuffed himself.

Adrianne stood at the counter, twisting plastic ice cube trays so the cubes dropped neatly into a big clear-glass pitcher. She passed each empty tray to Cornell, who refilled it after she handed it to him. He delivered the last tray to the freezer and then picked up a dish towel and dried his hands. In the meantime, Justine was setting out salad plates, arranging a lettuce leaf on each. She opened the refrigerator and removed a Tupperware Jell-O mold, which she ran briefly under hot water at the sink. Over her shoulder she said to Stacey, “What did you want?”

“I was hoping your parents would be here so I wouldn’t have to repeat myself. I don’t know if Lieutenant Dolan mentioned this, but we’re going to need a set of fingerprints from each of you. Detective Bancroft at the Sheriff’s Department said she’d look for you first thing tomorrow morning.”

Cornell leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. He’d taken off his sport coat and loosened his tie. “What’s this about?”

“Elimination purposes. Any one of you might’ve left prints on the Mustang. This way, if we come up with latents, we’ll have something to compare ’em to. Saves time and aggravation.”

“We’re supposed to get inked and rolled like a bunch of criminals?” Cornell asked.

“Well, no sir. Not at all. This is strictly routine, but it’s a big help to us. Lieutenant Dolan would have told you himself, but he ended up at Quorum General. I suppose you heard about that.”

Cornell wasn’t to be distracted by Dolan’s medical woes. “What if we say no?”

“I can’t think why you would. It’s common practice.”

“Well, it’s not common for me.”

Adrianne looked at him. “Oh, just do it, Cornell. Why are you kicking up a fuss?”

“He’s not
kicking up a fuss
,” Justine said. “He’s asking why we have to agree to this crap.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to call it ‘crap,’” Stacey said. “Left up to me, I’d let the matter slide, but Dolan seems to think it’s a good idea. He’s the boss on this one. Only takes a couple minutes and the place can’t be any more than ten blocks away. If you want, I’ll drive you over and bring you back when you’re done.”

“It isn’t that,” Cornell said.

“Then what?” Adrianne said. “Why are you acting like this?”

“I wasn’t talking to you. I want your opinion, I can ask.”

“Excuse the heck out of me.”

“Look, I’ll go down there, okay? I just don’t like being told what to do.”

Stacey said, “Tell you what. I’ve got an inkless pad in the car. Inked prints are superior, but I can see your point. We can take care of it right now if you’d prefer.”

“Skip it. I’ll go. It just bugs me, that’s all.”

“We appreciate that. I’ll tell the detective the family’s coming in.”

“Wait a minute. Mom and Dad have to go, too?”

“Since the vehicle belongs to your dad, it wouldn’t be unusual to find his prints on it. It’s the same with your mom. No point in chasing our tails if there’s an obvious explanation.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Cornell said. He tossed the dish towel on the counter and went out the back door, letting it bang shut behind him. I’d have bet serious money he’d be lighting a cigarette to calm himself.

His sister stared after him. “What’s his problem?”

“Just drop it. He’s in a bad mood,” Justine said.

Adrianne caught my eye briefly and then looked away.

Stacey and I went to Long John Silver’s for lunch, this time swooning over crisp-fried fish and chips doused in puckery vinegar the color of iced tea. Afterward, we stopped by Quorum General to visit Dolan. I hadn’t seen him since Friday night and I was amazed at his progress. He was out wandering the hall, wearing a pair of paper slippers and a light cotton robe over his hospital gown. He was freshly showered and shaved, his hair still damp and neatly combed to one side.

As soon as he saw us he said, “Let’s use the waiting room at the end of the hall. I’m sick of being cooped up.”

I said, “You look great.”

“I’m lobbying the doc to let me out of here.” Dolan seemed to shuffle, but it may have been the only way to keep the slippers on his feet.

“What’s the deal at this point?”

“Possibly tomorrow. I’m supposed to start cardiac rehab and he thinks I’m better off doing that on home turf,” he said. “Joe Mandel called me this morning with good news. They picked up the guy on that triple homicide.”

Stacey said, “Good dang deal. Now they can concentrate on us.”

We had the waiting room to ourselves. Up in one corner, a wall-mounted color TV was tuned to an evangelist, the sound turned down low. There was a white-robed choir behind him and I watched the vigor with which they sang. Lieutenant Dolan seemed restless, but I thought it was probably the lack of cigarettes. For him, work and the act of smoking were so closely connected it was hard to do one without the other. We chatted about the case. None of us ever tired of rehashing the facts, though there was nothing new to add.

He said, “Right now, Pudgie’s our priority. Time to lean on that guy.”

“Waste of time,” Stacey said. “He’s an old family friend. His prints are easy to explain. Might be bullshit, but nothing we can prove either way.”

We moved on to idle chitchat until Dolan’s energy began to flag. We parted company soon afterward.

Stacey and I spent the remainder of Sunday afternoon in our separate rooms. I don’t know how he occupied his time. I read my book, napped, and trimmed my hair with my trusty pair of nail scissors. At 6:00, we went out for another round of junk food, this time Taco Bell. I was beginning to crave alfalfa sprouts and carrot juice; anything without additives, preservatives, or grease. On the other hand, the color had returned to Stacey’s cheeks and I’d have been willing to swear he’d gained a pound or two since he arrived.

Dolan was released from the hospital late Monday afternoon just as the dinner trays were coming out. Stacey and I arrived on the floor at 5:00 and waited with patience while Dolan’s doctor reviewed his chart and lectured him at length about the importance of staying off cigarettes, eating properly, and initiating a program of moderate exercise. By the time we saw him, he was dressed in street clothes and eager to be gone.

We tucked him in the front seat of Stacey’s rental car while I climbed in the back. He carried a manila envelope with copies of the ER report, his EKGs, and his record of treatment. As Stacey turned the key in the ignition, Dolan said, “Bunch of bunk. They exaggerate this stuff, trying to keep you in line. I don’t see what’s so bad about an occasional smoke.”

“Don’t start on that. You do what they say.”

“How about I’ll be as compliant as you were? As I remember it, you did what suited you and to hell with them.”

Stacey turned off the key and threw his hands up. “That’s it. We’re going right back upstairs and talk to the doctor.”

“What’s the matter with you? I said I’d do as I’m told . . . in the main. Now start the car and let’s go. I’m not supposed to be upset. It says so right here,” he said, rattling his envelope.

“Does not. I read that myself.”

“You read my
medical
records?”

“Sure. The chart was in the slot on your door. I knew you’d lie about things.”

I leaned forward, resting my arms on the front seat between them. “Guys, if you two are going to bicker, I’ll get out and walk.”

All three of us were silent while they thought about that.

Finally, Dolan said, “Oh, all right. This is making my blood pressure go up.”

At the Quorum Inn over dinner, Dolan’s mood improved and the tension between them eased. Dolan made a pious display of ordering broiled fish with lemon, steamed vegetables, a plain green salad, and a glass of red wine, which he swore he was allowed. After our day of junk food, Stacey and I both ate broiled chicken, salad, and the same steamed vegetables. We all pretended to enjoy the dinner more than we did. By the time our decaf coffee arrived, it was clear we’d run out of conversation. In the morning, Stacey would drive Dolan back to Santa Teresa in the rental car, leaving Dolan’s for me. The case had sailed into one of those inevitable calms. We were waiting for paperwork, waiting for test results, waiting for comparison prints; in short, waiting for a break that might never come. I probably should have headed home at the same time they did. I’d certainly join them in a day or two, if nothing further developed.

I said, “In the meantime, what’s left? I don’t want to sit here idle.”

Dolan said, “Just don’t get in trouble.”

“How could I do that? There’s nothing going on.”

Tuesday morning, I saw them off at 8:00, giving a final wave as Stacey turned out of the parking lot. I went back to my room, feeling a mild depression mixed with relief at being on my own again. I usually experienced a similar reaction after Robert Dietz had been with me and finally hit the road. It’s hard to be the one left behind. If I were home, I’d clean house, but in the confines of the motel, I couldn’t even do that. I gathered my wee pile of laundry, rooted in the bottom of my bag for loose change, and walked to the Laundromat half a block away. There’s no activity more profoundly boring than sitting in a Laundromat, waiting for the washer and dryer to click through their cycles from beginning to end. If you dared leave your clothes, thinking to return later when the load was done, someone would steal them or pull them out of the machines and leave them in a heap. I sat and did surveillance on my own underwear. It beat doing a records search, but not by much.

I hadn’t been back from the Laundromat for more than ten minutes when I heard a knock on my door. I peered through the fisheye and saw Felicia Clifton standing outside, staring off across the parking lot. I opened the door. The face she turned to me was pale and undefined, free of makeup. Her eyes, without the black liner and false lashes, were actually prettier, though not nearly as large or as vivid. She wore jeans, a sweatshirt, and running shoes without socks, as though she’d dressed in haste. Her red hair was pulled back in a jumbled ponytail.

“This is a pleasant surprise. Come in.”

She stepped in, reaching out a hand to steady herself. At first I thought she was drunk, but I realized within seconds, she was shaken and upset. “Felicia, what’s wrong? Is it Pudgie?”

She nodded mutely. I moved her to one side and closed the door after her, saying, “Hey, you’re safe. You’re fine. Take your time.”

She sank onto the desk chair, putting her head between her knees as though on the verge of passing out.

So far, I didn’t like the way the conversation was shaping up. I went into the bathroom and grabbed a washcloth. I rung it out with cold water and carried back to her. She took it and pressed it to her face. She made a sound that was half-sigh and half-moan.