I sorted through the cards again just to see if I’d missed anything. Of course, I’d forgotten to go back to Medora and ask why she’d waited a week to file the missing-persons report on Charisse. I placed that card on top of the stack, turning it upside down as a reminder to myself before I secured them with a rubber band. The point was minor and there was probably an explanation, but it was still a question that needed covering.
At 5:00, I tossed the pack of index cards in the drawer on top of the murder book, stacked the pages of my typed report, tucked them in a folder, and drove them to the local print shop, where I had two copies made. On my way back to the motel, driving east on Main Street, I caught a glimpse of Adrianne Richards heading for the local supermarket. She’d just parked her car and was walking from the side lot to the front entrance. I braked, glancing belatedly in the rearview mirror in hopes the car behind me wouldn’t climb up my tailpipe. I made a hard left-hand turn to the annoyance of several motorists, one of whom shook his fist at me and mouthed a naughty word. I made a sheepish gesture and blew him a kiss.
I parked and went in. I did a quick walking survey, canvassing the store aisle by aisle. I finally spotted her in the produce section, grocery list between her teeth while she picked through a display of cantaloupes. In her cart, she had a plastic basket of cherry tomatoes, two bunches of green onions, and a cauliflower that looked like a brain wrapped in cellophane.
I said, “Hi. I’ve been hoping to talk to you, but I didn’t know how to get in touch. What’s your husband’s first name?”
“Peter. We’re divorced. He’s in Reno.”
“Mind if I tag along?”
“Fine with me,” she said. She was wearing jeans, tennis shoes, and a twinset of smoky blue cashmere. Her hair was pulled back at the nape of her neck, secured with a barrette. She selected a cantaloupe, sniffed it, and then tucked it in her cart. She moved on, pausing at the dairy case to check the expirationdate on a carton of skim milk, which she then placed in her cart. “What can I help you with?”
“Well, I’m curious. When I showed up in the office at Quorum High, didn’t it occur to you I might have been talking about Charisse?”
“Not at all. Why would it? She’s been gone for years.”
“I heard you were good friends.”
“I don’t know about ‘good’ friends. We hung out together some.”
“Did she say anything to you about leaving town?”
“I didn’t even know she was gone. It’s not like I saw her every day.”
“But once you figured it out, didn’t you worry about her?”
“Not particularly. I figured she could take care of herself.”
“Did you ever hear from her again?”
“No, but I didn’t expect to. That’s not how it was. I was a couple of years younger and we didn’t have much in common. I’ve lost touch with a lot of classmates I was closer to than her. Such is life.”
“You don’t seem upset about the murder. Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Look, I’ll be honest. I’m sorry for what happened, but I’m not sad. Why would I be? I knew her four months at best.”
“Tell me about the friendship, such as it was.”
“I don’t know what to say. I thought she was funny. She didn’t care what she said and she really didn’t care what other people thought. I was feeling rebellious. She did things I didn’t have the nerve to do. I was a good girl. She was bad. I guess opposites attract.”
We turned left, ambling down an aisle stocked with canned vegetables, dried pasta, white and brown rice, and dried legumes. She picked up a package of lentils.
I said, “Do you know Pudgie Clifton?”
“Sure. He dated Justine.”
“How long did they go together?”
“A year or so, less. Personally, I thought he was a bum, but she liked him. Even after they broke up, they stayed friends.”
“He seems like an odd choice for her.”
“You should have seen the guy I dated. Talk about a misfit.”
“Did Pudgie know Cornell?”
“We all knew each other.”
“What about Frankie Miracle and Iona Mathis?”
“I’ve heard the names, but I don’t know either one.”
“Did Pudgie spend much time at your house?”
She seemed mildly baffled. “A fair amount. What makes you ask?”
“Do you think he could have stolen the Mustang from your father’s shop?”
I could see her consider. “It’s possible. He stole other cars back then.” She moved over to the shelves, choosing a can of tomato sauce and two cans of pork and beans.
“Did you suspect him at the time?”
“It might have crossed my mind.”
“Did you ever mention that to your dad?”
“No. I didn’t see Pudgie do it so why get him in trouble when I didn’t know for sure. I figured he was trying to impress Justine.”
“Hadn’t they broken up by then?”
“Well, yes, but he was hoping to get her back.”
“Did she know he took the car?”
“I don’t even know that. It’s just a guess on my part. I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”
“I think he not only stole the car, but drove up to Lompoc with Charisse.” I didn’t mention “dead in the trunk.”
“So what?”
“You never asked him if he knew what happened to her?”
“I’m sure if he’d known something he would have spoken up.”
“Didn’t anybody seem concerned?”
“Not really. Medora reported her missing so we all assumed the police would take care of it. I’m sorry if that sounds mean.”
By now she’d turned onto an aisle lined on both sides with freezer cases: ice creams, frozen pies, pizzas, and bags of frozen vegetables. Adrianne opened a glass door and removed a bag of baby peas.
I studied her with puzzlement. “Why do I have the feeling you know something you’re not telling me?”
“I’m sure I know lots of things I haven’t told you.”
“About Charisse.”
“I don’t want to make trouble. I told you that before.”
“Who would you be making trouble for?”
“I’m speaking in generalities, not about anyone specific.”
“Let’s hope that’s true. Thanks for your time.”
She moved on and I remained where I was, watching the efficiency with which she went about her business.
I stopped by the motel. Stacey’s car was gone. He hadn’t left me a note, so I figured I’d catch him later. I drove on over to Quorum General, where I found Dolan sleeping, his dinner tray pushed to one side. I tiptoed to his bedside and tucked one copy of the report, sealed in a manila envelope, under the edge of the blanket folded at his feet. On my way past the nurses station, I had a quick chat with Ms. Kovach, who told me he was being transferred out of CCU and onto a regular medical floor. I told her to tell him I’d been in and had left him an update at the foot of his bed.
“I’ll be sure and tell him,” she said.
As I eased out of the parking lot, Stacey was just pulling in. We both rolled down our windows and had a chat, car to car. I passed him the second copy of the notes I’d typed and included a quick account of my conversation with Adrianne, plus the gossip I’d picked up from Betty Puckett regarding Wilbur Sanders’s decampment and his subsequent bigamy.
Stacey said, “Sorry to hear Pudgie spent so much time at the McPhees. I hate rooting against the guy, but we could use a break about now.”
“So what if he knew them? He still could have stolen the car, don’t you think?”
“How’re we going to prove it? I thought the prints would turn out to be significant,” he said. “Oh, well. I’ll ask the boys to get to work on Wilbur. Shouldn’t be hard to track him down. Might as well cook his goose while we’re at it.”
“Yeah, Medora’s in bad shape. It’d be nice to see
him taking some responsibility. Meanwhile, where were you? I stopped by the motel and you were gone.”
“I went over to the sheriff’s office and talked to a couple of detectives. They said they’d take a set of elimination prints on the McPhee’s if I can talk them into it.”
“You think they’ll agree?”
“I can’t think why not. By the way, I want you to go to the Baptist Church with me. It’s Easter and Edna tells me the McPhees will all be there. Two services tomorrow, but I think the nine o’clock’s our best bet. Afterward, they’re going back to Edna’s for a big Sunday dinner. Easter, I bet she does a spiral-cut ham.”
“What makes you say that?”
“She’s just like my mother. We had ham every Easter, along with yams and green beans. We’ll follow them to the house and have a quick chat with them while they’re all there together.”
“I don’t know, Stacey. Maybe you should go alone. I’ll only end up irritating Ruel.”
“I want you with me. I promise we’ll keep it brief.”
A car pulled up behind me and the driver gave a quick, polite beep of his horn.
I said, “I’ll catch you later at the motel.”
“Give me fifteen minutes.”
We ate supper in Dolan’s room, which Stacey had by now adopted as his own. Both of us sat on the king-size bed, sharing a bucket of franchised fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, and watery corn on the cob. Once we finished, I gathered the chicken bones, empty cartons, and used plasticware and tossed everything in the trash. Stacey wanted me to stay and watch a movie, but I was ready for a break. I’m not accustomed to spending so much time in the company of others. “If you need me, I’ll be in my room. Otherwise, I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Great. I’ll knock on your door at eight. That’ll give you time to shower and get dressed.”
“Oh shoot. I just remembered. The only thing I have with me are blue jeans.”
“No problem. We don’t have to go in. We can wait in the parking lot and follow them home.”
“Why not go straight to the house?”
“What if they change their minds and decide to go out for Sunday lunch? This may be the only chance we have to talk to them together.”
“You think she’d give up the chance to cook her big Easter dinner?”
“Probably not, but I want to see the congregation all dressed up,” he said. “We used to do that as kids.”
“You’re not going to let me get out of this, are you?”
He smiled benignly. “Enjoy your evening.”
23
The phone was ringing as I unlocked my door. I dropped my bag and plucked the handset from the cradle on what must have been the fourth or fifth ring. A woman said, “Is this Kinsey?”
“Sure, who’s this?”
“Iona. My mom said you called looking for me.”
“Where are you, in Creosote?”
“Peaches. I just got in. What do you want?”
“Did you talk to Pudgie Clifton Thursday night?”
“I might have called him,” she said, cautiously. “Why do you ask?”
“Did you make arrangements to see him?”
“Why would I do that? He’s a lowlife punk.”
“His sister said you were pissed at him. What was that about?”
“None of your business. That’s between him and me.”
“All right. Let’s try this one. Your mother tells me you spent time in Lompoc as a kid. I’m wondering if you told Pudgie about the quarry up there.”
Dead silence.
“You remember telling him about that? I’m talking about the one where the girl’s body was found.”
“How would I know where the body was found?”
“Oh come on, Iona. Don’t play games with me. I don’t care if you told him. I just want the information.”
“I might have.”
“You might have, or you did?”
“All right, I did, but that was years ago. I even took him to see it once when we were out on the road.”
“Did you know Charisse Quinn?”
“No.”
“Aren’t you going to ask who she is?”
“I’m not stupid. I assume she’s the dead girl they found after Cathy Lee was killed. I asked Frankie about that and he says he had nothing to do with that. He didn’t even know her.”
“You know, he’s not stupid, either. If he killed the girl, he’s hardly going to tell you.”
“Why are you so against him? Can’t you give the guy a break? He hasn’t done anything to you.”
“This isn’t about me, Iona. It’s about Charisse. Is Frankie there by chance? I’d like to talk to him myself.”
“He took off Friday morning. He was scheduled to work Friday night and had to get back.”
“Short visit, wasn’t it?”
“So what?” she said, annoyed.
“What’d you tell him about Pudgie?”
Another silence, during which I could hear her breathing in my ear.
“Iona?”
“If you must know, I told him Pudgie’s a fuckin’ snitch. He knew somebody had pointed a finger at him. The minute you mentioned Pudgie, I figured it was him.”
“Is that why you were so pissed at him?”
“I’m not the only one. Frankie’s pissed about it, too. Pudgie cut a deal for himself by blaming Frankie for what happened to that girl.”
I felt a whisper of fear, like a millipede, running down my back. “Where’d you get that?”
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”
“No.”
“Yes it is, because Frankie checked it out. He knows this guy at the county jail who’s serving thirty days? The guy told him Pudgie had a visitor—this woman private eye, who was asking about the murder—that was you, right?”
“Of course, but Pudgie never made a deal.”
“Yes, he did. You know how I know? He got out of jail the very next day. The guy said.”
“Because his sentence was up. He’d served his time and he was released.”
“Nuhn-un. No way. Pudgie went back to his cell block and bragged to everyone. He said you were doing something special for him. Next thing you know, he got out.”
“He asked me for cigarettes and I said no. That’s all it was. There wasn’t any deal.”
“Ha, ha, ha. Tell me another one.”
“Would you listen to me? Iona, think about this. I don’t have the authority to get him out. How would I do that?”
“That’s not what the guy said.”
“Well, the guy got it wrong. I don’t have the power to make a deal with anyone. I’m not a cop. I’m a private citizen just like you.”
She said, “Oh.”
“Yeah, ‘oh,’” I snapped. “Next time you talk to Frankie, would you set him straight? If he needs to hear it from me, he can call. In the meantime, lay off Pudgie. He didn’t do a thing.”
Exasperated, I returned the handset to the cradle. All we needed was Frankie Miracle on a rampage. I had to admit I was really splitting hairs on this one. Pudgie had most certainly pointed a finger at Frankie, but not in order to make a deal for himself. He was hoping to divert our attention, which he’d succeeded in doing, but only temporarily. Now that his fingerprints had shown up on the stolen vehicle, the focus had shifted back to him. His attempt to implicate Frankie only made his own behavior the more suspect, so in the end, his scheme backfired. Unfortunately, I didn’t credit Frankie with an appreciation of the finer points of finking. To him, a rat was a rat. I checked my notes and picked up the phone again, dialing Felicia Clifton’s number in Creosote. I didn’t even hear the line ring on her end before she said, “Hello?”
“Felicia? Kinsey Millhone. How are you?”
“Not good. Cedric hasn’t come home and I’m worried sick about him.”
“He hasn’t been gone that long, has he? You said he left the house this morning. That’s only a few hours.”
“O
r he could have gone out last night. All I know is he wasn’t here when I got up. Either way, he should have checked in by now. This is not like him.”
“Did you call the tavern? The bartender said he was always there for Happy Hour.”
“Jerry hasn’t seen him either. I don’t know where he could have gone.”
“Maybe he met a girl and went home with her.”
“I don’t think so. I didn’t give him any money so he didn’t even have enough to buy drinks. My car’s still here so he has to be on foot. He could have walked to the tavern, but not anywhere else. You’ve seen this town. We’re out here in the middle of nowhere and everything shuts down at six.”
“Have you tried the police?”
“I suppose I could do that,” she said reluctantly. “I tried the two hospitals—the one in Quorum and the other one in Blythe—but neither has a record of him.”
“Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?”
“I guess.”
“Would he skip town without telling you?”
“You mean take off for good? Why would he do that?”
“Ah. He’s in a bit of trouble with Frankie Miracle, Iona’s ex.”
“Shit. Does Pudgie know that?”
“I’m sure he’s well aware of it. So maybe he decided to lay low.”
“Without any money, where could he go?”
“Good question. Look, why not try the police? Maybe he was picked up. For all you know, he’s sitting in jail.”
“Trust me, if that was true, he would have hit me up for bail.”
“Well, I hope he shows soon, but if he doesn’t, let me know. Maybe we can come up with another idea.”