Q Is for Quarry

it's not exactly a first. I said the same thing to your mom. Charisse was promiscuous, so why not him?"
    Justine clamped her mouth shut, staring at the floor. Agitated, she tucked a strand of pale hair behind one ear.
    I said, "Look, I'm not making any claims here. None of us have the facts. This is purely speculation."
    "Well, it's in bad taste," she said. She stood up.
    "I guess I better let you go. Maybe I should have a chat with Cornell."
    "I'm not sure he's interested."
    "He didn't seem opposed to my talking to you."
    "He was being polite."
    "A quality I've always admired in a man. Anyway, you needn't fret because I can't do it now. I have something else to do."
    Hazelwood Springs on my California map was a microdot on Highway 78 ten miles south of Quorum. The town turned out to be so small that I drove straight through without realizing it. I made a three-point turn, using the next convenient driveway, and then doubled back. The entire town consisted of a minimart, two side roads, a scattering of houses, and a two-pump gas station of the old-fashioned variety, where some guy actually came outside, filled your tank, cleaned the windshield, and passed the time of day. I ended up putting another twenty bucks' worth of gas in Dolan's boat, but in return, the fellow was kind enough to point out Lennie Root's place, which was just across the road.
    Lennie Root's small white frame house sat on pylons of raw cinder block, thus creating the crawl space he used to store his miscellaneous painting equipment. There was a flowery ceramic plaque affixed to the wood frame above the front door that read THE ROOTS, MYRA AND LENNIE.
    Lennie responded to my knock. He was a man in his sixties with a narrow, sagging face and heavy bags beneath his eyes. His bushy gray hair was peppered with tiny specks of dried red paint. Over his chinos and white T-shirt he wore a full-length apron with a ruffle around the bib. He held a wrinkled white dress shirt like an errant tomcat he intended to boot out the door.
    "Mr. Root? My name's Kinsey Millhone. I'm hoping you can answer a few questions about a former employee. You remember Frankie Miracle?"
    "What makes you ask? Because if you're working for OSHA or state disability insurance, I want it on record-the injury was fake."
    "I'm not here about that. I'm actually a private investigator, doing follow-up on a homicide investigation. This was August of '69. Frankie says he worked for you shortly before that."
    He blinked. "How much do you know about ironing?"
    "Ironing?"
    "My wife's out of town at her mother's until next Monday and I'm supposed to be at my daughter's for supper tonight. I need to iron this shirt, but I don't know how. My wife always sprinkles 'em with water and leaves 'em in a wad, but I never paid attention to what comes next. You show me how to do this and I'll tell you anything you want to know."
    I laughed. "Mr. Root, you're in luck. You got a deal."
    He handed me the shirt and I followed him through a modest living room to the kitchen at the rear. There were dirty dishes piled in the sink, and the counter was littered with additional glasses, flatware, and plates. On the breakfast table, there was a large broken-rimmed plastic basket piled with freshly laundered clothes. The door to the utility room stood open and Lennie crossed the kitchen to retrieve an ironing board with a floral padded cover and scratched metal legs. When he opened it, the sustained screech of metal on metal sounded like the mating call of an exotic bird. He plugged in the iron. I moved the setting to Cotton and waited for the iron to heat.
    "My aunt Gin taught me to do this when I was seven years old, primarily because she hated to do the ironing herself." I licked an index finger and touched it to the hot iron. It made a spatting sound. "Watch this." I took the dampened shirt by the yoke, holding it between my hands, and straightened the puckered seams with one efficient snap.
    "That's first?"
    "Unless your shirt doesn't have a yoke. Then you start with the collar." I placed the shirt on the ironing board and explained the strategy: the yoke, followed by the collar, then the cuffs, the two sleeves, and finally the body of the garment.
    He watched with care until I'd finished the shirt and buttoned it onto a wire hanger. I handed him a second shirt from the basket and had him try his hand. He was slow and a bit clumsy, but he did a credible job for his first time out. He seemed pleased with himself,