Q Is for Quarry

this is the first and only message I've ever had from you. When did you call before?"
    "Twice yesterday afternoon and again first thing this morning."
    "It must be the desk clerk. She's terrible with messages and just about everything else. Believe me, I'd have called you if I'd known."
    "Well. I suppose these things happen," she said, mollified. "Patsy Marcum called me shortly after you left the office yesterday. I don't think I can help, but Patsy thought I should get in touch."
    "We've actually made some progress since I talked to her. It now appears possible our murder victim is a girl named Charisse Quinn. Do you remember her?"
    "That name doesn't ring a bell. When was she at Lockaby?"
    "This would have been April or May of 1969. She started at Quorum High in March, but she got expelled fairly soon from what I've heard. She must have transferred to Lockaby close to the end of the school year."
    "I was afraid you'd say that. I was out during that period on medical leave. I know because I went back through my records and checked my calendar for that year. Otherwise, I'd have done the intake interview."
    "So you didn't meet with her."
    "I didn't. I wish I could help."
    "I do, too. We've been hearing a lot about her, but most of it's derogatory. I was hoping to get something more objective from you."
    "Sorry to disappoint. Was the family local?"
    "Not as far as I know." I took a moment to explain the situation with Medora Sanders and her fostering of Charisse.
    "I do know the Sanders, or I should say I did. I'm not familiar with Medora's current circumstances, but in those days, she had a serious drinking problem."
    "How much to you know about Wilbur?"
    "Well, I knew him to speak to. We went to the same church, at least when Medora was sober enough to attend."
    "She says he left her mid-June and she hasn't heard from him since. We've been wondering if there's a link between Charisse's disappearance and his."
    "Oh, I wouldn't think so. He did run off with someone, but it wasn't her. This was a woman he worked with at Sears."
    "How do you know that?"
    "Rumors were flying. That's all anybody ever talked about."
    "I can't believe Justine and Medora didn't know," I said.
    "I guess no one was willing to be the bearer of bad news. I heard just recently – and I forget now who told me – that Wilbur married that woman and he's living in Sacramento under a fictitious name. Sandy Wilburson, or some variation."
    "Really. That's interesting, because Medora thinks he's dead."
    "To all intents and purposes, he is."
    "One more thing while I have you on the line. This is probably a long shot, but I'm wondering if you remember a kid named Cedric Clifton. He's originally from Creosote, but he's been in trouble since he was nine and he might well have ended up at Lockaby."
    "Yes, I know Cedric, though it's odd you should ask. He was a student of ours in 1968, a year before the period you were talking about."
    "What's odd about that?"
    "Well, you mentioned the Sanders. He dated their daughter. He was older than she – probably nineteen or so to her sixteen."
    "Justine and Pudgie Clifton? I don't think so. Didn't she date Cornell McPhee?"
    "Yes, but she dated Cedric first. The two of them broke up after she started dating Cornell and 'set her cap for him,' as they used to say. They were both in my daughter's class at Quorum."
    "Oh for heaven's sake," I said. "What's the deal around here? Everybody knows everybody."
    Betty Puckett laughed. "Welcome to Small-town, America. What else can I tell you about Cedric?"
    "Did he ever do time for Grand Theft Auto?"
    "Oh, sure. Among other things," she said.
    "Such as what?"
    "Theft by deception, forgery, bad checks."
    "Not violent crime?"
    "Not while he was at Lockaby. I have no way of knowing what he's done since then."
    "Thanks. You've been a big help. Sorry you had so much trouble getting through to me," I said. I showered and washed my hair, wishing I could rinse off my confusion as easily with the water running down the drain. All the little bits and pieces, the subterranean links. It was like looking for a pattern in the Milky Way. After I was dressed, I sat down at the desk, where I hauled out a pack of index cards and started making notes. Once I'd jotted down everything that seemed relevant, I organized the cards in roughly chronological order, set the Smith-Corona on the desk, and typed up a report. Both Stacey and Dolan were capable of doing the same work and would have done so if