Q Is for Quarry

back to work."
    "So what's up?"
    "Nothing much. We're restless and bored. Hang on. Here's Stacey. He has something he wants to say."
    He handed the phone to Stacey, and we went through an exchange of pleasantries as though we hadn't spoken in days. Then, he said, "I've been thinking about this Baum guy and he bothers me. I got sidetracked and left without asking him for leads. Stands to reason she was killed by someone she knew, so let's broaden the search. Can you check it out for me?"
    "Sure. Give me the address of the car lot and I'll pay him a visit."
    Before I left for Blythe, I put in a call to Pudgie's sister. She sounded better; subdued, but not weepy. She probably found it therapeutic to be caught up in the clerical work that follows in the wake of a death. I could hear the murmur of voices in the background. "You have people there?"
    "Friends. Everybody's been great. A cousin stayed with me last night and another one's driving in from Phoenix."
    "Are you having services?"
    "On Friday. I'm having his body cremated as soon as the coroner releases him, but people are stopping by this evening if you'd like to join us. The memorial on Friday probably won't amount to much, but I thought I should do something. The pastor keeps calling it 'a celebration of his life,' but that doesn't seem right to me with him in jail so much."
    "Up to you," I said. "What time tonight?"
    "Between five and eight. I've borrowed a big coffee urn and there's tons of food."
    "I'll aim for seven. Can I bring anything?"
    "Please don't. I'm serious. I've already got far more than I can use," she said. "If you run into anyone who knew him, tell them they're invited, too. I think he'd be happy if people turned out for him."
    "Sure thing."
    The Franks Used Cars lot looked like just about every other car lot I'd ever seen. The business was housed in what must have been a service station once upon a time, and the showroom now occupied one of the former service bays. An assortment of gleaming cars were lined up street-side with slogans painted in white on the windshields. Most were spotless and polished to a high shine, making me glad I'd parked Dolan's half a block away.
    George Baum was the only salesman on the premises. I caught him sitting at his desk, eating a tuna sandwich, the open packet of waxed paper serving as a handsome lunch plate. I hated to interrupt his feeding process – I tend to get cranky when someone interrupts mine – but he seemed determined to do business. I sat down in the visitor's chair while he rewrapped half his sandwich and tucked it in the brown paper bag he'd brought from home. I detected the bulge of an apple and imagined it held cookies or a cupcake as well.
    On his desk, he had a formal family portrait in a silver frame: George, Swoozie (who still looked perky as could be), and three stair-stepped adolescent boys wearing jackets and ties. The color photograph was recent, judging by hair and clothing styles. While only in his mid-thirties, George was already portly, wearing a brown suit of a size that made his head look too small. Stacey was right about his teeth – even, perfectly straight, and bleached to a pearly white. He wore his hair short and the scent of his aftershave was fresh and strong.
    I introduced myself, watching his enthusiasm fade when he realized I was there to pump him for information: "This is your father-in-laws place? I didn't realize you worked for him."
    "You know Chester?"
    "No, but I heard you were married to Swoozie Franks. I put two and two together."
    "What brings you here? I already talked to someone about Charisse Quinn."
    "That was my partner, Detective Oliphant. He's the one who thought we should have another chat."
    "What now?"
    "We need the names of the guys who were involved with her. 'Involved' meaning screwing, just so you know what I'm talking about."
    He smiled uncomfortably. "I can't do that."
    "Why?"
    "What's the point in asking me? Why don't you go over to the high school and get names from the yearbook? It'd be the same list."
    "I could do that," I said, "but I'd rather hear it from you. And skip what's-his-name – Toby Hecht. Cornell says nobody's heard from him in years."
    "That's because he's dead. He was killed in Vietnam."
    "Sorry to hear that. Who else would you suggest?"
    George shook his head. "I don't see the relevance. So maybe a few classmates had sexual relations with her. What bearing does that have on where they are now in life?"
    "I'm not worried