Q Is for Quarry

was cute." She stopped. "Take your time," I said.
    "A week later, the paper mentioned his name in reference to the murder investigation. I'd never told a lie in my life, but I picked up the phone and called the Sheriffs Department and asked for him. Once he got on the line, I said the first thing that came to mind."
    "Your claim that you'd seen a girl whose description matched the victim's was completely false," I said, hoping I'd misunderstood.
    "I just said that. A lot of people must have called in with information that didn't pan out. All I wanted was a chance to talk to him again."
    I was silent for a moment, thinking, Shit, shit, shit. "Did it work?"
    She shrugged. "I married him."
    "Well, that part's good, at any rate."
    Her eyes strayed to the window. I saw a car pass along the driveway, cruising toward the rear. I looked back at her.
    She lowered her voice. "Do me a favor."
    "Sure."
    "Don't mention this to my husband. I never told him the truth."
    "He doesn't know?"
    She shook her head. "Would it really matter to him after eighteen years?" I heard the car door slam shut and her husband's hard-soled shoes tap-tapping across the pavement between the garage and the back porch. There was a pause while he checked his pansies and petunias. In my opinion, they needed watering. He apparently agreed. I heard the shriek and squawk of the faucet handle when he turned off the water, moved the sprinkler, and turned the water on again. He continued toward the back door while she went on rapidly. "Every time someone asks how we met he tells them the story of how I took the time to call in the report. He admired I was such a conscientious citizen. Says it's one of my best traits. He claims he fell in love with me on the phone. Then he said it seemed like fate since he'd seen me in person just the week before. He thinks I'm different. A cut above, he says."
    "Tricky."
    "You bet." The back door opened. Her husband came in, pausing to wipe his feet on the mat before he entered. Nice-looking guy. He was in his fifties with steel gray hair and blue eyes, his lineage probably Dutch or Scandinavian. He was tall and lean in a well-knit frame, without an ounce of fat. He wore street clothes-tan dress pants, a dark blue dress shirt, and a tie with a pattern of blue and tan. He had his badge on his belt. I wondered what his job was after twenty years with the SO. He'd already removed his gun and his holster, which he'd probably locked in the trunk of his car. "What's tricky?"
    "Getting the pectin just right," she said without batting an eye. Having lied to him once, she was apparently an old hand at this. "I'm Kinsey."
    "Joe Mandel. Don't let her fool you. She makes the best strawberry preserves you ever ate."
    "I'll bet."
    His face was creased, hair thinning as age began to take its toll. He looked athletic, and I assumed he was fast on his feet, still capable of tangling with the bad guys when circumstances required it. "Looks like a science lab in here. You two cooking up trouble?"
    "More or less," I said.
    He exhibited no particular curiosity about who I was or what I was doing in the kitchen with his wife. He leaned over, bussed her on the cheek, and patted her arm. "I'm going to change and do some yard work. We'll go to Sizzler tonight, get you out of this heat. You need help?"
    "I'm fine, sweetie. Thanks."
    "Nice meeting you," he said, with a quick smile at me.
    I smiled and raised a hand in response. Cloris watched him depart, her expression fading from warmth to something more subdued.
    "He seems nice."
    "He is nice. That's why I married him. He's decent. It would never occur to him to lie to me."
    "Why don't you tell him, then?"
    "Why don't you mind your own business? I can handle this myself."

Chapter 6
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    The drive from Santa Teresa to Lompoc takes an hour by car, but I stopped at Gull Cove, which marks the halfway point. In my heart of hearts, I knew why I'd volunteered for this part of the job. Aside from the fact I needed time alone, I was flirting with the notion of going back to Grand's old house. Like a newly reformed drunk, I'd sworn off with conviction just the day before and now found myself thinking t maybe one more quick visit wouldn't do any harm.
    I reached the Gull Cove minimart at 2:00 P.M. The business had been housed in an enormous shambling structure covered with cedar shingles, an appealing mix of modem and traditional, with a few Cape Cod elements thrown in for good measure. The building had also