Q Is for Quarry

still staunchly constructed. He'd strung a garden hose through the half-opened kitchen window, and I assumed the other end was attached to the faucet. As I crossed the grass, he paused in his work, releasing the hose nozzle, shutting off the stream of water. He had a square, jowly face, a lumpy nose, and a straight, nearly lipless mouth. His hair was slicked back, plastered down with pomade, and even then so thin I could see through to his scalp. His skin was mottled brown from sun damage, interspersed with patches of red. His blue eyes were vivid dots under pale, sparse brows. The air smelled like wet dog hair and a pungent flea soap. A medium-sized pooch of no determinate breed stood knee-deep in a galvanized tub. He looked skinny and frail with his coat plastered to his frame, thinned to transparency. Dead fleas, like pepper, seasoned the flesh underneath. The dog trembled, whining, and wouldn't quite meet my eyes. I kept my gaze averted so as not to embarrass him.
    The old man said, "Help you?" His voice was surprisingly high-pitched for a man his size.
    "I hope so. I'm looking for Roxanne Faught and this is the only address I have. Any idea where she is ?"
    "Ought to. I'm her dad," he said. "And who might you be?" I showed him my card.
    He squinted and then shook his head. "What's that say? Sorry, but I don't have my specs on me."
    "I'm a private investigator from Santa Teresa."
    "What do you want with Roxanne?"
    "I need information on an old case. Apparently, a girl came into the Gull Cove minimart when Roxanne was working there in 1969. I'd like to ask her some questions about the incident."
    He squeezed the hose nozzle and the spray of water showered like a light rain over the dog's back and haunches. "That the one got killed?"
    "Yes, sir."
    "Well. I guess that's all right then. I know a sheriffs deputy came by a couple times asking the very same thing."
    "You're talking about Stacey Oliphant, the guy I'm working with. Is your daughter still in the area?"
    "Close enough. How about this. I'll go give a call and see if she's willing to talk to you. Otherwise, there's no point."
    "That'd be great."
    He laid the hose aside, lifted the dog from the tub, and set him on the grass. The dog gave one of those profound total-body shakes, flinging water in all directions until his coat stood out in spikes. The old man picked up a heavy towel and gave the dog a vigorous rub, then swaddled him in the towel, and handed him to me. "This's Ralph."
    Since I was hoping to curry favor, I took the dog without protest. I could feel warm doggie bathwater seeping from the towel through my shirt front. Ralph lay in my arms, a damp bundle of bones, as trusting as a baby, his eyes pinned on mine. His tongue flopped out the side of his mouth, and I could swear he smiled. I jiggled him a bit, which he seemed to enjoy. I really don't understand how animals persuade human beings to behave like this.
    The old man reappeared, closing the door carefully. He made his way down the steps. He wasn't quick on his feet, but he seemed to get the job done. He had a scrap of paper in his hand. "She's home right now and said it's okay to give you this."
    I handed the dog over and took the paper, glancing down at the phone number and address. "Thanks."
    "It's a little house off the highway. You go down here about ten blocks until you hit North Street and then turn right. Once you get to Riverside you turn right again. She's about five blocks down."
    Roxanne Faught had turned her front porch into an outdoor room, with pale sisal carpet, a dark green painted porch swing, two white wicker rockers, occasional tables, and a double-sided magazine rack, one half stuffed with issues of People and the other with copies of Better Homes and Gardens. Five terra-cotta pots of bright orange marigolds lined the edge of the porch. When I arrived, she was sitting on the swing with a bottle of beer and a freshly lit cigarette. The house itself was white frame and completely nondescript. There were windows and doors in all the proper places, but nothing that made the house distinct. Roxanne was in her sixties and attractive, though the creases in her face were exaggerated by all the makeup she wore. Her hair was, in the main, a coppery blond, showing gray at the roots where four inches of new growth formed a wide band. Her brows were plucked to thin arches and her dark eyes were lined in black. The smoking had darkened her teeth, but they were otherwise straight and