Q Is for Quarry

five blocks down. You want me to call and make sure he's there?"
    "That's fine. We can swing by later if he's out somewhere," Dolan said. He indicated the seat Cornell was working on. "How long's it take to do a job like that?"
    "'Couple of days. Depends on the condition. You have some work you need done?"
    "Might."
    "What kind of car?"
    "Chevy. 1979."
    "Leather seat?"
    "No, cloth."
    Cornell smiled. "Throw a bedspread over it. You'd be better off."
    "That's my idea. I just wondered what you'd say. Appreciate your help."
    "Sure, no sweat. I wish you luck."
    The house at 1520 Fell was a red-brick ranch with detached two-car garage on the right hand side of the drive. Behind the house, at a distance, I caught sight of the rear of an outbuilding that looked like a large storage shed or second garage. A basketball backboard was still planted in concrete on a wide asphalt apron set aside for guest parking. Cornell probably spent his leisure time in high school practicing his free throws. I imagined him lettering in three sports, elected pep king or treasurer of his senior class. A check of the yellow pages had indicated that McPhee's was the only game in town, so he must be doing well financially even if his job lacked glamour and pizzazz.
    Dolan parked at the curb out in front and we made our way along the walk to the porch, where we rang the bell. The door was opened by a girl who was probably six years old, judging by the number of missing teeth. Her hair was still a white blond that would probably darken over time. She wore glasses with pink plastic frames and a pair of barrettes with a row of pink and blue flowers. Her dress was pink-and-blue plaid with rows of white smocking across the bodice.
    Dolan said, "Hey there, young lady. Is your grandpa at home?"
    "Just a minute." She shut the door and a moment later her grandmother opened it, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. A mild, vanilla-smelling breeze wafted out from behind her. She was heavyset and wore small rimless glasses and a knee-length striped apron over a loose floral-print housedress. Her gray hair had a fringe of curls around her face while the rest was cut short. "Yes?"
    "Good morning. We're looking for Ruel McPhee. Cornell, over at the shop, gave us this address."
    "Ruel's out back. Won't you come in? I'm Edna, his wife."
    She opened the door for us. We did a round of introductions that included the McPhees' granddaughter, Cissy, who skipped on ahead of us in her Mary Janes. Edna led us through the house, saying, "We're about to frost cupcakes for Cissy's birthday. Six years old today. She's having a little party with her kindergarten class this afternoon."
    Cissy said, "My grammaw made me this dress."
    Dolan said, "Well, that's real cute. I like that."
    As usual, I played the silent sidekick, prepared to fly into action if Edna or the child suddenly went berserk.
    Cissy had climbed onto a kitchen chair and was now perched on her knees, inspecting the baking project. On the table, there were two muffin tins, each containing twelve freshly baked cupcakes in paper liners with little golden-brown domed heads. I could see the yellow-cake mix box on the counter by the sink where the mixing bowl sat.
    The room was decorated in a patriotic flurry of red, white, and blue. The kitchen paper was done in Revolutionary War motif, a repeating pattern of battle scenes, complete with cannons, ships, and soldiers in various heroic poses. The woodwork was white, the counters red, and a window seat built into a side bay was filled with plump pillows and a neatly folded quilt, all in coordinating hues.
    Crayon and fingerpaint projects were fixed to the refrigerator with magnets shaped like fruit. There were also school pictures of two additional girls, ages about eight and ten, who might have been Cissy's sisters. All three had the same blond hair and features reminiscent of Cornell's. Cissy lowered her face, her nose a mere centimeter from a cupcake.
    Edna said, "Cissy, don't touch. You wait until they're cool and don't pick at them. Why don't you take these nice folks to see Grandpa? I'll have the frosting ready as soon as you get back."
    That job would be quick. I could see the container of ready-to-use fudge frosting on the table with a photo of a shiny chocolate swirl, like an ocean wave, on the side. As a kid, I'd imagined that's what real Grannies did – sewed and made cakes. Aunt Gin always said, "I'm not the cookie-baking type," as though that excused her from