Q Is for Quarry

died. Can't believe I outlived her. Fit as a fiddle; worked for me thirty-two years and never took a sick day."
    "What'd she die of?" I said, sidetracked.
    "Heart. Weeding a pansy bed and toppled over sideways. She was out like a light. Yard work'll do that. Wretched way to spend time. I prefer indoors. Always have."
    "Anything else about the girl?"
    He squinted at me, shifting in his chair. "What's that?"
    I said, "Anything else about the girl?"
    He studied his hands, which seemed to move of their own accord, plucking at the shawl. "I remember the foster mother raised a fuss about the bill. Sent to her in error; a simple clerical mistake. You should have heard her carry on. Had my office girl in tears. I never liked the woman after that. She'd bring the girl in, but I wouldn't go out to greet her like I did everyone else. Figured she could sit there by herself. My hygienist was the one who said the woman drank. Can't understand how Social Services considered her fit. She wasn't, in my opinion, but then they never asked me what I thought." He was silent for a moment. "That's all."
    I touched his arm. "Thanks so much. This has been a big help. I'll leave my phone number with your daughter. You can have her call me if you think of anything else."
    His wandering gaze met mine. "You play chess?"
    "I don't, but I hear you're good at it."
    "I should be. My pa taught me when I was seven and now I'm ninety-three years old. Son-in-law plays badly. Hasn't got the head for it, if you know what I mean. Requires you to think. You have to 'plan in advance, maybe ten to fifteen moves. I'd be happy to teach you if you have a desire to learn."
    "I'm afraid not, but thanks."
    "All right." He was silent briefly and then pointed a dancing index finger at a jar on the chest of drawers. "You might fetch a few more sunflower seeds for that squirrel. Good company for me. More personality than some folks I've known and he's easily amused."
    I sprinkled a handful of seeds on the ledge. Dr. Nettleton was already sinking, the energy fading from his face. As I opened the door, he said, "Don't remember your name, but I thank you for the visit. I enjoyed the conversation and hope you did, too."
    "Believe me, I did." I wanted to put him in the car and take him with me. I waved from the door, but I don't think he caught the gesture.
    I headed back to the motel. Surely we were on the right track. While I Dr. Nettleton couldn't supply the name, the details he'd given me were consistent with what we knew. A thought struck me – a quick stop I could make before I reconnected with Dolan. I slowed the car and then pulled over to the curb. I picked up my map and looked for a small black square with a tiny flag on top. I did a U-turn on Chesapeake and drove back in the direction I'd been coming from.
    Quorum High, which was part of the Unified School District, occupied a flat, two-block stretch of land on the northeast side of town. The grass looked patchy and the flagpole was bare. The classrooms were dispersed among a number of low-slung outbuildings that appeared to be prefabricated, with walls you could probably pierce with an X-Acto knife. I counted six trees on campus; not enough to pass for landscaping, but sufficient to offer the occasional shallow puddle of shade. The administration building looked like the first story of something far more grand. Maybe the school was in the process of raising funds, driving everyone insane with endless telethons on the local TV station. People will pay big bucks to get their regular programs back: sit-coms and soaps instead of all those amateur rock bands playing songs they've written without training of any kind.
    I parked in the lot in a space marked VISITOR. I locked the car and trotted across the flattened grass to the entrance, pushing through the double glass doors and into the main corridor. It was dead quiet, though there must have been students somewhere on the premises.
    The portable classrooms outside weren't large enough to house the auditorium or the gym. I was guessing that a goodly number of classes were held in this building as well. I could smell sweat and hair spray, hormones and hot gym shoes– the scents of teen misery. Bad skin, no power, too few choices, too much sexual pressure, and not enough wisdom to see you through until you reached eighteen. How many lives were out of whack by then? Girls pregnant, guys dead in cars before the beer cans had quit rolling across the floorboards.
    Ahead