Q Is for Quarry

the car, setting down the carryalls while she opened the trunk. She placed her purse and the grocery bag on the driveway, reached into the trunk, and removed several additional grocery bags. I could see her debate whether she could manage everything in one trip or if she'd be forced to make two. I took the opportunity to get out of my car and cross the street at a trot. "Hi, Edna. Kinsey. Can I give you a hand?"
    She looked up with surprise, coloring slightly at the sight of me. "I can manage."
    "There's no sense in making two trips. Why don't I take these and you can handle the rest?" I leaned forward and picked up her purse, one grocery sack, and the two large paper carryalls. "You must have spent all morning running errands."
    "The family's coming for supper and I'm running late. I want to get a pot roast in the oven." Her demeanor had softened, though she seemed ill at ease. Good manners apparently took precedence over any discomfort she felt at my reappearance on the scene. Ruel would have cut me dead, but the removal of the Mustang had little to do with her. It'd been sitting in the garage for years, anyway, and she was probably tired of his procrastination. His collection of classic cars must have seemed like a lousy investment since he'd apparently made no effort to restore even one of them.
    I followed her along the driveway to the back gate and then, since she didn't protest, I continued up the porch steps and through the back door. I put her purse on the Formica counter, waiting to see where she wanted the other bags. The red, white, and blue color scheme was like a tone poem to Americana. I took the time to let my gaze rest on every surface. "What time will Ruel be home?"
    She'd placed her bags on the kitchen table. "Soon, I'd guess. The rest of them – Cornell and his wife and kids and my daughter – are supposed to come at six. You can put those over there," and she gestured toward the window seat.
    I left the grocery sack on the kitchen table and crossed to the window seat, where I placed the department store carryalls. I moved aside a couple of pillows and the patchwork quilt and perched, uninvited. I glanced at my watch. "It's almost two now. Do you mind if I wait?"
    "I'm not sure that's a good idea. Ruel's been upset and I don't want anything to set him off again." She began to put groceries away, leaving out the items she intended to use: a mammoth cellophane-wrapped chuck roast that looked like the whole back end of some unidentified beast, onions, carrots, potatoes, fresh green beans, brown-and-serve rolls. She looked at me. "Did you need him for anything in particular? You know he's madder than spit. There's nothing he hates more than someone trying to put one over on him. You and that detective should have told him the truth."
    "We told Cornell why we were here. He could have mentioned it himself. We're talking about a murder. What difference does it make if Ruel's mad?"
    "Nonetheless."
    "Nonetheless, what?"
    "He won't be happy if he finds you here."
    "Maybe you can help me and I'll be on my way."
    "What do you want?"
    "We're wondering if someone took one of his tarps at the time the car was stolen.
    She paused to think about that and then shook her head. "Not that I recall. He never said anything. I suppose I could ask him and get in touch with you later on."
    "You'd be doing him a service, especially if it turns out the Mustang was used to abduct the girl."
    Edna laid a hand against her chest. "You can't seriously believe he had anything to do with it."
    "It's not up to me." Her anxiety was infectious. I stood up, suddenly eager to be gone. As I picked up my shoulder bag, my glance fell on the red, white, and blue quilt folded neatly on the seat. The pattern consisted of a series of patches stitched together in a traditional log cabin pattern. In repeat rows, running along the diagonal, the fabric was a print of dark blue daisies, a dot of red in each center, on a white background.
    I must have made a sound because Edna looked at me, saying, "What?"
    "Where did you get this?"
    "That was given to me by Justine's mother, Medora – Cornell's mother-in-law. Why?"
    "I need to talk to her."

Chapter 17
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    I stood on the front steps of Medora Sanders's house, a modest stucco box with a shallow overhang that served to shield the small concrete porch. The exterior was painted dark gray. The wood trim had shed flakes of white paint, like dandruff, on the shrubs planted along the foundation. At