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Chapters (28)
  1. "Q" is for QUARRY
  2. Chapter 1
  3. Chapter 2
  4. Chapter 3
  5. Chapter 4
  6. Chapter 5
  7. Chapter 6
  8. Chapter 7
  9. Chapter 8
  10. Chapter 9
  11. Chapter 10
  12. Chapter 11
  13. Chapter 12
  14. Chapter 13
  15. Chapter 14
  16. Chapter 15
  17. Chapter 16
  18. Chapter 17
  19. Chapter 18
  20. Chapter 19
  21. Chapter 20
  22. Chapter 21
  23. Chapter 22
  24. Chapter 23
  25. Chapter 24
  26. Chapter 25
  27. Chapter 26
  28. Epilogue

"I never said that. Edna's a good person and I know she means well, but she's holier-than-thou. You know the type – doesn't drink, doesn't smoke, and doesn't hold with those who do."

"Cornell smokes."

"Not around his mother. He's pure as the driven snow," Medora said. "She disapproves of cards, too. Devil's handiwork, she says. Granddaughters come here, we play Canasta, War, Fish, Slap Jack. Doesn't seem like the Devil's work to me."

She returned to the couch and sat dead center, causing the cushions to rise on either side of her. A crocheted green-and-black afghan was bunched haphazardly at one end. There was an ashtray full of butts on the coffee table, a cluster of prescription pill bottles, a fifth of Early Times, and a highball glass half-filled with melting ice cubes. Many surfaces looked sticky, and there was a fine haze of dust over everything. "I was taking a little nap. I haven't been feeling well the last couple days. What's your name again?"

"I should have introduced myself. I'm Kinsey Millhone."

"Medora Sanders," she said, "but I guess you know that. What's your connection to Edna? I hope it's not through her church. She's always trying to get me roped in."

"Not at all. Mind if I sit?"

She waved me into a chair. I moved aside a stack of newspapers and took a seat, keeping the quilt on my lap. There were a number of crafts projects in the room, most from kits, by the look: a wall-hung quilt, embroidered pillows on the couch. In front of the hearth there was a hand-hooked rug bearing the image of a Scottie. There were several framed cross-stitched pieces voicing corny sentiments. She followed my survey. "I used to do a lot of needlework until my joints flared up." She lifted her right hand, displaying a twisted thumb and fingers that did a slow curve outward. It looked like she'd been tortured for information she'd refused to give. "I don't quilt anymore in case you want one for yourself."

I folded a section of the quilt until the daisy-print fabric was foremost. "Actually, I'm curious about this fabric. Do you remember where you got it?"