“What’s her name again?” I asked as if she’d told me once.
“Renata Huff.”
“What about her husband? If she’s not home, could I have the agent give him a call instead?”
“Oh, sorry. Dean died, Mr. Huff. I thought I mentioned he had a heart attack.” The dog began to wiggle, bored with all this talk that didn’t directly relate to him.
“That’s awful,” I said. “How long ago was that?”
“I don’t know. Probably five or six years.”
“And she hasn’t remarried?”
“She never seemed to have the interest, which is surprising. “I mean, she is young—in her forties—and she comes from a lot of money. At least that’s the story I heard.” The dog began to lick upward, trying to hit the woman’s mouth. This might have been some kind of doggy signal, but I wasn’t sure what it meant. Kiss, eat, get down, stop.
“I wonder why she wants to sell? Is she leaving the area?”
“I really couldn’t say, but if you want to leave me your number, the next time I see her, I can tell her you stopped by.”
“All right. I’d appreciate that.”
“Hang on. Let me get some paper.”
She moved away from the door to a drop-leaf table in the foyer. When she came back, she had a pencil and a junk-mail envelope.
I gave her my number, inventing freely. As long as I was about it, I gave myself the prefix for Montebello, where all the rich people live. “Can you give me Mrs. Huff’s number in case the agent doesn’t have it?”
“I don’t have that. I think it’s unlisted.”
“Oh, the agent probably has it. Let’s don’t worry about that,” I said casually. “In the meantime, do you think she’d mind if I just peeped in a couple of windows?”
“I’m sure not. It’s a really nice place.”
“Sure looks like it.” I remarked. “I notice there’s a boat dock. Does Mrs. Huff have a boat?”
“Oh, yes, she has a nice big sailboat…a forty-eight-footer. But I haven’t seen it out there for a while. She might be having some work done. I know she pulls it out of the water from time to time. Anyway, I better go before the dog gets cold.”
“Right. Thanks very much. You’ve been very helpful.”
“No problem,” she said.
13
Two reproduction carriage lamps cast overlapping circles of light onto the front porch. The front door was flanked by two panels of glass. I put my cupped hands to the window on the right. I found myself peering past the foyer and down a short corridor, which seemed to open to a great room at the rear. The interior of the house had highly polished hardwood floors, bleached and then rubbed with a wash of pale gray. Doorjambs had been removed for easy wheelchair passage. A row of French doors along the rear wall allowed me to see all the way to the wood deck out back.
In the section of the great room defined by lamplight, I could see that the Oriental carpet had been laid flush with the pickled flooring. To my right, a stairway angled up to the second floor. The neighbor had mentioned a lift, but there was none in evidence. Maybe Renata had had the mechanism removed once Mr. Huff expired. I wondered if it was his passport Wendell Jaffe was using. I crossed the porch, moving right to left. From window to window, I could see the house unfold. The rooms were uncluttered, orderly, surfaces gleaming. There was a den at the front and what looked like a guest bedroom, probably with a bath attached.
I left the porch and moved along the left side of the house. The garage was locked, probably protected by the alarm system as well. I checked the gate into the backyard; it didn’t seem to have a lock. I pulled a ring that had a length of string attached. The latch was released and I pushed my way in, holding my breath to see if the gate was tied to the security system. Dead silence, except for the squeaking of the gate as it swung on its hinges. I eased the gate shut behind me and moved down the narrow walkway between the garage and the fence. I could see the exhaust vent for a dryer, and I imagined the laundry room was located on the other side of the wall.
The deck was ablaze, two-hundred-watt floods creating a crazy daylight of sorts. I moved along the back of the house, peering in through the French doors. More views of the great room and the dining room next to that, with a slice of kitchen visible beyond. Oh, dear. I could see now that Renata had chosen the kind of wallpaper only decorators find attractive: a poisonous Chinese yellow with vines and puffballs exploding across the surface. There was expensive fabric to match, drapes and upholstery continuing the pattern. It was possible that a fungus had got loose in the room, replicating like a virus until every corner had been invaded. I’d seen pictures of something like this in a science magazine, mold spores blown up to nineteen hundred times their actual size.