“When does he get back?”
“Tomorrow, I hope. The baby’s teething and I haven’t slept for days.” She wrinkled her nose, looking down at him. “Pew-ee! Is that him or you?”
I could hear a phone ring somewhere in the house.
“Ooops. Sorry,” she said, and eased the door shut.
Sutton and I headed down her drive to the car.
“I can’t believe she didn’t ask why you were quizzing her about the fence. If you’re not buying or renting, then what’s it to you?”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t rent. I said, ‘I hadn’t thought about that.’ ”
“But you didn’t get the guy’s number when she offered it.”
“Sutton, the trick in a situation like this is to behave as though your questions are completely reasonable. Most people aren’t going to stop to ponder the inconsistencies.”
“It still seems pushy.”
“Of course.”
We picked up my car and drove the short half-mile from Ramona Road to Alita Lane. It wasn’t hard to spot the Spanish-style house, which was long and low, a cream-colored stucco with a small courtyard in front and a three-car garage on one end.
As I got out of the Mustang, Sutton said, “You mind if I wait here? I feel like a dunce standing behind you not saying a word while you chat people up.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll be right back.”
I crossed the street and passed through the wrought-iron gate into the inner courtyard. The front door was inset with three panels of stained glass that depicted a rose, a donkey, and a saguaro cactus with a sombrero perched on top. I rang the bell.
The balding man who opened the door had a leathery face and a pate splotched with sun damage where hair had once been. He was roughly my height, five-six, with a barrel chest and a tangle of white hair sprouting from the V of his Hawaiian shirt. His shorts revealed bowed legs the color of caramel corn.
“Mr. Holderman?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“My name’s Kinsey Millhone,” I said. “I was just looking at a house for sale on Ramona Road and the woman next door thought you could answer questions about the property. Her name’s Judy, by the way, and she said to tell you hi.”
“Judy’s a nice gal. Tell her hi back from me. You’re talking about Bob Tinker’s place. Well built, but it’s overpriced. House is worth three-point-five tops and he’s asking six, which is ridiculous.”
“Judy says he moved out and he hopes to rent or lease.”
“Man’s a fool. Anything he has, he thinks is worth double the actual value. You said questions.”
“I was wondering about the lot line. I have a friend waiting in the car who played on that hill as a child. There was an old oak he loved, but when we walked the property just now, he said the big tree he remembers is gone and the wire fence is new.”
“I wouldn’t say new. I put that fence in fifteen years ago, for all the good it does. Riders go over or around it. I might as well set up a toll booth and make ’em pay. You talk about trees. We lost a dozen or more in a storm some years back. Two eucalyptus and a big live oak went down. The oak was a beauty, too, a big guy, probably a hundred and fifty years old. It might well be the one he’s talking about. The utility company should have kept the deadwood trimmed. Tree was on the easement and had nothing to do with me or I’d have pruned it myself. Winds came up and the damn thing split in half, taking out trees on both sides. Woke me up out of a sound sleep.”
“Must have been a mess,” I said.
“Big time. The utility company sent a fellow with a chain saw to clear the downed trees. He wasn’t paid to work that hard so he took his sweet time—ten minutes’ worth of sweat and then a cigarette break. Went on for days. I know because I watched. Pay minimum wage, you get minimum work. Nobody seems to get that. Took him three weeks.”
I half turned, indicating Sutton in my car. “Would you mind if the two of us went up and looked around? It would mean a lot to him.”
“Fine with me. Half the fallen trees were actually on the property next door. House has been sold twice. The current owners are off at work, but I don’t think they’d mind if you wander a bit. You see anybody on horseback, you hightail it right back and let me know. I’m tired of the horseshit and horseflies.”
“Amen to that.”
8
Sutton and I walked between the two houses—Felix Holderman’s on our left and his neighbor’s to the right—with Alita Lane behind us. At one time the backyards might have been open to one another, creating a wide mantle of rolling lawns. With the introduction of swimming pools, fences had been erected to protect kids from mishaps and property owners from pricey lawsuits. Between the greensward on this side and the barren hill above there was a dense band of trees—pines and spruces, with a few sycamores and acacia thrown into the mix. Again, I wouldn’t have called this “the woods,” though it was more sheltered than the Kirkendalls’ property, where we’d started our search. The full-skirted evergreens did shield the area from view. I couldn’t see the wire fence with its burden of morning glories, but it had to be somewhere above us. Where we were, there was no reason to post a No Trespassing sign, because the natural undergrowth formed a barrier sufficient to block equestrian traffic. Riders following the marked trail wouldn’t wander this far afield.