Sue Grafton - U Is For Undertow

Sutton whistled, a shrill, piercing note forced from between taut lips and teeth. For years I’d worked to master the technique, but usually managed little more than an asthmatic wheeze and the risk of hyperventilation. I set off, trudging down the hill in his general direction. He emerged to the left of me and waved. I picked my way across the uneven ground, trying to avoid the numerous holes housing god knows what assortment of rodents.

I followed Sutton into a clearing shaded by a canopy of trees. Here the temperature was ten degrees cooler than the sun-drenched hill. The far side of the glade was open to Via Juliana. A riding trail angled across the open space, its muddy surface punctuated by hoofprints. The trail was clearly well used, dotted with fresh horse manure as well as desiccated mounds of previous equine BMs. In the center of the clearing there was a stone horse trough, three feet by six. The water was fed through a pipe linked to a circulating pump that kept the depths aerated and algae-free. The stone was darkened with age and the shimmering pool looked cold and black.

Sutton said, “I’d forgotten about this. The Horton Ravine Riding Club is just across the road. I played in the trough that day, floating leaves like boats. It was afterward I climbed the hill and came across the tree I used as my hideout.”

“Nanny, nanny, boo boo. Told you so,” I said.

“I’m not paying you to make fun of me.”

“Then you shouldn’t be such a pill.”

“Sorry.”

“Forget it. Let’s focus on the job at hand. When you saw the guys, in what direction were they walking?”

“Actually, they were coming up the hill from here. They must have parked along Via Juliana and passed through this clearing. The tree where I was hiding was partway up the slope so I was looking down on them. They crossed my field of vision from left to right and moved off in that direction.”

“So if the fence was there, they’d have had to climb over it, which means you’d have done the same thing.”

“But I didn’t…”

“Would you stop that? I’m not saying you did. I’m saying we should knock on some doors and see if someone knows what year the fence went in.”

We climbed up the hill again, moving up the steps from terrace to terrace, until we reached the wide, flat patio with its pool, cabana, and built-in barbecue pit. We went around the side of the house and then crossed the front lawn to the house next door. I rang the bell.

Sutton stood behind me and to my right. To anyone inside, with an eye to the peephole, we’d look like Jehovah’s Witnesses, only not as well dressed.

Sutton shifted uneasily. “What are you going to say?”

“Haven’t made that part up yet.”

The young woman who opened the door had a six-month-old baby clamped on her right hip. He had a pacifier in his mouth that wiggled as he sucked. His face was flushed and his hair had been flattened in a series of damp ringlets. I was guessing he’d recently awakened from his nap and, judging from his aura of fecal perfume, was in desperate need of a diaper change. He was at that clinging-monkey stage, where his hold on his mother was pure instinct. I could see clutch marks in the fabric of her blouse where his grip had made star shapes across the front. His resemblance to her was eerie-same noses, same chins, two sets of identical blue eyes looking back at me. His dark lashes were longer and thicker than hers, but life is basically unfair and what’s the point of protest?

I said, “Hi. Sorry to disturb you, but is the house next door for sale? We heard it was on the market, but there’s no realtor’s sign and we didn’t know who to contact.”

She peered in that direction and made a face. “I don’t know what to tell you. The couple got divorced and for a while the ex-husband was living there with his girlfriend, a ditz half his age. They moved out a month ago and we heard he’s looking for tenants on a long-term lease. I can give you his number if you’re interested.”

With skepticism, I said, “Gee. I don’t know about renting. I hadn’t thought about that. How much does he want?”

“He’s talking seven thousand dollars a month, which I think is way too much. It’s a nice house and all, but who wants to spend that kind of dough?”

“That is pushing it,” I said. “Do you happen to know how much property he has?”

“Five acres, give or take.”

“That’s a good-sized lot. When we walked up the hill just now, we saw a fence with a Do Not Trespass sign, but we couldn’t tell if it was part of this parcel or the one next door.”

She lifted a thumb, jerking it backward to indicate something behind her. “The guy down there could tell you. I know there was a lot-line adjustment years ago, but I’m not sure what changed. The utility company has an easement that extends along the hill and riders keep mistaking it for part of the bridle trail. The owner got fed up with all the horses crossing his land so that’s where the fence came from.”

“He’s the one in that house I can see below yours?”

“Right. On Alita Lane. His name’s Felix Holderman. He’s retired and he’s nice enough, but he’s sometimes gruff. I don’t know the house number, but it’s the only Spanish-style on the block.”

“Thanks. We may just pop down there and have a chat with him.”

“If you catch him at home, tell him Judy said hi.”

“I’ll do that. Appreciate your time.”

“I should thank you. This is the first adult conversation I’ve had since Monday when my husband left on a business trip.”

“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.”