"U" is for Undertow (11 page)

He walked up the hill for a distance, peering at the trees in range of him. He stopped again and shook his head. “This is all wrong. I don’t see the tree I used as a hideout and I don’t see the oak I hid behind when I was spying on the guys.”

“Maybe the oak was cut down.”

“But the fence is wrong, too. Where did that come from? I didn’t climb a fence. I’m sure of it. This is all screwed up.”

“Sutton, it’s been years. Take your time.”

He shook his head in frustration.

“Would you quit being so negative?” I said.

“I’m not negative.”

“You are, too. You should listen to yourself.”

He turned and scanned the woods again, no happier than he’d been. The guy was getting on my nerves. I watched while he walked down the hill toward the trees. I followed the sagging fence line as he had, but where he went down the hill, I climbed up. A profusion of wildflowers had sprung up among the grasses. Grasshoppers skittered ahead of me as I walked. I turned and looked back as Sutton disappeared into the trees.

Below and to my right, I caught a glimpse of the rear of a house: patio doors, a deck, an outdoor table and chairs. Since I wasn’t well acquainted with the neighborhood, I couldn’t judge the relationships between properties. The irregular course the fence had taken suggested it had been erected in conformity with a meandering lot line, separating the parcel that fronted Ramona Road from the one that faced the secondary road below. Dimly I remembered the fork where a smaller tributary split off from Via Juliana. From where I stood, only the one house was visible, but there were doubtless others on that same street.

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.”

“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.”

 

 

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.

Once we entered the trees, the ground was matted with decomposing plant material that sent up puffs of peat scent as we passed. There was no path to follow so we were forced to create our own. We split up and tramped through the brush, snapping twigs and fallen branches underfoot. I heard Sutton’s startled exclamation. “Found it!”

I waded through the scrub and waist-high weeds, holding my arms up like a swimmer moving toward the shallow end of a pool. When I reached him I saw the stump of the fallen oak, which was easily six feet across and hewn to eight inches or so aboveground. The tree trunk was hollowed by rot. The oak must have been dying from the inside out over a period of time, which meant the split wasn’t due entirely to the weight of the branches as Mr. Holderman had thought.

“This is it?” I asked.

“I think so. I’m almost sure.”

“Where were the guys when you caught up with them?”

Sutton pivoted and scanned his surroundings. “Down there.”

His focus shifted from tree to tree, and his gaze finally came to rest at a point some fifteen feet away. He moved in that direction and I lagged a short distance behind, watching as he reached a small clearing and stopped to study it. The circular patch of ground was bordered by tall evergreens and mature live oak. The tree roots had sucked all the nutrients from the hard-packed soil, leaving bare dirt. He moved a few feet to his right. “This is where they were digging. The bundle on the ground was under that tree.” He shook his head. “The place still smells the same. When you’re a kid, everything is so intense. It’s like you’re filtering reality through your nose. Wonder why that is?”