court tarp backed the Tudor house; peacockblue pool water glimmered
behind the open lots of the others. Signs on the doors of all four
read MODEL. Business hours were posted on a small billboard on the
lawn of the Regency, along with the phone number of a real estate
company in Agoura. More red pennants. All four doors were closed and
the windows were dark.
I kept going, looking for Dunbar Court. The side streets were all
“Courts”-wide, squat strips ending in cul-de-sacs, and ribbing eastward
from Sequoia. Very few cars were parked along curbs and in
driveways.
I saw a bicycle on its side in the center of a half-dead lawn, a garden
hose that lay unfurled like a somnolent snake-but no people.
A momentary breeze produced sound but no relief from the heat.
Dunbar was the sixth Court. The Jones house was at the mouth of the
dead end, a wide, one-story ranch, white stucco trimmed with
used-brick. In the center of the front yard a wagon wheel leaned
against a young birch tree too thin to support it. Flower beds edged
the facade. The windows sparkled. The loom of mountains behind the
house made it look like something constructed from a child’s kit. The
air smelled of grass pollen.
A gray-blue Plymouth Voyager van was parked in the driveway.
A brown pickup truck with a bed full ofhoses, nets, and plastic bottles
was idling in the driveway of the house next door. The sign on the
door said VALLEYBRITE POOL SERVICE. Just as I pulled up to the curb
the truck shot out. The driver saw me and stopped short. I waved him
on. A young, shirtless, ponytailed man stuck his head out and
stared.
Then he grinned suddenly and gave me the thumb-up, instant buddy
sign.
Dropping a bronze arm over the driver’s door, he finished backing up
and was off I walked to the front door. Cindy opened it before I had a
chance to knock, brushing hair out of her face and glancing at her
Swatch.
“Hi,” she said. Her voice sounded choked, as if she’d just caught her
breath.
“Hi.” I smiled. “Traffic was better than I thought.”
“Oh . . . sure. C’mon in.” The hair was unbraided but still waved by
constriction. She wore a black T-shirt and very short white shorts.
Her legs were smooth and pale, a little skinny but well-shaped above
narrow bare feet. The sleeves of the T-shirt were cut high and on the
bias, revealing lots of slender arm and a bit of shoulder. The bottom
hem of her shirt barely reached her waist. As she held the door open
she hugged herself and looked uncomfortable. Showing more skin than
she’d intended for me, I supposed.
I walked in and she closed the door after me, taking care not to slam
it. A modest entry hall ended at ten feet of wall papered in a
teal-blue miniprint and hung with at least a dozen framed photo
graphs.
Cindy and Chip and Cassie, posed and candid, and a couple of a pretty,
dark-haired baby in blue.
Smiling baby boy. I looked away from him and let my eyes settle on an
enlarged snapshot ofCindy and an older woman. Cindy appeared around
eighteen. She wore a white bare-midriff blouse and tight jeans tucked
into white boots, and her hair was a wide, windblown fan. The older
woman was leathery-looking, thin but wide-hipped, and had on a
red-and-white striped sleeveless knit top over white stretch pants and
white shoes. Her hair was dark-gray and cut very short, her lips so
skinny they were nearly invisible. Both she and Cindy wore sunglasses;
both were smiling. The older woman’s smile said No Nonsense. Boat
masts and gray-green water backgrounded the shot.
“That’s my Aunt Harriet,” said Cindy.
Remembering she’d grown up in Ventura, I said, “Where is this, Oxnard
Harbor?”
“Uh-huh. Channel Islands. We used to go there for lunch, on her days
off Another look at her watch. “Cassie’s still sleeping.
She takes her nap around now.”
“Back to routine pretty quickly.” I smiled. “That’s good.”
“She’s a good girl. . . . I guess she’ll be up soon.”
She sounded edgy again.