Placatingly, Del said, “We’ll stop at my place just long enough to pick up Scootie, and then we’ll hit the road again, cruise around until it’s time to call your brother and see if he’s been able to translate the note.”
Newport Harbour, home to one of the largest armadas of private yachts in the world, was enclosed on the north by the curve of the continental shoreline and on the south by a three-mile-long peninsula that extended west to east and separated the hundreds of protected boat docks and moorings from the surges of the Pacific.
The homes on the shoreline and on the five islands within the harbour were among the priciest in southern California. Del lived not in a less expensive home on one of the land-locked blocks of Balboa Peninsula, but in a sleek three-story contemporary house that faced the harbour.
As they approached the place, Tommy leaned forward, staring out of the windshield in astonishment.
Because she had left her garage-door opener in the van, Del parked the stolen Honda on the street. The police wouldn’t be looking for it yet—not until the shifts changed at the bakery.
Tommy continued to stare through the blurring rain after Del switched off the windshield wipers. In the burnishing glow of the landscape lighting that under lit the queen palms, he could see that every corner of the house was softly rounded. The patinated-copper windows were rectangular with radius corners, and the white stucco was towelled so smoothly that it appeared to be as slick as marble, especially when wet with rain. It was less like a house than like a small, gracefully designed cruise ship that had run aground.
“You live here?” he asked wonderingly.
“Yeah.” She opened her door. “Come on. Scootie’s wondering where I am. He’s worried about me.”
Tommy got out of the Honda and followed her through the rain to a gate at one side of the house, where she entered a series of numbers—the disarming code—into a security keypad.
“The rent must be astronomical,” he said, dismayed to think that she might not be a renter at all but might be living here with the man who owned the place.
“No rent. No mortgage. It’s mine,” she said, unlocking the gate with keys that she had fished from her purse.
As he closed the heavy gate behind them, Tommy saw that it was made of patinated geometric copper panels of different shapes and textures and depths. The resultant Art Deco pattern reminded him of the mural on her van.
Following her along a covered, pale-quartzite walkway in which flecks of mica glimmered like diamond chips under the light from the low path lamps, he said, “But this must’ve cost a fortune.”
“Sure did,” she said brightly.
The walkway led into a romantic courtyard paved with the same quartzite, sheltered by five more dramatically lighted queen palms, softened with beds of ferns, and filled with the scent of night-blooming jasmine.
Bewildered, he said, “I thought you were a waitress.”
“I told you before—being a waitress is what I do. An artist is what I am.”
“You sell your paintings?”
“Not yet.”
“You didn’t pay for this from tips.”
“That’s for sure,” she agreed, but offered no explanation.
Lamps glowed warmly in one of the downstairs rooms facing onto the courtyard. As Tommy followed Del to the front door, those windows went dark.
“Wait,” he whispered urgently. “The lights.”
“It’s okay.”
“Maybe the thing got here ahead of us.”
“No, that’s just Scootie playing with me,” she assured him.
“The dog can turn off the lights?”
She giggled. “Wait’ll you see.” She unlocked the front door and, stepping into the foyer, said, “Lights on.”
Responding to her vocal command, the overhead fixture and two sconces glowed.
“If my cell phone wasn’t in the van,” she said, “I could’ve called ahead to the house computer and turned on any combination of lights, the spa, the music system, the TV. The place is totally automated. I also had the software customized so Scootie can turn the lights on in any room with just one bark and turn them off with two.”
“And you could train him to do that?” Tommy asked, closing the door behind him and engaging the thumb turn deadbolt.