U Is for Undertow (Kinsey Millhone 21)

The receptionist at the desk looked up at me as I came in. She was in her sixties. Her salt-and-pepper hair was heavy on the salt, shoulder length, and blunt cut. Her bifocals had beveled edges, with thin wire stems. The tops of the lenses were tinted blue and the bottoms tinted pink. I wondered how the world looked from her perspective. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“I’m hoping you can give me some information.”

“I’ll try,” she said. Her smock was patterned with cats, every conceivable color combination, with real cat hair matted here and there. She looked like someone who’d carry a cat around while the office was closed for lunch. Belatedly, I noticed a small gray cat lying on her desk, curled in sleep like a hairy paperweight.

“I’m looking for the vet who used to own this facility.”

“Dr. McNally?”

“Exactly. Did you work for him, by chance?”

“No, but he cared for all my animals over the years. Two dogs and I can’t even tell you how many cats.”

“Do you have any idea how I can reach him?”

She hesitated. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, I’ve got an odd little problem and this is what it is.” I recited my strange request without a hitch. I glossed over the surrounding circumstances, not wanting to raise a red flag with regard to Mary Claire Fitzhugh. I did explain Ulf, the buried dog, the tag, and the former owner, who knew nothing of the dog’s interment in Horton Ravine. “I’m hoping Dr. McNally can fill in the blanks.”

“It’s very possible and I’m sure he’d enjoy a visit. He’s at Valley Oaks. Number 17 Juniper Lane. Hang on a second and I’ll look up his phone number.” She opened the bottommost drawer on her right and took out a leather-bound address book that looked like it was meant for her personal use. “Do you want me to call and let him know you’ll be stopping by?”

“I’m not sure what my schedule is for the rest of the week, so it’s probably better not to call in advance. I don’t want him sitting around, thinking he’ll have company if I can’t get there for a day or two.”

“Understood,” she said. She made a note of his phone number and address, and passed it across the desk.

“Thank you so much. I really appreciate this.” I tucked the note in my bag.

Hesitantly, she said, “I don’t suppose you’re in the market for a cat. We have so many strays dropped at our door. Some are older and harder to place, but you have no idea how loving they are.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

The Valley Oaks Senior Settlement had been established on an old estate in Montebello. I liked the word “settlement.” It suggested an encampment on the far reaches of life, where aging pioneers could find shelter and companionship. At the entrance a painted map-board showed a layout of the units, and I took a minute to locate Number 17 Juniper Lane. I drove through the gate at a crawl, obeying the sign that warned about the speed bumps that appeared every fifteen feet. The landscaping was beautifully maintained. Many of the old oaks had been left in place. Splitting off from the main thoroughfare, a series of winding roads disappeared in all directions, each marked with a discreet sign, indicating the name of the road and the unit numbers thereon. A few of the units I spotted had ramps to accommodate wheelchair users. Through the trees I could see an imposing structure, which I imagined was the original mansion converted now to public rooms where residents could visit, dine, or entertain.

Number 17 Juniper Lane was a cottage Hansel and Gretel would have liked, a snug stucco structure with a roof that looked like thatch. The front door was dark green, the shutters painted to match. A cluster of flowerpots took up one corner of the porch, all of them empty at the moment. On the drive over, as I rehearsed my approach, I’d decided not to mention my sketchy acquaintance with his son. I assumed Dr. McNally was aware of Walker’s legal problems and it wasn’t a topic that would be productive. Walker’s accident had nothing to do with my quest. I parked in a four-car inset between cottages.

I knocked and after a moment the door was opened by a man in his eighties. His hair was a thick gray, cropped short, and his bifocals had metal frames. I didn’t see any particular likeness to Walker, but then again, I hadn’t seen Walker in years, so the two might appear more similar than I knew. He had on a navy blue sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up and shorts that were creased across the lap. He wore slippers instead of shoes and socks, and his shins looked like soup bones sparsely dotted with hair.