X (Kinsey Millhone 24)

I thought she might play dumb and pretend she didn’t know who I was talking about, but she tried a different strategy. “What makes you think Teddy wants to talk to you?”

I put an index finger against my cheek, tilting my head in what I hoped was a winsome fashion. “Well, let’s see. Hmmm. Possibly because I had a nice long chat with her ex-husband yesterday.” I held up that same index finger. “Or. Possibly because I had a drink last night with Christian Satterfield and he was very informative. Also relevant is the fact that I’m pissed off and she’d do well to mollify me while she has the chance.”

Kim broke off eye contact and her cheeks picked up a tint of pink under the recently applied tan. Really, she should have used the lighter shade. She said, “I’m not sure where she is this morning.”

“Probably at your place since she’s living with you. Why don’t you call home?”

I could see I’d thrown her into an agony of indecision. She didn’t want to make the call in front of me because she knew I’d pick up her home number simply by watching her dial. I gave her a verbal nudge. “You can use the phone in one of the empty offices. I’ll be happy to wait.”

She debated another few seconds and then excused herself and rose from her chair. She was wearing very high heels, no stockings, and a skirt so short, I could see her underpants.

I said, “I see London, I see France . . .”

She tugged her skirt down in back and left the reception area.

As soon as she disappeared, I reached for her steno pad and flipped through the pages until I found the notes she’d been taking about flights and departure times during my first visit. At that point, I hadn’t known she was a player in the drama, so it’s lucky I pay attention to these things. I ripped out the sheet, folded it, and tucked it in my bag, then flipped the pages back to the one she was using to take notes today.

She reappeared and took her seat. No eye contact, of course. “She said you should come for drinks at five.” She scribbled an address across one corner of her steno pad and tore off the scrap.

“Can I bring anything?” I chirped.

She ignored the offer. I hadn’t been serious, but Cheez Whiz on saltines was bound to be on the low end of canapés, even in their debased circumstances.

I left the real estate office and crossed the parking lot. It wasn’t until I unlocked my car and slid under the wheel that I finally picked up on a line Edna had tossed out earlier. The remark was folded into her confrontation with Henry when she was so righteously defending herself. At the time, I’d heard what she’d said, but I’d been focused on the showdown and I hadn’t picked up the significance. It suddenly occurred to me to ask myself the following: why had she said, “I don’t know your Mr. Adelson, but the hose bib has to be his handiwork because it certainly isn’t ours”?

How could she not know Dale Adelson when she and Joseph had bought the house from him two and a half months before? Had they completed the purchase long-distance, with papers flying back and forth and no face-to-face communication? I don’t own property, so I’m not sure how these things work, but you’d think the name would have registered.

I pulled out of the lot with a quick look at my watch. It was just after nine and the county offices would be open. I returned to my office and left the car in the driveway, then hiked the five blocks to the courthouse. I went up the stairs to the county clerk’s office, where I sat at a small computer in the reception area and typed in the Shallenbargers’ street address. I don’t consider myself computer literate, but this was a simple machine with a limited number of functions, more like a typewriter with a quiet keyboard and no carriage return.

From the street address, I was able to pick up the assessor’s parcel number, which in turn provided me the name of the owners of the property: Dale and Trish Adelson. Edna had given Henry the impression they’d bought the property, but I don’t know that she’d come right out and said so. The Shallenbargers were apparently renting the house, which clarified one point. Then I wondered if they were sticking Henry for their entire water bill or just the portion they were using for irrigation. I thought he’d be interested in the answer as well if he was calculating his losses.

The Santa Teresa Water District has offices in City Hall, some five blocks away. It was by then 9:30 and I’d caught them in a lull between customers. Both clerks were on the telephone, but one acknowledged my presence. There were four or five desks with the usual stacks of paperwork, gray metal file cabinets, upright files, fluorescent lights overhead, and a few personal items on the desktops, but in the main the atmosphere was one of industry and efficiency.