I waited, expecting a perky postscript.

He looked at me. “Inspirational, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know, William. It’s really not that uplifting. Why not something with a touch more optimism?”

He blinked, stumped for a substitute.

“Why don’t you give it some thought,” I said. “Meanwhile, I’ll tell Henry you stopped by.”

“Good enough.”

Saturday morning, I made another run over to the residence hotel on Dave Levine Street. I parked out in front and let myself in. I walked down the hall to the office, where the landlady was tallying receipts on an old-fashioned adding machine with a hand crank.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I said. “Is Melvin Downs in?”

She turned in her chair. “You again. I believe he went out, but I can check if you like.”

“I’d appreciate that. I’m Kinsey Millhone, by the way. I didn’t catch your name.”

“Juanita Von,” she said. “I’m the owner, manager, and cook, all rolled into one. I don’t do the cleaning. I have two young women who do that.” She got up from the desk. “This might take a while. His room’s on the third floor.”

“You can’t call?”

“I don’t permit telephones in the rooms. It’s too costly having jacks installed, so I let them use mine when the occasion arises. As long as they don’t take advantage, of course. You might wait in the parlor. It’s the formal room to the left as you go down this hall.”

I turned and went back to the parlor, where I prowled the perimeter. While the surfaces weren’t cluttered, Juanita Von did seem to favor ceramic figures, knock-kneed children with sagging socks and fingers in their mouths. The bookshelves were free of books, which probably saved her cleaning women the effort of dusting. Limp sheer curtains at the window filtered sufficient light to make the air in the room seem gray. The matching sofas were unforgiving, and the wooden chair wobbled on its legs. The only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock in one corner of the room. What kind of people lived in such a place? I pictured myself coming home to this at the end of each day. Talk about depressing.

I spotted six neatly stacked magazines on the coffee table. I picked up the first, a copy of last week’s TV Guide. Under it was the November 1982 issue of Car amp; Driver and under that was an issue of BusinessWeek from the previous March. A few minutes later Juanita Von reappeared. “Out,” she said, sounding entirely too satisfied for my taste.

“Not to get repetitive here, but do you have any idea when he’ll be back?”

“I do not. As a proprietor, I’m strictly hands-off. If it’s not my business, I don’t inquire. That’s my policy.”

Thinking to endear myself, I said, “This is a wonderful old house. How long have you owned it?”

“Twenty-six years this March. This is the old Von estate. You might have heard of it before. Property once stretched from State Street to Bay and covered twelve square blocks.”

“Really. It’s quite a place.”

“Yes, it is. I inherited this house from my grandparents. My great-grandfather built it at the turn of the century and gave it to my grandparents the day they were married. It’s been added onto over the years as you can tell. Corridors go every which way.”

“Did your parents live here as well?”

“Briefly. My mother’s people were from Virginia, and she insisted that they move to Roanoke, which is where I was born. She didn’t much care for California and she certainly had no interest in local history. My grandparents knew she’d talk my father into selling the property once they were gone so they skipped a generation and left it to me. I was sorry to have to break it up into rental units, but it was the only way I could afford the upkeep.”

“How many rooms do you have?”

“Twelve. Some are larger than others, but most of them have good light, and they all have the same high ceilings. If I ever come into money, I intend to redo the public rooms, but that’s not likely to happen any time soon. I sometimes discount the rent a bit if a tenant wants to paint or fix up. As long as I approve the changes.”

She began to tidy the magazines, her attention turned to the task so she wouldn’t have to make eye contact. “If you don’t mind my asking, what’s your business with Mr. Downs? I’ve never known him to have a visitor.”

“We believe he witnessed an accident in May of last year. This was a two-vehicle collision up near City College and he offered assistance. Unfortunately, one’s now suing the other for a large sum of money, and we hope he has information that might help settle the dispute.”

“Way too many people suing in my opinion,” she said. “I’ve served on juries in two different lawsuits and both were a waste of time, not to mention the taxpayers’ dollars. Now, if we’re done chatting, I’ll get on with my work.”

“Why don’t I leave Mr. Downs a note and he can contact me. I don’t want to turn into a pest.”

“Fine with me.”

I took out a pen and a spiral-bound notebook, dashing off a note, asking if he’d get in touch at his earliest convenience. I ripped the leaf from my notebook and folded it in half before I handed it to her with one of my business cards. “There’s a machine on both these numbers. If he can’t reach me directly, tell him I’ll return the call as soon as I can.”

She read the card and sent me a sharp look, though she made no comment.

I said, “I don’t suppose I could trouble you for a quick tour.”

“I don’t rent to females. Women are usually trouble. I don’t like gossip and petty bickering, not to mention feminine-hygiene products interfering with the plumbing. I’ll see Mr. Downs gets your note.”

“Fair enough,” I said.

I stopped by the supermarket on my way home. For once, the sun was out, and while the temperature was still riding in the low fifties, the sky was a bright clear blue. Charlotte’s Cadillac was parked across the street. I let myself in and unloaded my shopping bags. I’d noticed a batch of fresh bread dough proofing in a cradle that Henry kept in the glass-enclosed breezeway between my place and his. He hadn’t made bread for ages and the notion put me in a good mood. Having been a professional baker by trade, he’d make eight to ten loaves at a time, and he was generous about sharing. I hadn’t talked to Charlotte in a week, so once my kitchen was tidied up, I trotted across the patio and knocked on Henry’s door. I could see Henry at work, and judging from the size of the kettle on the stove, he was making chili or spaghetti sauce to go with his bread. William was seated at the table, with a cup of coffee in front of him, an odd expression on his face. Charlotte stood with her arms crossed, and Henry was whacking an onion with a vengeance. He reached over and opened the door for me, but it wasn’t until I’d closed it behind me that I tuned in to the tension in the room. At first I thought there was a problem with Gus because the three of them were so silent. I figured William had gone next door to visit him and brought back a bad report, which was only partially true. I found myself looking from one stony face to the next.

I said, “Is everything okay?”

Henry said, “Not really.”

“What’s going on?”

William cleared his throat, but before he could speak, Henry said, “I’ll handle this.”

“Handle what?” I asked, still clueless.

Henry used the knife blade to sweep the onion aside. He laid out eight cloves of garlic and used the flat of the same blade to crush the cloves, which he then chopped. “William went over to Gus’s for a visit this morning and saw Charlotte’s business card on the coffee table.”

“Oh?”

“I shouldn’t have mentioned it,” William said.

Henry sent a hot look in Charlotte’s direction and I realized then that there was a dispute under way. “These people are my neighbors. I’ve known some of them for the better part of fifty years. You went over there to hustle real estate. Gus was under the impression that I sent you over there to talk about the sale of his home when I did no such thing. He has no interest in putting his property on the market.”