"You're really scaring me," I said.

William opened his paper, selected the second section, and flapped the first page over to the obituaries. Though his lifelong hypochondria had been mitigated by marriage, William still harbored a fascination for those people whose infirmities had ushered them out of the world. It annoyed him when an article gave no clue about the nature of the final illness. In moments of depression or insecurity, he reverted to his old ways, attending the funeral services of total strangers, inquiring discreetly of the other mourners as to cause of death. Key to his query was identifying early indications of the fatal illness-blurred vision, vertigo, shortness of breath-the very symptoms he was destined to experience within the coming week. He was never at ease until he'd solicited the true story. "Gastric disturbances," he'd report to us later with a significant stare. "If the fellow'd only consulted medical authorities at the first hint of trouble, he might be with us today. His brother said so."

"We all have to die of something," Henry invariably said.

William would turn peevish. "Well, you don't have to be such a pessimist. Vigilance is my point. Listening to the body's messages-"

"Mine says, You are going to die one day regardless so wise up, you old fart."

Tonight, Henry glanced at William's paper politely. "Anyone we know?"

William shook his head. "Couple of kids in their seventies; only one with a photo. Couldn't have been taken much later than 1952." He squinted at the page. "I hope we didn't look that smarmy when we were young."

"You certainly did," Henry said. He took a sip of whiskey. "If you go first, I know exactly the picture I'm going to give the paper for your obit. You in those knickers the summer we toured Atlantic City. Your hair's parted down the center and it looks like you're wearing lipstick."

William leaned closer. "He's still jealous because I took Alice Van-dermeer away from him. She could jitterbug like the dickens and had money to burn."

Henry said, "She had a wen on her cheek the size and color of a small Concord grape. I never knew where to look so I palmed her off on him."

William turned several pages to the classified ads, where he compared descriptions of "found" dogs and cats with those reported missing, often spotting a match. While Henry and I continued to open and file Klotilde's medical bills, William entertained us with all the livestock currently being offered for sale. He glanced up at me. "Well, here's something. Still need office space? You should check this one out. Five hundred square feet, newly renovated, downtown. Two fifty a month, available immediately."

I stopped what I was doing and tilted my head in his direction. "You're kidding. Let me see that."

William handed me the section, pointing to the item, which read:

For lease: 500 sq ft in newly renovated Victorian, heart of downtown near courthouse; private bath and separate entrance w/ private deck. $250/mo. Call Richard after 6:00 pm.

The phone number was listed.

I read the lines twice but they didn't seem to change. "I'll bet it's a dump. They always embellish in these ads."

"It won't hurt to call."

"You really think so?"

"Of course."

"What if it's rented?"

"You won't be out anything. Maybe the guy has others." He reached into his watch pocket and removed a coin, which he placed on the table right in front of me. "Go on."

I took the coin and the paper and crossed the room. The pay phone was in the vestibule, the area dimly illuminated by a neon Budweiser sign. I dialed the number and read the ad again while I listened to four rings. Finally, the line was picked up on the other end and I asked to speak to Richard. "This is he."

I placed him in his thirties, though phone voices can be deceptive. "I'm calling with regard to the office space listed in tonight's paper. Is the place still available?" I noticed a tinge of plaintiveness had crept into my voice.

"Sure, but we're asking for a year's lease, first and last month's rent, plus a cleaning deposit."

"Can I ask what street it's on?"

"Floresta. Across from the police station and about six doors down."

"And the price quoted is correct? The ad says two hundred and fifty bucks a month."

"It's only one room. It's got a closet and bathroom, but it's not large."

I pictured a phone booth. "Would it be possible to see it tonight?"

"As it happens, my brother's in there laying carpet and I'm on my way over. You want to take a look, I can meet you there in fifteen minutes."

My watch said 7:30. "Great. I can do that. What's the address?" He gave me the information. "You can pull on down the driveway to the parking lot in back. You'll see lights on, first floor rear. My brother's name is Tommy. The last name's Hevener."

"I'm Kinsey Millhone. Thanks so much. I'll see you in fifteen minutes.

The building had clearly once been a single-family residence: a one-story white-frame cottage with gables in the roofline and a lot of gingerbread trim. At 7:42 I eased my VW down the driveway, my headlights cutting through the shadows. I slowed and peered out the driver's-side window. The white paint looked fresh and there were flower beds along the side. How had I missed this? The location was ideal-one block away from the office I was now in-and the price couldn't have been better. I counted ten parking spaces laid out along the narrow backyard, which was paved with asphalt and fenced on two sides. A black pickup truck was parked in one spot, but the rest were empty at this hour. There was a big trash bin just at the exit to the alleyway in back. Looking up, I could see Lonnie's office windows and the back wall that framed the tiny lot behind his building. I parked and got out, trying to curb the sudden surge of hope. For all I knew, the property was on the market, or the lot was the site of a former gas station, the soil still contaminated by benzene and other carcinogens.

A wide redwood deck had been constructed across the back of the building, complete with a long wooden ramp installed for easy wheel-chair access. A market umbrella with a big pale canvas shade stood open above a glass-topped table surrounded by four chairs. Several large terra-cotta pots had been planted with herbs. I was about to hyperventilate. First-floor lights were ablaze. I entered a small foyer. A door stood open to my immediate right. The scent of fresh paint was strong, overlaid by the staunch, secondary odor of brand-new carpet-ing. I closed my eyes while I offered up a quick prayer, repudiating my wickedness and promising to mend my evil ways. I opened my eyes and stepped through the doorway, absorbing the room at a glance.

The room was twelve by twelve, with new hand-crank windows on two walls. There were two tiers of white-painted shutters in place of conventional drapes. On the far wall, two doors stood open, one leading to a small bathroom, the other into what was clearly a spacious walk-in closet. A red-headed fellow in jeans, an olive green T-shirt, and heavy work boots was sitting on the floor kicking a carpet stretcher, forcing the carpet taut along the baseboard. A phone line had been installed and the phone was currently resting on the surface of an empty cardboard box.

The carpet itself was an industrial-grade nylon, a pattern of beige flecks against a charcoal gray background. I could see his carpet knife with its fat, curved blade, and the mallet he used to pound the carpet backing onto tack strips. Carpet scraps were piled up in the center of the room. An insulated plastic cooler was positioned near the wall beside a wastebasket that was filled to the brim with more carpet trimmings. The room seemed stuffy from the glaring two-hundred-watt bulb overhead.

I said, "Hi, I'm Kinsey. Your brother said he'd meet me here at seven forty-five. Are you Tommy?"