27

“Come in,” I called.

It was Mary, and by the hall light I could see she had a rather festively colored, comfy-looking robe on. She sat next to the bed, and took my hand. “You poor thing,” she said. “Anything I can get you?”

“I’ll be all right,” I said.

She sat next me, reminiscing for a little while about the numerous childhood injuries I had sustained, recalling some scrapes and bumps and a rather spectacular fall from a tree. All the while she softly stroked my hair the way my father used to do when I was little, whenever I had had a particularly bad day, and I wondered drowsily if she had comforted him in this same way when he was a boy. I don’t remember falling asleep or hearing her leave the room.

She didn’t wake me the next morning to go to Mass, but she took Travis to St. Matthew’s with her while I slept in. Later they dropped me off at my house, where I got into the Karmann Ghia, put the top down and headed for Huntington Beach. They were going shopping-in the Mustang-while I went to talk to the DeMonts.

I took the coast route, even though Pacific Coast Highway was bound to have heavy summer traffic. As it turned out, I didn’t have to pay too high a price for choosing it over the inland route; PCH was crowded, but the traffic moved. No local would think of expecting more.

I crossed the bridge over Anaheim Bay, passed the wildlife refuge and took my last good look at nature until I reached Warner Avenue. For the next few miles, the highway is dominated by a motley assortment of buildings: houses, bars, surf shops and restaurants.

Technically, Huntington Beach begins on the left side of the highway just over the bridge, the right side belonging to Surfside and Sunset Beach. But growing up in an area where there are now high school classes that will teach you how to hang ten, I had long ago developed other ideas about true local geography. For me, the real Huntington Beach begins when you get within sight of the pier. The two beaches on either side of that pier boast some of the most well-known surfing territory on the coast. That’s Huntington Beach.

Before long, I was at the edge of the oil fields that brought on the first boom years in Huntington Beach, back in the 1920s. There were still big platforms just off the coast, but fewer and fewer signs of drilling on shore. Most of the oil fields had given way to developments packed with large, imitation villas in pastel stucco on streets with names like “Sea-point” and “Princeville” and “Castlewood.”

I took a last look at the water before turning left on Golden West, still thinking about my surfing days, wondering if I d ever work up the nerve to paddle out again.

The DeMonts lived in a section of the city that was older that the ones I had just passed; their homes were on one of the numbered streets between Main and Golden West. Although the neighborhood was older, that didn’t mean the homes were-it soon became apparent that most of the original structures on these streets had given way to new buildings. The result was a mixture of housing: many of the lots had condos and apartment buildings on them; others, large single-family dwellings; a few were smaller, older homes. There was even a strip of colorful faux Victorians.

I turned right on Acacia, found the street I was looking for and slowed when I came to the address for Leda DeMont Rose and her father, Horace-a corner lot. I got lucky with parking and found a space not far away, then walked back to the corner.

It was a large house, though not among the very newest on the street. Judging by its design, I thought it probably had been built in the 1970s. I studied the addresses and realized that Robert’s home was on the same side of the street, at the beginning of the next block, on the opposite corner of the intersection. His was a single-story crackerbox that was probably built in the 1940s. My guess was that a similar house had originally occupied Leda’s lot.

While Leda’s property was neatly kept, her brother’s was a little less so. Robert’s place could have used a coat of paint, and looking at the brown, patchy grass in his yard, I saw that no one could accuse him of wasting water on a lawn. The place wasn’t so far gone that you’d call it an eyesore, but it didn’t look like the owner had a lot of domestic enthusiasm.

I stood debating which household I should upset first, and decided that even in my current condition, I could take on a guy who was almost a hundred and live to fight another day. I wasn’t sure how old Robert was, but Gerald’s story about Robert’s arrest was enough to make me decide to save Robert for round two.

There was a low wooden fence around the front yard of Leda De-Mont’s home; I lifted the latch on the gate and made my way along a set of long, flat platforms set at right angles to one another. The platforms served as steps. On either side of each platform were carefully pruned bushes and shrubs that added privacy as well as greenery. The platforms ended at a deck that was concealed from the street by more plant life. At one end of the deck was a small rock grotto with a stream of water flowing through it. The water pooled at its base; the flow produced a soft gurgling, a not-quite-babbling brook effect.

Tall, ornate double doors stood across from the grotto. Looking at those doors, I made a set of predictions: cathedral ceilings, Italian marble entry, a huge stone fireplace, a loft, white walls and white carpet, and-not really going out on a limb here-lots of tinted windows on the ocean side, which was also the side that faced Robert’s place. I rang Leda’s doorbell.

I was so surprised when a young woman answered the door, I nearly forgot to congratulate myself on knowing what to expect inside. She looked to be about sixteen or seventeen. She was a pretty girl, with big brown eyes and light-brown hair, which she wore in a long braid. She had on jeans and a red tank top. She was about five-six or so, and slender.

“Hello,” I said. “Is Leda DeMont in? No, I’m sorry-is Leda Rose in?”

She pulled her gaze away from my bruised cheek and forehead, smiled and said, “Sure, just a minute.” She turned toward a hallway and shouted, “Grandma! It’s for you!”

“Who is it?” a voice called back.

“Irene Kelly,” I said, knowing the name probably wouldn’t mean anything to her.

I heard my name shouted back and forth a couple of times, then the voice in the background said, “I’ll be right there.”

Taking this for permission to let me enter, the young woman guided me to a seat on a white leather sofa.

“Would you like something to drink?” she asked.

“No, thanks. Do you live here with your grandmother?”

“No, I just come by on the weekends. I help her take care of my greatgrandfather.”

At this moment, Leda came out of the hallway. “Laurie?” she called.

“Over here, Grandma,” she answered.

Leda DeMont Rose was an older and slightly heavier version of her granddaughter. Her hair was cut short and the brown was a little less natural in shade, but their features were very similar.

She smiled at me and said, “I’m sorry, I don’t seem to remember where we’ve met.”

“We haven’t met,” I said, standing and extending a hand. “I’m Irene Kelly.” I took a breath and then launched into the story I had decided to use. “I was hoping to speak to you privately about a rather personal family matter.”

She raised a brow, then turned to her granddaughter and said, “Laurie, why don’t you keep an eye on old Grumpypuss?”

Reluctantly, and as slowly as possible, Laurie left us.

“Now,” Leda said. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, this is rather embarrassing, and I hope it won’t be too upsetting to you, but I need to talk to someone who might be able to give me some advice. I’ve been approached by a private investigator, a Mr. Richmond?”