Daylight had faded to indigo, and all the house lights in the neighborhood were coming on when I finally located the street I was looking for. The houses on both sides of this narrow lane backed onto the keys, long fingers of seawater stretching back from the ocean. The rear of each house seemed to boast a wide wooden deck with a short wood ramp leading down to a dock, the channel itself deep enough to admit sizable boats. I could smell the cool marina cologne, and the quiet was underscored by an occasional slap of water and the chorusing of frogs.
I cruised slowly, squinting at house numbers, finally spotting the address Whiteside had given me. Renata Huff’s house was a two-story dark blue stucco with white trim. The roof was wood shake, and the rear portion of the property was shielded from the street by a white board fence. The house was dark, and a FOR SALE sign hung from a post in the front yard. I said, “Well, damn it.”
I parked the car across the street and approached the house, moving up a long wooden ramp on to the front door. I rang the bell as if I expected to be admitted. I didn’t see a lockbox from the real estate company, which might mean that Renata was still in residence. Casually, I checked the houses on either side of hers. One was dark, and the other showed lights only at the rear. I turned then so I could scrutinize the houses across the street. As nearly as I could tell, I wasn’t under observation and there didn’t seem to be any vicious dogs on the premises. Often, I consider this a tacit invitation to break and enter, but I had spied, through one of the two narrow windows flanking the front door, the telltale dot of red light denoting an alarm system, armed and ready. This was not gracious behavior on Renata’s part.
Now what? I had the option to get back in my car and return to Santa Teresa, but I hated to admit I’d made the trip for naught. I glanced over at the house to the right of Renata’s. Through a side window I could see a woman in her kitchen, head bent to some domestic chore. I walked down the ramp and crossed the yard, trying to avoid the flower beds as I made my way to the door. I rang the bell, staring with idle curiosity at Renata’s front porch. Even as I watched, her burglar-fooling lights came on. Now it looked like an empty house filled with pointlessly burning lamps.
Somebody flipped on the porch light overhead and opened the door to the length of the chain. “Yes?” The woman was probably in her forties. All I could see of her was her long, dark, curly hair that cascaded past her shoulders, like the wig on a decadent seventeenth-century fop. She smelled like flea soap. I thought at first it was some new designer perfume until I noticed the towel-swaddled dog she was toting under her arm. It was one of those little brown-and-black jobs about the size of a loaf of bread. Muffin, Buffy, Princess.
I said, “Hi. I wonder if you can give me some information about the house for sale next door. I noticed the outside ramp. Do you happen to know if the place is equipped for the handicapped?”
“Yes, it is.”
I was hoping for a little more in the way of information. “On the inside, too?”
“That’s right. Her husband suffered a real bad stroke about ten years ago…a month before they started work on the house. She had the contractor adjust all the plans for wheelchair access, including a lift up to the second floor.”
“Amazing,” I murmured. “My sister’s in a wheelchair, and we’ve been looking for a place that would accommodate her disability.” Since I couldn’t see the woman’s face, I found myself addressing my remarks to the dog, who really seemed quite attentive.
The woman said, “Really. What’s wrong with her?”
“She was in a diving accident two years ago and she’s paralyzed from the waist down.”
“That’s too bad,” she said. Her tone suggested the sort of fake concern a stranger’s story generates. I could have bet she was formulating questions she was too polite to ask.
Actually, I was beginning to feel pretty bad about Sis myself, though she sounded brave. “She’s doing pretty well. She’s adjusted, at any rate. We were driving around today, checking out the neighborhood. We’ve been house hunting now for what seems like ages, and this is the first that’s really sparked her interest, so I told her I’d stop by and ask. Do you have any idea what they’re asking for the place?”
“I heard four ninety-five.”
“Really? Well, that’s not bad. I think I’ll have our real estate agent set up an appointment to show us through. Is the owner home during the day?”
“That’s hard to say. Lately, she’s been out of town quite a lot.”