A Savage Place by Robert B. Parker

strawbasket design printed on the side, and I took it out, slipped it into the trunk, and got back into the passenger’s side beside Candy.
    “We’re armed and provisioned, baby. Let’s roll.”
    We turned up Beverly Drive, heading north toward the hills. Candy was quiet as she drove. Across Santa Nlonica I looked at the houses. They were close together and quite near the street, but looking down the driveways and peering around shrubs as we went past, I could see the depth of the lot. Ample room for pools and tennis courts and hot tubs and patios and croquet lawns.
    “What do you call the place where croquet is played?” I said to Candy.
    “Excuse me?”
    “Is it a croquet field or a croquet court or what?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “My God, next thing you’ll tell me you don’t play polo.”
    She shook her head. I looked at the houses some more. They were often Spanish with a touch of Tudor. They frequently had both wood and stone siding, and the small lawns in front were consistently well tended. Palm trees were metronomically regular in their spacing and identity along the narrow border between the sidewalk and the street. And nothing moved. It looked like an empty set. No dogs sitting in the front yards with their tongues out looking at pedestrians. No cats. No children. No bicycles. No basketball rims on garages. No baseballs, tree huts. No squirrels.
    “Place looks like Disneyland after hours,” I said to Candy. “Deserted.”
    “Oh, yes. It always is.”
    “What are they doing in there,” I said, “watching a videotape of people living?”
    Candy smiled but not like she enjoyed it. “I guess so,” she said. “I never thought much about it.”
    We crossed Sunset. The Hills began.
    “That mansion still here on Sunset where the guy painted explicit genitals on the nude statues out front?”
    Candy nodded. “A realist,” I said.
    “Spenser,” Candy said, “I just don’t feel like making amusing conversation right now, okay? My friend is dead. I may be dead soon. I’m scared and sad and I don’t see how you can talk about nonsense as if nothing had happened.”
    “I could keen,” I said.
    She frowned. “Keen?”
    “You know, as in `keening and wailing and gnashing of teeth.‘ ”
    “You know you’re probably being cheery, but please don’t joke now. Let’s just be quiet.”
    “How about I just gnash a little bit. Very softly. You’ll barely hear me.”
    She smiled slightly.
    I said, very softly, “Gnash.”
    She smiled more and her shoulders shook slightly.
    “Gnash.”
    She laughed. “Okay. Okay. You are, in fact, as loony as I thought you were. We’re setting ourselves up like two worms on a hook, and you’re riding around saying ‘Gnash.’ ”
    We swung off Beverly Drive and into Coldwater Canyon. The road was steeper now, and when we swung onto Linda Crest, we began going up steeply in a series of reverse curves. Candy shifted up and down as the MG hugged the turns.
    “This is what it was born for,” I said.
    “This car? Yes. It’s always fun to drive it up here. I always feel like Mario Andretti or somebody.”
    “Better looking though.”
    “Thank you.”
    Sam Felton’s house was the last one on the street. Beyond it the hills terraced back down toward L.A., and the city spread out below it. There was a stucco wall with an iron gate in it. When we rang, a voice came out of a small speaker in one of the gateposts.
    “Who’s calling, please?” it said.
    “Candy Sloan to see Mr. Felton.”
    “Mr. Felton is not home now. Would you leave a message?”
    “We’d prefer to come in and wait,” Candy said.
    “I’m sorry, that isn’t possible. I don’t know when Mr. Felton will be home. If you’ll leave a message, I’m sure he’ll be in touch.”
    “No thanks,” Candy said. A small sign beside the speaker said PROTECTED BY THE BEL-AIR PATROL. “We’ll wait.”
    There was a click from the speaker and then silence. Candy shrugged. “He’ll have to come in