U Is for Undertow by Sue Grafton Page A

between taut lips and teeth. For years I’d worked to master the technique, but usually managed little more than an asthmatic wheeze and the risk of hyperventilation. I set off, trudging down the hill in his general direction. He emerged to the left of me and waved. I picked my way across the uneven ground, trying to avoid the numerous holes housing god knows what assortment of rodents.
    I followed Sutton into a clearing shaded by a canopy of trees. Here the temperature was ten degrees cooler than the sun-drenched hill. The far side of the glade was open to Via Juliana. A riding trail angled across the open space, its muddy surface punctuated by hoofprints. The trail was clearly well used, dotted with fresh horse manure as well as desiccated mounds of previous equine BMs. In the center of the clearing there was a stone horse trough, three feet by six. The water was fed through a pipe linked to a circulating pump that kept the depths aerated and algae-free. The stone was darkened with age and the shimmering pool looked cold and black.
    Sutton said, “I’d forgotten about this. The Horton Ravine Riding Club is just across the road. I played in the trough that day, floating leaves like boats. It was afterward I climbed the hill and came across the tree I used as my hideout.”
    “Nanny, nanny, boo boo. Told you so,” I said.
    “I’m not paying you to make fun of me.”
    “Then you shouldn’t be such a pill.”
    “Sorry.”
    “Forget it. Let’s focus on the job at hand. When you saw the guys, in what direction were they walking?”
    “Actually, they were coming up the hill from here. They must have parked along Via Juliana and passed through this clearing. The tree where I was hiding was partway up the slope so I was looking down on them. They crossed my field of vision from left to right and moved off in that direction.”
    “So if the fence was there, they’d have had to climb over it, which means you’d have done the same thing.”
    “But I didn’t . . .”
    “Would you stop that? I’m not saying you did. I’m saying we should knock on some doors and see if someone knows what year the fence went in.”
    We climbed up the hill again, moving up the steps from terrace to terrace, until we reached the wide, flat patio with its pool, cabana, and built-in barbecue pit. We went around the side of the house and then crossed the front lawn to the house next door. I rang the bell.
    Sutton stood behind me and to my right. To anyone inside, with an eye to the peephole, we’d look like Jehovah’s Witnesses, only not as well dressed.
    Sutton shifted uneasily. “What are you going to say?”
    “Haven’t made that part up yet.”
    The young woman who opened the door had a six-month-old baby clamped on her right hip. He had a pacifier in his mouth that wiggled as he sucked. His face was flushed and his hair had been flattened in a series of damp ringlets. I was guessing he’d recently awakened from his nap and, judging from his aura of fecal perfume, was in desperate need of a diaper change. He was at that clinging-monkey stage, where his hold on his mother was pure instinct. I could see clutch marks in the fabric of her blouse where his grip had made star shapes across the front. His resemblance to her was eerie—same noses, same chins, two sets of identical blue eyes looking back at me. His dark lashes were longer and thicker than hers, but life is basically unfair and what’s the point of protest?
    I said, “Hi. Sorry to disturb you, but is the house next door for sale? We heard it was on the market, but there’s no realtor’s sign and we didn’t know who to contact.”
    She peered in that direction and made a face. “I don’t know what to tell you. The couple got divorced and for a while the ex-husband was living there with his girlfriend, a ditz half his age. They moved out a month ago and we heard he’s looking for tenants on a long-term lease. I can give you his number if you’re interested.”
    With