skepticism, I said, “Gee. I don’t know about renting. I hadn’t thought about that. How much does he want?”
“He’s talking seven thousand dollars a month, which I think is way too much. It’s a nice house and all, but who wants to spend that kind of dough?”
“That is pushing it,” I said. “Do you happen to know how much property he has?”
“Five acres, give or take.”
“That’s a good-sized lot. When we walked up the hill just now, we saw a fence with a Do Not Trespass sign, but we couldn’t tell if it was part of this parcel or the one next door.”
She lifted a thumb, jerking it backward to indicate something behind her. “The guy down there could tell you. I know there was a lot-line adjustment years ago, but I’m not sure what changed. The utility company has an easement that extends along the hill and riders keep mistaking it for part of the bridle trail. The owner got fed up with all the horses crossing his land so that’s where the fence came from.”
“He’s the one in that house I can see below yours?”
“Right. On Alita Lane. His name’s Felix Holderman. He’s retired and he’s nice enough, but he’s sometimes gruff. I don’t know the house number, but it’s the only Spanish-style on the block.”
“Thanks. We may just pop down there and have a chat with him.”
“If you catch him at home, tell him Judy said hi.”
“I’ll do that. Appreciate your time.”
“I should thank you. This is the first adult conversation I’ve had since Monday when my husband left on a business trip.”
“When does he get back?”
“Tomorrow, I hope. The baby’s teething and I haven’t slept for days.” She wrinkled her nose, looking down at him. “Pew-ee! Is that him or you?”
I could hear a phone ring somewhere in the house.
“Ooops. Sorry,” she said, and eased the door shut.
Sutton and I headed down her drive to the car.
“I can’t believe she didn’t ask why you were quizzing her about the fence. If you’re not buying or renting, then what’s it to you?”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t rent. I said, ‘I hadn’t thought about that.’ ”
“But you didn’t get the guy’s number when she offered it.”
“Sutton, the trick in a situation like this is to behave as though your questions are completely reasonable. Most people aren’t going to stop to ponder the inconsistencies.”
“It still seems pushy.”
“Of course.”
We picked up my car and drove the short half-mile from Ramona Road to Alita Lane. It wasn’t hard to spot the Spanish-style house, which was long and low, a cream-colored stucco with a small courtyard in front and a three-car garage on one end.
As I got out of the Mustang, Sutton said, “You mind if I wait here? I feel like a dunce standing behind you not saying a word while you chat people up.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll be right back.”
I crossed the street and passed through the wrought-iron gate into the inner courtyard. The front door was inset with three panels of stained glass that depicted a rose, a donkey, and a saguaro cactus with a sombrero perched on top. I rang the bell.
The balding man who opened the door had a leathery face and a pate splotched with sun damage where hair had once been. He was roughly my height, five-six, with a barrel chest and a tangle of white hair sprouting from the V of his Hawaiian shirt. His shorts revealed bowed legs the color of caramel corn.
“Mr. Holderman?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“My name’s Kinsey Millhone,” I said. “I was just looking at a house for sale on Ramona Road and the woman next door thought you could answer questions about the property. Her name’s Judy, by the way, and she said to tell you hi.”
“Judy’s a nice gal. Tell her hi back from me. You’re talking about Bob Tinker’s place. Well built, but it’s overpriced. House is worth three-point-five tops and he’s asking six, which is ridiculous.”
“Judy says he moved out and he hopes to rent or
“He’s talking seven thousand dollars a month, which I think is way too much. It’s a nice house and all, but who wants to spend that kind of dough?”
“That is pushing it,” I said. “Do you happen to know how much property he has?”
“Five acres, give or take.”
“That’s a good-sized lot. When we walked up the hill just now, we saw a fence with a Do Not Trespass sign, but we couldn’t tell if it was part of this parcel or the one next door.”
She lifted a thumb, jerking it backward to indicate something behind her. “The guy down there could tell you. I know there was a lot-line adjustment years ago, but I’m not sure what changed. The utility company has an easement that extends along the hill and riders keep mistaking it for part of the bridle trail. The owner got fed up with all the horses crossing his land so that’s where the fence came from.”
“He’s the one in that house I can see below yours?”
“Right. On Alita Lane. His name’s Felix Holderman. He’s retired and he’s nice enough, but he’s sometimes gruff. I don’t know the house number, but it’s the only Spanish-style on the block.”
“Thanks. We may just pop down there and have a chat with him.”
“If you catch him at home, tell him Judy said hi.”
“I’ll do that. Appreciate your time.”
“I should thank you. This is the first adult conversation I’ve had since Monday when my husband left on a business trip.”
“When does he get back?”
“Tomorrow, I hope. The baby’s teething and I haven’t slept for days.” She wrinkled her nose, looking down at him. “Pew-ee! Is that him or you?”
I could hear a phone ring somewhere in the house.
“Ooops. Sorry,” she said, and eased the door shut.
Sutton and I headed down her drive to the car.
“I can’t believe she didn’t ask why you were quizzing her about the fence. If you’re not buying or renting, then what’s it to you?”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t rent. I said, ‘I hadn’t thought about that.’ ”
“But you didn’t get the guy’s number when she offered it.”
“Sutton, the trick in a situation like this is to behave as though your questions are completely reasonable. Most people aren’t going to stop to ponder the inconsistencies.”
“It still seems pushy.”
“Of course.”
We picked up my car and drove the short half-mile from Ramona Road to Alita Lane. It wasn’t hard to spot the Spanish-style house, which was long and low, a cream-colored stucco with a small courtyard in front and a three-car garage on one end.
As I got out of the Mustang, Sutton said, “You mind if I wait here? I feel like a dunce standing behind you not saying a word while you chat people up.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll be right back.”
I crossed the street and passed through the wrought-iron gate into the inner courtyard. The front door was inset with three panels of stained glass that depicted a rose, a donkey, and a saguaro cactus with a sombrero perched on top. I rang the bell.
The balding man who opened the door had a leathery face and a pate splotched with sun damage where hair had once been. He was roughly my height, five-six, with a barrel chest and a tangle of white hair sprouting from the V of his Hawaiian shirt. His shorts revealed bowed legs the color of caramel corn.
“Mr. Holderman?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“My name’s Kinsey Millhone,” I said. “I was just looking at a house for sale on Ramona Road and the woman next door thought you could answer questions about the property. Her name’s Judy, by the way, and she said to tell you hi.”
“Judy’s a nice gal. Tell her hi back from me. You’re talking about Bob Tinker’s place. Well built, but it’s overpriced. House is worth three-point-five tops and he’s asking six, which is ridiculous.”
“Judy says he moved out and he hopes to rent or
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