After I washed up, a little online digging landed me the location of the tennis courts nearest the Russom home. I figured Walter and Sydelle for early-morning-tennis types. Granted it was winter, but habits were habits. And in a place like southern California, even the northern reaches of the region, playing early in the day to beat the heat was always a good idea.
By six thirty I’d made myself ready for my last Santa Barbara day in capris, T-shirt, light sweater, and Keens, sandals so well engineered you could jog in them. I grabbed a takeout cup of coffee from the carafe downstairs on my way out. I needed it, having slept worse than restlessly.
“Robbie, you eating?” Carmen called from the pass-through window.
The air smelled of crispy sweet pastries, a hint of chiles, and the heavenly aroma of cured meats on the grill. I nearly plopped into the closest seat and gave myself up to it. This kind of deliciousness in the early morning, and I hadn’t had to prep and cook it? Nirvana.
“Yes, but later,” I replied. “I have to run do something. I promise I’ll be back to eat.”
My host gave me a thumbs-up. “Mamá’s got a yummy special waiting with your name on it.” Luisa’s smiling face appeared behind her.
I waved at both women, then headed out. Immediately after I got on the freeway, I passed the gigantic Moreton Bay Fig Tree, whose canopy spanned a hundred and seventy feet. At nearly that many years old, it wasn’t as ancient as the giant Sequoias in the Sierra Nevada mountains that Mom and I had camped among when I was young. Still, the Moreton was an impressive sight.
Esmeralda, the name I’d christened my phone’s GPS, directed me in her usual no-nonsense way east several exits on the 101. Alana had driven to the Russoms’ neighborhood yesterday, but I hadn’t lived here in so long I was a little at sea, geographically. I passed the zoo and wished I’d paid it a visit this week. Maybe somehow I could squeeze in a walk there later today.
This exit had me driving through the late Ms. Grafton’s stomping grounds on my way to Montecito Lite. The homes along here were large, tastefully lovely, and protected by master-gardener landscaping, walls, and locked gates. Good. Sue had deserved some luxury and privacy as a reward for all twenty-five of her brilliant mysteries. She’d died not so long ago, only in her early seventies, and had firmly declared there would be no Z Is for Zero ending to the Kinsey Millhone series. I blew a kiss in homage, even though I didn’t know which estate had been hers.
Esmeralda directed me to turn left. “You will arrive at your destination in a quarter mile,” she pronounced, sounding way too smug for seven in the morning. I slowed, watching out for tennis courts.
“Your destination is on the left,” Es said. “You have arrived,” she announced in triumph.
I wasn’t sure how they’d made the GPS voice sound weirdly both human and robotic. Didn’t matter. She was right. On my left were six well-appointed tennis courts. Nice pavement, newly painted tall fencing, well-stretched nets, lights on tall posts for night play.
Now that I was here, I found myself with an attack of nerves. I wanted to talk with Walter and his girlfriend. But how to accomplish a conversation without looking as if I were digging, as the cops so elegantly put it, my buddy Jason included? Did I have a premise, an excuse? I could, I supposed, claim I was also a tennis player and say Sydelle’s son, Tommy, had told me about these courts. Which was true. And if they asked me to hit a few balls, well, I was wearing sandals, wasn’t I? I couldn’t possibly.
I decided to navigate the situation as I went. I parked and climbed out, bringing my coffee as a security blanket. Or, more important, as a caffeine fix. I followed the paths around the courts, hearing the signature bonk of balls, the grunts of servers and serious backhanders. They weren’t quite Venus Williams-or Rafael Nadal-level grunts, but close. Serious amateurs frequented these courts.
Bingo. I spied Walter in white shorts and a black shirt. He was playing doubles with a sinewy woman, her in a tight blue sleeveless top and a blue-and-white split tennis skirt, her expression more cutthroat than any I’d seen on TV. She was Sydelle, the same person who’d driven away with Walter after the farmers’ market. Their opponents were a younger man and woman who looked a lot more relaxed, both wearing nylon shorts and cotton T-shirts featuring Ventura Beach in colorful printing.
None of them paid a speck of attention to me. I sank onto a bench positioned outside the fence near the net and watched them play. The other couple, more my age than Walter and Sydelle’s, were energetic and seemed to enjoy each other’s company. Sydelle, on the other hand, didn’t crack a smile or even speak to Walter. She was a hundred percent focused on the game. At least the bodyguards weren’t lurking here.
I had flitted by Wimbledon matches on television, but I didn’t know anything about tennis scoring or winning, and I’d never once picked up a racket. These players were tossing around terms like deuce, fifteen, love, and more. Finally, the game appeared to be over. Sydelle didn’t look happy as she grabbed a small towel before joining Walter at the net to shake hands with the other couple, who smiled graciously. The younger couple picked up their towels and gear and
