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AFTER THE STORM THE night before, the breeze blew frigid off the ocean. Fenway hadn’t seen a colder morning since moving to Estancia six months before, although she was still acclimated to the Seattle weather. The smell of the overnight rain made her feel more at home.
In fact, Fenway had stood in front of the mirror that morning, debating with herself about putting on a sweater or just a long-sleeved blouse. The sweater proved to be the right decision; the early morning mist put a damp chill on everything, settling in around the refinery’s chain-link fence, obscuring both the smokestacks in one direction and the walking trail to the pedestrian underpass beneath Ocean Highway in the other. The temperature gauge on the dashboard in her Accord read 42°F, a cool morning even by Seattle standards. She would have used the word “brisk” before she moved back to Estancia.
Fenway didn’t have a problem getting onto the service road next to the refinery’s fence, but there wasn’t a good way to get her car down to the pedestrian walkway running under the freeway. Three metal poles locked into place at the top of the asphalt trail that connected the service road to the walkway leading to the secluded beach on the other side of the highway.
She parked on the edge of the service road, next to the sheriff’s cruiser, and walked the last quarter of a mile. She had thought about putting on dressy flats, but the walk made her glad she had elected to wear her running shoes.
She crested the incline of the path and the medical examiner’s van came into view. To the left of the van, Sheriff McVie stood next to Melissa de la Garza, one of the crime scene technicians. Both of them wore winter hats and parkas.
She walked up next to them. “Thanks for leaving the poles down for me.”
Melissa smiled. “Hey, Fenway. Yeah, we had to lock them back up. Can’t have the riff-raff driving down here.”
McVie held a cup of coffee close to his face, the steam rising off the hot liquid.
“I feel underdressed,” Fenway said. “I must have missed the memo about the Antarctic expedition gear.”
“Very funny,” McVie said.
Fenway smirked. “Man, I hope forty-two degrees doesn’t ever feel like a frozen tundra wasteland to me.”
“Yeah, well, it’s the next best thing to a drawer at the morgue,” Melissa said, gesturing to the body, under a mass of threadbare woolen blankets and several layers of clothing. Melissa handed Fenway two blue nitrile gloves. “Hey, only a few more days till the election. You ready?”
“Not according to my campaign manager.”
“You’re not worried about Dr. Klein’s lackey, are you?” Melissa bent down over the body and started pulling back the blankets. “You’ve got a sixty-point lead.”
Fenway shrugged and turned her attention to the dead man on the ground.
The body was supine, the face angled crazily off to the side, the open eyes staring at the upper corner of the pedestrian walkway, a neat bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. The dead man was white and had five or six days’ worth of scraggly beard; he was perhaps in his late forties or early fifties.
“Not a lot of blood pooled underneath the head,” Fenway said.
“Nope.” Melissa pulled back the blankets near the dead man’s feet. “Those look like drag marks.” She pointed to two faint parallel lines in the concrete running to the beach side of the underpass.
“Good thing the body is protected from the elements,” said Fenway. “If it had been out in the rain last night, we’d have a lot less evidence to work with.”
“It looks like the body was dragged in here, the rain’s probably washed the murder scene clean by now.”
Fenway nodded. “Unless we get lucky.”
Melissa pulled down the blankets below the dead man’s shoulders, revealing more of his clothing. The sweater and long-sleeve oxford shirt underneath were a little bit dirty; the sweater had a smear of dirt or grease across the stomach. The man’s blue jeans were dark, also dirty, but from a day or two of dirt, not months of it. He wore no shoes or socks.
Fenway looked at McVie. “This guy doesn’t look homeless,” Fenway said.
“From the old blankets he does,” replied McVie defensively. “And he’s barefoot.”
“You have a time of death?” Fenway asked Melissa.
“Not a specific time,” Melissa replied. “Liver temp is ambient, so he’s been here awhile. With outside temp and lividity, I’d say he’s been here between six and ten hours.”
Fenway looked at the clock on her phone. “Between ten last night and two this morning. Gotcha.” She squinted at the clothes on the dead body. “Melissa, doesn’t this strike you as a little odd?”
“What? The clothes? Yeah.”
“They seem too nice for a homeless guy, right?”
“Well, maybe not too nice—the shelters sometimes get some quality stuff donated. But definitely too clean. I mean, it’s dirty, but it’s one day worth of dirty. Not ‘I haven’t showered in two months’ dirty.”
“Right. That’s what I was thinking too.”
Melissa bent down. “And the clothes are nice. They’re not cheap, for sure, and they’re not ten years out of style, either.”
“Do you think this guy was killed and made to look like a homeless guy, or did he look like this when he was killed?”
“Tough to say,” said Melissa. “He certainly hasn’t shaved in a while. I can see how the sheriff would get that impression at first glance.” She glanced at Fenway’s sweater and thin trousers that stopped a few inches above her ankle. “Aren’t you cold?”
“I’m from Seattle,” Fenway quipped. “If McVie hadn’t called me, I’d be lounging by the pool.”
Melissa shivered at the thought.
McVie took two steps closer and bent down. “Okay if I open his mouth?”
“I’ve already taken pictures,” Melissa said.
He hesitated a moment, used both hands to gently open the dead man’s mouth, then peered inside. “Look at this.”
Melissa bent down and peered into the man’s mouth. Fenway crouched and looked over Melissa’s shoulder, although she couldn’t see much.
“Oh,” Melissa said. “Good dental work.”
“Clean teeth, too,” McVie said. “Yeah, you’re right. This guy wasn’t homeless. Or if he’s homeless, he hasn’t been for more than a few days.”
Fenway shook her head. “I don’t think he’s homeless, not even for a couple of days. This looks to me like someone who’s on vacation, not someone who’s living on the streets.”
“We should look into missing person reports,” McVie said. “At least while we’re waiting for the fingerprints to come back from the lab.”
“You survey the area yet?” Fenway asked.
“Not completely,” Melissa said. “I stopped when the sheriff got here.”
“Any ID?”
Melissa shook her head. “No wallet, no ID, no money, no keys.”
Fenway looked around. “Think his wallet’s around here? Maybe a robbery gone wrong?”
McVie pointed to the drag marks. “Those aren’t consistent with a robbery.”
“Who found him?”
“A man coming off graveyard shift at the refinery.” McVie stood back up.
“Did he stick around to talk to us?” Fenway asked.
“He stuck around for the officer,” McVie said. “Callahan got here just before five-thirty. He took the statement from the guy. He radioed in—I told him he could send him on his way. Didn’t see the point of keeping him too much longer.”
“You don’t think the refinery worker would have taken the wallet and keys, do you?”
“I can ask Callahan. That would be a pretty brazen move, though.”
Fenway nodded, and then thought a moment. “Hang on—you said the guy worked at the refinery?” Fenway stood up too. “What was he doing here? This is a half-mile away.”
“Jogging,” McVie said. “The guy likes to go for a run on the beach when he gets off work.”
“Oh, right,” Fenway said. “You said it was a jogger on the phone.”
“Lucky he ran this way,” Melissa said. “We wouldn’t have found him for a few more hours, at least. This isn’t a heavily trafficked area.”
“So this guy wasn’t homeless,” said Fenway, “but maybe we should see if anyone who is homeless saw anything. This seems like a good place to hang out if you’re homeless. Good shelter, stays nice and cool in the summer, not a lot of people around to bug you.”
“No,” McVie said. “No one to bug you, but no one close by to help out or get resources. No services for the homeless, no place to panhandle, no restaurants who throw out food—not even a vending machine. You’ve got to walk for five miles towards Estancia before you even hit a fast-food place. And the homeless shelter is ten miles away.”
“All right,” Melissa said, looking out past where the drag marks went into the beach. “Let’s divvy up scouting the area.” She looked back over her shoulder. “I’m going to north side of the underpass.”
“With you in a minute,” Fenway called.
McVie stepped closer. “Listen, Fenway,” he said in a low voice. “I know it’s been weird the last couple of months with our campaigns. But we can still have dinner together.”
“And I told you, Craig,” Fenway whispered back, “Millicent said we shouldn’t go on a date until after the election. It looks bad enough you’re going through a divorce right now. Gene told you the same thing, as I recall.”
“Millicent and Gene were hired to manage our campaigns, not our social lives,” McVie said. “You’ve got a huge lead in the polls, and I’m ahead too.”
“That last poll was two weeks old. More and more people are starting to be aware you and Amy aren’t living together anymore, and people will start to wonder if your eye has been wandering.”
“Well, it was her wandering eye, not mine.”
“First of all,” Fenway hissed, “you know as well as anyone it’s the perception that matters, not the reality. And secondly, if people think she was the cheater, that might be worse. You look like you can’t keep your woman in line.”
“What did you just say?”
“I’m not saying that. I’m saying there are some voters who will think it.”
“I seriously can’t believe that came out of your mouth.”
“If you can’t believe that, imagine what I think the voters will say if you start dating a black girl half your age before the ink is dry on your separation papers.”
McVie shot Fenway a look. “You are not half my age.”
“No,” Fenway said. “I’m twenty-nine and you’re forty-three, and that is barely—and I mean barely—on the right side of the Creepy Equation.”
“The Creepy Equation?”
“Oh, come on, Craig. I know you’ve heard of the Creepy Equation.”
Craig looked puzzled.
“Melissa,” Fenway called, “you’ve heard of the Creepy Equation, right?”
“Like with dating?” Melissa said, shining her light where the bricks in the wall met the concrete.
“Right.”
“Sure. Half your age, plus seven. Younger than that, and it’s creepy.”
Fenway shot a look of triumph at McVie.
“You thinking about dating a younger man, Fenway? Some sexy college boy getting cougar vibes from you?”
“Shut up, Melissa,” Fenway said, but she was smiling.
“I’ll shut up when you start helping me scan the area for evidence,” Melissa said.
Fenway looked at McVie out of the corner of her eye and started to walk toward the beach side of the pedestrian underpass. She passed the passenger door of the medical examiner’s van and saw movement inside and almost jumped out of her skin.
“Holy shit!”
Melissa laughed and covered her mouth.
Officer Donald Huke rolled down the window. “Good morning, Miss Stevenson,” he said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“What the hell are you doing in the medical examiner’s van, Don—Officer Huke?”
Officer Huke was quiet, his face screwed up almost painfully and his ears getting red.
Fenway turned her head and looked at Melissa, who smirked and shrugged.
“Never mind, Officer Huke, don’t answer that.”
He looked relieved.
“Well, since you’re here,” Fenway said, “you don’t mind securing the crime scene while we look for the decedent’s possessions, do you?”
“No, ma’am—I mean, no, Miss Stevenson.” He opened the door of the van and hopped out, all business.
Melissa and Fenway and McVie spent the next twenty minutes combing the scrubby bushes and the sandy areas around the edges of the underpass. They didn’t find anything, and the three of them all found themselves at the edge of the beach.
“Should we search the beach too?” Fenway asked.
“We probably should at least do a visual search,” said Melissa. “But if the killer wanted evidence to disappear, a good throw into the ocean might do it.”
“Maybe fortune will smile upon us today.” Fenway looked toward the cliffs and shaded her eyes. “What’s up that way?”
“A couple of beachfront hotels,” McVie said. “A little rundown now, but they’re okay. Not like the Cactus Lake Motel or anything. We don’t get many calls out this way.”
“How far down does the beach go?”
“This area isn’t too big—maybe five hundred yards. Then there’s an outcropping and a bridge you can walk across to another beach. There are a couple of rock formations beyond that, right where Ocean Highway takes a sharp turn up the ridge.”
Fenway nodded. She remembered driving down the ridge the day before, seeing the smokestacks of her father’s refinery and looking out over that very beach. She sighed.
McVie gazed across the water. “If we need to search the beach, we might as well start.”
“I’ve got a metal detector,” Melissa said. She started walking back toward the van.
Fenway followed her. “All right, Melissa, you said no wallet or keys.”
“Correct,” Melissa said, lifting up the police tape Officer Huke had put up. “Whoever killed him left a pretty nice watch on his wrist, though. A Longines. Not top of the line, but someone paid at least five or six hundred bucks for it.”
“Hmm,” Fenway said. “That’s inconsistent with a robbery, too.” Fenway veered off to walk toward the corpse. She crouched next to it as Melissa came up behind her. “I think someone wanted to make us think he was homeless, but did a pretty poor job of it.”
“Maybe a last-ditch effort to cover something up? Maybe it wasn’t premeditated?”
“Maybe.”
Melissa shrugged. “I don’t know either.”
Fenway took out her phone, leaned over, and took a picture of the dead man’s face, trying to keep as much of the hole in his forehead out of the frame as possible. “I think we might have luck if we check those beachfront motels up there. Maybe he went to get ice and ran into the killer.”
Melissa nodded. “I was starting to think maybe it’s a rich guy off his meds or something.”
Fenway looked at the picture on her phone. She zoomed in, right on his nose. Then she turned back to the body and activated the flashlight on her phone, shining the light into his nostrils. “Or maybe he was self-medicating.” She motioned at Melissa to come closer. “Does this look like cocaine residue to you?”
Melissa bent down. “Hmm. Could be.”
“I can’t see much in his nostrils, but maybe you can see if there’s any tissue damage, or nasal septum perforation, anything symptomatic of cocaine abuse.”
“We’ll do a tox screen.”
“Yeah, but those tests take a while to come back. If we can confirm he was using with any tissue damage you find, maybe it’ll point us in the right direction. This could have been a drug deal gone wrong.”
“Maybe.” Melissa stood back up. “Did you call Dez or Mark yet?”
“No,” Fenway said, pushing herself to her feet and following Melissa to the van. “Both of them caught cases over the weekend. The overdose at drug house down on twenty-second, and the hunter found shot in the state park. I wanted my sergeants to have at least a little bit of a break.”
Melissa opened the back of the van and climbed inside. “I thought for sure you’d relish the chance to get back at Dez for calling you back from Seattle.”
Fenway shook her head. “Ha. Maybe next time. I’ve got this one; we don’t need all hands on deck.”
Melissa nodded, pulling the metal detector out of a case as McVie walked up to them.
Fenway acknowledged McVie with a slight nod of her head. “Want to go take a walk with me?”
“Take a walk with you?”
“Fenway thinks those beachfront hotels might be a good place to start,” Melissa said.
“Like our victim might have been a guest at one of them?” asked McVie.
“Yep,” replied Fenway. “And Melissa and I found what might be cocaine residue below his nose.”
McVie nodded. “How does that tie into the hotels?”
“I don’t know yet. But I think it makes sense to go over there.”
“Sure, let’s go see if he checked in at any of those places. I’ll take a snapshot of his face, see if anyone recognizes him.”
“Already done,” Fenway said, showing him the picture.
“Gotcha. Good job keeping the bullet hole off-camera.”
“I like to make sure I don’t gross out the witnesses,” Fenway said, then turned to Melissa. “Can you and Officer Huke comb the beach?”
“Anything to get out of the grunt work, huh, Fenway?” Melissa smiled. “Yeah, we should be fine. I got word Kav should be meeting me here in about ten or fifteen minutes. We’ll take a scrub of the beach, maybe for a half-mile or so.”
“I can get Callahan back here too,” McVie said.
“Maybe that’s not such a bad idea,” Melissa admitted. “It’s a lot of ground to cover.”
Fenway and McVie started walking toward the main road.
The hill was steep, and Fenway was trying to rush. She was several steps ahead of the sheriff, and he was getting winded. “Jeez, where’s the fire? Hold up.”
Fenway stopped on the side of the path, avoiding a muddy puddle. “I’m not trying to hurry.”
McVie raised his eyebrows. “You know, part of the reason you said you weren’t going to date me until after the election is to avoid the awkwardness. I’d say this is still pretty damn awkward.”
“Well, we’ve waited this long. What’s another week?”
“Sure,” McVie said, catching up to her. “One more week.”
“You worried about Klein?”
McVie shrugged. “You worried about Ivanovich?”
Fenway shook her head, and they kept walking. “I don’t know. I mean, ever since I passed the nursing boards in September, I guess I haven’t been worried about it.” She looked at McVie. “Also, I guess it helps I’m so ahead in the polls.”
“And no one knows who Richard Ivanovich is.”
Fenway nodded. “I’m not even sure he wants to do it. I think Barry Klein talked him into it.”
“Yeah. Well, we all know Dr. Klein will fight everything your dad wants tooth and nail, just because your dad wants it.”
Fenway paused for a moment. “Hey, Craig, did something happen between my father and Dr. Klein before I got here? Like, did Charlotte used to be Klein’s girlfriend or something?”
“Who knows?” McVie asked, although it sounded more like a statement. “Klein is so contrary. It’s like he’s afraid a meteor will fall on him if he shows an ounce of humanity.”
Fenway was quiet. She thought back to her nursing classes and the overview of oppositional defiance disorder, and wondered if Dr. Klein had it but was undiagnosed.
“So,” McVie said, “which motel do you want to start with?”
“The closest one,” Fenway said. “And we might as well start with the front desk.”
“You think he stayed there?”
“Only one way to find out,” Fenway said.
They got to the main road and turned left, toward the motels. The breeze had picked up, and the hint of rain in the air was blowing away. The gentle wind felt refreshing against Fenway’s face, although she thought it was probably playing hell with her hair. She looked at Craig, in his winter coat, shivering.
“So,” McVie said, “maybe we should try to figure out where we want to go on our first date Wednesday night. You know, the day after the election.”
Fenway looked out of the corner of her eye at McVie. Her functional khaki trousers weren’t exactly flattering; her running shoes wouldn’t win any fashion awards either. And yet here McVie was asking her out—again. She knew she was intelligent and sometimes even fun to be around. Given her history with men—or maybe it was something internal—she was surprised to be asked out when she wasn’t dressed up. She wondered if she needed to change her attitude about herself and then briefly wondered how much Dr. Tassajera would charge to fix her. “Wednesday, huh?”
“Yeah.”
Fenway laughed. “Maybe you should drop out now if you’re thinking about dating me instead of paying attention to the voting public.”
McVie smiled. “Maybe you should. You’re the one who always says you’re not cut out for politics.”
Fenway elbowed McVie playfully. “That’s why I’m so good at it.”
McVie smiled. “So I was thinking maybe we could go to Maxime’s.”
Fenway rolled her eyes. “There’s more to good food than fancy napkins and a sommelier who knows you by name.”
“If that’s supposed to be a segue into you suggesting the taquería on Third Street, forget it. I want to take you someplace a little nicer.”
“Just don’t take me to Maxime’s. That’s the place my father goes when he has something to celebrate.” She paused. “Unless you want me thinking about my father on our first date.”
“No,” McVie said, “that’s quite all right.”
“I like Argentine food.”
“What, the new steak house on Broadway?”
“Oh, Craig!” Fenway batted her eyelashes. “The new Argentine steak house! That’s just where I wanted to go—how did you know? You’re so thoughtful!” She put her hands out, miming the delicate raising of the sides of her invisible long skirt, and curtsied.
McVie tried to look annoyed, but the corners of his mouth and eyes betrayed his amusement. “Okay, Fenway, got it.”
They reached the black wrought-iron fence bounding the grounds of the first hotel. The garden behind the fence, lovely from a distance, up close showed weeds and random bald patches of rock and gravel. After the fence ended, the circular driveway, made of multicolored bricks, provided a sweeping contour for the eye to follow, but it, too, showed signs of disrepair. Several missing bricks marred the smooth lines, with some spots more visible than others. In one area to the left of the entrance, two large swaths of missing brick had been cemented over. The dull, bumpy gray was an eyesore in the once-grand driveway.
“This looks like it used to be quite a nice place,” Fenway said.
“About fifteen years ago, it was,” McVie said. “Then the owner died. It was purchased out of the estate by a couple of new owners, but they didn’t do maintenance on the place, and it’s only gotten older and shabbier.”
“It’s a shame. This looks like it could have been a movie set.”
McVie walked up to the hotel entrance. Fenway had halfway expected a grandiose door, perhaps made of a high-quality wood, carved into a decadent shape. Or maybe a metal door of some unusual material—titanium, or something that emulated modernity or wealth. Instead, it was a utilitarian entry door, glass from top to bottom, with a metal bar on either side at doorknob level. It made Fenway sad.
McVie pulled the door open and Fenway walked into the large lobby. The tiled floor was about twenty years out of date, but clean. She noticed some of the tiles were cracked or chipped, the walls had a pit or two in them, and other places had been damaged and fixed competently but cheaply.
The long registration desk at the front was dark mahogany, and in much better condition than the rest of the lobby. It looked like it had been handled with care and precision.
There was a thin Latina woman at the desk, typing on the computer, wearing an outdated business suit. “Good morning,” she said, not looking up. “Welcome to the Belvedere Terrace Resort.” She struck the last key on her keyboard with finality and raised her head. Her eyes widened when she saw McVie’s black police uniform. “Oh—officer—how can I be of assistance?” And her smile came next, plastered on. Fenway hoped she didn’t look that pained when she was faking a smile around her father.
“Good morning,” McVie said. “Sheriff Craig McVie, ma’am.”
“Sheriff. Sorry, I didn’t realize who you were.”
“That’s quite all right.” Fenway looked at McVie’s face and thought she could detect either annoyance or disappointment. If people didn’t recognize McVie on sight, it wasn’t a good sign for his mayoral campaign.
The woman cleared her throat. “I’m Lydia Hernandez. My family owns the Belvedere Terrace.”
McVie nodded. “I was wondering if you’d be willing to help us identify somebody.”
Fenway brought up the photo of the dead man on her phone.
“Certainly,” Ms. Hernandez said, although her voice was a bit unsure.
“Now,” said McVie, “I have to warn you, the picture is of a dead man. We found him down under the overpass by the beach, about half a mile back. But this is the closest building around, and we thought you or one of your guests or co-workers might have seen him.”
The color drained out of Ms. Hernandez’s face, but she nodded. “Of course. I’ll do anything I can to help.”
McVie took the phone from Fenway and glanced at the screen before showing it to Ms. Hernandez.
She gasped.
“Recognize him?”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s Mr. Potemkin.”
“I’m sorry—you said ‘Mr. Potemkin’?”
“Yes.”
“Does he come around here often?”
Ms. Hernandez nodded. “He’s kind of a regular. He and his wife have visited us on several occasions.”
“Oh—he’s a guest?”
“He is.” Fenway saw Ms. Hernandez set her jaw and cross her arms. She was ready to protect the dignity of her guests—and the reputation of her hotel.
McVie must have seen this in Ms. Hernandez’s body language too, because he became even more relaxed in his demeanor. “Is there any way you could show us his room?”
Ms. Hernandez uncrossed her arms. “I’ll call up there and see if Mrs. Potemkin is in the room. I certainly don’t want to burst in on her if she’s showering or sleeping.”
“No, no, of course,” McVie said.
He took a step back from the desk and stood next to Fenway. “So—this wife. I wonder why it is no one’s heard from her about her missing husband.”
“Maybe they had a fight and he stormed out, and she doesn’t expect him back. Or maybe she hasn’t woken up yet and doesn’t even know he’s gone.”
“Or maybe she took out a big-ass life insurance policy and took a walk on the beach with him and wanted to make it look like a robbery gone wrong.”
“You are such a pessimist,” Fenway said.
“She’s not answering,” Ms. Hernandez said. She made no move to do anything else.
“Maybe we could go to their room,” McVie suggested.
“I don’t want to disturb them. They’ve paid through Sunday.”
Fenway took a step forward. “I apologize for the inconvenience, Ms. Hernandez, but with Mr. Potemkin found dead, I’m frankly a little worried about the safety of his wife. If she’s in the room, then at least I will know her dead body isn’t going to wash up on the beach later today.”
Ms. Hernandez got a horrified look on her face. “Oh my,” she said, covering her mouth. “I didn’t think of that.”
She rummaged behind the counter and dug out a plastic card key. “Okay,” she said. “Their room is in the back set of cottages. One of our private villas.”
Fenway doubted the cottages looked anything like villas, but she followed the woman out of the lobby and through a wide hallway toward the back of the property.
They exited through a set of white French doors onto a red brick patio. Like the front driveway, the patio, once glorious, now hovered on the edge of disrepair. A couple of chunks had been taken out of the bricks. The patio ended at a set of five steps leading up to a pool area. The pool was enclosed by another black wrought iron fence. As they got closer, Fenway saw the pool had been drained.
Ms. Hernandez saw Fenway’s eyes go to the empty swimming hole. “It’s off season,” she said. “We drain the pool at the beginning of October.”
Fenway nodded.
“The villas are past the garden terrace behind the pool,” Ms. Hernandez said. “It’s only a little farther now.”
The walk got more overgrown. Fenway felt a pang of pity for Ms. Hernandez. There was too much work here to keep it looking good. She didn’t see a staff big enough to stay on top of all the required upkeep—especially as the hotel fell further from grace and the daily room rates kept dropping.
The villa was at the end of the walk, and was designed, like the main building, to replicate Tudor-era architecture. On a small cottage like this, though, the design elements looked silly. The overgrown vegetation around the villa hid the most egregious architectural mistakes from view.
Ms. Hernandez knocked loudly. “Mrs. Potemkin?” she called out. “I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s important. Mrs. Potemkin?” She stopped and listened, and hearing nothing, knocked harder.
McVie let her knock a few more times. Fenway took the phone out of her purse and looked at the time.
“I don’t think she’s in,” Ms. Hernandez said.
“Maybe you can try your master key,” McVie suggested.
“She might have the deadbolt turned,” Ms. Hernandez muttered to herself, but held the cardkey up to the reader. The lock flashed green and clicked. She turned the handle and swung the door open.
