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owns the joint where she’s—”
    “You’re kidding! When?”
    “Last night was the last
time anybody saw her. She didn’t show up at the clinic this morning. Didn’t
Abigail mention it to you? Apparently, everybody there was talking about it.”
    Savannah glanced at the
staircase and wondered about her houseguest upstairs. Now that she thought
about it, maybe Abigail had seemed a little weird tonight. But then, with
Abigail, who could really tell?
    “Where are you?” she asked.
    “On my way to Du Bois’s
house, down by the marina. Her business partner has a key to the place. He’s
going to meet me there and let me in.”
    “Want some help?”
    “I don’t need help.”
    Savannah rolled her eyes.
“Of course not. What was I thinking?”
    “But I’d like to have your
company. Got any more of those chocolate chip cookies... the ones with the nuts
in them?”

Chapter

3
     
     
     
    L ike many Southern
California coastal towns, San Carmelita was longer than it was wide, with the
ocean forming its western border and the eastern edge a row of sage-covered
foothills.
    Spring rainstorms would
temporarily green the hills until they looked like the mountains of Killarney,
but the rest of the year they were a relatively boring tawny beige. Their only
adornment: sprinklings of prickly pear cactus and the occasional gnarled oak
tree.
    When those spring rains
were generous, it was easy to forget that Southern California was basically a
desert, each community a man-made oasis. But when spring came and went with
only minimal rainfall, it became all too apparent to the residents that they
were desert dwellers and that every drop of water counted.
    As Savannah left her home
in the middle of town, halfway between the beach and the foothills, and drove
toward the waterfront area and the marina, she noticed that her neighbors’
yards, like hers, were extra crispy this year. Watering lawns—like wash-mg
cars, rinsing down sidewalks, showering alone, and flushing a number one”—was
temporarily outlawed.
    But if March brought its
usual tropical storms, Savannah and her fellow Californians would be building
sandbag dams around their houses to prevent the rivers of water that coursed
down the streets from rushing through their front doors. The mansions, perched
on the hillsides for the optimal ocean view, would be sliding down onto their
neighbor’s mansions, mountains of mud and rock would be cascading onto the
Pacific Coast Highway, traffic would be backed up from Santa Monica to Santa
Barbara, and Southern California would be back to “normal.”
    Sometimes Savannah missed
the relatively uneventful weather of the small, rural Georgia town where she
had been born and raised. She missed it most during earthquakes. But about the
time she waxed too nostalgic, she would round a corner and see the sparkling
Pacific spread out before her, lined with golden beaches and majestic rows of
graceful palms, and she forgot all about peach orchards and pecan groves.
    Tonight the ocean was
particularly beautiful, sparkling in the silver light of a full moon. On the
distant Santa Tesla Island she could see the occasional wink of the
lighthouse’s beam as it made its rounds.
    Yes, this Georgia peach was
usually quite contented and happy to be transplanted.
    As always when she entered
the waterfront areas of town, she noticed that they had more than their share
of stately palm trees. Apparently palms grew best in soil enriched with beaucoup
de bucks.
    Luxury cars did, too.
Everywhere she looked she saw some version of Mercedes, Jaguar, or BMW, along
with the perfectly restored classic Chevrolets, Fords, and Rolls Royces.
    Savannah felt right at home
in her own ’65 Mustang, except for the black smoke coming out of her exhaust
pipe—another issue she would have to address if she ever got another client. At
the moment they weren’t exactly knocking down her door.
    She found the address
quickly, an elegant Spanish-style home that backed up