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thought they did.

6
    C ARVER PARKED THE OLDS in front of number 21 Cenit Street, picked up the brown vinyl folder containing a yellow legal pad from the seat beside him, then levered himself out of the car with his cane.
    He’d bought the folder and legal pad ten minutes ago at a drugstore on Shell to use as a prop. As he stood alongside the car in the sun, he bent the folder back and forth a few times so it appeared well used, then tore out a sheet of lined yellow paper and folded it so it stuck out of the top of the folder, as if it had been hurriedly poked inside. Carver would be a busy insurance agent on his workaday rounds.
    Cenit Street ran parallel to Jacaranda Lane, a block east. The backyards of houses on each street were separated by what looked like a long, curving ditch overgrown with weeds but was actually an electric and phone company easement. The backs of the houses on Cenit and Jacaranda faced one another.
    As Carver crossed the street to number 21, the morning sun felt heavy and warm on his shoulders. The houses on Cenit looked much like those in the next block on Jacaranda, small, in various stages of recent repair or decades of decay, most of them with the faded red-tile roofs that the builder, years ago, must have gotten at a discount and used as a selling point. A few of the houses made a pass at Spanish architecture, an arched window here, an exposed beam and some curlicued ironwork there. Not at all convincing.
    Number 21 had a small porch like Marla Cloy’s house. Around its foundation were rhododendron bushes and a lush and colorful flower bed. Peonies, hollyhocks, and violets were all seemingly planted in no particular order. When Carver got closer he could see bees circling above the blossoms. There were a lot of bees, but they ignored him and concentrated on their task, flying tight patterns then dipping to hover briefly at blossoms before rising and circling again. They had a job to do and so did Carver. It was a world of task and toil, all right.
    He was pleased to see a name lettered on the black mailbox affixed to the cream-colored stucco next to the front door: Mildred Fain. The back of number 21 looked directly out on the back of 22 Jacaranda Lane. Mildred Fain might have logged a lot of collective hours glancing out her windows at the house behind her. If Carver got lucky and she was the nosy type, she might have seen quite a bit. She might know something that could give him insight into Marla Cloy and her motives. That was the idea, anyway.
    He pushed the button near the mailbox and waited, in the shade but still warm. Out in the bright sunlight, the bees still circled and swooped. He could hear them in the quiet morning, a soft but discontented buzzing whenever the background rush of nearby traffic faded.
    There was a creaking noise behind the door, then it opened and a small woman in a pin-striped blue and gray housecoat and fuzzy blue slippers peered out at Carver. She was in her late sixties and had wispy gray hair and sharp, wizened features. The sunken line of her thin lips and the jut of her jaw suggested she wore dentures but didn’t have them in. She seemed wide awake, though; Carver didn’t think he’d rousted her from bed.
    “Mrs. Fain?”
    The woman nodded, bright blue eyes fixed on him.
    “My name’s Frank Carter, with American Mutual Benefit.” By using an alias close to his name he could always claim she’d misunderstood. “I’m making some routine inquiries about a neighbor of yours who’s applied for a policy.”
    “Neighbor?” She said it as if surprised anyone lived nearby.
    “That’s right, a Miss . . .” Carver opened the kinked vinyl folder and peeked inside. “. . . Cloy. Marla Cloy.”
    “Don’t know her.”
    “She lives in the house directly behind you.”
    “Oh, yeah. Her. Well, I seen her. Talked to her a few times.” No teeth were visible when she spoke, but she enunciated clearly. “Don’t know much about her, though.”
    “Well, we