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kitchen where there was a door leading to the backyard. Next to the door was a ceramic dog dish with Scout painted on the side, confirming, along with the bed, where he belonged.
    I checked out the garage first. Inside the clean and neat structure was a light blue Honda Accord that looked a couple of years old. The glove compartment held only his registration, a blue packet of AAA maps, and a couple of flares. I popped the trunk open from a lever inside the car and found only the spare tire, a jack, and an old blanket. The unlocked garage cabinets were stocked with plant food, insecticides, and some used gardening tools. Mr. Chandler obviously did his own gardening.
    And, I thought, standing in the backyard and observing his work, he really loved it. The yard was crazy with flowers and plants, only half of which I could name. Impatiens mixed with rosebushes and rows of freshly planted tulips. A row of purple iris ran along a side fence so covered with ivy that only small windows of splintery gray wood showed. Blue and green tiles etched with boats, pelicans, and starfish led to a gray, lava-stone birdbath in the corner of the yard, its base surrounded by new red tulips. In the brightening sunlight something silver glinted in the loose black dirt surrounding the birdbath. I bent down to pick up what turned out to be a half-buried quarter.
    “Hey, neighbor!” a loud, bass voice bellowed out.
    Startled, I jerked up, scraping my forehead against the rough edge of the birdbath. “What the . . . ?” I touched my stinging forehead, then inspected my fingers stained with blood.
    An older Hispanic man peered at me over the ivy-covered fence. He muttered some Spanish words, then, “Oh, kid, I’m sorry. Just a minute.” His head disappeared, and I stood there dumbly, my hand reaching instinctively down to Scout’s head. In less than a minute I saw a piece of the fence move, and the man came through a hidden gate, a small first aid kit tucked under his arm. He had strong, heavy features with silver-streaked black hair that touched his shoulders in a shaggy, casual haircut. His skin glowed the same reddish-mahogany as my stepson Sam’s after a day of surfing. He wore faded jeans, an orange and white Hawaiian shirt, and a split leather cowboy hat—a sort of Pancho-Villa-meets-the-Beach-Boys look. His age appeared to be early sixties.
    “I didn’t know a gate was there!” I exclaimed.
    The slight pouches under the man’s black eyes smoothed out when he smiled. “Story goes that the original owners of these two houses were a married couple who couldn’t live together but still liked to visit a couple of evenings a week.”
    I laughed. “Sounds like the perfect setup to me.”
    “Now, you don’t mean that,” he said.
    “You might be surprised.”
    “Believe me, kid, at my age you very rarely are. Hey, amigo, ” he said, reaching down and scratching under Scout’s chin. “Had a craving for enchiladas today, not tri-tip steak. Guess you’re stuck with the canned stuff tonight.”
    Scout’s wagging tail beat furiously against my leg. “You two know each other, I see.”
    “Me and el perro loco here are old friends. Since I’ve only lived here three months I’m still enamored with the local custom of barbecuing tri-tip over oakwood, so he gets a lot of my scraps.”
    “You’re not from around here?” There went my burgeoning hope of picking his brain for information about Mr. Chandler.
    “Leased this house three months ago. I’m originally from Phoenix. I’m trying to decide where to spend my retirement years. I have one daughter in San Francisco, one in Hollywood, and one in Santa Monica.” He rubbed the back of his fingers on his brown cheek. “Not one city I consider habitable, so I thought somewhere in between might be good. Besides, this ocean air is good for the complexion.” He grinned at me.
    “Something I’m sure your wife especially appreciates,” I said.
    His dark eyes flickered. “Wish that