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died most likely sometime last night. It’s not clear how it happened, or even where it happened. We don’t know for certain that he drowned. But if he was upset—”
    “I told you, he wasn’t upset,” Henry said.
    “I’m sorry. I know this is painful.”
    “He was not upset,” Henry said, his voice cold and emphatic.
    “Was your father seeing someone?” The detective directed the question at Deirdre.
    “I have no idea. Was he?” Deirdre asked Henry. Arthur rarely talked to her about his lady friends and for that she was grateful.
    Henry rolled his eyes. “No. He was not seeing anyone.”
    “You sound sure of that.”
    “I live here. I knew when he was seeing someone.”
    “He was divorced?”
    “A long time ago,” Deirdre said.
    “They get along?” Martinez asked.
    “At a distance,” Henry said.
    “It couldn’t have been her,” Deirdre said. “She’s on a retreat.”
    “Huh.” Martinez started to get up, then paused. “Just one more thing. You say it wasn’t unusual for your father to swim late at night. It seems odd that he didn’t turn on the lights in the pool.”
    “Lights?” Henry asked.
    “There are no outside lights on now,” Martinez said. “Maybe you turned them off when you got here?” he asked Deirdre.
    “I . . .” Had she? She’d been in such a state. Then she realized she couldn’t have. “No. The light switch is inside and I couldn’t get in.”
    “What about you?” Martinez asked Henry. “Last night when you got home? Or maybe this morning?”
    “Maybe.” Henry thought for a moment. “No. I’m sure I didn’t.”
    “Hmm. Maybe the lights are on a timer and they went off automatically?”
    “No,” Henry said.
    “And the lights are working?” When Henry shrugged, Martinez added, “Can you check?”
    Henry slid open the glass doors and reached for the light switch just inside.
    “Hang on.” Martinez crossed the yard and stood inside the fence to the pool. “Okay, give it a try.”
    The lights on the patio wall above Deirdre’s head came on. The light in the pool must have come on, too, because Martinez flashed a thumbs-up and called out, “Thanks.”
    Martinez stared out at the water, one arm across his chest, the other propping up his chin. Deirdre knew what he was mulling. Would Arthur take a nighttime swim without turning on any lights? And if he had turned them on, then who turned them off? Because by the end of his swim, he’d have been incapable of doing so.

 
    Chapter 7
    T hat’s it for now,” Detective Martinez said. “The investigators should be done soon. Mind if I take a quick look around inside?”
    It was the second time he’d invited himself into the house. “Inside?” Deirdre said.
    “Just to be thorough. Then we won’t have to come back.”
    Henry edged Deirdre aside. “No way, José.”
    Deirdre cringed but Martinez barely raised an eyebrow. “Okay, then. We’ll be leaving soon, but we’re not done. Your father’s remains should be ready to be collected tomorrow or the next day. You should line up a mortuary. They’ll know how to proceed. And here.” He took out a business card and gave it to Deirdre. “In case either of you needs to reach me. If you think of something.” He offered a second card to Henry, who stared at it for a moment. “Or find something you think we should know about,” Martinez added.
    Henry took the card.
    L ater that night, Deirdre was curled up on the couch, Henry sprawled in Arthur’s favorite chair, a leather recliner. The wind had picked up, and the occasional gust set roof tiles chattering. Deirdre put the nub of a nearly smoked-out joint between her lips, inhaled, held her breath, and handed the joint back to Henry. They’d been eating from boxes of Chinese takeout that Henry charged to Arthur’s credit card.
    Deirdre had called Westwood Memorial Park. Darryl Zanuck was buried there, along with Natalie Wood. The undertaker Deirdre talked to on the phone had a deep, resonant voice