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“winter” was here. The Santa Teresa temperatures never drop much below fifty, but he’s originally from Michigan, and despite the fact he’s been in Southern California more than forty years, his lingering attachment to the seasons dictates the installation of window screens in late spring and storm windows in late fall. The weather itself is immaterial to him.
    The patio was still littered with cleaning supplies: the garden hose, wads of crumpled newspaper, a wire brush, a bucket of water mixed with vinegar, and numerous sponges gray with soot. Henry waved from his perch and then eased carefully down the ladder, whistling tunelessly to himself. I paused to help him clean up, tossing dingy water in the bushes while he rewound the hose into a terra-cotta pot. “You’re home early,” he remarked.
    â€œI thought I better close my windows before the rain, assuming we’ll actually have some,” I said. Henry’d often complained that the rain in California lacked the bluster and theatrics of a good Midwestern storm. Many times the promised rain failed to materialize at all or arrived in a form barely sufficient to wet the pavement. We’re seldom treated to the displays of thunder and lightning he remembers with such enthusiasm from his Michigan youth.
    Henry said, “Why didn’t you call? I could have saved you a trip. Stick the brush in that bucket. I’ll take it in with me when I go.”
    â€œThis was right on my way. I have an appointment at five o’clock down on Paloma Lane so I was heading in this direction. Any excuse to avoid the office. Too much nonsense for my taste.”
    â€œHow’s the search for new space?”
    I waggled my hand back and forth, indicating not so good. “Something will come up. Meanwhile, I have a new client. At least I’m ninety-nine percent sure.”
    â€œWhy the hesitation?”
    â€œMight be the aggravation at the office, spilling over into this. I am interested in the case, but I’m not convinced I can be effective. This is the doctor who’s been missing.”
    â€œI remember reading about that. Still no sign of him?”
    â€œNope. His ex-wife thinks the cops aren’t showing the proper initiative. Frankly, she strikes me as the type who likes to make people jump through hoops.”
    â€œYou’ll do fine.” With that, he returned to the ladder, which he collapsed and carried back across the patio to the garage. I watched him ease around his 1932 Chevy coup and hang the ladder on the wall. His garage is lined with pegboard, with the location for each item neatly silhouetted in paint. “You have time for some tea?” he asked, coming back across the yard.
    I glanced at my watch. “Better not. I’ll see you later up at Rosie’s.”
    â€œI’ll be there closer to seven than to six. She’s actually on her way over so I better get washed up. She’s asked me for help, but she won’t say with what.”
    I said, “Uh-oh.”
    He waved dismissively. “It’s probably something simple. I don’t mind a bit. If she shows while I’m gone, tell her I’ll be back in a flash, as soon as I’ve cleaned up.”
    Henry crossed to his backdoor and went into the kitchen, where I could see him through the window, scrubbing up at the sink. He smiled when he caught my eye and started whistling to himself again.
    I turned when I heard the gate squeak. Rosie appeared moments later, toting a brown paper bag. She owns the Hungarian tavern where Henry’s older brother, William, now functions as the manager. William and Rosie were married Thanksgiving Day the year before, and they live in an apartment above her restaurant, which is half a block away. William is eighty-seven years old, and where Rosie once swore she was in her sixties, she now admits to being in her seventies, though she won’t specify where. She’s short and