“Oh, hello! I know who you are. I’m Connie Kerr. Come in.”

I think maybe my mouth actually dropped open. I knew her. I didn’t know her personally, but about twenty years ago, Constance Kerr had been a kind of celebrity on the pro tennis circuit. She’d been a lanky girl with a powerful serve and a very long stride.

Conklin said his name and mine, introduced Cindy Thomas without identifying her role in this escapade, and all three of us stepped into Constance Kerr’s home.

It was a garret, a hidey-hole under the eaves of this Victorian house. The room had odd angles, and a closet and a small kitchen had been sectioned out of the ten-by-twelve-foot room. A fold-out bed was put up against the center of the longest wall, and there was a desk under the one window. A laptop computer was open on the desk and a three-foot-high stack of yellow manuscript boxes stood on the floor.

A heavy gray blanket was affixed to the top of the window frame and hung down over the glass, making a dense, light-blocking curtain.

I moved the blanket aside.

I could see the trophy garden and the back of the Ellsworth mansion, including the door that led from the kitchen and out to the brick patio where six days ago I’d seen a pair of skulls displayed like a monstrous art project.

The former tennis star was speaking to Conklin. “I watched you take charge of the crime scene, of course. I enjoyed that very much. I know you’re trying to help Harry.”

There was standing room only in Connie Kerr’s little flat, but she had the air of a Nob Hill dowager holding a tea party.

“May I get you refreshments?” she said.

Chapter 79

Chapter 79

WE TURNED DOWN the offer of refreshments and arrayed ourselves around the small room.

I leaned against the kitchenette counter, Cindy grabbed the only chair, and Conklin took up a position against the door. Connie Kerr stood like a flagpole at the center of the room.

“How can I help you?” she said.

“Harry Chandler,” I said. “How do you know him?”

“Oh, well. Harry. I was his girlfriend a long time ago. He was a star and I was blinded by his light. It was just a fling,” she said, laughing, “but I really had fun and I have no regrets.”

“When did you see him last?”

“Don’t hold me to the exact day, but I’m sure I haven’t seen him in twenty years or more.”

“But Harry lets you live here?”

“He doesn’t know that I’m here. But he wouldn’t mind. I’m no trouble. I live like a little mouse.” She laughed again, a shrill, crazy kind of laugh. “I’m working on a book, you know. I’ve written ten novels so far and I’ve just started another. They’re thrillers. Murder mysteries.”