In the 1920s an oil baron called George Hancock developed the area of Los Angeles that still bears his name. Hancock Park remains one of the city’s wealthiest neighborhoods, and Laura found her jaw scraping the neatly manicured sidewalks as Polly pulled up and parked on August Boulevard.

Laura had taken one of those bus tours of Beverly Hills when she’d first arrived in LA, and there the wealth faced the street and announced itself in expensive finishes and architectural details. In this neighborhood, five miles to the east, the wealth was hidden behind high walls and even higher hedges, all of it a deep dark green that made it clear the gardeners weren’t concerned with saving water. In Los Angeles, a city built in the desert, the deep green of lawns and trees is a better indicator of true wealth than the pale green of dollars.

Polly lived in the largest house on the block, not that any of them were small. It looked like it had been moved directly from the South of France, the stone a soft butter yellow, the slate roof interrupted by three sets of dormers thrown open to catch the early evening breeze, the windows deeply set and mullioned. Roses clambered across the front and draped themselves lazily over windows and doorways. It was, without doubt, the most beautiful house Laura had ever seen. The front garden had no fence, and sloped generously down to the street, but a large gate at the side separated the driveway.

Polly had gotten out of her car and came over and smiled at her. “Nice, right?” She sighed. “I love it here. I lived in Studio City when I first got to LA, but Maggie was a customer at the bookstore, and we got to know each other. When a room opened up, she let me know. That’s how she does it, all word of mouth.”

As they approached the house, loud barking sounded from inside. More than one dog.

“By the way,” said Polly, inexplicably lowering her voice and leaning closer, “I told Maggie we’ve known each other for years.”

“Why?” said Laura. “I don’t even know your last name.”

“It’s Culligan,” said Polly, “but you call me the Polmeister.”

“I do?”

“Yes,” said Polly, her voice still low, “it came to me when I was telling Maggie about you.” She frowned at Laura. “She goes by gut, but likes references. You’re not actually a serial killer, are you?”

“No,” said Laura. “I’m a grad student.”

“So was Ted Bundy.” Polly pondered, “I don’t suppose you’ve ever done improv?”

“No,” said Laura. She looked hopeful. “I was part of the theater club at school.”

Polly perked up. “Acting?”

Laura shook her head. “No . . . lighting crew.”

“Oh.” Polly looked disappointed. “Well, go with it.”