He did not.

2.

Ash Street was one block south of Main. The house was on a corner lot at the intersection of Fifth. It was old and historic with gabled roofs and two-storied gallery porches on three sides. It was painted a soft pink and trimmed in dark blue on its doors, shutters, and porches. A small sign over the front door read, “Vicker House 1867.”

From her past, Mercer could not remember a pink house in downtown Santa Rosa, not that it mattered. Houses get painted every year.

She tapped on the door and a pack of yappy dogs erupted on the other side. A beast of a woman yanked open the door, thrust out a hand, and said, “I’m Myra. Come in. Don’t mind the dogs. Nobody bites around here but me.”

“I’m Mercer,” she said, shaking hands.

“Of course you are. Come on.”

The dogs scattered as Mercer followed Myra into the foyer. In a screech, Myra unloaded a “Leigh! Company’s here! Leigh!” When Leigh failed to instantly respond, Myra said, “Stay here. I’ll go find her.” She disappeared through the living room, leaving Mercer alone with a rat-sized mongrel that cowered under a knitting table and growled at her with all teeth flashing. Mercer tried to ignore him or her as she sized up the place. In the air there was a less than pleasant odor of what seemed to be a mix of stale cigarette smoke and dirty dogs. The furniture was old flea market stuff, but quirky and engaging. The walls were covered with bad oils and watercolors by the dozens, and not a single one depicted anything remotely connected to the ocean.

Somewhere in the depths of the house Myra yelled again. A much smaller woman emerged from the dining room and said softly, “Hello, I’m Leigh Trane,” without offering a hand.

“A pleasure. I’m Mercer Mann.”

“I’m loving your book,” Leigh said with a smile that revealed two perfect rows of tobacco-stained teeth. Mercer had not heard anyone say that in a long time. She hesitated and managed an awkward “Well, thank you.”

“Bought a copy two hours ago, from the store, a real book. Myra is addicted to her little device and reads everything on it.”

For a second Mercer felt obligated to lie and say something nice about Leigh’s book, but Myra saved her the trouble. She lumbered back into the foyer and said, “There you are. Now that we’re all good friends, the bar is open and I need a drink. Mercer, what would you like?”

Since they didn’t drink wine, she said, “It’s hot. I’ll take a beer.”

Both women recoiled as if offended. Myra said, “Well, okay, but you should know that I brew my own beer, and it’s different.”

“It’s dreadful,” Leigh added. “I used to like beer before she started her own brewery. Now I can’t stand the stuff.”

“Just gulp your rum, sweetheart, and we’ll get along fine.” Myra looked at Mercer and said, “It’s a spicy ale that’s 8 percent alcohol. Knock you on your ass if you’re not careful.”