“I don’t,” she said. “They sent me one of those special offers. Four free months and then you can cancel, no charge. I figured to cancel but now I’m not sure. They tend to go on too long — don’t you be like that when you write your book, George, the key is to communicate not to pontificate. But they do have some interesting tidbits. This one has a story about a New York Jew who sews fur coats for those Negro rappers. All those agitators screaming about cruelty to critters but this Jew keeps making ermine sweatshirts and the like. A man with backbone.”

Cardenas said, “Keep leaving food out, Mavis, and we can send him a bunch of skins.”

“Nice little ca-yote coat for the rappers.” She cackled. “Wouldn’t that be cute. Who’s your cute friend? Another policeman or another writer?”

“He’s a psychologist, Mavis.”

She gazed up at me. “I’ve known some people who could use one of those. As in mother-in-laws. What brings you here?”

“I’m looking into the murders of Leonora Bright and Vicki—”

“Tranh. Well, you came to the right place because I know who did it.”

Cardenas hitched his trousers. His holstered gun wobbled. “Really.”

“Really, George. And I told that to Wendell Salmey right in the beginning. Not that he did a darn thing about it.” To me: “Chronic depression, that one. And lazier than a welfare cheat. Always in a low mood, walking with his eyes down, like anything worth discovering was on the ground.”

She fanned herself with the magazine. “After that son of his got drunk and smashed himself up on the highway, he got even worse, just sat around all day doing nothing. Before I got married, I did some teaching and Wendell was one of my students. One of those who’d rather coast than drive. Only reason he took the sheriff job was he figured there’d be nothing to do — no offense, George.” More denture display. “One advantage to being ninety is you say what you want and get away with it.”

“Didn’t know you had a birthday, Mavis.”

“So I’m pushing it a little. The big day’s next month, on the sixteenth in case you intend to send me flowers, George. Wendell Salmey died young. Bleeding ulcer at fifty-nine. By the way, what’s a psychologist got to do with Leonora and the Oriental girl?”

“Their murders might be related to a current case in L.A.”

“Doesn’t answer my question.”

“I sometimes consult to the police.”

“One of those mind readers, like on TV?”

“Not really—”

“I’m kidding. I know what a psychologist does. Geez, everyone in this generation’s so doggone serious. So, he killed someone else, huh?”

“Who?”