The day was mild, but the breeze seemed faintly chilly up here. The woman was stick-thin, with the dead-white complexion of someone profoundly ill. She struck me as the sort of woman who, a hundred years ago, might have spent long years in a sanitarium with a series of misdiagnoses stemming from anxiety, un-happiness, laudanum addiction, or an aversion to sex. Her hair was an icy blond, harshly bleached, and sparse. Bright red lipstick defined the width of her mouth and she wore matching bright red polish on nails cut short. Her Jean Harlow eyebrows had been plucked to an expression of frail astonishment. Her eyes were defined by false lashes that lay against her lower lids like sutures. I judged her to be in her fifties, but she might have been younger. Disease is an aging process in itself. Her chest was sunken, with breasts as flat as the flaps on an envelope. She wore a white silk blouse, expensive-looking pale gray gabardine slacks, vivid green satin slippers on her feet.

"Mrs. Gersh?"

She was startled, eyes flying open in a blaze of blue. For a moment, she seemed disoriented and then she collected herself.

"You must be Kinsey," she murmured. "I'm Irene Gersh." She held out her left hand and clutched mine briefly, her fingers wiry and cold.

"Sorry if I frightened you."

"Don't worry about it. I'm a bundle of nerves.

Please. Find a chair and sit. I don't sleep well as a rule and I'm forced to catnap when I can."

A quick survey showed three white mesh lawn chairs stacked together in one comer of the porch. I lifted the top chair, carried it over to the chaise, and sat down.

"I hope Jermaine will have the presence of mind to bring us tea, but don't count on it," she said. She shifted into a more upright position, adjusting the lap robe. She studied me with interest. It was my impression that she approved, though of what I couldn't say. "You're younger than I thought you'd be."

"Old enough," I said. "Today's my birthday. I'm thirty-three."

"Well, happy birthday. I hope I didn't interrupt a celebration."

"Not at all."

"I'm forty-seven myself." She smiled briefly. "I know I look like an old hag, but I'm relatively young . . . given California standards."

"Have you been ill?" .

"Let's put it this way ... I haven't been well. My husband and I moved to Santa Teresa three years ago from Palm Springs. This was his parents' house. When his father died, Clyde undertook his mother's care. She passed away two months ago."

I murmured something I hoped was appropriate.

"The point is, we didn't need to move here, but Clyde insisted. Never mind my objections. He was raised in Santa Teresa and he was determined to come back."

"I take it you weren't enthusiastic."