We passed a Liquor Mart that sold gas, tires, beer, and sandwiches. There were two cafes, one saloon, and no motels that I could see. There was a cluster of six single-wide trailers surrounded by chain-link fence and two real estate offices in double-wides with empty asphalt parking lots out front. What possessed people to move to Peaches in the first place? It seemed mysterious to me. What dream were they pursuing that made Peaches, California, the answer to their prayers?

Dolan did a U-turn, using the wide apron of gravel beside a service station, its gas pumps missing and its plate glass windows boarded up. The ground glittered with broken glass. Forlorn tatters of plastic wrap were caught in the bushes along the road. He backtracked as far as the enclave of mismatched trailers, which had the letters A, B, C, D, E, and F on small painted signs in front. A sign announced PEACH GROVE MOBILE HOME PARK, which was actually not a "park" so much as two rows of trailers with space remaining in the event a seventh trailer decided to pull in. Dolan nosed his car into a graveled area near a row of battered mailboxes and the two of us got out. I waited while he went through the ritual of tucking his gun in the trunk. "Looks like F's down that way," he said.

I followed him along the rutted two-lane dirt drive. "Wonder what she's doing up here?"

"We'll have to ask."

The door to F stood open, with a flimsy sliding screen across the frame to allow fresh air to circulate. A small handmade plaque said NAILS BY IONA with a telephone number too small to read in passing. A faded width of awning formed a covered porch, complete with bright green indoor-outdoor carpeting underfoot. The trailer was old and small. Two women were seated in the kitchenette, one on a banquette and the other on a chrome dinette chair pulled close to a hinged table that was supported by one leg. Both turned to look at us. The younger of the two continued to paint the older woman's nails. Dolan said, "Is one of you Iona Mathis?"

The younger said, "That's me." She went back to brushing dark carmine polish on the thumbnail of the other woman's left hand. On the table between them, I could see an orange stick, emery boards, a bottle of cuticle remover, cotton balls, a nail brush, and a plastic half-moon bowl filled with soapy water. To the right of the older woman, there was a pack of Winstons, with a book of paper matches tucked under the cellophane. The ashtray was filled with butts.

The older woman smiled and said, "I'm Iona's mom, Annette."

"Lieutenant Dolan with the Santa Teresa Police Department. This is Miss Millhone. She's a private detective."