The woman frowned as if he’d never get it. “He fixes things, but it’s more than that. Sometimes I feel like driving into Santa Clarita and seeing a movie, though God knows why, they’re all awful. Barnett looks after the place for me and he does an excellent job. Why’re you asking about him?”

“He live on the premises?”

“Right there.” She pointed to the oak grove.

“In the trees?” said Milo. “We talking Tarzan?”

She conceded a half-smile. “No, he’s got a cabin. You can’t see it from here.”

“But he’s not there, now.”

“Who said?”

“You asked if he was okay— ”

“I meant was he okay cop-wise, not was he okay because he was somewhere out there.” She glanced toward the highway. Her eyes said leaving the homestead was highly overrated.

“Has Barnett ever been in cop trouble, Mrs. . . .”

“Bunny,” she said. “Bunny MacIntyre. The answer is no.”

Milo said, “So you used to live in L.A.”

“We’re making small talk, now? Yeah, I lived in Hollywood. Had an apartment on Cahuenga ’cause I needed to be close to the Burbank studios.” She flipped her hair. “Used to do stunts for the movies. Did a couple body doubles for Miss Kate Hepburn. She was way older than me but she had a great body so they could use me.”

“Ms. MacIntyre— ”

“Back to business, ay? Barnett’s never been in any kind of trouble, but when L.A. cops drive all the way here and ask questions it’s not because they want a nice cold drink from my Coke machine. Which, incidentally, is working just fine. I’ve got nachos and chips and some imported bison jerky.” She eyed Milo’s waistline. “Bison’s good for you, has the saturated fat of skinless chicken.”

He said, “Where’s it imported from?”

“Montana.” She turned and walked back inside. We followed her into a single, dim room with wide plank floors and a hoop rug and the head of a large, stuffed buck mounted on the rear wall. The animal’s antlers were asymmetrical, a gray tongue tip poked from a corner of its mouth, and one glass eye was missing.

“That’s Bullwinkle,” said Bunny MacIntyre. “Idiot used to sneak in and eat my garden. I used to sell fresh produce to the tourists. Now all people want is junk food. I never shot him because he was stupid— you had to take pity. One day he just dropped dead of old age on top of my Swiss chard, so I took him to a taxidermist over in Palmdale.”

She walked over to an old, red Coca-Cola machine flanked by revolving racks of fried stuff in plastic bags. A cash register squatted on an old oak table. Beside it was the jerky— rough-cut, nearly black, stacked in plastic canisters on the counter.

“Ready for that Diet Coke?” she asked Milo.

“Sure.”

“What about you, quiet guy?”