“Of course they’re guests. It’s those Feldman girls,” Merwin snapped. “Everyone here knows that Oscar and me play shuffleboard at ten o’clock. Everyone knows that. But for the past two days, when we get out there, those two are on our court. We’ve tried asking politely, but they refuse to acknowledge our long-standing court time.”

“Oh.” Letty’s gaze strayed to the door of unit 2. The dusty maroon Impala with the Orlando license parked in front of it hadn’t moved. The curtains were still drawn. It was well past ten o’clock.

Oscar snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Hey, hey! Pay attention here.”

Letty took a step away backward and swatted his hand away. “Please don’t do that, Oscar. I am paying attention. Is there a sign-up sheet or something like that, where guests reserve court time?”

“No,” Merwin said. “It’s just understood. It’s always been understood. Up until this week.”

“So, in other words, the shuffleboard courts are used on a first-come, first-serve basis. Maybe you two gentlemen could simply arrive at the courts a little earlier in the day? To make sure you’re there first?”

“You’re missing the whole point,” Oscar said, shaking his head. “We play at ten, before it gets too hot. Merwin and I have other obligations until then. Those two girls, they’re not even serious players.”

“Don’t even know the rules,” Merwin said. “It’s outrageous, is what it is. We need Ava to go out there and lay down the law to them. Or you. You could tell them.”

Letty gave the men a sympathetic smile. “Sorry, I don’t dare leave the office unmanned while Ava’s gone. Plus, I don’t have that kind of authority. Why don’t you try working out a schedule with them? Like, maybe playing at ten on alternate days?”

“Never mind,” Oscar said. “Should have known you’d side with those Feldmans. It’s a women’s-lib thing, right? Feminazis and all that?”

Her smile disappeared. “You should probably go now, Oscar. Before I decide to let Ava know you were smoking outside my room again last night.” She pulled out her new phone and showed him the photo she’d snapped through her window, of a man matching Oscar Jensen’s exact profile, leaning against the veranda column, letting out a long plume of smoke.

He looked at the photo. “You can’t prove that’s me.”

She stood her ground. “Who else?” She went back to staring at the door to unit 2. It was ten thirty and nothing had changed.

Ava had programmed Joe DeCurtis’s number into her phone. She sighed and scrolled through the short list of contacts.

“What are you doing?” Merwin demanded. “Who are you calling?”

“I’m calling Ava’s son, Joe,” she replied.