Monday afternoon I dialed Information and picked up a phone number for Dancer Custom Woodwork in Belicia. Deborah hadn’t given me the business name, but when I checked the local yellow pages, most custom cabinetmakers seemed to use their own last names by way of a designation. I was prepared to try Dancer Woodworking, Dancer Cabinetry, and variations on that theme. Fortunately I hit it the first time out. I punched in the number and the line rang twice before a man picked up.

“Dancer Custom Woodwork.”

“Is this Shawn Dancer?”

“It is. Who’s this?”

“My name is Kinsey Millhone. I’m a private investigator in Santa Teresa. Deborah Unruh suggested I talk to you about Greg and Shelly. Would you be willing to meet with me?”

“I can save you a trip. Anything I know, I can tell you by phone. It doesn’t amount to much.”

“I’d be happier talking face-to-face if it’s all the same to you. I won’t ask for any more time than you’re willing to spare.”

“Up to you,” he said.

He gave me his work address and said he’d be in the shop all of Tuesday and Wednesday. He had an installation on Thursday so he’d be gone Thursday and Friday. I told him Tuesday afternoon would be fine. Stacey had called that morning to tell me Grand’s private investigator was still in business, operating out of the same office he’d occupied at the time. My plan was to stop first in Lompoc and talk to Hale Brandenberg, then drive the additional fifty miles north to Belicia, covering both sources in one day.

Tuesday morning I gassed up my car and hit the northbound 101. I had the manila envelope of letters on the passenger seat, along with the invoices Brandenberg had submitted. I assumed there’d once been reports attached, but he might have agreed to convey his findings verbally to avoid written accounts. I’ve done the same thing myself when the issues are sensitive and a paper trail seems unwise. As long as the client is satisfied, I can work either way. I keep a set of notes for my own files, as a hedge against an investigation coming back to bite me in the butt, but the client doesn’t need to know.

The drive was uneventful. The day was gorgeous, temperatures in the low seventies with a light breeze coming off the ocean. I’d had the Mustang serviced the week before and the car was driving like a dream. We’d had intermittent rain in February and March, and the rolling hills on either side of the road had turned a lush green. Thirty-five miles later, I took the 132 off-ramp and drove west toward Vandenberg Air Force Base.