Not hearing any response, I rang the bell again. I wondered if this was going to get me in trouble with another note. Did Daire have rules about how many times a person could ring the doorbell or how long exactly a person should wait between each pressing of the button? Probably.

I debated ringing again when the door was pulled open. I was expecting Jackson or perhaps the crotchety old man himself. What I got was a pretty, middle-aged woman. She had to be Juan’s wife, Lupita. She was softly rounded with big brown eyes, shoulder-length dark hair styled in a long bob, and a wide smile.

“May I help you?” she asked.

“Hi, I’m Annabelle Martin,” I said.

“I know,” she answered. She glanced me over from head to toe and her smile deepened. “I’m Lupita Guzman. I heard you met my husband.”

“I did,” I said. “He has excellent taste in classic country music.”

“He said the same about you.” Her eyes twinkled.

I glanced past her, trying to see into the dark house. Was Mr. Daire standing behind her? Could he see me? Should I call out a greeting? Would she invite me in?

It was impossible to see anything. I decided to go for it. “Is Mr. Daire in? I have a note for him.”

Her smile dimmed. Much like the moment I mentioned Mr. Daire to her husband, the lightness went out of the conversation. Was the guy that bad? Maybe he was a miserable boss, and the Guzmans didn’t know how to break away from him.

“I can deliver the note,” she said. She held out her hand, but I didn’t give it to her.

“I’d rather take it to him in person.”

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. Her smile made a flickering return, and she said, “I’ll go see if he’s available.”

“Thank you.”

She closed the door, and I waited on the front stoop. I felt like a door-to-door salesperson, trying to unload my thirty-two-volume set of the Encyclopedia Britannica in a world where everyone just wanted to ask Siri or Alexa. I mean, who hand-delivered letters anymore? How very last century this was.

I realized that I liked that about Daire’s notes, even though they were sort of grumpy. The fact that he was committing thoughts, okay, directives to paper and delivering them, or having them delivered, was so delightfully old school of him, I was charmed in spite of myself.

I wandered around the front terrace. I glanced up at the windows, wondering which room Mr. Daire was in. I tried to look friendly and nonthreatening on the chance that he glanced out the window. Had that drapery just moved? I couldn’t tell. I tried to look casual and pretended to be studying the lavender. It was an effort.