“Can I bring anything?” I chirped.

She ignored the offer. I hadn’t been serious, but Cheez Whiz on saltines was bound to be on the low end of canapés, even in their debased circumstances.

I left the real estate office and crossed the parking lot. It wasn’t until I unlocked my car and slid under the wheel that I finally picked up on a line Edna had tossed out earlier. The remark was folded into her confrontation with Henry when she was so righteously defending herself. At the time, I’d heard what she’d said, but I’d been focused on the showdown and I hadn’t picked up the significance. It suddenly occurred to me to ask myself the following: why had she said, “I don’t know your Mr. Adelson, but the hose bib has to be his handiwork because it certainly isn’t ours”?

How could she not know Dale Adelson when she and Joseph had bought the house from him two and a half months before? Had they completed the purchase long-distance, with papers flying back and forth and no face-to-face communication? I don’t own property, so I’m not sure how these things work, but you’d think the name would have registered.

I pulled out of the lot with a quick look at my watch. It was just after nine and the county offices would be open. I returned to my office and left the car in the driveway, then hiked the five blocks to the courthouse. I went up the stairs to the county clerk’s office, where I sat at a small computer in the reception area and typed in the Shallenbargers’ street address. I don’t consider myself computer literate, but this was a simple machine with a limited number of functions, more like a typewriter with a quiet keyboard and no carriage return.

From the street address, I was able to pick up the assessor’s parcel number, which in turn provided me the name of the owners of the property: Dale and Trish Adelson. Edna had given Henry the impression they’d bought the property, but I don’t know that she’d come right out and said so. The Shallenbargers were apparently renting the house, which clarified one point. Then I wondered if they were sticking Henry for their entire water bill or just the portion they were using for irrigation. I thought he’d be interested in the answer as well if he was calculating his losses.

The Santa Teresa Water District has offices in City Hall, some five blocks away. It was by then 9:30 and I’d caught them in a lull between customers. Both clerks were on the telephone, but one acknowledged my presence. There were four or five desks with the usual stacks of paperwork, gray metal file cabinets, upright files, fluorescent lights overhead, and a few personal items on the desktops, but in the main the atmosphere was one of industry and efficiency.

I waited only briefly before Mrs. Fremont, the administrative assistant, approached. She was a tall, big-boned woman in her seventies with a wiry topknot of gray curls and emphatic eyebrows that she’d penciled in herself two inches higher than one would expect. She wore heavy silver earrings and a pair of narrow glasses with black frames that rested low on her nose.