“The property owner. He’s required to sign the same form, agreeing to be jointly or severally responsible for any amounts due the Santa Teresa Water District if the occupant fails to pay.”

“I thought the Shallenbargers bought the place. Aren’t they the owners?”

She shook her head. “Tenants.”

“Really! I had no idea. You learn something new every day, don’t you?” I could have told her that “Calvin Sanchez” was most likely a figment of Edna’s imagination, but I thought I’d better check further before I mentioned it to anyone.

I relinquished my hold on the file, and Mrs. Fremont closed it, saying, “If your Mrs. Shallenbarger believes she’s been billed incorrectly, she can always call or stop by. We’ll be happy to talk to her.”

“I’ll let her know. Thanks so much for your time.”

When I left the water department, I realized all I’d done was to burden myself with another problem. In a curious way, I knew Henry would have a hard time staying worked up about the water theft. Initially, he might have been dismayed, perhaps genuinely angry, but I knew his conscience would kick in, undermining his good sense and overruling his belief in the virtues of honesty. He’d start to feel sorry for the pair—poor sweet old folks forced to resort to such measures. It would be one of those “there but for the grace of God” moments. He’d think about how fortunate he and his siblings were: able-bodied, mentally sharp, blessed with good health, and comfortable financially because they’d figured out all those years ago that saving for the future, while not always easy, would be prudent.

I had watched Edna manipulate Henry until she only needed to sigh and he’d be ready to serve and protect. If I wasn’t careful, instead of Henry feeling perturbed about the water they’d siphoned from his line, he’d be going door to door taking up a collection to help them make ends meet. In his mind, it wouldn’t amount to much more than pennies a day, and why not lend a hand since he had more than they did? That was certainly Edna’s attitude.

• • •

When I reached the office, I unlocked the door, disarmed the system, and then sat down at my desk. I picked up the phone and called directory assistance. When I had the operator on the line, I asked for a listing for last name Adelson in Richmond, Virginia. Apparently, there was only one: Dale and Trish. I made a note of the number, depressed the plunger, and then dialed. It was only 10:00 California time, which would make it roughly 1:00 on the East Coast.

The line rang twice and a woman picked up.

“Mrs. Adelson?”

“This is Trish, yes.”

“This is Kinsey Millhone out in Santa Teresa. Henry Pitts’s tenant.”

“Yes, of course,” she said, though I was pretty sure she wouldn’t have put two and two together if I hadn’t spelled it out for her. “I hope you’re not calling to say something’s happened to Henry.”