In scanning the rental application the night before, I’d spotted the past address the Shallenbargers had listed, which I hoped was legitimate. Any good liar will tell you that stitching in the occasional point of fact gives a fabricated story a certain ring of truth. I pulled out my Thomas Guide to Santa Teresa and Perdido Counties and tracked down Lily Avenue, which was just off Seaward. I stopped long enough to fill my tank with gas and then hit the southbound on-ramp to the 101.

Once on Lily, I parked and did a quick walk-about, eyeballing the houses on either side of 1122. This was a neighborhood of middle-class houses, small but well-maintained. I approached the house at 1120 and rang the bell. There were two newspapers on the porch mat, and when I rang a second time without success, I gave it up and returned to the street.

I tried the house on the other side of 1122. My knock unleashed a noisy chorus of barks. The woman who opened the door was still shushing the assortment of rescue mutts that accompanied her. In the main, they ignored her, so excited about the company they could barely contain themselves. I counted six of them, no two alike. I knew one was a dachshund, and the small, short-haired, brown-and-white hyper leaping dog had to be a Jack Russell terrier. One of the others was a shepherd mix, and that was as far as I got in my breed identification process. Much jumping and jostling while they yapped. I’m not ordinarily fond of dogs, but this was a happy crew.

“Yes?”

I handed her a business card. “I’m Kinsey Millhone. I drove down from Santa Teresa this morning in hopes of picking up information about the couple who used to live next door. Do you remember Edna and Joseph Shallenbarger?”

She held up a finger. “Would you excuse me for a moment?” She turned to the lot of them and put a hand on her hip. “What have I told you about that?”

She had apparently told them plenty, because the barking stopped instantly and the pack arranged themselves in a line and looked at her expectantly. She made eye contact with each in turn, and their obedience was so absolute as to be comical. She reached in her apron pocket for doggie treats and gave one to each dog. “I apologize for their bad behavior.”

“Don’t worry about it. Looks like you have them well-trained.”

“Until there’s a knock at the door,” she said. “I’m Betsy Mullholland, by the way.”

“Nice meeting you,” I said, and shook hands with her.

She stepped out onto the porch and pulled the door shut behind her. “They were calling themselves the Shallabergers then, but I know exactly who you mean. They were the worst neighbors we ever had. I wish I could tell you where they went, but they’ve been gone for months and they didn’t leave a forwarding address.”

“Oh, I know where they are,” I said. “They’ve moved into the house next door to me, which is owned by a couple who now live out of state. Edna admits she and Joseph are squatters, but she’s completely unrepentant and apparently has no intention of moving out. My guess is they’ve done this before, and I was hoping to find someone who had better luck persuading them to go.”