In hopes of engendering loyalty, Rosie had purchased a popcorn machine. Napkin-lined baskets of freshly popped corn were now stationed down the length of the bar with shakers of Parmesan cheese and garlic salt. The smell of hot oil and burnt kernels formed a pungent counterpoint to the scent of Hungarian spices that saturated the air.

It was early yet and neighborhood regulars would soon trickle in, augmented by off-duty police as the evening wore on. For the time being, the television screen was blank and all of the overhead lights were on, illuminating the dispirited collection of mix-and-match furnishings Rosie had assembled from garage sales over the years. The secondhand chairs had wood or chrome frames with padded vinyl plastic seats, and the Formica-topped tables were only made level through the tricky use of shims. The wooden booths that lined the right-hand wall were darkly varnished, with surfaces perpetually sticky to the touch.

William was behind the bar, polishing stemware. Rosie was perched on a bar stool, consulting a collection of cookbooks that were open in front of her. There was only one other customer, and he sat four stools away from her, his back turned while he read the newspaper and sipped a glass of beer.

As Henry and I took our seats, I glanced over and realized the lone man at the bar was Cheney Phillips, who worked in the homicide unit at the Santa Teresa Police Department. Cheney was roughly my age, with a dark mop of unruly curls as soft as a poodle’s coat. Brown-eyed, clean-shaven. Two years before, we’d had what I suppose could be called a “romance,” though I feel compelled to put the term in quotes. While the initial sparks had never taken hold, I didn’t think either of us had ruled out the possibility. Now even the most casual encounter sometimes triggered intimate images that made my cheeks color with embarrassment.

I pushed away from the table, saying to Henry, “I’ll be right back.”

“You want white wine, yes?” he asked.

“I do. Thanks.”

As usual, Cheney was nattily dressed: gray slacks, navy blazer, under which he wore a white dress shirt with an expensive-looking silk tie in shades of gray.

I crossed to the bar and tapped him on the shoulder. “This is a pleasant surprise. I don’t usually see you here at this hour. What’s up?”

He smiled. “I just finished my annual physical, for which I received a multitude of gold stars. I thought that warranted a beer.”

“Congratulations. Good health deserves celebration.”

He lifted his glass. “To yours.”

Cheney Phillips came from money. His father owned a number of private financial institutions in the area, while his mother sold high-end real estate. Both were perplexed when he forswore the banking business in favor of the police academy. Once onboard at the STPD, he’d worked his way up from traffic to his current position as a homicide detective, where the pay was adequate but no cause for rejoicing. Still, Cheney managed to live well, which should have come as no surprise. Wealth begets wealth. Some years before, his uncle had died and left him an inheritance that he’d used to purchase a rambling two-story Victorian home next door to my friend Vera, whose house was its mirror twin.