The listing was held by Montebello Luxury Properties. The agent was Nancy Harkness. A two-by-four color photograph of her showed a woman in her fifties with streaked blond hair worn in a shoulder-length bob immobilized by spray. I folded the flier and put it in my bag. I was already leaning toward not buying the place, but I wanted to be fair. With a property on the market as long as this one had been, there was probably some wiggle room in the asking price.

It had been clever of Hallie to whisk me through the dining room to the deck beyond, with its cozy propane heaters and its stunning views. I was so dazzled by the expensive wine and her exotic yellow caftan, it hadn’t occurred to me to look closer. Lucky for her. If I’d asked to use the ladies’ room, she’d have been forced to refuse. In the seven bathrooms I’d seen, there wasn’t even one roll of toilet paper.

As there seemed to be nothing left to discover, I let myself out the front door and locked it behind me. I scrambled partway down the hill and shuffled through the underbrush until I found the combination lock. I returned the key to the lockbox and left the lock dangling ineffectually in the busted hasp. I was guessing the entire search (including breaking and entering) had taken less than thirty minutes. Since I was already in the Montebello area, I wound my way down the mountain and drove into the lower village.

Montebello Luxury Properties was tucked into a quaint cottage with an undulating thatched roof, mullioned windows, and a Dutch door painted red. There was a modest strip of parking to one side, and I snagged the only available space. I locked my car and went in, activating an old-fashioned shopkeeper’s bell on a spring. I knew I wasn’t projecting the image of someone wealthy enough to be house hunting in Montebello, unless I was pegged as one of the eccentric rich dressed like a bag lady.

The interior had been renovated and enlarged to a sprawling warren of offices, the entrance to which was guarded by a receptionist whose nameplate identified her as Kim Bass, Receptionist. Like I might have mistaken her for the company president. She was chatting on the phone, taking notes on a spiral-bound stenographer’s pad. When I reached her desk, her gaze rested on me briefly, then returned to her notebook, where she was busy scribbling information. She raised a finger, indicating she was aware of me.

She said, “What time is the Cal-Air on the twenty-fourth?” She listened for a moment, saying, “Um-hum, uh-huh. And the Pan Am is at ten P.M.? What’s that number again?” She made a note. “Anything earlier out of ST? No, that’s fine. I was just asking on the off chance.”

I watched her write: Cal-Air 2287 dep STA 5:45p, arr LAX 6:52p. Pan Am 154 dep LAX 10:00p, arr LHR 8:25am. The entire page was covered by fragments; phone numbers without identifiers, names without references indicated. She knew what she meant while she was taking notes and she assumed she’d remember what she was talking about, but when she came across the same page in four days, she’d be clueless. At the same time, she wouldn’t have the nerve to throw out her scribbles in case the notes turned out to be critical.