“There isn’t anyone named Dayton working here.”

“Are you sure? George told me he was an agent with the IRS. That’s why I called this number.”

“He told you he worked here?”

“He did. I guess he might work in Perdido or another office in the area. Do you have a directory?”

“Ma’am, I hope you won’t take offense, but I’ve worked for the IRS thirty-two years, and there’s no George Dayton. Never was for that matter.”

“Oh. Sorry. Thanks.”

I depressed the plunger and returned the handset to the cradle. Despite the fact that Ruthie and I locked eyes, I knew she wasn’t ready to yield.

“I still don’t see what this has to do with Ned Lowe,” she said.

“Trust me, it does. I don’t know how yet, but there’s no point in beating the subject to death. You’re not convinced and I don’t have proof.”

“Even if the names do connect to Ned Lowe, that doesn’t mean Pete was extorting money from him.”

“I’m through trying to talk you into it. If I find supporting evidence, I’ll let you know.”

“Kinsey, I know you mean well and I’m sure you believe every word you’ve said, but I was married to the man for close to forty years. I don’t believe he was greedy and avaricious. That’s just not the man I knew.”

“All I’m trying to do is make sense of what’s going on,” I said. After an awkward beat, I changed the subject. “At least we figured out how the guy was getting in.”

“I’ll call S.O.S. today. I should have done it months ago.”

16

There was already a plumber’s truck in Henry’s driveway when I pulled up in front at 9:35. The garage doors were open and Henry and the fellow were standing in the backyard. Henry gestured as he explained the situation and the plumber nodded in response, asking the occasional question. He was a man in his seventies and rail-thin, wearing khaki overalls and thick-soled brown brogans caked with mud. His cap was brown with MCCLASKEY PLUMBING machine-stitched in red just above the bill.

When I joined them, Henry introduced us and the plumber raised his cap half an inch. “Nice to make your acquaintance.”

We shook hands briefly. His palm was damp and threw off a scent of moist earth and cast-iron pipes. He had a lined face and mild brown eyes. His cap forced tufts of gray hair to protrude above his ears, and when he’d doffed it, I saw that his forehead was still dead white where it was shaded by the bill.

“Mr. McClaskey was just telling me about the sources of salt in a gray water system,” Henry said, returning to the subject at hand.

The plumber used his fingers to tick off the sources of salt, reciting in a tone that suggested constant repetition of the self-same points. “We’re talking about sweaty bathers, cleaning products, water softeners, and pi— Excuse me, ma’am, urine. Your water softener can add high levels of sodium chloride that adversely affect the soil. I’m quoting from an expert in the field, who happens to be a local fella name of Art Ludwig. The way he puts it, ‘Urine is where the majority of the body’s salt ends up.’ Finds its way into your gray water reuse system via toilets, bed pans, and people peeing in the shower.”