“Being helpful, dear.”
“That’s a pretty broad job description.”
“Being helpful, but only to those who ought to be helped.”
She coasted through the open gate, and I said, “How do Mazie and Kipp decide who ought and who ought not?”
“Well, they take new business only by referral from people they trust. And Mazie has the very best bullshit detector ever. And then there’s Big Dog.”
We came to a halt in a cage, chain-link overhead as well as on all sides, another gate directly in front of us. The gate behind us rolled shut.
As we waited, I said, “Who’s Big Dog?”
“When you see him, you’ll know. There just couldn’t be any other name for him.”
Slanting through the chain-link and the concertina wire, some of the raindrops battered and shaved themselves into a fine mist. Chaotic gusts of wind spun those ravelings of fog into half-formed dancers with featureless faces, as ragged as anything that had been long in grave clothes, and waltzed them across the cage, out into the open night.
“Ma’am, I hate being all questions, but—what are we waiting here for?”
“They’re checking out the car to be sure no one else is in it, because maybe we came here under duress.”
“How are they checking it out?”
“Beats me. Techie stuff. They’re probably scanning for insect spy drones, too, though I’m sure there isn’t one in the car.”
The gate in front of us rolled open, and Mrs. Fischer drove into a large compound that must have had a reliable water source, like an artesian well, because a forest of Phoenix and queen palms tossed in the wind. Mazie had made an oasis for herself.
Mrs. Fischer followed a gravel driveway, which appeared to be bordered by beds of succulents. She parked under a portico that, on blistering Mojave days, would shade the front of the house.
Neither the portico nor the residence was elegant. From what I could see, the single-story structure sprawled over as much as ten thousand square feet, but it was built of poured-in-place steel-reinforced concrete left in its “natural” finish, with a flat roof. It looked more like a bunker than like a home, with narrow deep-set windows that featured small French panes within stainless-steel frames and muntins that flashed silver in the headlights.
When we got out of the Mercedes, lights came on in the ceiling of the portico.
“Way out here, they must have their own generator,” I said, raising my voice to be heard above the keening wind that thrashed the palm fronds.
“Lots and lots of solar panels,” Mrs. Fischer said as she took my arm and pretended that I was helping her to the front entrance. “Plus two gasoline-powered generators, one to back up the other.”
“What are they—survivalists?”
“No, dear. They just like their privacy.”
More suitable to a vault than to a home, the stainless-steel door opened, and before us stood a fifty-something guy with a shock of red hair and lively green eyes. He had a face as sweetly appealing as that of Bill Cosby, a face of such likability that he would have been perfect to play the father in a TV-sitcom family, not in any contemporary show but in one made back in the day when sitcom dads were more real and less grotesque than they are now, when everyone still knew that families matter, when the word values meant something more important than the sales prices at the currently cool clothing store where you buy your gear.
He wore white tennis shoes, khakis, a white T-shirt, and a full-length yellow apron on which were printed the words KITCHEN SLAVE, and he was wiping his hands on a dishtowel. At the sight of Mrs. Fischer, he broke into a killer smile that would have been hard to match even by Tom Cruise or a golden retriever. “Come in, get out of that nasty night.” As he ushered us across the threshold, he tucked the towel in an apron pocket. He took Mrs. Fischer’s hands, brought them to his lips, kissed them, not as a courtly Frenchman might have done, but as a son might have kissed the worn and aged hands of a beloved mother.
He said, “We were so happy when we heard about Oscar.”
“Kipp, dear, you’re as kind as ever. Oscar waited a long time for his big moment, and I’m sure he found the wait worthwhile.”
“No suffering?” Kipp asked.
“Not for someone who’d so completely gotten back his innocence. Oscar had been smooth and blue for years.”
“It’s just great news.”
“When the people at the funeral home gave me the ashes in an urn, we all drank some Dom Perignon. You know how much Oscar liked Dom Perignon.”
Turning to me, Kipp said, “You must be Edie’s new chauffeur.”