“I’ll do that, and thanks.”

“I enjoyed watching Pete’s mind at work,” he said. “Nearly forgot to mention I had a plumber out this morning to take a look at the irrigation issue. He was full of good advice. He kept saying ‘reduce before reuse.’”

“You already knew that,” I said. “Nothing practical?”

“You want to hear his recommendation? Tear out the lawn. Get rid of all the grass. ‘It’s dead anyway’ was what he said. He recommended Astroturf. Can you imagine it?”

“Well, it would be green all year round.”

“I told him I’d think about it and get back to him. Then I put a call through to someone else. At any rate, I’ll see you back at the house.”

Once he left, I sat and chewed on the significance of what I’d learned. Henry had provided the key to the list without supplying the point. Pete’s purpose wasn’t obvious, but the six women must have had something in common. The fact that he’d encrypted the names suggested he thought the list worth protecting, but I had no idea why. Who did he imagine might come across information so sensitive that he couldn’t leave it in plain English?

I picked up the handset and punched in Ruthie’s phone number. The machine picked up and I dutifully left a message at the sound of the beep. “Hi, Ruthie. Sorry I missed you. This is Kinsey with another update. Henry’s broken the code and I’ll tell you what it says when you have a minute. Meanwhile, the files are here at the office. I’ll search again if you think there’s any point. Fat chance in my view, but you’re the boss. Hope your appointment went well. Give me a call as soon as you get home. I’m panting to hear.”

I stacked the sheets, folded them, and put them in my bag. More from curiosity than anything else, I pulled out the telephone book and checked the white pages for residential listings in hopes of spotting Taryn Sizemore. In the ten years since the lawsuit, she might have married, died, or left town, in which case there’d be no sign of her. Under the S’s, I found ten Sizemores, none of whom were T. or Taryn. I shifted my search to the business section of the white pages and found her: Sizemore, Taryn, PhD. No clue as to the field she was in. College professor, educational consultant. She might be an audiologist or a speech therapist. The address was in downtown Santa Teresa with a phone number. I pulled out my index cards, made a note, and then replaced the rubber band and returned the cards to my bag.

I was still torn. What in heaven’s name was Pete Wolinsky up to? Probably nothing good. If he was extorting money from the women on the list, then lucky them. He was dead and they wouldn’t have to pay another cent. If he was operating from other motives, then what? It would behoove me to chat with Taryn Sizemore in hopes she had some idea what was going on. I was in information-gathering mode and I’d make a decision when I had a few more facts in hand.

In the meantime, when it came to “Hallie Bettancourt,” I was concerned that in passing along Christian Satterfield’s contact information, I might have put him in harm’s way. At the very least, I felt I should alert him that he’d been the subject of the inquiry. I locked the office and hoofed it to the Santa Teresa Dispatch, which was six blocks away. I needed the air, and the exercise allowed me to free up my brain. I thought I was correct in estimating Hallie’s social status. She looked like big bucks and she’d carried herself with a classy air that was impossible to fake. How did she know about Christian Satterfield and what did she want from him? Unless she hoped to supplement her income by robbing banks, I couldn’t imagine how locating a parolee would serve her.

When I reached the Dispatch building, I went into the lobby and took the stairs to the second floor. The newspaper archives were housed in an area dense with file cabinets, the drawers packed with news clippings dating back to the 1800s. The librarian was a woman named Marjorie Hixon, who was in her eighties. Tall and refined, gray-green eyes, high cheekbones, gray hair streaked with white. I’d dealt with her on many occasions and I’d always found her cooperative and down-to-earth.

“How’re you doing, Marjorie? It’s been a while,” I said.

“This place is a madhouse and has been for months. Last July, we moved from paper to a newfangled electronic system: words, pictures, and graphics, including maps. Don’t ask me how it’s done. I have no idea. I’m still partial to an old-fashioned card catalog, but that’s beside the point. We used to have drones typing headlines on envelopes as they stuffed stories into them. The files were even cross-indexed, which I thought was fancy enough. Now an extraordinarily patient soul named John Pope ensures new stuff is transcribed from paper into an electronic format. All way over my head.”