Now Charlotte Snyder had entered the picture. She lived twenty-five miles south, just past Perdido, in the seaside community of Olvidado. At age seventy-eight, she was still active in the workplace and apparently showed no inclination to retire. Henry had invited her for drinks at his house and then for dinner at a lovely neighborhood restaurant called Emile’s-at-the-Beach. He’d asked me to join them for cocktails so I could check her out. If I didn’t think Charlotte was suitable, he wanted to know. I thought the assessment was his to make, but he’d asked for my opinion, so that’s what I’d be there to give.

Henry’s kitchen door was open, his screen on the latch, so I could hear them laughing and chatting as I approached. I picked up the scent of yeast, cinnamon, and hot sugar, and guessed, correctly as it turned out, that Henry had dealt with his predate nerves by baking a pan of sweet rolls. In his working days he was a baker by trade, and as long as I’ve known him, his skills have never ceased to amaze. I tapped on the screen and he let me in. He’d dressed up for his date, exchanging his usual shorts and flip-flops for loafers, tan slacks, and a short-sleeved sky blue dress shirt that exactly matched his eyes.

I gave Charlotte high marks on sight. Like Henry, she was trim and she dressed with classic good taste: a tweed skirt, white silk blouse over which she wore a yellow crewneck sweater. Her hair was a soft reddish brown, cut short, expensively dyed, and brushed away from her face. I could tell she’d had her eyes done, but I didn’t write it off to vanity. The woman was in sales, and her personal appearance was as much an asset as her experience. She looked like someone who could walk you through an escrow without a hitch. If I’d been in the market for a house, I’d have bought one from her.

She was leaning against the kitchen counter. Henry’d fixed her a vodka and tonic while he was having his usual Jack Daniel’s over ice. He’d opened a bottle of Chardonnay for me and he poured me a glass as soon as Charlotte and I had been introduced. He’d set out a bowl of nuts and a tray of cheese and crackers, with clusters of grapes tucked here and there.

I said, “While I’m thinking about it, Henry, I’d be happy to help you clean tomorrow if we can finish before noon.”

“Perfect. I’ve already told Charlotte about Gus.”

Charlotte said, “Poor old guy. How’s he going to manage when he gets home?”

“That’s what the doctor asked. He’s not going to release him unless he has help,” he said.

“Does he have any family left?” I asked.

“Not that I’ve heard. Rosie might know. He talks to her every other week or so, mostly to complain about the rest of us.”

“I’ll ask when I see her,” I said.

Charlotte and I went through the usual exchange of small talk, and when the subject shifted to real estate, she became more animated. “I was telling Henry how much these older homes have appreciated in recent years. Before I left the office, just out of curiosity, I checked the MLS for properties in the area and the median price-median, mind you-was six hundred thousand. A single-family residence like this one would probably sell for close to eight, especially since it has a rental attached.”

Henry smiled. “She says I’m sitting on a gold mine. I paid ten-five for this place in 1945, convinced it was going to put me in the poor house.”

“Henry’s offered me a tour. I hope you don’t mind if we take a minute for that.”

“Go right ahead. I’ll be fine.”

The two left the kitchen, moving through the dining room to the living room. I could track their progress as he showed her through the place, the conversation becoming largely inaudible when they reached the bedroom he used as a den. He had two other bedrooms, one facing the street, the other looking out onto his garden in the rear. There were two full baths and a half-bath off the entrance. I could tell she was being complimentary, exclaiming in a way that probably had some dollar signs attached.

When they returned to the kitchen, the subject segued from real estate to housing starts and economic trends. She could talk downturns, yields on government bonds, and consumer confidence with the best of them. I was a teeny tiny bit intimidated by her confidence, but that was my problem, not his.

We finished our drinks, and Henry put the empty glasses in the sink while Charlotte excused herself and retreated to the nearest bathroom. He said, “What do you think?”

“I like her. She’s smart.”

“Good. She seems nice and she’s well informed-qualities I appreciate.”