“What can I do for you?” he said, the question intended more for efficiency than any real assistance.

“I wonder if you could help me. Are you acquainted with Mrs. Jaffe, from across the street?”

“The one whose boy’s been screwing up? We know the family,” he said cautiously. “What’s he done now? Or what hasn’t he done might be the better question in this case.”

“This is actually about his father.”

There was a silence. “I thought he was dead.”

“That’s what everybody thought until recently. Now we have reason to believe he’s alive and possibly returning to California. This is an updated likeness along with my business number. I’d appreciate a call if you should spot him in the area.” I held the flier out, and he took it.

“Well, I’ll be damned. It’s always something with that bunch,” he said. I watched his gaze trace a triangle from the photograph of Wendell to Dana’s house down the street and then back to my face. “This is probably none of my business, but what’s your connection to the Jaffes? Are you a relative?”

“I’m a private investigator working for the company that wrote the policy on Wendell Jaffe’s life.”

“Is that right,” he said. He cocked his head. “Why don’t you come on in a second? I wouldn’t mind hearing this.”

10

I hesitated for just a second, and a smile creased his face.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m not the boogey man. My wife’s on the premises, pulling weeds in the garden. Both of us work at home in one capacity or another. If anybody’s going to spot Mr. Jaffe, it’s most likely us. What’s your name again?” He backed into the hallway, motioning for me to follow.

I moved across the threshold behind him. “Kinsey Millhone. Sorry. I should have introduced myself. That’s my name there at the bottom of the flier.” I held my hand out, and we shook.

“Good to meet you. Don’t worry about it. Jerry Irwin. My wife’s name is Lena. She saw you bumping doors across the street. I got a study in the back. She can bring us coffee, if you like.”

“None for me, thanks.”

“She’s going to love this,” he said. “Lena? Hey, Lena!”

We reached his study, a small room paneled in a light veneer, scored and pockmarked to look like knotty pine. An L-shaped desk occupied most of the space, the walls lined with floor-to ceiling metal shelves. “Let me see if I can find her. Have a seat,” he said. He headed off down the hall, moving toward the back door.

I sat down on a metal folding chair and did a quick check of my surroundings, trying to get a feel for Irwin in his absence. Computer, monitor, and keyboard. Lots of floppy disks neatly filed. Open banker’s boxes filled with some kind of color illustrations, segregated by sheets of cardboard. A low metal bookshelf to the right of the desk held numerous heavy volumes with titles I couldn’t read. I leaned closer, squinting. Burke’s General Armory, Armorial General Rietstap, New Dictionary of American Family Names, Dictionary of Surnames, Dictionary of Heraldry. I could hear him hollering out into the backyard and moments later the sound of conversation as the two moved toward the study where I was waiting. I sat back in the chair, trying to look like a woman un-consumed by nosiness. I stood up as they entered, but Mrs. Irwin shooed me onto my seat again. Her husband tossed the flier on his desk and moved around to his chair.

Lena Irwin was petite and on the plump side for her height, dressed for gardening in Japanese farmer’s pants and a blue chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She’d pinned up her gray hair, damp tendrils escaping from various combs and barrettes. The spattering of freckles across her broad cheekbones suggested that her hair might have been red once upon a time. Her prescription sunglasses sat like a bow across her head. Having come in from digging, she had nails that looked as if she’d just had a set of French tips done in dirt. Her handshake was faintly gritty, and her eyes raked my face with interest. “I’m Lena. How’re you?”

“I’m fine. Sorry to interrupt your gardening,” I said.

Her wave was careless. “Garden’s not going anyplace. I was glad to take a break. That sun out there is murder. Jerry mentioned this business about the Jaffes.”

“Wendell Jaffe in particular. Did you know him?”

“We knew of him,” Lena said.

Jerry spoke up. “We know her to speak to, though we tend to keep our distance. Perdido’s a small town, but we were still surprised when we heard she’d moved in over there. She used to live in a nicer area. Nothing fancy, but better than this one by a long shot.”