C Is for Corpse

did it that day. I ran because it was time to run and because I needed to shake the rust and stiffness from my joints. As dutiful as I am about jogging, I've never been a big fan of exercise. I just can't think of any other way to feel good.
    The first mile was pure pain and I hated every minute of it. Mile two, I could feel the endorphins kick in, and by mile three, I'd found my pace and might have gone on forever. I checked my running watch. It was 3:33. I never said I was swift. I slowed to a walk, pouring sweat. I would pay for this on the morrow, I was relatively sure, but for the moment, I felt loose, my muscles soft and warm. I used the walk home to cool down.
    By the time I reached my place again, evaporating sweat had left me chilled and I was looking forward to a hot shower. The patio was deserted, empty mint-julep glasses sitting side by side. Henry's back door was closed and the window shades were drawn. I let myself into my place with the key I carry tied to my shoelace.
    I washed my hair and shaved my legs, slipped into a robe, and puttered around for a while, tidying up the kitchen, cleaning off my desk. Finally, I donned a pair of pants, tunic top, sandals, and cologne. At 5:45, I grabbed my big leather handbag and went out again, locking up.
    I checked the directions to Bobby's house and turned left on Cabana toward the bird refuge, following the road as it wound into Montebello, which is rumored to have more millionaires per square mile than any other community in the country. I don't know if that's true or not. The residents of Montebello are a mixed lot. Though the big estates are interspersed now with middle-class homes, the overall impression is of money, carefully cultivated and preserved, vintage elegance harking back to a time when wealth was handled with discretion and material display reserved for one's financial peers. The rich, these days, are merely gaudy imitators of their early California counterparts. Montebello does have its "slums," a curious string of clapboard shacks that sell for $140,000 apiece.
    The address Bobby'd given me was off West Glen, a narrow road shaded by eucalyptus and sycamore, lined with low walls of hand-hewn stone that curve back toward mansions too remote to be seen by passing motorists. An occasional gatehouse hints at the stately digs beyond, but for the most part West Glen seems to wander through groves of live oak with nothing more on its mind than dappled sunshine, the scent of French lavender, and bumblebees droning among hot-pink geraniums. It was six now and wouldn't get dark for another two hours or so.
    I spotted the number I was looking for and turned into a driveway, slowing. To my right were three white stucco cottages, looking like something the three little pigs might have built. I peered through the windshield, but couldn't see a parking place. I rolled forward, hoping there would be a parking pad somewhere around the bend coming up. I glanced back over my shoulder, wondering why there weren't any other cars in sight, and wondering which of the little bungalows belonged to Bobby's folks. I felt a brief moment of uneasiness. He had said this afternoon, hadn't he? I could just picture myself arriving on the wrong day. I shrugged. Oh, well. I'd suffered worse embarrassments in my life, though for the moment, I couldn't think of one. I rounded the curve, looking for a place to pull in. Involuntarily, I slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop. "Holy shit!" I whispered,
    The lane had opened out into a large paved courtyard. Just ahead I saw a house. Somehow, in my gut, I knew Bobby Callahan lived here, not in one of those homey little snuggeries up front. Those were probably servants' quarters. This was the real thing.
    The house was the size of the junior high school I'd attended and had probably been designed by the same architect, a man named Dwight Costigan, dead now, who had revitalized Santa Teresa single-handedly during the forty-odd years he worked. The style, if I'm not mistaken, is Spanish Revival. I have tended, I confess, to sneer at white stucco walls and red tile roofs. I've been contemptuous of arches and bougainvillea, distressed beams and balconies, but I had never seen them put together quite like this.
    The central portion of the house was two stories high, flanked by two cloistered arcades. Arch after arch after arch, supported by graceful columns. There were clusters of airy palms, sculptured portals, tracery windows. There was