U Is for Undertow

satisfaction in my wholesale condemnation. For the past two or three years, I’d made a halfhearted attempt to modify my attitude, but it hadn’t really worked. I’m a Taurus. I’m stubborn by nature and I had my heels dug in. I shoved the invitation in my shoulder bag. I’d deal with it later.
    Sutton returned after twenty minutes with five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, for which I wrote him a receipt. Once he was gone again, I locked the cash in my office safe. Since I’d be devoting Thursday to Sutton’s business, I sat down and did a rough draft of one of the client reports on my To Do list, figuring I might as well get one chore out of the way. By the time I’d finished, it was close to 4:00 and I decided to shut down for the day. One reason I’m self-employed is so I can do as I please without consulting anyone else.
    I rescued my car from the semilegal parking spot I’d found earlier. My office is on a narrow side street barely one block long. For the most part, the surrounding blocks are posted No Parking, which means I have to be inventive in finding ways to squeeze my Mustang into any available space. I was due for a parking ticket, but I hadn’t gotten one yet.
    I drove home along the beach, and within minutes my spirits lifted. Spring in Santa Teresa is marked by early-morning sunshine, which is eradicated almost immediately by dense cloud cover. The marine layer, known as the June Gloom, usually stretches from late May until early August, but that’s been changing of late. Here we’d scarcely made it into April and low clouds had already erased the offshore islands. Seabirds wheeled through the fog while sailboats, tacking out of the harbor, disappeared in the mist. In the absence of sunlight, the surf was the color of burnished pewter. Long strands of kelp had washed up on shore. I inhaled the salty essence of damp sand and sea grass. Cars rumbled along the wooden wharf with a sound like distant thunder. It was not quite tourist season, so traffic was light and many of the beach hotels still sported vacancy signs.
    I turned left from Cabana onto Bay and left again onto Albanil. I found a length of empty curb across from my apartment and paralleled my way into it. I shut the engine down, locked my car, and crossed the street, passing through the squeaking gate that serves the duel purpose of doorbell and burglar alarm.
    Henry Pitts, my landlord, was in the backyard in a T-shirt, shorts, and bare feet. He’d set up a ladder near the house and he was hosing out the rain gutters where a thick, nasty mat of wet leaves had collected over the winter. During the last big rain, small gushers had poured down on the porch outside the kitchen door, drenching anyone who dared to enter or leave.
    I crossed the patio and stood there for a while, watching him work. The day was getting chilly and I marveled at his determination to cavort about in so few clothes. “Aren’t you going to catch your death of cold?”
    Henry had turned eighty-eight on Valentine’s Day, and while he’s sturdy as a fence post, the fact remains he’s getting on in years. “Nope. Cold preserves most things, so why not me?”
    “I suppose.”
    The spray from the hose was creating an area of artificial rain so I stepped back out of range. He turned his hose in the opposite direction, inadvertently watering his neighbor’s shrubs. “You’re home early,” he remarked.
    “I gave myself the afternoon off, or what’s left of it.”
    “Hard day?”
    I waggled my hand, indicating so-so. “I had a guy walk in and hire me for a day’s work. As soon as I said yes, I knew it was dumb.”
    “Tough job?”
    “More pointless than tough. He gave me five hundred dollars in cash and what can I say? I was seduced.”
    “What’s the assignment?”
    “It’s complicated.”
    “Oh, good. I like it when you’re challenged. I’m just about done with this. Why don’t you stop by for a glass of wine and you can bring me up to speed?”
    “I’d like that. There’s another issue up for grabs and we can talk about that, too.”
    “Maybe you should stay for supper so we won’t feel rushed. I made corn bread and a pot of beef stew. If you come at five-thirty, I’ll have time enough to shower and change clothes.”
    “Perfect. See you shortly.”
    Henry is the only person alive I’d talk to about a client, with the possible addition of his sister, Nell, who’d be turning ninety-nine in December. His brothers, Charlie, Lewis, and