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Page 11

On the way home, I stopped at the market and stocked up on odds and ends, including paper towels, milk, bread, and peanut butter. Easter decorations and accessories were set up in numerous displays: Easter egg dyeing kits, hollow plastic eggs, foil-covered eggs, big foil-covered chocolate bunnies, marshmallow chickens of a virulent yellow hue, bags of paper shreds resembling grass, wicker and plastic baskets, as well as stuffed animals to be included in the haul.
At that hour, there weren’t many shoppers, and since I was the only one in line, I had a nice chat with Suzanne, the middle-aged checkout girl. I paid for my groceries with one of Hallie’s hundred-dollar bills, amazed by how little change I was given in return.
I was home by 10:00. I locked up, put away the groceries, grabbed my book, and went upstairs to the loft, where I changed into the oversize T-shirt I sleep in. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and slid under the covers. Once I found my place, I read until midnight, thinking life was swell.
3
In the morning, I did my usual three-mile jog on autopilot. Given the monotony of the weather, there was no chance I’d be gifted with the pleasure of a rainy-day sleep-in. Local homeowners were in such a panic to install low-flow toilets and low-flow showerheads that the retailers couldn’t keep up with the demand. A vote on water rationing was in the works. In the meantime, we were voluntarily cutting back on usage.
I’d always made a point of turning off the faucet while I was brushing my teeth. Now even flushing the commode was restricted to only the most serious of business. Everyone (well, almost everyone) in the community pitched in with the conservation effort, primarily because failure to cooperate warranted a stern reproach from the public works department. We were not yet being subjected to neighborhood incursions of the water police, but there were threats to that effect.
I was home by 6:45, including my cooldown and a perfunctory stretch. After that I showered, shampooing my hair, and donned jeans, a navy blue turtleneck, and my boots. I trotted down the spiral stairs and helped myself to a bowl of Cheerios with 2 percent milk. I had the local television news on in the background, trying to ignore the chirpy weather pundit.
Today it was “Partly sunny.”
Yesterday, “Patchy A.M. clouds, then partly to mostly sunny.”
Tomorrow, “Partly sunny.”
For the weekend, we were promised a “sunny” Saturday and a Sunday marked by “partial sun with areas of A.M. clouds, clearing in the afternoon.” For the following week, “mostly clear and sunny with early-morning fog.”
I wanted to yell, “Shut up, already!” but I couldn’t see the point.
•   •   •
My three-room office is on a side street that occupies one short block in the heart of downtown Santa Teresa in walking distance of the police station, the courthouse, and the public library. I rent the center bungalow of three that resemble the fairy-tale cottages of the Three Little Pigs. I’ve been in the location now for two years, and while the space isn’t slick, at $350 a month, it’s affordable.
The outer office serves as a library/reception area. I have a bookcase, an upright cupboard with cubbyholes, and a secondhand armoire that holds my office supplies. There’s also room for extra chairs in case more clients flock in. This has never actually happened, but I’m prepared for it nonetheless. The inner office is where I have my desk, my swivel chair, two guest chairs, file cabinets, and assorted office machines.
Halfway down the hall, there’s a tiny bathroom that I recently painted a deep chocolate brown on the theory that a tiny room will always look like a tiny room even if you paint it white, so you might as well pick a color you like. At the end of that same short corridor, I have a kitchenette that harbors a sink, a small refrigerator, a microwave, a coffeemaker, a Sparkletts water dispenser, and a door that opens to the outside.
I arrived at 8:00, and while I waited for a fresh pot of coffee to brew, I placed a call to the Santa Teresa County Probation Offices and asked to speak to Priscilla Holloway, a parole agent I’d met while babysitting a female ex-con with a wealthy dad, who’d paid me handsomely to shepherd her about.
When the line was picked up, she said, “Holloway.”
“Hi, Priscilla. Kinsey Millhone. I’m hoping you remember me . . .”
“Reba Lafferty’s friend.”
“Right. You have a minute?”
“Only if you make it quick. I have a client coming in for his monthly ass-kicking, so I gotta get myself in the proper frame of mind. What can I do for you?”
“I need a phone number for the U.S. probation office, Central California district. I’m trying to track down an inmate just coming off a ten-year stint in Lompoc.”