The Arts and Crafts bungalow on the south side of town was goldfinch-yellow as if to cheerily dismiss the fact it wasn’t anywhere near a water view like those on “Snob Hill.” The cracks in the squat columns and window casings did little to further those aspirations. Still, the Arrowwood shrubs were trimmed and the Paspalum grass recently mowed—maybe too well, the cloudless mid-afternoon sun blazing down on exposed brown patches.
The woman who welcomed Drayco inside had naturally blond hair streaked with dark highlights. Thanks to the sheriff’s background info, Drayco knew she was in her mid-forties. He didn’t smell cigarette smoke, so the wrinkles lining her face hinted at the way life had turned against her. Instead of nurse whites or blue scrubs, she wore gray linen slacks and an equall
