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When Mason and Mann pulled up to the gated community where Jack Simon had lived, it turned out to be impossible to get to his house. They could see the house from the gate, but there was no going over, under or around the fence. It was hot, but not unbearably so, and Mason could see why people liked Palm Springs—it was quiet, sunny and surrounded by mountains. Apart from the average age being north of seventy, it was great. She turned to Julia.

“What now?”

Julia was on her phone and held up her finger. “Hello? Blackbird Country Club? This is Mrs. Gregory, how are you?” She’d added a very subtle quaver in her voice—nothing too crazy, but she sounded a decade or two older. That in combination with the new nose, eyebrows and gray wig was giving Mason a brain-ache of fairly epic and giggle-inducing proportion. She wasn’t sure how…then she realized Julia had been accessing the residents list on the gate. If you had a code, you could enter it to open the gate, or you could buzz your hosts directly and they would let you in. Julia had simply scrolled until she found a name she liked.

“I’m sending over a couple of friends who are interested in joining the club. Do take care of them, won’t you? Who should I tell them to ask for?” She smiled, and it came across in her voice. “Robert? Of course, I’ll let them know. They’ll be along shortly, for dinner. Go ahead and put it on my account, would you?” She hung up. “That was lucky. Mrs. Gregory could have been a European with a memorably stupid accent, but apparently not. Phew.”

“Risky,” Mason said, “but it apparently worked.”

“It often does. Especially when you’re talking to someone for whom all the customers are the same. It’s possible Mrs. Gregory would have turned out to be a staff favorite, someone who remembers names, gives generous holiday tips and asks after the correct children, but that was a risk worth taking.” She headed to the car. “The car will help, too, although it does make us memorable, which isn’t great.” She looked at Mason, who today was pairing her beaten face with boyfriend jeans and suspenders over a tank top that said “Do No Harm, But Take No Shit.” She sighed. “Not that the car is going to make much difference.”

The Blackbird Country Club was a mid-century icon, designed by distinguished architects and carefully built by experts. In its heyday it was home to celebrities with household names, and its golf course was an exquisitely green jewel in the middle of the desert. In the amber light of early evening, it was as elegant and well-preserved as its clientele.

Julia and Mason swept around the drive and pulled up in front of a stone-and-wood entryway. A valet tripped over himself getting to Julia’s door and took the keys from Mason with a gleeful air.

“We’re here to see Robert,” Julia told the concierge, and Robert was duly called. He was a middle-aged man with a Hollywood level of suavity, but with added deference. His eyes took in both of them: Julia’s simple but expensive resort-wear shift, the several strings of real pearls she’d just added in the car, the diamond studs, the cashmere shrug, the Ferragamo ballet flats, the careful makeup, and Mason’s…bruises…and smiled as if these were things he saw every day. And maybe they were; maybe rich older women often bring skinny, banged-up chicks to evaluate country clubs.

“Mrs. Gregory is an old and valued member,” he said to them, as he led them around the club, pointing out its various amenities. “It’s a pity we don’t see her very much anymore.”

“Yes,” replied Julia, “she’s not as well as she was.” She made a sorrowful face, hoping she wasn’t wrong.

“Ah well,” confided Robert, “age does have its infirmities.” He simpered at Julia. “Although they seem to have passed you by, Mrs. Anderson.”

“My granddaughter keeps me young, as you can see,” Julia said, archly. “Are most of the members here of advanced age?”

Robert nodded. “Palm Springs is a wonderful place to retire. I spent many years working at the Beverly Hilton, and I don’t miss anything about the city, least of all the traffic. The climate here is conducive to pulmonary health, we have world-class hospitals and facilities, and the homes are spacious and elegant.”

Julia looked across the lawns of the club, over to where long, low houses could be seen around the edges of the golf club. “I can see that. Are any on the market right now?”

They had reached the bar. Robert gestured to the barman on duty, and he shimmered over. Julia settled herself on a stool and patted the one next to her.

“Please do join us.” She smiled at Robert. “I’m really very interested in becoming a member of the club.” He hesitated, and she turned up the wattage. “Besides, you must see and hear such fascinating things, running a club with a history like this.”

He gave in and sat on a stool. Mason took one behind Julia, so she could watch his face and the door at the same time. Her jaw was aching, and she’d forgotten to grab painkillers at the hotel. She could smell wine.

Robert leaned forward. “Actually, there will be a home on the market shortly. We just lost one of our long-term residents.”

“Really?” said Julia, making a face that skillfully combined sympathy for the demise of an old person with the acquisitive gleam of a house hunter. “How sad.”

“Very,” Robert replied, lowering his voice. “Suicide, apparently.” Hastily, he added, “Not in the house itself, as it happens, but on the golf course.”

“Oh,” said Julia, “I’m not superstitious about things like that.”

“Of course not,” he purred, “but, you know, some people are.”

“How shocking,” Julia said, ordering Robert a glass of wine. “Are you allowed to drink while working?”

He shook his head but winked and picked up the glass and took a sip. “It’s after five, and I won’t tell if you won’t,” he said.

She giggled and said, “Your secret is safe with me. Tell me more about the house…your poor resident, I mean. Have you had”—she dropped her voice—“the authorities crawling all over? What a difficult thing to manage.”

He sighed, pleased to be understood. “Indeed. The other residents are most upset, and my boss is upset when the residents are upset, you understand.” He paused, and lowered his voice. “There is a waiting list for homes, but you’ve come at a fortunate time. It isn’t even really available yet.”

She nodded, sympathetically, and patted his hand. He continued.

“The gentleman in question was a very quiet person and the house is lovely. He ate here every evening, but I think I’ve barely exchanged more than twenty words with him. He had the same thing always, a baked potato with a steak and green salad, followed by peach slices and cream, and then he would head back home in his golf cart.”

Mason coughed. “They drive golf carts?”

Robert looked at her as if a chair had spoken. “Of course! It’s a golf course.”

Mason nodded and subsided. He regarded her narrowly for another moment, then returned to Julia. “I had no idea he was even depressed, let alone suicidal. He was an actor, though, and they are often temperamental.” He paused. “Of course, I could be being gauche—are you an actress, Mrs. Anderson?”

She gave a low chuckle. “Oh, dear me, no. I was a lawyer in practice in Los Angeles, but since my husband died I’ve been traveling a lot.” She indicated Mason. “With my niece.”

Mason opened her mouth, but Richard beat her to it. “I thought she was your granddaughter?”

There was a fractional pause, then Julia reached a hand back and placed it on Mason’s knee, squeezing gently. “She keeps me young, as I said.”

Richard looked at Mason, who attempted to look like a secret sexual dynamo, and apparently pulled it off, because he suddenly leaned forward to Julia and lowered his voice. “You can feel comfortable here to be as open or as private as you wish. Palm Springs is a very relaxed place.”

“How very nice,” she replied. “Tell me more about this house.”