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"A distressed damsel has no companions," she said.
"No. Way."
And then a voice called out from atop the gabled wall. "You all right down there?" I looked up and saw a skinny old man with deep lines in his face, wearing a black suit and white shirt.
"Our canoe," Daisy said. "It has a hole in it. We're actually friends with Davis Pickett. Doesn't he live here?"
"I'm Lyle," the man said. "Security. I can get you home."
FOUR
LYLE USHERED US INTO HIS GOLF CART and then drove us down a narrow asphalt path along the golf course, past a big log cabin with a wooden sign out front identifying it as THE COTTAGE.
I hadn't visited the Pickett estate in many years, and it had grown even more majestic. The sand traps of the golf course were newly raked. The cart path we drove on had no cracks or bumps. Newly planted maple trees lined the path. But mostly I just saw endless grass, weedless, freshly mown into a diamond pattern. The Pickett estate was silent, sterile, and endless--like a newly built housing subdivision before actual people move into it. I loved it.
As we drove, Daisy struck up a wholly unsubtle conversation. "So you head up security here?"
"I am security here," he answered.
"How long have you worked for Mr. Pickett?"
"Long enough to know you're not friends with Davis," he answered.
Daisy, who lacked the capacity to experience embarrassment, was not discouraged. "Holmesy here is the friend. Were you working the day Pickett disappeared?"
"Mr. Pickett doesn't like staff on the property after dark or before dawn," he answered.
"How many staff are there exactly?"
Lyle stopped the golf cart. "Y'all best know Davis, or else I'm taking you downtown and having you booked for trespassing."
--
We rounded a corner and I saw the pool complex, a shimmering blue expanse with the same island I remembered from my childhood, except now it was covered by a glass-plated geodesic dome. The waterslides--cylinders that curved and wove around one another--were still there, too, but they were dry.
On a patio beside the pool were a dozen teak lounge chairs, each with a white towel laid out atop the cushions. We drove halfway around the pool to another patio, where Davis Pickett was reclining on a lounger. He was wearing his school polo shirt and khaki pants, holding a book at an angle to block the sun as he read.
When he heard the cart, he sat up and looked over at us. He had skinny, sunburned legs and knobby knees. He wore plastic-rimmed glasses and an Indiana Pacers hat.
"Aza Holmes?" he asked.
He stood up. The sun was behind him, so I could hardly see his face. I got out of the golf cart and walked over to him.
"Hi," I said. I didn't know if I should hug him, and he didn't seem to know if he should hug me, so we just sort of stood there not touching, which to be honest is my preferred form of greeting.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked, his voice flat, neutral, unreadable.
Daisy walked up behind me and held out her hand, then shook Davis's forcefully. "Daisy Ramirez, Holmesy's best friend. We had a canoe puncture."
"We hit a rock and landed on Pirates Island," I said.
"You know these people?" Lyle asked.
"Yeah, it's fine, thanks, Lyle. Can I get you guys anything? Water? Dr Pepper?"
"Dr Pepper?" I said, a bit confused.
"Wasn't that your favorite soda?"
