Double

The house was low, built of adobe and native stone, whose color blended into the landscape. It was composed of curved, windowless walls and numerous cylindrical shapes, and the front door resembled the opening to a kiln. On its roof perched three giant air conditioners, known as swamp coolers, a type frequently used in desert climates. Even from where I sat in the car, I could hear their noisy rattling.

The house stood out against the heat-hazed hills and was surrounded by dark green greasewood bushes and the ashy-white shrubs known as burroweed. To the right, at a fair distance, were the remains of an old water tower and a loading platform that apparently had once served a spur railway. The sections of track that were still there were badly rusted. In front of the house was a large parking area with one car in it — an orange Datsun.

Well, at least there was someone here. Maybe now I’d get some answers to my questions.

I continued downward from the rise and parked next to the Datsun. Getting out of my car, I watched the house for a moment, and when no one came out, I went around the other car and checked the glove compartment for its registration.

The Datsun belonged to Karyn Sugarman.

I stared at the house again, my eyes narrowed against the sun’s glare, then went up to the door. The rattle of the swamp coolers was very loud, and I could smell the resiny sweet odor of the greasewood trees. I looked around for a doorbell, then noticed that the door stood open several inches.

Knocking on the frame, I called out, “Karyn? It’s Sharon McCone.” There was no answer. After a moment, I pushed the door open wider and looked in. There was a round entry with a slate floor and adobe walls the same color as the exterior of the house. No one was in sight.

I stepped through the door, calling out again. It was chill inside — and very quiet. The roar of the swamp coolers was muted by the thick walls and roof.

The curving wall of the entry was broken by five archways. The largest, straight ahead, led into a sunken living room crammed with brown modular couches that were strewn with lighter brown pillows. In the center was a round pit fireplace with a copper hood. I went down the three steps and stood looking around. The room was quite dark, because of the lack of windows, but I noticed track lighting on the ceiling. At the far side was a wet bar and on it stood a half-full bottle of Scotch.

A living room? What people in the seventies used to call a “conversation pit”? I spied a glass on the edge of the fireplace, about a quarter full of amber liquid and small fragments of ice. I went over and lifted it gingerly, sniffed its contents. Scotch, like the bottle on the bar. Someone had been sitting here with a pretty hefty drink — and not all that long ago.

Who? Sugarman? Probably. But then why hadn’t she answered my call?

I went back to the entry and through the next archway, calling out again. It opened into a formal dining room, replete with a huge table and silver candelabra. The table, however, was only two feet off the ground and surrounded by mats and pillows. It would have reminded me of a traditional Japanese restaurant, except the decor — ornate red and gold and black — was distinctly non-Oriental.

A swinging door led from the dining room to a kitchen full of stainless steel, butcher-block wood, a huge range, and three refrigerators. It had a sterile appearance, as if it hadn’t been used in a while. Retracing my steps through the dining room, I headed for the entry to try another of the archways. This time I didn’t call out; something about the silence in the house told me no one was here, in spite of Sugarman’s car.

The archway I chose led into a hall with six doors leading off it. I opened one and saw a round room — one of the cylindrical shapes I’d noticed from the front of the house — equipped with a water bed. There was clothing in the dresser drawers and in the closet — both men’s and women’s — but not more than one would need for a weekend. A connecting bath also contained only the necessities. I went through the door on the other side of it and stepped into a room with king-sized bed.

A woman’s tan leather purse lay on the bed, next to a half-packed overnight case. I picked up the purse, rummaged inside it, and found a wallet containing Karyn Sugarman’s driver’s license and credit cards.

She wouldn’t have gone away and left both her purse and her car. Unless she was out walking in the desert...

In this heat? She’d have to be crazy.

I looked more closely at the overnight case. It was partially filled with underthings, and one drawer of the dresser stood open. From the way the clothing was jumbled in the case, I guessed she had been packing rather than unpacking.

Why? I wondered. From what her secretary had implied, she’d only gone out of town this morning. Had she arrived here, unpacked and then changed her mind about staying? If so, what had caused that change? Or had she come here for the purpose of reclaiming these things?