One of the things I loved about this place was that it was up on a little hill—not large enough to worry too much about mudslides, a frequent worry here, but enough so you could look over the walled-in backyard and get pretty spectacular views of the city and even your neighbors’ more extravagant homes.
The owner of our particular bungalow was the son of an old Hollywood B movies actress. She’d owned it herself until she’d gone to live in the Motion Picture and Television Fund Home in Woodland Hills. The son had a larger home closer to where his mother was now but didn’t want to part with a huge piece of his family’s history.
“Jerry?”
I involuntarily shivered at the deep timbre of his voice as he came up behind me while I looked out over the wall. I turned slightly to face him. “I go by
