Chapter 3

Betty and Harold Masterton, my neighbors, were retired and in their late sixties. Harold had made his money in real estate development way back in the heady eighties. They’d been my neighbors when I bought the house, some two years ago. In those two years, we’d conversed occasionally when bumping into each other at the end of our drives.

The seclusion and privacy of Beverly Hills was designed to discourage familiarity but I couldn’t help notice how Betty and Harold seemed to have classic cocktail parties three or four times a week, the big band music and babble of voices reaching me when I sat on my patio. Their soirées would go on into the early hours. It never bothered me. It wasn’t as if I had guests that were being disturbed by the noise. Besides, it was a sign of life in the neighborhood.

Through Amelia, I discovered her aunt and uncle were fun-loving lushes, inebriated almost every night. Neither mistreated her. By all accounts, they were pleasant and generous. Amelia’s only complaint was she’d occasionally miss singing classes because they were a bit forgetful when they’d drink. It was one such occasion that saw the deepening of our friendship. A Saturday morning.