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white-clapboard,
blue-shuttered chalet, eaves bearded by jigsawed trim, a porthole window over
the door suggesting the kind of seafood joint where deep-fry orders are placed
at the counter.
    “Not exactly postmodern,” muttered Milo. “Whatever the
hell that means.”
    A
wide, concrete ramp sloped up to a wooden deck. Rattan furniture was
distributed randomly. Potted geraniums sat on the rail. One corner was taken up
by a mammoth gas-powered barbecue with more controls than my Seville’s
dashboard. The goofy-looking dolphin riding the wall above the grill hadn’t
weathered well: aging Flipper on Quaaludes.
    French
doors made up the wall facing the canal. All that glass meant lots of energy
loss; no solar panels in sight. A bell on a leather thong in lieu of an
electric buzzer was the sole nod to conservation.
    Milo
tugged the thong. A deep male voice hollered, “Hold on.”
    Seconds
later, a man rolled out in a motorized wheelchair. A navy T-shirt was stretched
tight over rhino shoulders and abdominal bulk. Khaki trousers were barely
defined by stick-legs. He looked to be sixty or so, with a full head of coarse
gray hair and a bushy beard to match.
    “Help
you?”
    “Police,
sir. Is Marjorie Holman in?”
    “Police?
What’s going on?”
    “Someone
who worked for Ms. Holman’s firm was murdered.”
    “You’re
kidding.” Rapid eyeblink. “Who?”
    “Desmond
Backer.”
    “Des.”
    “You
knew him.”
    “He
came over a few times to show Marjie drawings. Murdered? That’s grotesque. How
did it happen?”
    “He
was shot, Mr. Holman.”
    “Ned.”
A meaty hand shot forward. His lips turned down. “Marjie’s going to be
extremely upset by this, I should be the one to tell her—why don’t you guys
come on in?”
    He
reversed the wheelchair into the house, motored across a big, bright room to
the bottom of an ornate oak staircase. The entire ground floor was open space
that maximized light. Sparse furnishings allowed easy turns of the chair.
    Ned Holman cupped a hand to his mouth. “Honey? Could
you please come down?”
    “What
is it?”
    “Please
come down, Marjie.”
    “Everything
all right, Ned?” Footsteps thumped.
    “I’m
fine, just come down, hon.”
    Marjorie
Holman had bounced halfway down the stairs when she saw us and stopped. Tall
and angular with a blue-gray pageboy, she had long limbs and a smallish face
dominated by owlish, black-framed glasses. A baggy orange blouse and
straight-leg jeans said little about the body beneath. Barefoot. Pink nails.
    “What’s
going on?”
    “They’re
the police. It’s about Des Backer. He was murdered.”
    A hand
flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God.”
    “Sorry,
hon,” said Ned Holman. “This was starting out as a nice day.”
    Marjorie
Holman shook our hands limply, went into the kitchen and fortified herself with
a tall pour of Sapphire gin from a frosted blue bottle. Two long swallows
brought a flush to her cheeks. She stared out the window at a coral tree in
flaming bloom.
    Her
husband rolled to her side, rubbed the small of her back.
    “I’m
okay, Ned.” Turning and facing us: “Can I get you something?”
    Wheeling
himself to the fridge, Ned Holman grabbed a handle retrofitted low, yanked the
door open, pulled out a bottle of Budweiser. A quick finger-flick popped the
cap. He caught it in one hand, rolled it between sausage fingers.
    Milo
said, “No, thanks.”
    Both
Holmans drank. He drained his beer first. She made it through half the gin
before setting the glass down. “I need some air—you’ll be okay if I take a
breather, Ned?”
    “Of
course.”
    She
motioned us out of the house, hurried down the ramp, turnedright on the footpath. Additional gulls had assembled in
the water, a grumpy quorum.
    Marjorie
Holman set out at a slow pace, walked close to the hedge, brushing her hand
along the top. “I’m still in shock. My God, when did this happen?”
    “Last
night, ma’am. He was carrying business cards, we just talked to Ms.