A squared-off hedge echoed the curves of the canal. Nice place to stroll, but no pedestrians in sight. The water was green and opaque, flecked with hyacinth and the occasional bit of trash. Ducks floated by, pausing to bob for food. A seagull faked a dive-bomb, changed course, landed on a nearby roof and squawked a nasal, political diatribe. Maybe he felt the same as Helga Gemein about humanity.

Milo said, “Always liked it here. To visit, not to live.”

“What’s wrong with living here?”

“Too hard to escape.”

Marjorie Holman’s residence was two steeply pitched stories of 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.”