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, turned right 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. Gemein.”

“Helga,” she said. “That must have been interesting.”

“How so, Ms. Holman?”

“Oh, come on,” she said. “If you talked to her, you’re not seriously asking that.”

“She is an interesting woman.”

“Do you suspect her?”

“Should we, Ms. Holman?”

“Well,” she said, “Helga is devoid of normal human emotion, but I can’t say she ever displayed any hostility to Des. In particular.”

“She was hostile in general?”

“Utterly asocial. That’s part of why we’re no longer partners. What exactly happened to Des?”

“He was shot by an unknown assailant.”

“Good God.”

“Ma’am, if there’s something to know about Helga Gemein—or anyone else—now’s the time to tell us.”

“Plainly put, Helga is a weirdo, Detective, but do I have a specific reason to think she’s a murderer? No, I don’t. What I can tell you is she’s a fraud, so anything she says is suspect. The firm never got off the ground because she conned me and Judah Cohen—the third partner.”

“Conned how?”

“There was no there there.”

“No real interest in green architecture?”