Free Design on a Crime by Ginny Aiken

while I waste gas,
am l?"

    I pulled into a strip mall about a half mile away from the
entrance to the enclave of mansions. That's what I called them.
Most residents preferred the euphemism "luxury home."
    They were luxurious, all right. I'd love to land a contract to
do one or two. That'd set me up for years to come. But they'd
still be mansions, no matter what.
    At the moment, though, the only one I cared about was
the cedar, glass, and steel one at the end of the cul-de-sac.
I didn't bother to lock my Honda. It looked ridiculously
humble among the Saabs, BMWs, Mercedes, and Volvos in
the parking lot.
    I hurried toward the Norwalk home. But by the time I
reached the lush rhododendrons at the end of the long driveway, I still had nothing but the need to know who'd killed
Marge. I'd take any idea right about now, no matter how
crazy, even something Bella cooked up.
    Oh, don't be such a wimp! Thus bolstered, I approached the
front door. As I aimed for the bell, music wafted from the
backyard.
    Strange. You'd figure a widower of only days would be
more likely to spend time in silent reflection remembering
his late wife. But if I wasn't mistaken, Steve Norwalk had
chosen the lush, sensual sound of Ravel's "Bolero" for this
morning's tune.
    I figured I'd better not make much noise. At the very least,
I didn't know if I'd find the man weeping because the music
had held some particular meaning for him and Marge. I
wouldn't want to just burst in on him.
    Then I heard a giggle. A feminine giggle. A flirty feminine
giggle. That didn't sound like a lot of grieving going on.

    I took my time and was pretty careful about where I
crept. As I came to the end of the side walkway, I grinned.
Up ahead sat the perfect cover. Because Marge's new home
was such a chichi place, even the trash rated its own private
abode. I'd laughed myself silly when she'd shown me the
shed.
    "Hey!" she'd cried. "I don't want garbage and recycling
junk to mess up the curb appeal."
    Now I was glad she'd had the foresight. If I pushed the
cracked-open door a bit further, I could hide behind it and still
see the backyard through the space between the hinges.
    Which is what I did.
    And nearly blew my excellent cover. The sight of Steve
Norwalk and Noreen Daventry in bathing suits-if one could
call the Band-Aids they wore on their buff bodies bathing
suits-and wrapped around each other nearly made me
puke.
    How dare they! Poor Marge wasn't even in the ground yet,
and here they were cavorting in her house, her pool. I glared
at them.
    They were way too close for new acquaintances. Had Marge
known about the affair?
    Maybe I wouldn't get to ask Steve any pointed questions
today, but at least I'd learned something new. There was another suspect in the design of this crime, and her name was
Noreen.
    That brought up another question. Should I stay and see
if I could hear anything that might incriminate them? Or
should I head straight for Detective Tsu's office with my
discovery?

    As I pondered my dilemma, a strange squeak came from
my left, right behind the gargantuan trash toter our fair hamlet
provides its residents for their refuse.
    I'm not crazy about scavengers. Give me dogs, cats, bunnies, even the occasional guinea pig, but real rodents? Reptiles? Vultures and buzzards? Uh-uh. I'll pass on those.
    I scooted out as far as possible and still remain hidden
behind the door. Of course, I tripped-on a huge beat-up
running shoe, foot within.
    To my credit, I didn't scream. But the inhuman squeal that
rose from behind the trash can scared about ten years off my
life. A pair of rats sped past me. Their humongous size horrified me, so I zigged when they zagged and brought my heel
down on the grungy sneaker.
    "What do you think you're doing?" Dutch snarled.
    When my heart resumed beating, I said, "Ah ... well ... I
wanted to pay my condolences ... Yeah, that's it. I wanted
to pay Steve Norwalk a condolence call."
    Dutch gave me