Murder in a Nice Neighborhood
“It was in the section of Palo Alto called Professorville, built mostly around the turn of the century when Stanford was hiring faculty from East Coast universities. The new arrivals erected rambling brown-shingle homes resembling those they’d left in the East, and filled them with children. Now those houses cost fortunes.
Even Claudia’s would have gone for a pretty penny, though the paint was flaking off its windowsills, and the shingles on the roof were ruffled like a dog’s fur stroked the wrong way. There was a moon gate beside the house, overgrown with ivy, and tall somber yews guarding the front steps.
I rang the bell, but no one answered. In fact, I couldn’t even hear the bell inside—it was probably broken. Finally, clutching Bridget’s medical book, I pushed open the moon gate and went down the overgrown path that led to the backyard.
A figure was visible in the greenhouse at the rear. Between the back steps and the greenhouse door was a big garden, crammed full of stuff.
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