looked like four different houses of different heights that had been crammed together. The gabled and flat roofs intersected at odd angles, creating a collision of geometric shapes. Errant beams seemed to jut out like broken bones and the windows looked like enormous glass shards.
The house was an intentional rebuke of architectural symmetry and Monk regarded it like it was Bob Sebes’ feet.
And yet, I liked it. Despite all the bizarre angles, and the extraneous structural elements that looked as if someone forgot to saw them off, the sprawling house blended naturally into the wooded surroundings.
There were houses just like Haxby’s all over Marin County and the California coast. But since Monk didn’t get around much, he hadn’t been exposed to what architects would call the New Shingle or Shed Modern style. I called it Rich Hippie Chic. Monk had a different name for it.
“That house is an abomination. It should be demolished.”
“The crime scene is around back,” Stottlemeyer said, ignoring Monk’s architectural review.
We followed the captain, our feet crunching and crackling on the loose gravel and pine needles. Monk grimaced, trying and failing to find a clean path.
“This is like walking on hot coals, except that I would prefer the coals.”
“They’d burn your feet off,” Disher said.
“And any germs along with them. Walking on pine needles is deadlier than walking on used syringes. One poke and you’re dead.”
We reached the backyard and Monk jumped on the wooden patio as if it was a life raft. From where he stood, we could survey the yard.
Thick bushes had been planted to create a green border around the backyard that didn’t obstruct the view of the bay. It could be seen between the trees from the first- floor windows of the house or from the hot tub, which looked like a large wooden barrel that had been cut in half and set into the patio. Just outside of the bushes, at the far end of the property, was a cedar-shingled tool shed that matched the style of the house but had a half-moon cutout in the door.
The hot tub was empty now and cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape that was tied around two deck chairs and two of the posts of the wooden overhang that shaded the patio.
“The zapper was hanging from a hook on one of these two-by-fours.” Stottlemeyer pointed to one of the slats that made up the top of the overhang. “The hook was old and rusty. Maybe a gust of wind came up and knocked the zapper into the hot tub.”
“If the zapper was plugged into a ground fault circuit interrupter outlet, Haxby would have survived,” Monk said.
“But it wasn’t,” Stottlemeyer said. “The house was built in the 1960s and I guess Haxby never got around to upgrading his outlets.”
Monk squatted and examined the electric plug against the house.
“This is a new outlet,” he said.
“How can you tell?” I asked.
“The screws are all shiny.” Monk walked around and examined the other outlets. “These are all new outlets. Why would someone replace the outdoor outlets and not upgrade them to National Electrical Code standards?”
“Because he was an idiot, or lazy, or cheap,” Stottlemeyer said. “Maybe he hired an unlicensed electrician who didn’t know what the hell he was doing. Violating the National Electrical Code isn’t evidence of a murder.”
Monk approached the hot tub, his head cocked to one side, his hands framing the scene in front of him.
“Did Haxby live here alone?” Monk asked.
“Yes, but he often had guests,” Disher said. “Of the single-female variety.”
“How often did he use the hot tub?”
“His neighbors say they could hear it going every night,” Disher said. “Sometimes he was alone, and sometimes he had little parties in there with several guests of the single-female variety at one time.”
“So, in other words, a variety of single females of the single-female variety,” Stottlemeyer said.
“I guess so,” Disher
The house was an intentional rebuke of architectural symmetry and Monk regarded it like it was Bob Sebes’ feet.
And yet, I liked it. Despite all the bizarre angles, and the extraneous structural elements that looked as if someone forgot to saw them off, the sprawling house blended naturally into the wooded surroundings.
There were houses just like Haxby’s all over Marin County and the California coast. But since Monk didn’t get around much, he hadn’t been exposed to what architects would call the New Shingle or Shed Modern style. I called it Rich Hippie Chic. Monk had a different name for it.
“That house is an abomination. It should be demolished.”
“The crime scene is around back,” Stottlemeyer said, ignoring Monk’s architectural review.
We followed the captain, our feet crunching and crackling on the loose gravel and pine needles. Monk grimaced, trying and failing to find a clean path.
“This is like walking on hot coals, except that I would prefer the coals.”
“They’d burn your feet off,” Disher said.
“And any germs along with them. Walking on pine needles is deadlier than walking on used syringes. One poke and you’re dead.”
We reached the backyard and Monk jumped on the wooden patio as if it was a life raft. From where he stood, we could survey the yard.
Thick bushes had been planted to create a green border around the backyard that didn’t obstruct the view of the bay. It could be seen between the trees from the first- floor windows of the house or from the hot tub, which looked like a large wooden barrel that had been cut in half and set into the patio. Just outside of the bushes, at the far end of the property, was a cedar-shingled tool shed that matched the style of the house but had a half-moon cutout in the door.
The hot tub was empty now and cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape that was tied around two deck chairs and two of the posts of the wooden overhang that shaded the patio.
“The zapper was hanging from a hook on one of these two-by-fours.” Stottlemeyer pointed to one of the slats that made up the top of the overhang. “The hook was old and rusty. Maybe a gust of wind came up and knocked the zapper into the hot tub.”
“If the zapper was plugged into a ground fault circuit interrupter outlet, Haxby would have survived,” Monk said.
“But it wasn’t,” Stottlemeyer said. “The house was built in the 1960s and I guess Haxby never got around to upgrading his outlets.”
Monk squatted and examined the electric plug against the house.
“This is a new outlet,” he said.
“How can you tell?” I asked.
“The screws are all shiny.” Monk walked around and examined the other outlets. “These are all new outlets. Why would someone replace the outdoor outlets and not upgrade them to National Electrical Code standards?”
“Because he was an idiot, or lazy, or cheap,” Stottlemeyer said. “Maybe he hired an unlicensed electrician who didn’t know what the hell he was doing. Violating the National Electrical Code isn’t evidence of a murder.”
Monk approached the hot tub, his head cocked to one side, his hands framing the scene in front of him.
“Did Haxby live here alone?” Monk asked.
“Yes, but he often had guests,” Disher said. “Of the single-female variety.”
“How often did he use the hot tub?”
“His neighbors say they could hear it going every night,” Disher said. “Sometimes he was alone, and sometimes he had little parties in there with several guests of the single-female variety at one time.”
“So, in other words, a variety of single females of the single-female variety,” Stottlemeyer said.
“I guess so,” Disher
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