A Perfect House For a Murder

An aspiring mystery writer will go to any lengths to research his story—but his perfect setting might prove to be more than he bargained for.

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The house was perfect. It was a large white three-storied mid-Victorian with a mansard roof, a smooth green lawn and big stately maples shading it. It had a semi-circular drive where a sleek black car would pull in after dark bringing an unexpected guest, its headlights sweeping in under the portico at the front door, and long French windows all around the ground floor where the murderer could get in by a loose catch. Of course it was really probably someone who was already inside, but it would be made to look like the murderer had come through the window. There was even a little white gazebo in the grounds, where two people holding a clandestine conversation couldn’t be seen through the latticed sides, but one of them could be overheard to make a significant remark (probably “I’m afraid of him, I tell you,” or “This can’t go on much longer. We’ll have to do something about it”). Two people would be a tight fit, since the gazebo was only about the size of a telephone booth, but he could make it bigger in the book.