Miss Taylor’s bungalow was a small house of weathered rock tucked in between forbidding walled-in estates on either side, charmingly rustic and appealing in its setting of green lawns and cocopalms. The cottage was situated on the edge of the bay at the end of a hundred-foot strip of ground leading down from the street. Red and purple bougainvillea intermingled with bright orange flamevine, having outgrown the slender trellises, ran rampant over the south side and upward to partially cover the roof. A concrete driveway led in along the side of the lawn and a polished coupé was parked under the porte cochere. The coupé carried a Washington, D.C. license plate. Shayne parked behind the car and got out. The bay waters rippled with red and gold and deep purple, reflecting the colorful clouds obscuring the setting sun. A gentle wind from the east splashed the wider waves against a low concrete bulwark, making a musical sound.
