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Prologue

Mine Eyes Dazzle

Well, knock me over with a wolverine and suck me up with a second-hand Hoover.

I could not be more surprised had Mr. Elvis Presley himself materialized in Miss Temple Barr's living room, although I doubt that even the King would have the gall to wear a Hawaiian shirt of such particularly lurid design.

This last item of apparel is so electrifyingly florid that I am forced to squint my eyes semi-shut. A pity. That delays my analysis of the individual who has committed the taste-defying act of wearing such a garment.

Miss Temple Barr, however, is not one to be distracted by an aura of rotting flora when there is an intruder in the house.

And there is no doubt that the gentleman who has been kind enough to fetch her sunglasses from the patio is an intruder, although he is apparently known to her. He is vaguely familiar to me as well, though it pains me to admit acquaintance with one so deficient in wardrobe coordination skills.

In fact, as mine eyes adjust to the pineapple/passion fruit dazzle, I manage to study this trespasser from head to toe. This is a time-consuming job, given the dude's impressive height, but luckily I am lying down, so it is not a physical strain.

Here are the facts: the intruder is a thirty-something Caucasian male, six-feet-something in height, whip-snake-narrow in width, with a head of thick black hair that is almost as shiny and well-tended as mine.

I must say I approve of the hair, if little else.

But I am not an ace detective for naught, and am as able to draw an inference as an inside straight. Despite the lurid gasoline-spill tinted sunglasses that shade this dude's eyes, I would bet that they are as green as string beans. Maybe greener, since most of the string beans of my acquaintance have been overcooked to an unappetizing avocado color.