A Brilliant Plan

FOR TWENTY-TWO minutes, my mother deliberately omitted the fact that the police were waiting for me in the den with some questions regarding a murder.
After a long drive from L.A. down to San Diego, in Thanksgiving traffic hell, I parked my little red Mazda Miata in front of the House of the Moon. I angled the rear mirror and gave my face a quick check. Arranging my shoulder length blonde hair to look suitably timid, I smacked my lips several times to give them more blood and applied a gentle finger massage to the overnight pouches under my sapphire blue eyes.
My parent's house was a wooden conglomerate of assorted architectural styles with one thing in common: asymmetry. The rainbow colored street facade sported one door, that's all, no windows. From the front door, you stepped directly into the kitchen. There were two and a half stories on the left and two on the right. A mock porch was on the left of the building and a row of marble pillars and arches was on the right. Dad had made a clear statement with this house: 'We. Are. Different.' The neighbors with the perpetual worries about property values and zoning called it the 'Moon-Shed'; the bitter neighbors spoke about the 'Moon-Dump.' My sister Sunny and I just called it 'home.'
