Once inside Uncle Archibald’s Tudor-style mansion, Harry smiled at the old man sitting comfortably in his suede Lazy Boy with the "Wall Street Journal" within easy reach. Harry avoided looking at all the alarm clocks that surrounded them. People thought Uncle Archibald was bonkers, but Harry had to admire his uncle’s craftiness.

    "Still got the clocks running, I see," Harry shook his uncle’s dry cold hand, surprised to note that Uncle Archibald was wearing his blue cashmere sweater. Strange. Archibald was a creature of habit and for as long as Harry could remember his uncle always wore his green sweater on Friday. Maybe the change was his way of kicking over the traces——living dangerously.

    "The clocks are my lifeline," Archibald said. "They’re my memory. If it weren’t for those clocks to keep me on schedule, the court would have sent me to a nursing home months ago. Those clocks and Nettie Finnegan help me keep my dignity, my health, and my home."

    "You’re looking great, Uncle Archibald." But you won’t look great for long, you old coot. Harry felt the gun in his pocket. He was Archibald McNamara’s sole heir and he was tired of waiting for his inheritance. The old man had lived a full life. Who’d ever miss him? After that last gambling spree in Vegas, Harry sensed his credit rating in danger of extinction.

    Harry jumped as the Seth Thomas on the mantle sounded its alarm accompanied by a voice reminder. Time for two pink pills, Archibald.

    "Surprised you, right?" Uncle Archibald chuckled at Harry’s reaction. "Nettie helped me get my voice alarms installed on every clock. My memory was getting so bad I couldn’t remember what the generic alarms signified when they sounded. Now I make few mistakes. Two pills, Archibald. Time for lunch, Archibald. Bedtime, Archibald." He chuckled. "Never thought I’d be caught talking to myself."

    "Voice alarms," Harry said. "A brilliant idea. Really brilliant."

    "I use all the clocks in a rotation pattern," Archibald said. "The variety of sounds helps keep me on my toes. Tell me how you’ve been, Harry. What’s new in your life?"

    That was Harry’s cue. He pulled out his gun with its silencer, aimed, and fired one shot into his uncle’s temple. Uncle Archie felt no pain and it happened so quickly he didn’t even have time to look surprised

    Blood. Of course there was blood. Harry tried to look away from it as it stained the blue sweater, the suede Lazy Boy, the Oriental carpet. His hand shook as he dropped the gun back into his pocket.

    Nettie wouldn’t find the body until tomorrow morning. From now on every second brought Harry closer to his inheritance. Millions. It had to be millions. He knew it would take months to get the estate settled. No sense in not helping himself to a few perks right now.

    Carefully he opened his uncle’s desk and slipped a thick packet of hundred dollar bills into his pocket. Walking-around money, Uncle Archibald always called it. Harry slipped the diamond-studded Rolex from his uncle’s wrist. He’d always wanted a Rolex. From his uncle’s closet he took five cashmere sweaters. He really liked the blue one his uncle had on, but no. Removing a sweater from a dead body wasn’t his thing.

    Leaving quietly, Harry left the door unlocked. That was part of his plan, to make it look as if Nettie had been careless about locking up. Anyone could have entered through an unlocked door. He walked a couple of blocks to the spot where he had parked his car on a seldom-used street. And he drove home. The perfect crime! Tonight he would toss the gun into the river on the way to the homeless shelter. In a short time he would be a millionaire enjoying The Good Life in Uncle Archibald’s mansion.

    Harry was still debating on whether to keep the mansion or sell it and move to Vegas when someone knocked at his door. Quickly he shoved his jacket into the closet, composed himself as best he could, and opened the door. Two police officers and Nettie Finnegan stood on his doorstep.

    "Harry McNamara?" one of the officers asked.

    "That’s him all right." Nettie Finnegan peered up at him. "I didn’t leave that door unlocked. I always make sure the door is locked before I leave. Harold’s the only one who could have entered Archibald’s house. He’s the only one with a key other than me."

    "You are Harold McNamara?" the officer asked again, ignoring Nettie’s comments.

    "Yes, sir. I am." Reluctantly he invited the officers and Nettie inside. "What is the purpose of this call?"

    "Mrs. Finnegan has just found your uncle’s body at his home. We’d like you to come with us to headquarters and answer a few questions."

    "His body?" Harry feigned surprise, then bowed his head in what he hoped appeared to be grief. "I’m a suspect?" Harry asked.

    "Dern tootin you are," Nettie said, glaring at him. "I stopped by the house unexpectedly to return a sweater I had taken to the tailor for mending. Archie was always upset if he didn’t have his green sweater to wear on Fridays. When I entered the living room, I found him . . . dead."

    "I’m devastated," Harry pulled out a handkerchief and patted his eyes. "Uncle Archibald and I were very close. Of course I’ll go with you. I have nothing to hide, and I want his killer found. I feel guilty now to realize I haven’t been to see him for over two weeks."

    "Please come along with us," the officer insisted. "We’ll hear your story at headquarters."

    They were going out the door when Archibald’s voice stopped them. "Six o'clock. Time for the pink pills, Archibald."