Three houses stood side by side on Elm Street Hill, three houses that looked as if they should never have met: a yellow Swiss chalet that smelled of owls in the attic and suicides in the cellar, a great stone chateau, and a comfortable brick home. But all these houses had been built by a single family group, the Wests and the Peckhams, held close by ties which were not altogether affectionate. Rich, narrow, and self-centered, they kept their loves and hates strictly within the family.

Then, one warm April day, three young people came home to Elm Street Hill. One relative was a young girl from the mid-west, another from Hollywood, and the third a young man from Paris. No one should have known about the dark twisted chain that bound the glamorous movie star to the smug Peckham clan. But someone did. When revelation threatened, a killer struck; not once but again and again, making no bones about it.