"Yes, of course, they're right down there, in the study," she said, gesturing at a hallway. "Is there anything…?"
"Just wondering about something," Lucas said vaguely.
While Sloan talked to George's wife, the neighbor ladies moved into the living room and Lucas walked through the study, a converted bedroom, looking at books. George had not been an adventuresome reader. He owned a hundred volumes on various aspects of the law, a few histories that appeared to be left over from college, a dozen popular novels that went back almost as many years, and a collection of Time-Life books on home repair. No art books. Lucas didn't know much about art, but he knew that most of the work on the walls was of the professional-decorator variety. Nothing remotely like Odilon Redon.
On the way back to the living room, Lucas scanned the framed photographs hung in the connecting hall. George at bar association meetings, accepting a gavel. George looking uneasy in new hunting clothes, a shotgun in one hand, a dead Canada goose in the other. In two photos, one black-and-white, the other color, he was singing in different bars, arms outstretched, beery faces laughing in the background. Overhead in one, a banner said "St. Pat's Day Bad Irish Tenor Contest"; in the other, a cardboard sign said "Bad Tenors."
Annette George, tired, slack-faced, was sitting at the kitchen table talking to Sloan when Lucas returned from the tour. She looked up, red-eyed, and said, "Anything?"
"Afraid not," Lucas said, shaking his head. "Was your husband interested in art at all? Painting?"
"Well, I mean… no. Not really. He thought maybe he'd like to try painting sometime, but he never had the time. And I guess it would have been out of character."
"Any interest in a guy named Odilon Redon?"
"Who? No, I never heard of him. Wait, the sculptor, you mean? He did that Thinker thing?"
"No, he was a painter, I don't think he did sculptures," Lucas said, now confused himself.
She shook her head. "No…"
"There're a couple of photographs in the hall, your husband singing in bad-Irish-tenor contests…"
"Yes, he sang every year," she said.
"Was he good? I mean, was he a natural tenor, or what?" Lucas asked.
"Yes, he was pretty good. We both sang in college. I guess if he had an art form, that was it."
"When he sang in college, what part did he sing?" Lucas asked.
"First tenor. I was an alto and we sang in a mixed choir, we'd stand next to each other… Why?"
"Nothing. I'm just trying to picture him," Lucas said. "Trying to figure out what happened."
"Oh, gosh, the things I could tell you," she said, staring vacantly at the floor. "I can't believe that he and Stephanie…"
"If it helps any, I don't believe it, either," Lucas said. "I'd appreciate it if you'd keep that under your hat for the moment."
"You don't believe?" she asked.
"No, I don't…"
Later, when Sloan and Lucas were leaving, she asked, "What am I going to do? I'm fifty…"
One of the neighbor ladies, looking at Lucas as if the question were his fault, said, "Come on, Annette, it's all right."
Sloan looked back from the sidewalk: she was still standing there, looking through the glass of the storm door. "What does that mean, about the art? And the Irish-tenor contest?" he asked, turning to Lucas. "And do you really think there's somebody else…?"
"Have you ever heard an Irish-tenor contest?" Lucas asked.
"No…"
"I did once, at the St. Pat's Day parade. The guys are tenors," Lucas said. "That's a fairly high voice-and especially a first tenor. You must've heard guys singing 'My Wild Irish Rose'? Like that. Our guy on the nine-one-one tape, I don't see how he could sing in a tenor contest. Not unless he had a terrible cold or something."
"Didn't sound like he did," Sloan said, eyes narrowing.
"No. He sounded like a baritone, or even a bass."
"And George wasn't interested in art, or what's-his-name…"
"Redon," Lucas said absently. "And this artist I talked to, he said you'd probably have to know a little about art to pull that picture out of your head. It's not one you see every day. As far as I could tell, the Georges don't have an art book in the house."
Sloan looked back at the house. Annette George was gone. "Well, if George wasn't the guy, then the real lover's in the clear. Everybody in the world's assuming that he was the guy."
"Now think about this," Lucas said, moving slowly down toward the car. "If this guy's a serial killer, why'd he go to the trouble of burying George? He didn't care about burying the other two. And dragging a body around the countryside, that's a hell of a risk. What's he hiding about George?"
"And why didn't they bury him the same night he disappeared, instead of waiting? That's even more of a risk," Sloan added.
"It's fucked up. I'm beginning to wonder if we really know what's going on," Lucas said. They'd reached the car and he leaned on a fender. "We keep looking at Bekker, because we feel like he's the guy. But it doesn't make sense from his point of view."
"Tell me," Sloan prompted.
"If Bekker's behind it, why was Armistead murdered? He claims he didn't know her, and we've got no indication that he did. Her friends certainly didn't know Bekker, because they'd remember his face. And if the killer hit George just for the thrill of it, why leave the others but bury George?"
Sloan nodded and sighed. "Like you said, it's fucked up."
"Interesting," Lucas said.
"Gimme the keys," Sloan said. "I wanna drive this piece of shit."
On the way back to City Hall, Lucas told Sloan about the gravesite, and about the deputy's line: "The game's afoot."
"Cracked us up, Swanson and me," Lucas said.
"That ain't bad," Sloan admitted. He had a weakness for wordplay. "The game's afoot."
They were headed west on I-94, and Lucas, in the passenger seat, was looking blankly at a billboard advertisement for South Dakota tourism. Afoot? "Jesus," he said. "When they dusted for prints at Bekker's place, did they do the floor outside her bathroom? The bathroom that opens off her bedroom?"
"Fuck if I know," said Sloan. "Why?"
"Footprints," Lucas said. "The lover, whoever he is, might have wiped all the handles and stuff, but I bet the sonofabitch didn't wipe the floor. And if he didn't, we might still be able to get prints. I mean, since the game is a foot…"
Cassie came over and cooked Italian, humming in the kitchen, brewing tomato sauce, dancing around and sucking on the wooden spoon as she worked in the spices. She was wearing a fuzzy sweater that clung to her, and Lucas moved around behind her, handling her, stroking her stomach.
"Christ, the muscles are unbelievable," he said.
"I pray to Jane Fonda every morning…"
"Mama's Got a Squeeze Box" came up on the radio and she tried to give him a quick dance lesson. He failed.
"You got the same problem as all large white men: you're afraid to shake your ass," she complained. "You can't dance if you don't move your ass."
"I feel ridiculous when I try to move my ass," Lucas said. He gave it a tentative shake.
"Yeah," she said, nodding, "you do look kinda weird. We could work on it…"
"Maybe I could take banjo lessons or something…"
The phone rang while they ate, and Lucas stepped into the kitchen to pick it up.