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“I’ll have a photograph soon, so I can show you the whole thing, but I do remember three of them. The first two I already knew: the signs for male and female. The third one was a circle with a dot in the middle.”

She smiled and nodded. “Mars, Venus, and the Sun. That was an astrological chart, Joe. It didn’t have a date or a name anywhere on it?”

I shook my head. “It might have at one point; that may explain the tear. Could you tell anything about it if I showed it to you?”

“Probably not. I could identify most of the symbols, and with enough time, I might be able to give a very general reading using the few books I’ve got, but I think Billie Lucas is the person you want to talk to. She’s been doing them for years and she’s very good. I had lunch with her today, in fact.”

I instinctively demurred. Confiding in Gail was one thing, but the idea of officially consulting an astrologer brought out the skeptic in me.

“I don’t know. I don’t take that stuff too seriously.”

She shrugged. “Can’t hurt to try. If you don’t like what you hear, you can forget it. I’ve had Billie do my chart-yours, too, in fact. It taught me a few things about myself I hadn’t realized.” I was amused at her admission, and curiously touched. “How’d I come out?”

“She said you were one of the most sensible things I’d ever done.” She smiled before forging ahead. “There’s a lot of shading in astrology, of course, a lot of ‘he could be this way, or he could be the other, depending on this or that.’ That’s why some people use charts to let themselves off the hook. But a good reader like Billie might be useful; it could turn out to be like an artist’s sketch-close enough to be handy.

“Besides,” she added pointedly, “it sounds like that chart’s the only real thing you’ve got, and it was the only thing that got stolen. It must have something going for it. You want me to call Billie and set something up?”

I stood up, still not convinced. “Yeah, okay-try to tell her diplomatically that I don’t want to spend a lot of time on this, though. I agree I ought to check it out, but I still don’t have much faith in it. It smacks of voodoo and crystal balls.” I checked my watch. “I better run, or Harriet’ll have my head. There is one other thing: Outside of the local food co-ops in town, are there any other health-food wholesalers Fuller might have used for his supplies?”

She thought for a moment. “How varied was the garden?”

“Enough that I sure didn’t recognize much. Some of it was decorative, but it was mostly produce. And the house was filled with the kind of seeds, grains, nuts, and rabbit pellets you people call food.”

She grinned and poked me with her foot. “Did he sell any of it?”

“Coyner did the selling, in exchange for rent; I’m going to have someone look into that end of it.”

“But Coyner wouldn’t tell you where the supplies were bought?”

“Not yet, and he may not; he’s not feeling very friendly right now.”

“Let me call around. I won’t mention names,” she added, anticipating what I was about to say. I kissed her quickly before heading out the door. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“My pleasure. There is a price, though: dinner at my place tonight?”

I made a face. “Can I bring my own food?”

“No.” She laughed and threw a pencil at the door.

I was just about to climb the long set of stone steps leading from Main Street to the Municipal Building when I heard Allen Rogers call me from across the street. “Hey,” he said, waving an oversized envelope out the driver’s window of his car. “How’s this for service?”

“Great, Al. I appreciate it.” I crossed over to him as he backed into a parking space.

“No sweat-I was heading home. By the way, were you alone when you were photographing that chart?”

I looked at him carefully. “Yes. Why?”

He got out of the car and joined me on the sidewalk, an excited smile on his face. “Well, I did the print like you asked, as a close-up of the chart, but the negative included both the chart and the window below it, so I did a full-frame proof first.” He handed me the envelope. “Open it.”

I did so, spreading the contents out on Allen’s car hood. There were three photographs: one of the chart, in high contrast to make it easily legible; one of both the window and the chart above it, in which the exposure had been cut back to favor the latter; and one of just the window, exposed to favor the stronger outside light. In this last picture, badly out of focus and distorted by the window’s cheap glass, was the unmistakable figure of a human being, lurking at the edge of the blurry trees.

“Interesting?” Allen asked, his face beaming.

“Very,” I muttered.

“You know who it is? I can’t even tell if it’s a man or a woman.”

“I think it’s a thief,” I answered. “And maybe worse.”

6

Sammie Martens and Dennis DeFlorio, the two squad members I’d asked Harriet to locate earlier, were waiting for me in my office. I invited Willy Kunkle to join us and sat on the edge of my desk to address them.

I began with Sammie and Dennis. “Have you two been brought up to date?”

“Ron did the honors,” Sammie answered, “And we’ve read the reports.”

“Good. Sammie, I’d like you to check out the hospital. Interview everyone who had anything to do with Abraham Fuller, from the nurses and orderlies to the finance people who got the cash from him. Then I’d like you to check out Fred Coyner’s records at the tax assessor’s office, the county clerk’s, and anywhere else he may have left a paper trail.”

Samantha Martens, intense, dogged, enthusiastic, occasionally bullheaded, was never going to give anyone cause to use her gender against her. Even Kunkle conceded that she’d never be caught napping. She pulled out her pad and made a few notes.

DeFlorio, by contrast, was fat, short, sometimes laid-back to a fault, and no candidate for a Ph.D.-but he did what was asked of him with rarely a complaint. On my bad days, that alone could put him higher in my estimation than his brighter colleagues.

“Dennis,” I resumed, “I’d like you to contact all police agencies in the New England area with what we’ve got on Fuller so far and see if you get lucky. Ask them about any old shootings in which Fuller might have played a part. And remember, if he does have a record, chances are that’s not his real name. Also, make a list of the serial numbers from Fuller’s loot and send it to the Secret Service to see if it’s stolen. And get the paperwork started on requests for information from the IRS and Social Security, just to see if there ever was an Abraham Fuller.”

Dennis DeFlorio merely nodded.

The phone rang in the other room.

“Willy, see what you can get on Fred Coyner from his neighbors, old employers, and others; maybe Sammie can locate some of those names from the records. And check out this produce business he had going with Fuller-where he bought the tools, seeds, and whatnot, and where he unloaded what Fuller grew. I’m curious about how much business we’re talking about. Gail Zigman said she’d check into potential sources for Fuller’s gardening supplies, on the chance he didn’t use mainstream wholesalers or retailers. I’ll let you know what she comes up with tomorrow morning. Also, Harriet’s put together a list of bookstores that Coyner or Fuller might have used to fill up that library. Poke around and see if anyone remembers either one of them frequenting their business.”

Willy Kunkle, true to form, merely scratched himself and looked out the window.

Harriet stuck her head in. “Billie Lucas is on the phone. Want to take it?”

I nodded to her. “I think we’re set here. Any questions?” All three officers prepared to leave.

“By the way, does anyone know if J.P.’s totaled up the money we found in Fuller’s house?” I asked as they began filing out the door.

“About three hundred thousand,” Sammie answered.

Billie Lucas’s voice was low, clear, and oddly soothing, like the archetypal psychiatrist. “Gail Zigman asked if I wanted to play detective with you. It’s an intriguing offer.”