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.”
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.”
I gave an embarrassed laugh, covering my own mixed feelings about this whole idea. “I’m not sure if it’ll be as much fun as it sounds. I came across an astrological chart in one of my investigations, and Gail mentioned you might be able to give me an idea of the person whose chart it is.”
“I can certainly try. I’d like to have some time alone to examine it before we meet, though. I’ll need to consult some reference books, and maybe redo it in my own style. There are a considerable number of variables involved.”
I rolled my eyes at the phone—already the escape clauses were being penciled in. “No problem. Where should I send a copy?”
“I’m guessing you want this done pretty quickly. Why don’t you leave it with your dispatcher, and I’ll pick it up later tonight. We can meet tomorrow morning. Then I’ll have a better idea of how I can help you.”
At least her sense of timing was good. “Well, I appreciate your help. You sure it’s no trouble?”
“No, no. I’m looking forward to it; this is a first for me. Can you come by my place at around nine? It’s on Whipple Street—the house with the picket fence out front.”
“You got it. See you at nine.” I broke the connection and dialed the extension to the conference room. Ron picked up on the third ring, sounding harassed.
“Did you get anything on that currency collector you mentioned?”
His voice regained some of its usual enthusiasm. “Yeah, I did—Richard Schimke, Rich to his friends. He specializes in American money, mostly Confederate and earlier, but he knows a lot about currency generally, and he’s easy to get along with. I’d be happy to do it for you.”
“How’s it going with your paper chase?”
“Almost finished—just a few odds and ends.”
“All right, it’s a deal. But remember, we don’t have enough to get a search warrant for any of Coyner’s records right now. You’re going to have to be careful finding out where he banks and what he’s been up to. Get people to volunteer information to you, okay?”
He sounded like a sailor with a fresh wind in his sails. “You got it.”
· · ·
I finished what was left of my vegetarian lasagna and sat back in my chair, feeling full and content. Gail was mopping up the last of the sauce from her plate with a piece of French bread. She popped it in her mouth and smiled at me. “So, how was it?”
The usual kidding I gave her couldn’t compete. “Delicious—you win.”
I helped her clear the table and began filling the kitchen sink with soapy dishwater while she put the leftovers in the fridge.
Gail and I had been a couple for over a decade by now, and yet we still lived apart. Losing a wife to cancer had made me shy of repeating that degree of intimacy. Gail believed that a shared mortgage and the risk of one of us evicting the other in a dispute would undermine the honesty of our relationship. Both arguments had their flaws, but the bottom line was that we both liked things the way they were.
The dishes done, we left the kitchen area and climbed a dizzying, freestanding set of stairs to a loft with a sofa and a picture window overlooking the moonlit tumult of hills where the West River and the Connecticut River valleys converge.
Gail settled in a nest of pillows, leaving the lights off so that the dim blue-gray view could spread into the room like water spilled from a pail. I sat next to her and stretched my stockinged feet across the coffee table before us.
“Did Billie get in touch?” she asked sleepily.
“Yeah. Told me to leave a copy of the chart at the PD so she could check it out tonight, before we meet tomorrow morning.”
Gail chuckled. “That’s Billie, all right. I’m glad I thought of her; if anyone can decipher that chart, she can.”
I was a little surprised. “Why wouldn’t you have thought of her? I thought she did it for a living.”
“Oh, no. She does get paid for it, but that’s just to stop her friends from bugging her for free readings. She’s a potter, and a very good one; sells to companies who want to decorate their boardrooms and corner offices. She also has pieces in a museum or two. I met her through VermontGreen; she’s our activities coordinator this year.”
VermontGreen was a headline-grabbing environmental group that was doing all in its power to keep Vermont rural. It had some good ideas and made effective use of the media, but, like most single-issue outfits, it treated its detractors like reactionary industrialists hell-bent on paving the state over. Gail was a member, albeit a moderate one, which made debating the group’s merits something I tended to avoid.
I therefore kept my voice strictly neutral. “You say she’s very gung ho?”
Gail nodded approvingly. “Oh, yes. This year, it’s activities coordinator, but she’s always heading up something, plus doing a ton of other things. On top of the pottery, the astrology, and VermontGreen, she also teaches pottery to both adults and children, and runs a kind of halfway house out of her home for just about anyone who needs a shoulder to cry on. Amazing woman, and a good listener. You’ll like her.”
I didn’t answer, and she interpreted my silence accurately.
“Still bugged about the astrology? It’s no stranger than some of the other things you’ve relied on, and she’s well trained. She’s been doing it for years, and she’s a bit of a skeptic herself—avoids the mumbo jumbo. Besides, if you don’t like what you hear, I’ll find you another left-wing loonie to talk to—maybe someone who’s into crystals or pyramids. The boys’ll love that.”
I conceded defeat. “All right. I’ve already committed myself. Did you manage to dig up any other natural-foods suppliers?”
“Just one. Who do you have looking into that?”
“Kunkle.”
She laughed. “Oh, perfect. Tell him to contact Sunshine Jackson in Guilford. He supplies a lot of people who think the Food Co-op is a subdivision of Dow Chemical.”
I pulled my small notebook from my pocket and wrote down Jackson’s name, not that I thought I’d easily forget it.
“I take it you still don’t know who shot that man, or who stole the chart?”
I rested my head against the pillow behind me and watched the moon between half-closed lids. “Nope. I think Coyner’s hiding something, but I don’t know what. He may be the beginning and the end of this case, or he may just be a suspicious old woodchuck who resents his property being invaded. Hard to say.”
“And all you’ve got is the chart and some money.”
I was silent for a while, thinking about that. “That’s the sexy stuff; there is more.”
Gail sounded surprised. “What?”
“The house itself, for one—it was like a shrine to his own emptiness.” I envisioned the contents of his house slowly parading by in the half-light before me, including those most cherished possessions that he’d hidden away especially. “And there was a holster without a gun… and a few old bullets.”
She mulled that over, similarly baffled. “Why keep those?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, “but I think I’ll make an effort to find that missing gun.”