Chez Henshaw was an exceptional example of Queen Anne Style architecture. Clearly this house was "born" in about 1890, when the Mews was losing the last vestiges of its stable yard roots. The little brick row houses at the east end of the Mews, where Evangeline Fen had found cheap lodging for her family and where Gabriel and Suzanne Carbondale, and Amanda Knightbridge lived now, had been built back-alley-size for servants, tradesmen, and stablehands. They'd faced the stables while the mansions, with their landscaped front lawns, had faced eastward toward growing downtown Fenchester. But by the end of the 19th century the mansions were gone to fire and the neighborhood of new, stately brick row homes had turned inward to face the Mews Park.

The Henshaw's row house at 11th and Liberty had bay windows and a rounded tower crowned with an ornate copper lightning rod. It was even fancier than Farrel and Jessie's place on the other side of the Mews.

I walked up the steps to the wide porch with its heavy doric columns and glanced in the broad front window but the shades were drawn. The entryway was a jewel. Both the door and its flanking windows featured ornately cut gla.s.s in a swirling arc pattern. When the afternoon sun shone through, it must have cast a thousand rainbows around the living room. But today was too gray to even flicker a sun dog.

Lois Henshaw answered the bell key before I'd finished one twist. A little white cat with the biggest ears I'd ever seen wove around her legs.

Lois often insisted that she was not the brightest bulb in the string of pickle lights. She'd found her place in the neighborhood pecking order in the role of cla.s.s clown. But at the moment she was an incongruous cross between the dictionary ill.u.s.tration of stress and a young Carol Burnett.

Lois's thick red bangs framed her animated face. Her movements were broad and exaggerated. She smiled and greeted me, but there was a brittleness in her tone. Though she was giving it everything she had clown-wise, the best she could muster was Emmet Kelly.

"What a beautiful house," I said a second before I had a chance to get a full gander inside. The interior architecture was delightful. Dark oak moldings with fascinating structural details. The furnishings, however, screamed, What was I thinking? It was an ebay nightmare.

The Danish Modern motif couldn't have clashed more with the house's style. The most serious problem was the colors. The orange and avocado would have rocked a 1970s retro but were a design school bad joke in this s.p.a.ce. I suddenly had a craving for a Tab.

On the walls were three large specimens of the worst ma.s.s-produced dreck I'd seen in a long time. Wishing-Well Scene over the fireplace, Venetian Gondolas over the couch. And I swear I'm not making this up,-Clown Portrait over a blond-wood sideboard in the dining room.

Lois saw me looking and sighed. "I know, everything's ghastly. These gosh-awful paintings! I picked them on purpose at one of those parking lot tent sales. I figured, choose something that makes a sensitive person barf and maybe Samson would notice and help me."

Or cringe, I thought. "Did it work?" I asked.

"Nuh uh. Um, let's go in the kitchen."

It was magnificent and therefore uncommon to Queen Anne row houses. In that era, inconvenient kitchens were built unsympathetically for the help, but this s.p.a.ce would have thrilled Jessie Wiggins. It was s.p.a.cious, tiled, and had everything a serious cook could ever want. They could have shot a promo for the Iron Chef in there.

Little Pitchers the cat ran into the kitchen and played frantically by herself the entire time we talked. Lois watched her rather than looking at me.

Lois said, "Samson's really the chef. I'm... Would you like a snack? I just took these out of the oven." She pushed a plate of dark brown cookies across the counter toward me. "Go on, I just made them."

I dutifully took one. I'm rather devoted to good cookies, but this one was as hard as dried clay and amazingly tasteless. As though it was made solely of water and some kind of fiber-heavy grain. Actually, I couldn't tell if it was grain or burlap. No, burlap would have more flavor.

"You hate 'em, don't you?" She bit into one herself and shook her head. "Oh geez, I do too. I must have left out some of the ingredients. Honestly, if I'd been the cook for the Donner Party, they still would have eaten each other. I'm clueless about food; I thought Edith Piaf was a rice dish before I met Samson. I'm better at the cleaning up." Lois snagged the cookie plate, fiercely dumped the cookies into the garbage can, and went to the sink to scrub the plate.

As she did I noticed that any lingering cooking aromas were masked by the odor of cleaning products. They made the place smell like a swimming pool... in a hospital.

"There are worse obsessions," I suggested.

"Maggie, I'm kind of the obsessive type, but I don't have any illusions. I'm not smart. Like, when they started doing opposite side of the street parking all I could think of was that both sides are the opposite side. I'm a goof, but..." She turned to me and said sadly, "I love him."

"You're being kind of hard on yourself, Lois, and you're being hard on that plate too. You'll wash the flower pattern off it if you keep scrubbing like that."

"Oh!" said Lois speaking to the object in her hands. "I'm sorry little plate." She began patting it dry. "I have a report from another investigator I guess you should see." She was still talking to the plate but she meant it for me.

I said, "Why don't you just tell me about it."

"Well, it's just that I want to know why he's always out."

I said, as gently as possible, "Have you considered asking him?"

"Every one of the investigators says that," she whined.

"Every one? How many have there been?" I stood up and took a step back. "Lois, I'm not trying to be rude, but you're going to have to answer a few questions if you want to employ me. That's the way I work. It doesn't make much sense for you to pay me to ferret out information from you."

Lois nodded silently.

"Usually when a woman feels this way about her husband it's because she doesn't trust him. Or is it communication? Maybe couples counseling is a better choice than a P.I. with a big magnifying gla.s.s."

"I asked him to go to counseling, but he says there's no reason to. He used to be an architect, but that kind of dried up. We have rental properties. We live off those. We used to work together fixing them up. But he says he doesn't need me to help any more."

My mind ran over a variety of reasons a middle-aged man might not be spending every waking hour with his wife. There were even a number of innocent ones.

I opened the yellow envelope that held reports from two other investigators and scanned them quickly. "These say Samson is just working and walking around the Mews."

A folder of photos showed Samson driving his pick-up truck, carrying tools into a rental property, fixing the hinges on a door, carrying paint cans. There were several of him drinking coffee in the window of an empty apartment, standing on the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets, sitting on a park bench staring into s.p.a.ce, walking the Mews streets and back alleys. There were no photos of him going into any inexplicable buildings or talking to hot women.

"Well, Lois, you wanted to know where Samson was during the day and this file details the answer."

"I don't think... This isn't conclusive," said Lois shaking her head.

"You expected to find out he was seeing someone? Or was it something else?"

"Maggie, I'm not pea-brained. It's not about where he goes; it's about why. There's something distracting him. Right now he wouldn't notice me if I drove through the living room in the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile. I want to know why."

"OK, I might be able to find out why he stays away. But if you're banking on me getting him to come back, you'll need a different kind of help."

"A head shrinker?"

"Yes."

"Oh Maggie, I don't want to go to rehab. No, no, no," said Lois.

Chapter 8.

I tried to convince Lois Henshaw to just ask Samson what was going through his head. I was guessing she may have known and just didn't want to hear it coming out of his mouth. This wasn't the kind of job I enjoyed.

Back at Gale Investigations, Nora Hasan was hard at work creating an automated billing system. It was amazing to me that a young woman so apparently dedicated to the theatre arts was so skilled at computer data management. In short, YAY! Now I won't have to do any of this stuff.

Nora smiled. "Did you meet with that woman? So... em... do I get to discuss cases with you? Like a side-bloke?"

"Did Sara explain the confidentiality rules?"

"Aye, she did. Discretion is the better part of valor, and all that."

"This isn't really a case yet, so there isn't much to discuss. But it's still confidential."

"Shall I keep all the files in code? We could a.s.sign everyone secret drag queen names. Let's see, we could file her under a dodgy last name like... em... Lois Common-d'Nominator?"

I laughed. "Oh geez, now I'm going to think that every time I talk to her. She might actually like that name. I think she likes to make people laugh. Yes, we could do that, but we could also just use her real name and keep the file cabinet locked."

"Not as fun."

"We could compromise by just referring to all of us in the office by drag queen names. I could call you Miss Lenderbee."

"Brilliant. Nora Lenderbee. Apt too, I'm usually out of dosh, and it's a good thing, because I'm a wee sook when it comes to giving it away. Who will you be?"

"I've always liked h.e.l.lena Handbasket."

"Ha! But nae, not right for you."

"Don't tell my friend Farrel about this. She'll give up her day job just to make up new ones."

"Farrel? I haven't met her?"

"No, but you will."

"Good. You have rather good taste in friends," said Nora, nodding.

I went into my office and made a hard copy file of the contract agreement that Lois Henshaw signed. Then I pulled out my laptop and began an e-file of Lois's information. Lois had given me a copy of the other investigators' reports. I read carefully through all three. They'd been watching Samson over the last six weeks and they all came to the same conclusion. Samson wasn't doing anything Hester could win another "A" for. He wasn't doing much at all. Maybe that was significant in itself.

So now I had two jobs to do. One for Lois Henshaw re: Samson, and one for myself re: the shooting in the graveyard. I sat back and had a blinding flash of Amanda Knightbridge talking about the Carbondales' book. I pulled it out of my bag and leafed through it, randomly reading the captions under various historical photographs of Fenchester.

The book had a center insert of black and white photos. Shots of the Civil War Cemetery and other Fenchester landmarks took up the first few pages. Next came the portraits, including General Merganser Hunterdon in full uniform on a white horse. The horse looked bored. Amanda and Judith were right. Merganser had an unfortunate face. The uniform and his apparent youth in the Civil War era photo lessened the impact of his unappealing features. On the opposite page, however, a tintype of Hunterdon in coat and vest, with a gold watch chain and a stiff collar, was an image of an ugly man.

Like the earlier photo, he had mutton-chop sideburns, but in 1876 his face was stouter, with a large nose, squinty pig eyes, and a protruding lower lip. Yet it wasn't the features that made him so revolting. A big nose and small eyes don't necessarily make someone ugly. It was his expression. He looked egotistical, belligerent, condescending, and paranoid all at the same time. He was a cross between the bartender in The Shining, Scrooge, and any hypocritical far-right Republican. Yet Evangeline had become engaged to him.

Maybe General Merganser Hunterdon just didn't photograph well. Maybe he had some kind of inner strength or kindness that didn't show in the stark photographic images of the late 1800s. In those days, one had to sit still for a long time while an image formed on a treated photographic plate. Photographers even had clamps that held people's heads in one place while ten or fifteen minutes ticked slowly by. That's why everyone in old photos looks so stiff and staring, because they were.

I flipped the page and there was a beautiful portrait of Evangeline Lavender Fen. Her features were lovely, and there was no sense of stiffness at all. She seemed alive and vibrant. Her vitality was infectious even though she'd been dead for way more than a hundred years. She had high cheek bones, bright dancing eyes, and a haunting smile. Her graceful throat and perfect skin were fully exposed by the low-cut ball gown. She held a fan in one hand; her other hand waved the viewer toward her. She looked like her sculpture.

"No wonder Merganser mourned her for the rest of his life," I said out loud.

The phone on my desk rang. I could see Nora though the open door winking at me as she put the call through. I picked up.

"Is this Gale Investigations? Do you check up on errant girlfriends?"

"Why Dr. Anthony, how very nice to hear your voice. But why didn't you call my cell?"

"I wanted to hear the way Nora would answer the office phone. I can't believe the intoxicating Miss Hasan is working less that fifteen feet from your desk," said Kathryn's enchanting tones.

"Is this going to bother you? I told Sara that it might be... uh..."

"Yes, yes, Sara called me. This is quite a textbook example of karma isn't it?" Kathryn laughed deep in her throat. "What do you suppose I did in my sinister past to deserve this cosmic punishment?"

"Maybe it was something significantly deviant? Something particularly kinky?"

"Hmmmm, well, at least your imagination is focused on me and my s.e.xual past, rather than the nearby present."

"Let's talk about the future, like tonight when we get home?"

"Let's talk about something sooner than that. I made an appointment with Piper Staplehurst for about a half hour from now. Are you free? Can you gather up the sculpture and meet me at the museum? Then maybe we could share a late lunch?"

"There is nothing I'd rather do. Well, nothing I'd rather do with you that doesn't involve being horizontal. I have a notion that perhaps we could work horizontal into this day before it's over?"

Kathryn exhaled deeply. Then she said, "I'm intrigued by this notion. Shall we talk about it later?"

Piper Staplehurst's office in the Fenchester Art Museum was in the sub-bas.e.m.e.nt.

"I think my ears just popped," I whispered to Kathryn as we climbed down the last of the broad marble steps into a dark echoing hallway. Bronze sconces glowed just enough to see the numbers on the doors. Piper Staplehurst's card had said room 10 SB. It was at the farthest end of the hall.

"Maybe the SB means 'Sea-level: Below,'" I suggested.

"What's the point of having a corner office if both windows face dirt," murmured Kathryn as she knocked.

We heard a voice say, "Come in."

On the phone, Kathryn had told me she'd checked a number of academic data bases and googled some newspaper articles for Piper Staplehurst's credentials.

"Really nothing in any of the higher education searches but the newspapers say she's worked in a variety of museums on development and restoration projects in the last three years, mostly in small cities like Fenchester. There's no mention of where she got her Ph.D. In fact, there's no mention of her having a Ph.D. Hmmm."

"You're an academic sn.o.b," I said with amus.e.m.e.nt.

"I try not to be too obvious about it," she said wryly.

Kathryn and I had agreed to meet at the Art Museum at 1 p.m. So now, I was carrying the carefully repacked bag of what we sorely hoped was Victoria Snow sculptures into the museum office.

"Dr. Staplehurst, thank you so much for seeing us on such short notice. We'll try not to take up too much of your time," said Kathryn, extending her hand.

"There's no need to be formal. Please call me Piper."

Piper was wearing a black suit, with a white silk blouse and black high heels. Her dramatic jet black hair with the white lock was brushed back and held in a clip. Her make-up seemed heavy for that time of the morning. In fact to me she seemed overdressed. Maybe she had a major meeting or presentation or something. In the corner I noticed a rack with a burgundy winter coat and scarf, some coveralls, some work shoes, and some fashionable snow boots, "Here's the report about the crime in the cemetery, for the grant," I said, handing her a manilla envelope. "Is there anything else you need?"

"Excellent. I'll just add this to the grant application materials. I think this is everything I need. I can send off the application today. I already have a preliminary OK in writing to proceed. So we measured some of the openings; the first gates will be installed next week."

"My, that's the fastest grant turn around I've ever... How did you manage it?" asked Kathryn in awe.

"Oh, well there was some money left over from a similar project another town that I was able to apply to this. It will take a while to get the rest of the funds, but I had to use this money up before it disappeared."

"I see," Kathryn nodded, who had worked within the intricacies of grant writing for many years.