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Garden of Thorns
by Lillian Stewart Carl
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Copyright (c)2000


Fictionwise
www.Fictionwise.com

Mystery


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         *Chapter One*
       The weathered brick of the house was a soft rose-gray, blending with the mist into something not quite real. Appropriate, Mark thought; he'd once had recurring nightmares about the place. His parents had had to turn off the nightly news so that the eleven-year-old boy could sleep without dreaming of knives glittering in the dark.
       Come on, Mark told himself. That was fifteen years ago. You're a man now, no longer a mouse. He walked briskly up the driveway, into the shadow of the live oaks, wishing he'd worn a jacket over his "Don't Mess with Texas" T-shirt.
       Behind him the buildings of the Fort Worth Cultural District were swallowed by the mist, and the noise of the cars along York Boulevard faded away. The Victorian dormers, gables, and gingerbreaded verandas of Osborne House solidified before him. Mark's unnaturally loud steps slowed and stopped. Although the Coburgs hadn't lived at Osborne for many years, it had been used for weddings, meetings, and parties until Arthur Coburg died here two years ago. Now the house was silent, emitting an elusive breath of decay.
       Something moved inside one of the windows. Mark jerked back. No, that was a step behind him. He spun.
       "Good morning! You must be Mr. Owen."
       All he'd seen was a reflection of the woman who faced him. He recognized her voice and hoped she hadn't noticed his start. "Dr. Galliard? Nice to meet you. Thank you for calling the other day."
       "I needed to put my assistant in the picture before we had a go at the excavation," she replied, in the beautifully moderated English accent he'd found so appealing on the telephone.
       "It's just Mark," he told her.
       "And I'm Jenny."
       "Short for Jennifer?"
       "No, for Guinevere, I'm afraid. But don't tell anyone."
       Mark smiled and shook her hand. Her grip was surprisingly warm for such a cool March morning. "Your parents were very imaginative."
       "If only they had been."
       Her tone had changed abruptly, going so dry he felt as if he should brush dust from his hand. Was it something I said? he wondered.
       The waves of Jenny's black hair were enlivened, not suppressed, by the damp air. They framed a face as strong and symmetrical as a Norman arch. The laugh lines accentuating her smile, and the crow's feet defining her keen dark eyes, made her look over forty. But the outdoor work of an archaeologist was hardly ideal for her fair British complexion; she was probably in her late thirties. She was almost as tall as he, a couple of inches shy of six feet, and had what a couturier would call with a sniff, "a full figure". A figure as firm as her handshake, Mark estimated with an approving glance.
       His glance met hers coming the other way, and snicked in a fender bender of perception. She was appraising the attractiveness of his broad shoulders, his brush of brown hair, his tip-tilted gray eyes a friend had once compared to those of a Tolkien elf. But if he saw himself as a fictional character, it was part Holden Caulfield and part Pinocchio.
       With an appreciative flick of her dark brows Jenny's gaze moved innocently up the side of the house to the Tiffany windows in the topmost tower. Mark smothered a grin. He liked older women; they were honest, and not unduly bothered by their honesty.
       "I'm glad to see another human being," Jenny said. "It was very kind of the Coburg Foundation to let me stay in the servants' quarters, but Osborne is so large and isolated I was feeling like the proverbial last person on earth."
       "The place is kind of spooky, all right." Mark fell into step beside her. The leaves of the trees stirred fitfully, even though he felt no breeze. "I hate to do this to you on our first day of work, but I'll have to leave early this afternoon to go out to the airport and pick up a friend who just got a job at the Lloyd Museum."
       Not that "friend" was the right word, he added to himself, but "lover" wasn't right either, and she certainly wasn't his prey.... His jaw tightened with tension, as it always did when he thought of Hilary.
       They emerged from the shadow of the trees into watery sunlight. Already the mist was starting to burn off; the day would soon turn warm. "No problem," Jenny said. "All we'll accomplish today is showing the volunteers the way to their own bums. The Lloyd, eh? What will he -- she..."
       "She -- Hilary Chase. I met her last summer on that dig in Scotland."
       "Ah yes, the Rudesburn excavation. I just read the results -- well done! Will Miss Chase be working with the Coburg Collections at the Lloyd?"
       "Actually she's hoping to reach the rarefied atmosphere of the Regensfeld artifacts. But she's just starting out in art history, so she'll probably be conserving, cataloguing, and gophering. But then, that's where Dolores Coburg began, wasn't it?"
       "Yes it was." Jenny's eyes widened into exaggerated caution. She raised her hands and with her extended forefingers made a cross, offering an editorial comment on the second Mrs. Coburg. "I expect our employers to be prominent fixtures of the dig. That means diplomacy will be as important as science. Get it, Mark?"
       "Yes, ma'am, I've got it."
       "Good." Shaking her head, Jenny stepped nimbly over the chipped concrete foundations of the old boundary wall and onto a rubble-strewn expanse of dirt.
       The bulldozers had done their work. Osborne was no longer surrounded by the assortment of gas stations, small shops, and inexpensive frame houses that during the last forty years had insinuated themselves like cholesterol along the artery of York Boulevard. Now shoals of bricks, concrete chunks, and rusted support rods sketched an appropriate "C" around the house and demarcated stretches of featureless dirt and weeds. A brand new toolshed stood at the edge of the lawn.
       Jenny's tartan flannel shirt shone like a beacon in the strengthening sun. Her Wellington boot drew a line in the earth -- the one Mark was expected to toe, no doubt. "I did a little preliminary sampling to define our working areas. The first trench goes there, in the garden, and the second here, where the carriage house and garage used to be. When did they burn -- 1975?"
       "The same night Felicia Coburg was murdered in the house," said Mark. "Killed the same way her mother-in-law was in 1912, sliced up like a delicatessen tray."
       Jenny darted him a nonplussed look.
       "I'm a Fort Worth native," Mark explained, turning his glance over his shoulder into a shrug. "I remember hearing about the case when I was a kid. You know how morbid kids are -- helps them to face their fears, I guess."
       "Right." Jenny gestured. "There's our datum point."
       Dutifully Mark pulled a tape measure from his pocket and headed toward a stake fixed like a sacred standing stone in the midst of the desolation.
       One puff of wind, and then another, steadied into a breeze that sighed through the branches of the oaks. Mark and Jenny paced out the grid of the excavation and defined its squares with twine stretched between strategically placed pegs.
       That task done, Mark put away his Swiss Army knife, mopped at the wind-driven dust gathering in the corners of his eyes, and squinted through the sunshine. From his vantage point he could see the smooth granite planes of the Lloyd, the campanile of Will Rogers Coliseum, and the silver dome of Casa Manana Theatre looking like a stranded spaceship. Beyond the Cultural District the land fell away in a springtime haze of pink, white, and tender green toward the river and the interstate. The warm wind carried a tang of dust and exhaust and the subtle sweetness of honeysuckle. Texas weather being what it was, that same wind could well stiffen into a blue norther and bring snow tomorrow.
       Several cars turned into the drive and stopped on the expanse of gravel in front of the garage. A young man who looked more like an NFL linebacker than a scholar led an eclectic assortment of humanity across the rubble. "Hey, Mark!"
       "Preston!" Mark called. "I saw your name on the list! How's it going?" The two men exchanged a gesture that was part handshake and part high-five.
       "One more credit in field work and I'll have that Master's," said Preston. "I see you decided a spring dig wouldn't fry you too bad."
       Mark had more than once estimated the time elapsed on an excavation by the slow transformation of sunburn into tan. "I can't help it," he retorted, "if my ancestors evolved in a damp cave in darkest Wales."
       Preston laughed, his teeth gleaming as brightly as his glasses. His ancestors were from sun-drenched Africa. "We should trade specialties. I'll work outside and you go dig trenches in the library stacks."
       "And to what documentation do we owe the honor of your presence?"
       "A deed showing that the farm on this ridge belonged to one Lennart Mortenson -- Arthur Coburg's great-grandfather. How about a dissertation titled 'From Homestead to Mansion in Three Generations: The American Dream'?"
       "Be sure to mention that the mansion is haunted by Arthur's mother. The American nightmare, Horatio Alger directed by Hitchcock."
       Preston's glance at Osborne House, its copper-green roof camouflaged by trees, was considerably less wary than Mark's. "Do you believe the place is haunted?"
       "I did when I was a kid," Mark replied. "Not any more."
       Jenny stepped forward to greet her acolytes, and Mark took the opportunity to look them over. One gawky teenager's big eyes and springy ponytail reminded him of Hilary, although Hilary's moments of awkwardness were charming glosses on her usual sweet soberness. This girl was probably Amy from Texas Wesleyan. He tried to match other faces with the names on his list -- Hong from Texas Christian, Paratha from the University of Dallas, Guy from Denton.... Well, he'd sort them out quickly enough. The hard way, by supervising their work. Except for Preston, they were all rank beginners.
       Jenny smoothly segued from welcoming pep talk into lecture. "Visualize archaeological strata as a posh gateau."
       "Fancy layer cake," Mark translated.
       Jenny shot him another of her nonplussed looks and continued. "The bottom sponge -- the bottom layer of cake -- was laid on the plate first. Then you have icing, then another cake layer. Sometimes there are nuts or fruits in the icing. Perhaps one whacking great cherry has even displaced a bit of the cake. The object is to cut as straight a balk, the side of the trench, as possible. That way the layers can be more easily read. You can't interpret your finds without proper stratigraphy."
       "How'd you get to be dig assistant?" Preston asked Mark under his breath. "Especially to someone with as good a reputation as Galliard?"
       "I applied to the Coburg Foundation, same as she did. Having been on a successful dig last summer didn't hurt. Since I live here part of the year anyway, I didn't generate too many travel expenses for them to pay."
       "A real stroke of luck for you."
       "If everything goes well. If it doesn't, it'll be the stroke of a guillotine." Mark drew his forefinger across his throat. "Goodbye career. You'll have to give me a job sweeping up in the library."
       Preston snorted. "Just keep batting those baby grays at the lady boss. You'll do all right."
       Mark punched at his friend's arm. Preston grinned. Jenny's voice wafted over the field. "...remember that by its very nature archaeological excavation destroys the evidence it uncovers. Records must be kept meticulously. Report anything and everything of interest -- and by that I mean even changes in the color or texture of the dirt..."
       Gravel crunched in the driveway. Mark looked around. Among the inexpensive cars of the students a maroon BMW stood out like that archaeologically intrusive piece of fruit. A man slammed the driver's door and adjusted his broad-brimmed hat, crouching a bit so he could see himself in the side mirror. The hat, his tweed leather-trimmed jacket, and his tooled leather cowboy boots broadcast the state of his bank account better than a check stub. It wasn't just the boots' tall, narrow heels that made his walk over the rubble a bandylegged swagger.
       A young woman shut the other door and drummed red fingernails on the car's sleek finish, shooting a venomous glance toward the man's back. She'd probably expected him to open the door and hand her out. They must be man and wife.... Mark remembered the grainy photos in the _Star-Telegram_ society pages, the debutante parties six or seven years ago, the charity balls since. The couple was Arthur and Dolores Coburg's daughter Sharon and her consort, Travis Ward.
       "Diplomatic alert," he said between his teeth.
       "Think I'll go see a man about a dog," muttered Preston, and tried to conceal himself among the other students, with as much success as a lion lurking behind a knot of gazelles.
       "...artifacts from bottle caps to arrowheads. This hill, not far from a river, is a logical place for pre-Columbian hunter-gatherer encampments as well as the farms of 1850's settlers." Jenny registered the approach of the Wards with a subtle arch of a brow. "Mr. Baker, I believe you've had some dig experience. Would you be kind enough to distribute the hoes and trowels from the stack beside the toolshed?"
       Preston led the students away. Jenny strolled to Mark's side and stood with her hands on her hips, shoulders back, chin up, like a general before a battle. Her face was expressionless; studiedly so, Mark thought, but the woman was still too much of a stranger for him to interpret her moods.
       Sharon's stiletto heels minced across the debris like a Miss America candidate down the runway in Atlantic City. In fact, she looked like a Miss America contestant, her smile so bright she seemed to have Vaseline on her teeth. A ruffled blouse and pink cashmere sweater topped jeans squeezing a body as taut and lean-hipped as an adolescent boy's. Her hair was a brilliant gold, writhing in an expensive frizzle that made it look as if it hadn't been combed in a week. Her face was shaded and blushed, her eyes lined, her lips colored with textbook precision. Mark wondered if her cornflower blue eyes were genuine or created by tinted contact lenses.
       "Good morning," Jenny said.
       "Howdy," said Travis. He took off his hat, pumped Jenny's hand, then Mark's, and replaced the hat. "So you're the lady archaeologist! Not what we expected, is she, hon?"
       Sharon's smile never faltered. Her voice was a startling nasal twang. "Dr. Galliard's credentials are adequate to the situation, darling."
       "Now, honey, I only meant we'd expected someone, well, older."
       What Travis probably meant, Mark thought, was that Jenny wasn't a stereotypical academic husk.
       "Age hardly implies competence," Sharon told her husband, and looked at Mark. He choked on the musky aroma of her perfume. "And you're Dr. Owen?"
       "Just Mr. Owen," Mark told her. "No Ph.D. yet."
       Her predatory gaze moved on, unimpressed, seeing nothing beyond the T-shirt and dirty jeans. Thus dismissed, Mark figured he could've safely slinked away, but he was much too curious to see how Jenny handled herself.
       "Would you like to inspect the layout of the excavation?" she asked.
       "Find anything yet?" Sharon returned.
       "We haven't looked for anything. It's early days yet."
       The students trooped toward the site of the garage. Preston began a sotto voce rendition of "Go Down Moses". Getting into the spirit, the students brandished their tools and joined the chorus with "Let my people go!"
       Travis hiked back his jacket and thrust his hands into his pockets, his mouth hanging open with puzzlement. Perched on the mound of his stomach was a huge belt buckle, a relief sculpture of a man and woman making love. Mark looked down at his shoes, trying not to guffaw.
       Jenny explained about the different trenches, about strata and artifacts and meticulous records. Sharon nodded and smiled. "Whew," said Travis, dragging the word into two syllables. "That's too boggy a crossing for me. I'm sure glad y'all know what you're doing."
       "That's why you hired us," Jenny said.
       "How long will it take you to find everything?" asked Sharon. "The contractors have to start developing Victoria Square in April so we can open next fall. We already have tenants for the shops."
       "Not all the shops, hon," Travis said. "We're still negotiating on that jewelry boutique, and the picture gallery fell through...."
       "What I'm trying to say, darling," asserted Sharon, "is that this archaeological survey can't drag on too long. There's no point in fixing Osborne House up into such a nice restaurant and club if it's still surrounded by dirt. Makes it a little hard on the valet parking." Her smile gleamed.
       Maybe she took that smile off and put it in a box at night. Mark thought. Maybe she took off her whole face. Without her mask of cosmetics he could pass her on the street and never recognize her.
       If the corners of Jenny's mouth had crimped any tighter, or the corners of her eyes tilted with any more amusement, her courtesy would've turned sardonic. "I really can't predict, Mrs. Ward, just how long the survey will take. It depends on what we find."
       "I understand. You scholars are so lucky not to have to live in the real world. The point is, you see, that pieces of old pottery and stuff won't provide lots of jobs like Victoria Square will. We have to think of the good of the community."
       Presumably Jenny's and Mark's jobs, temporary academic foolishness, didn't count. "We'll do the best we can," Jenny murmured, and turned pointedly toward the group of students.
       Preston had them lined up on an unattributed patch of ground, showing them how to use their hoes. "A smooth, slow, scooping motion. You're not chopping cotton here."
       Travis's broad, blunt face, a sketch made with a child's outsized crayon, looked slightly offended. He leaned closer to Mark and muttered, "Think the Rangers will make it into the World Series this year?"
       "What? Oh -- ah -- well, they've got Nolan Ryan, don't they?"
       "Yeah, sure, he's a good pitcher, for an old coot over forty."
       Jenny, approaching forty herself, winced. "The sooner I can get the volunteers to work, the sooner we'll have the survey finished and you can bring in your shops."
       "Much as we'd like to stay, Dr. Galliard," Sharon replied with a gracious nod, "we have to be getting on over to the Lloyd. That big reception tomorrow night, you know -- honestly, you can't take your eyes off the caterers and the florists for a minute."
       "You've used those same florists for years," said Travis. "If they haven't figured out by now how to cram flowers into a jug...."
       "Let's go, darling," Sharon interrupted. "We'll be seeing you tomorrow night, Dr. Galliard.
       "Thank you," Jenny said.
       "And you, too, Mr. Owen, of course. My mother and brother can't wait to meet the good doctor's second-in-command."
       Mark said, "Thank you. I'm looking forward to meeting them."
       "Don't worry," Travis confided in a stage whisper, "Dolores always serves good booze."
       As the Wards walked back toward the driveway, their voices trailed behind them. "My mother takes great care with her wine list, darling. I'd hardly call it 'booze'."
       "I said it was good, hon. That's all I meant."
       They climbed into the BMW. Simultaneously the doors slammed. The car jerked around and roared down the drive in a spatter of gravel.
       So that was one of the Coburgs. Despite Sharon's polite words, Mark was willing to bet the others were hardly holding their breaths waiting to meet him, the hired help.
       "The problem with financial backers," said Jenny, "is that they so seldom stay in back." Meditatively she unbuttoned and removed her flannel shirt. Beneath it she wore a T-shirt emblazoned with a lurid green Loch Ness Monster. "Did you see that bloke's belt buckle? Were they having me on?"
       "Pulling your leg because you've never been in Texas before? No, I'm afraid they're for real. Local products just as much as I am. Except some of us Texans believe our own publicity."
       "Right." The focus of her eyes shifted from somewhere beyond Mark's back to his face. Her level look reminded him of the Duke of Wellington in Goya's famous portrait -- the squared jaw of resolution, the slightly narrowed eyes and flared nostrils of cynicism. She didn't suffer fools gladly, he thought. Good. Neither did he.
       A black bird with the long tail of a B-17 bomber glided into the nearest tree and uttered a rusty, grating squawk. Jenny looked up. "What kind of bird is that?"
       "A grackle. Sounds like it needs some oil, doesn't it?"
       "That it does." Her imperious expression cracked into a smile. With a decisive about-face she turned toward the volunteers. "Let's get to it."
       Mark followed, wiping his forehead. As he'd predicted, the day was hot, and the warm wind didn't bring much relief. He'd have to take a few extra minutes to run over to his apartment and shower and change before he went to meet Hilary.
       But as Jenny had said, it was early days. He detoured to the tool pile, armed himself with a couple of trowels, and strode into battle.
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         *Chapter Two*
       Clutching her purse and carry-on bag, Hilary ducked behind a couple of people as broad as they were tall and let them force a path through the crowded terminal. She peered around her unsuspecting escort, searching for Mark's sturdy body and flashing grin. Her stomach quivered with nausea, whether because of nerves, or airplane food, or because she'd just started a prescription of birth-control pills, she couldn't say.
       He was leaning against a pillar, slapping a folded newspaper against his thigh and surveying the crush of passengers with that sharp-honed look she remembered altogether too well. Taking a deep breath -- here we go -- she zigzagged through the crowd. "Mark! Here I am!"
       He jerked upright. "Hilary!"
       "Sorry I'm late. My flight into Chicago was delayed...."
       "I was late, too -- couldn't find a parking place. No problem." They jockeyed, clashed carry-on and newspaper, and achieved a perfunctory hug. He kissed her cheek and ushered her through a revolving door into the baggage claim area. "You cut your hair. Makes you look like Audrey Hepburn."
       Hilary assumed he liked Audrey Hepburn, but didn't think it was politic to ask. "Thank you. A last indulgence before I left Paris." Her cheek tingled with the warm, slightly damp spot he'd kissed. Her stomach hiccupped. She considered what to say next. "Nice to see you again," was true but banal. "I thought I'd never see you again," was also true but begged too many questions along the lines of, "Then why are you?"
       "Thank you for your letters," she said at last.
       "Thank you for yours," he responded. "The fellowship went all right?"
       "Great. I spent lots of time in the Louvre, and we took field trips to the Loire chateaux. But all that French cooking -- I've gained weight."
       Mark playfully opened the placket of her coat far enough to peek at her tailored pants and silk blouse. "Nope. You're just right."
       She wrenched away. "Mark!"
       He dropped her coat and stiffened like a soldier put on report. "There're the bags. You still have that same set of Samsonite?" Without waiting for her answer, he stepped toward the carousel.
       Damn, she thought. He didn't mean anything. I blew that one; back to square one.
       The Samsonite secured, they walked out to the parking lot discussing European politics, friends in Scotland, and Texas weather. As soon as they reached Mark's mini-van, Hilary shed her coat and tossed it into the back. The car was so hot, Mark turned on the air conditioner.
       He deftly extricated them from the spaghetti tangle of airport roads and zoomed onto the freeway, turning into the glare of the westering sun. Half of Hilary's face was hot, the other cool, as she surreptitiously inspected Mark's profile. Except for his short hair, she'd seen that profile on medieval effigies, brow, nose, and chin uncompromising planes, mouth chiseled so finely it would have been cold and severe except for the play of expression at its corners. The blue-green Madras shirt he wore set off his gray eyes. They were his most intriguing feature, illuminating his face without softening it, revealing his intelligence without betraying his thoughts.
       He knew she was watching him. He said quietly, "I didn't think you were going to come back to the States so soon."
       "Ben's back in prison," she told him. "Parole violation."
       "Surely you wouldn't have had to see him even if he was out!" Mark glanced at her, his brows raised indignantly.
       "He's my mother's stepbrother, even though he's closer to my brother's age. We're all one happy family, right?"
       "Wrong. He raped you. That makes him a lot worse than just the black sheep of the family."
       Hilary flinched. Yet Mark's frankness was one of the things she liked in him. She'd been taught from infancy to sweep unpleasantness under the rug. Even though the Chase family carpet was by now mounded over a dump of denial, still everyone tiptoed around it, like Elizabethan aristocrats holding pomanders to their noses so they wouldn't smell the stink of their own unwashed bodies. "No," she said, "I'm the black sheep. I should never have told anyone what Ben did to me. I just made trouble. That kind of thing doesn't happen to people of our social standing."
       Mark's knuckles went white on the steering wheel. This time his glance was sharp and hot. "That's a load of bull, Hilary, and you know it."
       Knowing intellectually and knowing emotionally were two different things. Despite the breeze of the air conditioner, she was sweating.
       The highway was a shining strip of cellophane. Light reflected from the windows of other cars struck Hilary's eyes like flashbulbs. The tall buildings of Fort Worth rose ahead, silhouetted against a vast blue sky that faded to pinkish gray at the horizon. It was because the land was flat that the sky looked so huge, she told herself. Still she felt that if she wasn't careful, she'd slip into that greedy sky and fall forever.
       "Hilary?" Mark asked. He fumbled for her hand.
       Gratefully she clasped his fingers. "My parents are getting divorced. They're being very civilized about it -- no raised voices, no accusing fingers. Just those sidelong glances at me, letting me know it's all my fault."
       "When my parents got divorced," he said, "I thought it was my fault. Of course, I was only fifteen, I didn't know any better. And they were anything but civilized. It was open warfare. I suppose I could blame my own divorce on my parents."
       "Because you wouldn't have found yourself in a shotgun marriage at seventeen if they hadn't turned on each other and on you? I've always thought it was a little too easy to blame your problems on someone else."
       "In my case, yes. But not in yours." His hand bounced hers against the upholstery, admonishing her to behave.
       "All right, I can blame Ben for a hell of a lot. But still.... Damn it, I wasn't going to dump this on you so quickly. I'm sorry."
       "It's better to get it out of the way." With a firm squeeze Mark released Hilary's hand and put his own back on the steering wheel. "So your job at the Lloyd isn't only a career move but an escape?"
       "Yes. I thought if everything worked out, I could get my Master's next year, and maybe find permanent job. I feel hypocritical living even partially on my father's money."
       "Good move, then, to avoid paying rent here by house-sitting."
       "Condo-sitting, rather. The owners won't be back until May."
       "You could've moved in with me -- I have a funky little garage apartment a few blocks from Osborne House. I've been staying there off and on for years. My landlady makes the best tamales you've ever eaten."
       The stream of traffic slowed, narrowing to ooze past a pickup and a Cadillac that had apparently decided to move into the same lane at the same time. Police cars bracketed the accident, their red and blue lights pale in the sunshine. Behind them flags the size of football fields rippled over a car dealership, the Stars and Stripes and the Lone Star given equal billing.
       Exhaust seeped into the car and again Hilary gulped down nausea. She still felt the thrumming of the airplane's jet engines and wondered how long it would be before she came down with a migraine. She'd known this reunion would be awkward.
       Mark had considered her moving in with him, which would've meant confronting issues of family and intimacy she wasn't ready to confront. And yet, why had she turned down job offers in Milwaukee and Sacramento to come here, pills in her carry-on, if not to confront those issues?
       Mark studied the road as if he had an exam on it. She'd ignore what he'd said, he'd ignore it, they'd sweep it under the rug.... "Did you get the dig started?" she asked.
       "Sure did. Looks real promising."
       "Do you like Dr. Galliard?"
       "Yes, I do. And respect her, which is more important. She's a real pro. Reminded me of the Duke of Wellington."
       "One of those women you'd call handsome rather than pretty?"
       Mark laughed. "Well, yeah, but I meant in manner, not looks. You should've seen her dealing with Sharon Coburg Ward."
       "I get to meet the Coburgs at a reception tomorrow. Nice of them to invite me -- I won't officially be an employee of the Lloyd until Wednesday."
       "I gather what the Coburgs want is what the Coburgs get, particularly at the Lloyd. That new wing to house Arthur's souvenirs is a pretty tempting carrot, but the deal hasn't gone through yet."
       Hilary smiled indulgently at his cavalier dismissal of one of the country's important art hoards as "Arthur's souvenirs". "Do you think they'll add the Regensfeld artifacts to the Coburg Collection?"
       "Oh my gosh," Mark exclaimed, "I plumb forgot to tell you. Take a gander at that newspaper -- the suit over the artifacts was settled today."
       "Oh!" Hilary reached back to the middle seat and grabbed the paper. A headline in the corner of the front page read, "Artwork to return to Germany." The article was short and to the point, the reporter assuming the average Fort Worthian had a low tolerance for medieval religious artifacts, no matter how controversial.
       When she looked up, they were on an elevated stretch of road beside the downtown area. A garden surrounding a series of pools and waterfalls added a grace note to the stark glass and steel towers. On the horizon the sun was swollen and blood-red. Hilary squinted. Her temples twinged. No, she ordered herself. You're not going to get a headache.
       She said, "So the Regensfelders decided it'd be cheaper to pay ransom than to hire lawyers and fight for their artifacts? They're probably right -- East Germany doesn't have much cash for food, let alone artwork."
       "Please! Not 'ransom' but 'finder's fee'!" Mark peered out the windshield like a mole, his mouth crimped with sarcasm.
       "Well," Hilary conceded, "Arthur Coburg did save the artifacts from the Russians in 1945. God only knows what would've happened to them if he hadn't. They were at Osborne House until he died, weren't they?"
       "Now they're at the Lloyd. Until what's-his-name, the art expert, takes them away. Next month, I gather."
       "What's-his-name is Nicholas Vasarian. I've been hearing about him for years." Hilary folded the newspaper and tucked it into her carry-on. "I'd kill to work with those artifacts -- one of them is a Giotto, you know."
       Mark exited the freeway and turned north. The sudden release from the light and heat of the sun made the breath of the air conditioner seem colder. Hilary shivered. "Almost there?"
       "Just up the way. It's not too far from the Lloyd. I'll come get you tomorrow on my lunch hour and take you to the car lease place."
       "Thank you, Mark."
       "You're welcome, Hilary." They shared a quick, affectionate smile.
       The townhouse's blond brick facade rose behind a yard in which a redbud tree bloomed like a twist of cotton candy. The condos on either side seemed well kept, and more than one late model car was parked along the quiet, tree-lined street.
       Hilary thought the suspicious woman next door would demand a driver's license and a major credit card before disgorging the key, but at last Hilary was inside her temporary home. It turned out to be comfortable rather than stylish, the owners going in for overstuffed furniture and mementos from their various trips. Ceiling fans added a tropical touch. The plants were yellowed and drooping -- probably the neighbor was supposed to have watered them. Mark wrestled Hilary's suitcases to her bedroom upstairs while she found a watering can and fussed over her new charges.
       When she started to unpack, he stood in the bedroom doorway, discussing Osborne House and the Coburgs -- not surprising that he'd study up on the people who disbursed his salary. And who had a hand in disbursing hers, Hilary told herself. She, too, had researched the famous family.
       "I've always wondered," Mark said, "why a gently reared Englishwoman, a lady-in-waiting of Queen Victoria's yet, would choose to live in Fort Worth in 1870. Talk about culture shock!"
       "She was in love," Hilary suggested.
       "With Walter Mortensen or his money?"
       "I think relationships were a lot more cut and dried back then -- fewer options, whether for better or for worse." Hilary set a bottle of Guerlain perfume so smartly on the dressing table that it snicked. She did have a headache, and she probably hadn't packed her aspirin.
       "Amelia and Walter begat Victoria, named after the Queen, but always called Vicky. In 1892 Vicky married another English expatriate, a man named Edward Coburg. With letters of recommendation from Buckingham Palace, no less, though no one really knows what his background was."
       "Birth and baptismal certificates? Passports? Letters? Photos?"
       "Supposedly Arthur burned everything of his father's back in the twenties, and he never kept pictures of his parents at Osborne."
       "Strange." Hilary shook out her skirts and blouses and hung them in the closet. One of her satin underwear cases was spilling lacy unmentionables across the spread. She glanced at Mark, but he was staring into space. She whisked the suggestive items into the dresser drawer.
       "Vicky and Edward," Mark went on, "named the house her parents built for them 'Osborne' after the Queen's villa on the Isle of Wight. A respectful bow toward Amelia's former employer? Or something else?"
       "You mean the rumor that Edward was really an illegitimate son of the Prince of Wales, later Edward VII? The King certainly collected professional beauties. 'Grand horizontals' they were called, like performing automata." Hilary shook her head incredulously.
       "Coburg was one of the royal family's German names," said Mark. "They were more German than British, actually."
       "As our Scottish friends reminded us more than once." Hilary closed the suitcases and wedged them into the closet. She laid the newspaper on the dresser and put her carry-on bag with its incriminating pharmaceuticals behind the bathroom door. Her bag of knitting she set by the door; the repetitive knit-purl-cable, magically growing a sweater out of strands of yarn, was more calming than a tranquilizer.
       Mark stretched. "Supposedly Edward Coburg received an income from England all his life -- again, no receipts or ledgers survive. And that money was just lagniappe. Vicky was an only child, wealthy in her own right."
       "Maybe that's why Edward killed her and then himself." The room had grown dark while Hilary unpacked. Her blunt statement was loud in the shadowed silence. She turned on the bedside lamp.
       Mark stepped from the doorway into the room, a moth drawn by the light. For a moment she thought his face had gone more taut than usual. But he asked, "Would you like dinner?" quite equably. "Mexican? Chinese? Side of cow?"
       "Mexican, please. What passes for Mexican in Indianapolis is mostly wishful thinking. They serve Old Dutch brand taco sauce."
       "Sacrilege!" Mark rolled his eyes in horror.
       Hilary took a couple of the aspirin she found in the medicine cabinet, checked the broom handle locking the patio door off the dining room, and turned on the light in the entry. "Would you mind taking me by a grocery store? All that's in the kitchen is a jar of pickle juice and some petrified raisin bran."
       "You've got it." Mark ushered her back into the van.
       The twilight air was refreshingly cool. They turned right onto another residential street, then left onto a wide boulevard, streetlamps spilling yellow light into the dusk. The restaurant was decorated with red, green, and white streamers, and cheerful music played inside. When Mark opened the door, Hilary's nostrils were filled with an aroma similar to that of a French bakery, but not quite the same. "Tortillas," he said, gallantly seating her at a small table. "I don't know about you, but I'm starved."
       If sexual frustration makes you hungry, Hilary thought, we both ought to look like blimps. A waiter appeared with corn chips and salsa. She dipped a corner of a chip and crunched. Tomatoes, peppers, and onions exploded on her tongue. She seized her glass of water.
       "You know it's good when you break out in a sweat," Mark teased. He loaded a chip with red chunks and blissfully chewed.
       It was when Mark had offered her a bite from his cache of salsa last summer that he'd first kissed her. And she'd ducked and run. Blushing, Hilary reached for another chip and nibbled. Mark was scanning the menu, not her. A rare quality in a man, to be perceptive but nonjudgmental.
       The music stopped, and hidden speakers emitted a rapid-fire commentary in Spanish. Hilary pricked her ears -- Spanish was a lot like French.... She caught "Dolores Coburg" and "Regensfeld".
       Mark ordered. The waiter ambled away. A young man sporting a magnificent black moustache entered the restaurant, waved at Mark, and collected a white carry-out sack. "I see Lucia isn't fixing tamales tonight," Mark commented, then explained, "That was Gilbert Hernandez, my landlady's son. He and his family live with Lucia -- she's a widow with a big old house -- and they swear by her cooking. But since she's spent years cooking for Fort Worth society, she deserves an evening off every now and then."
       "Did she ever work for the Coburgs?"
       The waiter delivered a bottle of pale beer with a slice of lime perched on the top and a mug of sangria, its swizzle stick impacted with fruit. Mark poured his beer and took a deep drink before he answered. "She sure did. She's the one who found Felicia Coburg's body, as a matter of fact. I've always wondered why the first Mrs. Coburg was hanging around Osborne fifteen years after Arthur divorced her." He dunked another chip, face down, eyes concealed.
       A murder-suicide in 1912, an unsolved murder in 1975. Hilary remembered hearing about the latter in Indiana, even though she'd been only eight. The media had called it the trial of the decade, and TV cameras had laid siege to the Tarrant County courthouse all through the heat of the summer. In the end Arthur had been acquitted of murder. And Dolores, his much younger second wife, had built a contemporary mansion several miles to the southwest, out of Osborne's shadow.
       Hilary ate another chip with its sheen of sauce and decided the savory aftertaste was worth the original burn. There was more ice than wine in her glass; it rattled against her teeth. She and Mark shouldn't be sitting here talking about murder, she told herself. They'd actually been involved in a murder investigation last summer.
       She tried another gambit. "When I was in grade school we watched all those old filmstrips: 'Arthur Coburg Walks the Great Wall of China', 'Arthur Coburg Cruises Down the Rhine', 'Arthur Coburg Interviews Amazon Headhunters'."
       "The one I always liked," said Mark, rising to the bait, "was Arthur Coburg doing his Edward R. Murrow impression during the Blitz. And that exclusive interview with Hitler at Berchtesgaden in 1939! Masterful bits of popular geography and history. I bet he covered every inch of the Earth's surface between the thirties and the sixties."
       "And spent the seventies and eighties writing his books, editing his films, and gloating over his art collections. You'd think he wasn't born rich, he worked so hard to earn wealth on his own. If he had any connection with British royalty, he never played on it."
       "Something to do with losing his parents at the age of two?" Mark asked. "Of course, there's something to be said for being raised by your grandparents. They might make better role models."
       "Not mine," said Hilary. "They've already got a couple of divorces apiece." The sweet sangria was only slightly astringent on her tongue.
       The waiter arrived with a tray full of mysterious but delectable-smelling items. Murmuring a benediction of, "Hot plates", he arranged bowls of relishes and a sizzling platter of meat strips and onions on the table.
       "Tex-Mex lesson numero uno," said Mark, and proceeded to instruct Hilary in the arcane art of rolling fajitas.
       By the time they left the restaurant Hilary was comfortably full, not quite bloated, and had traded her headache for light-headedness. At least she didn't have to go to work until day after tomorrow.
       Mark pulled into a grocery store a few blocks away where they shopped for items from the four basic food groups -- bread, vegetables, meat, and ice cream. "Have you learned how to cook yet?" he asked.
       Hilary replied indignantly, "I'm working on it. How about you?"
       An elderly lady passed them with a fond smile, perhaps remembering a romantic episode in her youth. Or maybe not romantic but domestic; if romance was a bonfire, domesticity was a stove, controlled warmth and comfort.... Hilary paid for her purchases and climbed back into the van.
       Even though the night was clear, the lights of the city bleached from the sky all but the two or three brightest stars. After a short drive Hilary saw before her a long building, one end arching upward, a modern cathedral devoted to art instead of religion. Its granite was soft pink in the glow of floodlights and its skylights radiated a halo of luminescence, imitating the halos of the precious relics stored within. "I've seen lots of pictures of the Lloyd," she said, "but reality is impressive."
       "Definitely." Mark drove on by, turned a corner several blocks down, and stopped. He killed the engine and doused the lights. In the sudden silence the wind moaned, with pleasure or pain Hilary didn't try to guess. Through the dim transparency of night she saw the dancing limbs of oak trees, and beyond them a black bulk that could be either a medieval castle or Disneyland's haunted mansion. Osborne House's tall windows were the faintest of gleams....
       A blurred yellow light shone in one window, disappeared, shone in another one. A gust of wind sent the oak leaves tumbling across the house, then swept them away again. The light moved to a third window.
       Hilary blinked. "A flashlight with weak batteries. Has the electricity been turned off?"
       "In the main house, yes," Mark replied. "They're renovating it, going to turn it into one of those restaurants where the tip alone is more than we spent at Ricardo's tonight. But Jenny's staying in the servants' quarters. I'm sure the electricity is on there."
       Mark let the van roll down the slope of York Boulevard to where they could see Osborne undisguised by trees. The square shapes of illuminated windows gleamed in a one-story extension at the back of the house.
       In the main house the light, more like a lantern than a flashlight, vanished and reappeared. "Is that Jenny in there?" asked Hilary.
       "Must be. Part of her job is to be caretaker -- some of Arthur's papers and scrapbooks are still there -- he used it as an office, even died there." Mark's voice rasped. "Of course there's a resident ghost, too. Vicky, they say, Arthur's mother, in full bustle and bodice."
       Hilary glanced at his shadowed face but could see only the harshly highlighted angle of nose and chin. Don't ask, she ordered herself. But she did. "Osborne scares you, doesn't it?"
       Mark eyed the progress of the light from window to window. "My parents ordered me to go watch TV, to leave them alone. So I watched, all by myself. In my memory the room is dark except for the glow of the screen, but I know I must've turned on all the lights. I turned up the volume so I couldn't hear my parents screaming at each other. It was a week before they realized why I was having such terrible nightmares -- I'd been watching the reports of Felicia's murder and the re-capping of Vicky's."
       It was Hilary's turn to take Mark's hand. His fingers were cold.
       "My parents screamed at each other for four more years before they finally separated. But it was during those news reports from Osborne that I first realized something was wrong."
       Abruptly he shed Hilary's hand and started the van. The headlights ripped a hole in the dark. The noise scattered the moan of the wind. Hilary craned her neck to look back. She saw no lights in the house but those in the servants' quarters.
       Back at her condo, Hilary unloaded her groceries while Mark fished a scrap of paper from his wallet and punched out a number on the telephone. "Jenny? Mark Owen. We just drove by Osborne and saw lights in the windows -- wanted to let you know -- check the locks against prowlers and vandals...." He paused, then said, "Oh, okay. See you tomorrow."
       Hilary shut the refrigerator door and waited.
       "It was her," said Mark. "She says she was 'taking a shufti' about half an hour ago. With only a flashlight. Nerves of titanium."
       "We were there ten minutes ago," Hilary said. "Well, if you're not wearing a watch it's hard to say, isn't it?"
       "Yeah."
       Mark leaned against the wall, Hilary against the cabinet, both staring at the floor. The vinyl tiles held no answers, about Osborne or about themselves. "Would you like some coffee or something?" Hilary asked.
       "No thanks. I really need to be going -- I'm supposed to be fixing the artifact record sheets."
       And now for a good night handshake? That would be ludicrous; they knew each other too well to start over. Hilary raised her chin, squared her shoulders, marched across the floor, and kissed Mark on the lips.
       After a ragged exhalation he returned her kiss with interest. The flavor of lime and cilantro in his mouth was as heady as wine. His embrace was a promise, not a threat. She shivered in delight. Again and again during the winter she'd indulged in visualization therapy, imagining herself in Mark's arms, tiptoeing through the physiological details -- he wouldn't want to hurt her, but to ease the aching knots in her body -- physiology was all right, even pleasant....
       From the witness stand Ben had said she'd teased him until he couldn't help himself. She'd asked for it; she'd dressed nicely and laughed politely at what she hadn't realized were obscene jokes. The defense attorney had invaded her school, searching for boys to swear she'd been hot to trot. Her doctor had had to testify she'd been a virgin -- her word hadn't been enough. Her bruises had healed by the time of the trial, and after multiple tests she at last believed Ben hadn't given her any loathesome diseases. It took somewhat longer for the pain and horror to contract to a cold kernel lodged deep in her stomach.
       The shiver of delight clenched around that kernel. Bile crested in her throat. The glow drained from her cheeks, leaving them tingling cold. Her lips skidded away from Mark's and her suddenly clammy forehead fell against his shoulder. No! she wailed silently. No, not again!
       In well-learned response his arms dropped away, leaving her an escape route. His hands rose to either side in the time-honored gesture of "Look Ma, no weapons."
       "I wanted it to be different this time," she said woodenly.
       "So did I." Mark's face was flushed, but his eyes were cool.
       His eyes were stove lids. Oven doors. Fireplace dampers, concealing the heat inside. He hadn't hurt her -- she'd hurt him. "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to lead you on, please believe me."
       "Don't keep apologizing to me. You have nothing to apologize for." With another quick peck on the cheek, he turned to go. "I'll pick you up at eleven-thirty tomorrow. Okay?"
       "Okay. Good night."
       He shut the door very carefully. She wished he'd gone ahead and slammed it.
       In the bathroom Hilary looked at the dazed eyes, the tousled hair, the smudged lips of her reflection as though they were the images of a recurring nightmare. Her carry-on bag still lay behind the door, the packets of pills inside a silent rebuke. She'd intended to tell Mark about them. She'd intended a lot more. But the moment, like so many other moments, had been raped, pillaged, and murdered.
       For a long time she stood braced against the counter, listening to the hollow echo of her own heartbeat, until she went at last to her solitary bed.
--------
         *Chapter Three*
       The pinkish-gray haze that had yesterday matted the horizon now spread across the entire sky, turning blue to tarnished silver. By early afternoon the day had gone from unseasonably warm to oppressively hot. The gusty wind was tinted with red dust and left a muddy taste on Mark's tongue.
       As he shut the door of his van, he saw Jenny herding the students back into their assigned spots. Good -- he hadn't overstayed his lunch break. He'd left Hilary in the leasing company's driveway, a map of Fort Worth unfolded on the steering wheel of her new car, plotting a course to the nearest mall.
       They'd been friendly and polite to each other, as though last night's scene hadn't occurred. Not that that scene had been very different from the scenes last summer. Then a female friend had told Mark, "You get to be the man who convinces her most men will take no for an answer. You get to teach her to trust men again."
       "I'm not martyr material," he'd responded.
       "Sure you are, if you care for her."
       Scowling, Mark walked toward the dig. Hilary had been brutalized. She was still in shock. He understood that. He would've happily vasectomized Ben with a back hoe. But it wasn't fair, damn it, that the undertow of Ben's sickness had to pull innocent bystanders under, too.
       Mark picked up his trowel and winced -- his fingertips were raw. He'd stayed up past midnight, playing passionately on his guitar the ballads he wanted to play on Hilary. He did care for her, more's the pity. So here he was again, aching with frustration, needing to show his caring by making love to her, able to show his caring only by not making love to her.
       Hilary had commented last summer that distant loyalty, like a knight's for his lady, was the truest and purest love of all. But Mark recognized rationalization when he heard it. Physical love was a court jester capering as knight and lady traded courtly bows, impossible to ignore.
       Pondering the absurdities of sacred and profane love, he began cutting the edge of the now two-inch-deep garage trench. "We'll use a plumb bob to get a ninety-degree angle and a smooth face," he told the students. "Is that a row of paving stones?"
       "Could be," said Amy. "Is it the original driveway?"
       "More likely a decorative edging to a flower bed or walkway. See, you don't have the packed dirt here that would indicate other stones were once laid next to these."
       A shadow loomed over him. Preston stood holding the surveyor's theodolite like a toothpick under one arm. "You're supposed to show me how to use this," he stated. "She's found some kind of log foundation."
       In the garden trench, Jenny was the focus of a circle of faces. "This is clay soil, which means wood preservation would be quite good if it weren't for the termites. See the mortise and tenon joints? When I was excavating a Swedish settlement in Delaware last year...."
       Mark showed Preston how to triangulate the position of the feature and draw it onto the sketchboard. Last summer Hilary had been dig artist, the tiny, precise strokes of her pencil catching details photographs missed.
       He heard the crunching of car tires and half expected to see Hilary's Caprice. But this car was a navy-blue Lexus, as subtly expensive as a designer suit. Another Coburg, no doubt. Jenny brushed herself off and advanced toward the drive. She was wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat so decrepit Huckleberry Finn would've thrown it away, and Mark couldn't see her face. But he read the sardonic courtesy in the set of her jaw and shoulders.
       The thirtyish man who climbed out of the car was tall and lean, with a self-absorbed bearing that suggested his body had been tailored as carefully as his polo shirt and slacks. "Kenneth Coburg," he announced and shook Jenny's hand. "Welcome to Texas, Dr. Galliard. I'm sorry I was out of town when you arrived. Foundation business."
       Jenny said something polite. Mark edged forward.
       Kenneth's smile was a copy of his sister's, except his was the dental-perfect gleam of a political candidate. His hair was a darker blond than Sharon's, styled and blow-dried into obedience even the wind barely compromised. Perhaps Kenneth's long, straight nose and square jaw were repeated beneath Sharon's cosmetic mask, but Mark doubted it. And Kenneth's large, dark, heavy-lidded eyes were his own. They were the eyes of a Byzantine emperor, somber and remote, a contradiction to his full lips and amiable drawl. "How's it going? Have you found anything yet?"
       "Some logs, some stones. Only a few pieces of the puzzle."
       "Puzzle? Everyone already knows what's here. It's really a shame the preservationists insisted we do an archaeological survey before building Victoria Square. I'm afraid we're doing you a disservice, taking you away from important work -- Jenny, isn't it?" His query was addressed to her bosom.
       "No excavation is unimportant," Jenny answered, her voice crisp.
       "Couldn't prove it by me. I barely got out of Business Administration with a gentleman's C." Kenneth turned. "You must be Mark, from Austin."
       His handshake was so assertive that Mark grimaced. "I attend the University there, but I'm a Fort Worth native."
       "Return of the prodigal son? That's great. Y'all are fixing to come to the reception tonight? Mother is expecting you."
       The implication was that Dolores would send out bloodhounds to track them down if they declined. But Mark really was eager to meet the _mater familias_. "Wouldn't miss it," he said.
       "I'll show you around the Lloyd," Kenneth said to Jenny, the angle of his shoulder excluding Mark. "Father's collections are there now, you know."
       "Much obliged," Jenny murmured. "Now, if you'll excuse us...."
       "Don't let me keep you, Jenny," said Kenneth. Again he took her hand and smiled. Mark expected him to start pitching beachfront property in Colorado, but he didn't say anything more.
       Two Air Force jets streaked overhead, their sound waves almost palpable. A grackle squawked. The Lexus purred away. In the sun-stippled shadow of her hat Jenny's polite smile tightened into a sigh. Chin tucked, she considered her own admittedly splendid chest. "I was tempted to tell him the other one's name is Sally."
       Mark's guffaw at her comment collided with his gasp at the effect of the sigh on her T-shirt. The fabric with its Oxford University logo was discreetly loose, knotted at the hip, and Jenny herself was corseted properly enough to satisfy any maiden aunt. She wasn't trying to be provocative, she had to breathe, after all. It was Kenneth Coburg who should have hidden his automatic testosterone alert. Mark cleared his throat and grinned.
       Jenny's answering laugh was a dry one, but it was a laugh. "Hop it," she teased, jerking her head toward the garage trench.
       He hopped and arrived just in time to keep the students from throwing away a turn of the century Coke bottle. "Even commercial artifacts have histories," Mark explained. "Never move anything -- context is very important. This bottle, you see, was somewhat beneath one of these cobbles; the bottom of it is a wee bit crushed. It gives us a _terminus post quem_. The cobbles can't have been laid any earlier than the turn of the century."
       "The records can tell us when they were laid," Amy protested, her lower lip pouting prettily.
       "If you have written records," said Mark, "you check them. But what would you do in a much older site, something B.C -- before Coke?"
       That was a thin joke, but the students giggled anyway. Mark showed Amy how to label the bottle, and Preston how to sketch it onto the plan. As the sun slumped into the west, the students' hoes began to turn up bits of charcoal in the garage trench, the remains of the conflagration of 1975.
       "Clear your loose!" Jenny called. "Clean your tools!"
       Griping good-naturedly, they brushed stray grains of dirt away from the uncovered features, cleaned their tools and took them into the metal shed, and departed. Amy paused to ask if Mark knew of any books she could read -- archaeology was basically dude stuff, you know. She fluttered her lashes at him, looking more like a puppy than a siren.
       Mark recommended a couple of titles and watched Amy's dirt-caked bottom and perky ponytail retreat toward the drive. _Brazen little hussy. She should still be playing with Barbie dolls...._ He and Karen, his former wife, had been Amy's age when they had seduced each other in the back seat of his mother's car and catapulted themselves into maturity.
       Feeling middle-aged, Mark went to take a pollen sample from the cobbles; probably a flower bed had lain next to the old carriage house/garage. Beside him Preston labored, drawing board propped on his knee, tongue caught between his teeth, to plot the meandering line of stones so far revealed. Jenny leaned over him, her forefinger indicating a misplaced dimension. His correction earned a nod and a "Well done!"
       A car entered the driveway through the haze of dust left by the students' departing vehicles. Mark squinted. That really was Hilary.
       He mopped at his face, but the dirt-caked sweat on it felt like sandy Vaseline and smeared rather than wiped away. His filthy clothes he could do nothing about; he pictured himself in a commercial, holding up a roll-on bottle and intoning, "For a real test of your deodorant, try archaeology."
       Hilary's jeans weren't as skin-tight as Sharon Ward's, but she wasn't as emaciated. Her "Phantom of the Opera" T-shirt wasn't as loose as Jenny's, but her figure was more willowy. The sunlight that had earlier seemed tarnished stitched Hilary's brown hair with golden threads and lit her brown eyes like amber; the oppressive heat polished her complexion to an immaculate glow. How does she do that? Mark asked himself, and sounded the all-clear to his own testosterone alert. "Did you find something to wear tonight?"
       "I didn't get anything," Hilary returned. "I have to learn to live on a budget. I already have a dress -- no one here's seen it before."
       Mark had mopped many a floor and sold many a fast-food burger before finally attaining a graduate fellowship. He modified his patronizing smile into one of welcome and started making introductions.
       Preston stowed his pencil and shook Hilary's hand. Jenny took off her hat and fluffed the hair matted on her forehead. "Nice to meet you, Hilary. You did the illustrations at Rudesburn, did you?"
       "Yes, I'm afraid so."
       "Perhaps you could give the students some pointers."
       "Or this student some pointers, anyway," said Preston.
       "Sure, I'd be glad to."
       "I suppose you lot would like to see the house," Jenny went on.
       "Yes, please," Hilary replied. Preston chimed in enthusiastically and tucked the drawing board under his arm. Making a forward-ho! gesture, Jenny led them off across the rubble.
       Mark lagged a step behind. The odd diffused dazzle of the sun bleached Osborne's bulbous shape of color and definition, so that it was no more threatening than a matte backdrop in some cheap horror movie. He shot a quick sideways glance at Hilary. Her lips were sketched as precisely as one of her own drawings. Last night they had not only yielded against his, but for one heady moment had suggested more than kisses. Despite the weakness -- the nightmares -- he'd admitted a few minutes earlier.
       She glanced back at him with a straightforward smile, not a solicitous one. Unlike most women, Hilary acknowledged wounds without rushing hysterically around trying to bandage them.
       Osborne's lawn was threaded by mounds of earth, as though a crazed mole had been playing tic-tac-toe. A new underground sprinkler system, Mark noted. The roof of the porte-cochere was part shining copper, part weathered green. A new cement-block carport crouched incompatibly beside it, so far holding only Jenny's rented Blazer. The tiny ligustrum bushes that lined the foundation seemed intimidated by the harsh lines they were expected to veil.
       Jenny said, "Madame Coburg told me she made a bargain with a contractor to send his people here when they weren't working anywhere else. Renovations on the cheap."
       "If it's by pinching pennies you get to be wealthy," Preston mourned, "I'll never make it."
       "Madame Coburg married her money," said Mark.
       "You don't call her 'Madame' to her face, do you?" Hilary asked Jenny.
       "Good heavens, no. She's as fixated on first names as most Americans. No criticism intended." Jenny bounded up the marble steps to the veranda, her reflection wavering in the beveled glass of the door. She stopped beside a metal plaque proclaiming Osborne House to be a Texas Historical Landmark, fished in her pocket, and waved a key chain at the ornamental excrescences of the house -- sandstone trim, copper dadoes, gables, galleries, bay windows and tower. "Ground floor elevated and surrounded with a veranda, twelve foot high ceilings and nine foot high windows. Influenced by British architect Charles Locke Eastlake. Queen Anne style, it is, although I haven't a clue why; poor Queen Nan went to her reward centuries before piles like this."
       "1890's fascination with things British," offered Hilary. "Like Vicky Mortensen catching herself a real English gentleman."
       Jenny chose one of three keys on the chain. The lock opened with a thunk. The portals swung wide. She waved her grubby straw hat as if it had a sweeping plume. "May I present the domain of clan Coburg? Check your weapons at the door."
       Gazing enraptured at Jenny, Hilary asked, "Snide remarks at twenty paces?" and walked inside.
       Mark was left on the steps. He hurried across the veranda and plunged inside the house. The entrance hall was dark and cool after the windy sunshine outside, raising goose flesh on his arms and neck. A scent of mildew hung on the still air. A distant organ should have been throbbing Bach's "Toccata and Fugue", providing the proper atmosphere for a house haunted by murder, but the silence was absolute.
       "No electricity in this part of the house," said Jenny's voice. "It has to be rewired to meet city codes before it can open as a restaurant. It could be months before the blackout's lifted."
       A broad staircase resolved itself from the gloom. Bronze candelabra sprouted from the newel posts, and the railings were a rich mahogany that even a fingerprinted layer of dust and grime couldn't conceal. The ceiling plaster was cracked, and wall sockets, decapitated of their lamps, bled wires.
       The hall was paneled, wallpapered, painted, and gimcracked, every foot of space a frenzy of decoration. A huge hatrack stood in the angle of the stair. Small tables held dead ferns and crestfallen peacock feathers. The pendulum of a grandfather clock caught the light from the open door. Its slow tick-tock was as sonorous as water drops down a deep well.
       Jenny frowned at the clock. It was almost five, Mark thought, and the reception was at seven-thirty. Briskly he shut the door.
       Hilary picked up a leaflet from a windowsill and read aloud, "Longleaf pine paneling with cypress and mahogany trim. Aubusson and Kashan rugs. Paintings by Whistler, Sargent, and Corot. Vases, decorative pieces, and tableware by Sevres, Dresden, Meissen, Royal Worcester, Staffordshire. Dolores took the portable objects when she moved?"
       "Oh yes," Jenny replied, "more because they were valuable than because she liked them, I think. She told me she preferred contemporary furnishings, and had been -- er -- 'chomping at the bit' for years to get out of here."
       Mark had often driven by the new Coburg mansion, a sleek white ranch style iceberg, its visible eighth guarded by a brick and wrought iron fence. He imagined the interior filled with similarly cold leather and chrome.
       "Helpful of Felicia to get murdered," said Preston. "Gave Dolores a great excuse to build herself a new house." Three pairs of eyes turned toward him. No one laughed, least of all Mark. "Oh -- sorry. I forgot we were within feet of the murder scene."
       "Do you know where Felicia was found?" Jenny asked. "I certainly wasn't after asking Sharon or Dolores."
       A little louder than necessary, Mark replied, "The parlor, where Vicky and Edward died. Through here?" He stepped firmly through a wide doorway, the others crowding his back.
       Jenny opened draperies concealing French doors. Dust eddied in the sudden searchlight of sun. Hilary sneezed. The curtains were drooping, dispirited velvet, and the glass they covered was smeared and fly-specked. Hand-painted roses that had once been pink clambered up the wallpaper. The carpet might have been a century-old Aubusson, but it was so dingy it was hard to see any pattern. It was not stained with blood.
       They stood in a semi circle around the ornate marble fireplace, its empty grate a yawn of indifference. Mark didn't mention Osborne's hypothetical ghost. Neither did anyone else.
       Jenny turned and paced through another doorway. With a nervous grimace, Hilary followed. Preston tried to tiptoe. Mark felt creaky, like the tin man from The Wizard of Oz. Vicky and Felicia had both been "carved up like deli plates" -- or so he had blithely told Jenny yesterday. Now he should be hearing footsteps behind him, walking through pockets of chill, or seeing knives and razors glittering in the corners of his eyes. But the house was inert, refusing to collaborate with his nightmares.
       The conservatory was illuminated by keyhole windows. A mahogany table squatted in the center of the dining room beneath an intricate, cobweb-scummed chandelier.
       "This door," said Jenny, tapping wood panels, "leads to the kitchen." Like the others, the door was so smothered in varnish that the carvings on its frame were only mysterious shapes.
       The drawing room looked like the parlor, massive pieces of Victorian furniture shrouded with dust covers, rickety folding chairs and tables propped up against them. A baby grand piano dominated the music room. When Hilary lifted the lid and tried a scale, the discordant trill shattered the silence. She quickly lowered the lid.
       Spindly rococo revival furniture was shoved against one wall, leaving the center of the room for a speaker's lectern. Jenny explained, "Osborne was rented out for functions until Arthur died."
       Back to the entry they trudged, then climbed the staircase to a chorus of squeaks and groans from the wooden treads. The rooms upstairs contained four poster beds, armoires, more folding chairs. The bathrooms were porcelain museums, complete with claw-footed tubs and cabinet-enclosed toilets.
       "I haven't seen antique fixtures like these since Dunrobin Castle in Scotland," said Hilary.
       "I assume Dolores has plumbers laid on as well," Jenny told her and added teasingly, "Spoiled your holiday by going to Scotland, did you?"
       Hilary giggled. "Now, now, some of my best friends are Scots."
       The walls of one room were papered with the garish primary colors of Looney Tunes characters; it had been Sharon and Kenneth's nursery. Mark wondered if they'd missed Osborne's wide halls and the banister, just right for sliding, or whether they had been told for years not to play with the Dresden figurines or run their toy trucks across the carpets, and had been glad to leave.
       Jenny opened a door on a narrow staircase. "Attics. Nothing there but jumble sale rubbish. Dolores wants to make it a craft shop."
       Arthur's study was at the front of the second floor. The long room was airy despite its paneling, moss-green draperies, and flocked wallpaper; sunlight reflecting off glass-fronted bookcases made watery shimmers on the ceiling. "Arthur kept this office after his family moved," said Jenny. "This is where he wrote his books and gave his interviews."
       Preston, Hilary, and Mark, academics all, were already inspecting the bookcases. The contents ranged from leatherbound classics to colorfully jacketed editions of Arthur's own books. "He willed the manuscripts and letters of various literary figures to the library at the University of Texas," Jenny said.
       "And the Regensfeld artworks?" asked Hilary. "They were here, too?"
       "Over there." Jenny pointed toward an etched-glass cabinet.
       Very gently Hilary opened the door and peered within. But the cabinet contained only dust and shadow.
       Across from the fireplace Jenny stood near an open Wooten desk, its multiple pigeonholes filled with tidy stacks of paper. Certificates of honors and keys to cities around the world hung above it. Jenny opened and shut one of the drawers. "Dolores hired Nathan Sikora from the Lloyd to collate Arthur's papers, with an eye to a biography. She told him not to start until she could interest a publisher, though. So she doesn't have to pay him until she can get her investment back."
       "Nathan Sikora," Hilary said. "I know him. Or at least I've written to him. He'll be my boss."
       Jenny nodded. "Lucky you. He's a good man."
       Comes up to your standards, does he? Mark asked silently.
       The walls all the way into two bay windows and out again were covered with photographs of Arthur with tigers, yaks, and Komodo dragons, of Arthur with dignitaries from Dwight Eisenhower to Groucho Marx, and of Arthur with exotically dressed people in geographical sites so far-ranging that Mark wouldn't have been surprised to see him posing with a group of Martians beside the Vallis Marineris.
       Then there were the photos of Dolores -- as a bride, with two children, with two adolescents, as a mature woman. She had aged gracefully. Good bone structure, no doubt, and the help of an army of dieticians, hairdressers, and plastic surgeons. Mark eyed a large oil portrait of mother and children, the three blond heads tilted together like conspirators sharing a secret.
       "Felicia had no children," said Jenny. "Doubtless fertility was one of Dolores's attractions. Arthur's libido must've been positively inspired; they married in 1961 and Kenneth was born nine months and two weeks later."
       "No pictures of Felicia here," Preston said. "None of Arthur's parents, either. Although I've seen some at the Historical Society. All the men look alike, long nose and deep-set eyes."
       Jenny opened a door in the paneling that led to a short flight of stairs. A green and gold glow like that of a forest in June spilled downward, sunlight filtered through four magnificent Tiffany windows. An easy chair and a table with a lamp were the tower room's only furnishings. An inexpensive spiral notebook and a Time magazine dated July 1988 lay on the table.
       "Is this where Arthur died?" Mark asked.
       Preston answered. "Yes. Of a stroke, very suddenly. He was starting his memoirs. Why he never did them before I don't know."
       "Thought he was immortal," said Jenny, "despite the illnesses that were finally catching him up. The illusory glow of a young wife and family. This will have to go to Nathan, too, I suppose." She picked up the notebook and fanned the pages. Dust eddied. Page after page contained the dark, scrawled, handwriting of a desperate man.
       Hilary murmured, "I bet Arthur would've given every precious thing he owned to be able to travel and explore again."
       No one bothered to agree with the obvious. Mark peered through a yellow pane of glass and saw the roof-prow of the Lloyd bathed in golden light. Tiny figures moved along York Boulevard and through the surrounding neighborhoods. Arthur would have seen houses and shops crowding Osborne; now it was isolated by the forlorn expanse of rubble. Wind blasted the tops of the trees, and leaves bronzed by the window glass spun by. The tower was like a wheelhouse on a Mississippi steamer, riding land instead of water. And like a steamer the house was old and outdated, Dolores's ambitions the only thing that kept it from the wrecking ball.
       Jenny guided them down from the tower and out of the study. "The house is top-hole. When Dolores asked me to keep an eye on it, I was only too pleased to agree. A shame to let a place so young go to rack and ruin."
       Hilary folded her arms. "I bet it's spooky here at night."
       "I'm quite accustomed to living alone."
       Nerves of titanium, Mark thought again. He tasted Osborne's aura of decay dank and fetid in his throat. It was annoying -- he saw new meaning in the term "dog's breath" -- but, oddly, it wasn't frightening.
       Jenny led them down a back staircase. "The pantries are empty save for some institutional dishes. That door leads to the cellars, where Dolores plans a shop selling Arthur's books and an audio-visual display showing his films. Nothing there now but a furnace and water heater and an empty workshop. Arthur's wine collection is gone, I'm afraid. But I'll put on the kettle for a cuppa." She pushed through another door, and they were in the kitchen.
       "All right!" Mark said. Hilary drew an audible breath. Preston shook himself, like a dog climbing out of water.
       "Bar the nursery upstairs," Jenny continued, "this was the only part of the house Arthur let Dolores change. Just peeling off the battleship lino must've been a big improvement."
       Stripped of linoleum, the floor was of wide planks that matched the cabinets. A red brick fireplace anchored one side of the room. On the other, an antique iron stove was a pot rack for a modern range, and an ancient icebox served as an ivy planter next to a new refrigerator. The windows -- the ones that had been lit so warmly last night -- were clean, covered with bright calico curtains. The center of the room was graced by a refectory table, one end occupied by a computer, a stack of papers weighted by a flashlight and a camera, and a box of archaeological supplies. Beyond a door at the far side of the room, Mark glimpsed a pine bedstead, its bright Navajo blanket a welcome contrast to the faded opulence of the house.
       Jenny threw her hat on the table. "Butler's room. Now mine, appropriately."
       "You don't care much for the Coburgs, do you?" Mark asked.
       "I wasn't born to any kind of privilege, and I certainly haven't married any. I have little patience with toffs who think they've somehow earned it all, no." She filled a teakettle, placed it on the range, and dumped tea into a brown glazed pot. "I suppose the Coburgs have problems of their own," she added, straining for generosity.
       Hilary inspected her own ritzy tennis shoes, apparently wondering just what she'd earned with her privileged birth.
       Preston laid the drawing board he'd been so faithfully carrying on the table. "No tea for me, thanks. Y'all may be mingling with society tonight, but my lady is expecting me, and I'd put her up against Dolores any day!"
       "See you tomorrow, then." Jenny escorted him through a porch and out the back door, opening its dead bolt for him.
       The kettle hissed, but it didn't drown out a sudden faint squeaking sound. Hilary's chin went up as she strained to identify it, but the squeak was eclipsed by Jenny's voice as she returned. "Lucia Hernandez welcomed me the first night I was here. She gave me that -- thing -- on the mantelpiece."
       Mark saw a matchstick sculpture of spindly skeletons wielding pick and spade, just as well digging an archaeological trench as a grave. "A _Dia de los Muertos_ decoration. The Day of the Dead -- All Saints' Day, in November. In Mexico, you go out to the cemetery, clear off your ancestors' graves, and have a party. When I finished my thesis last year, Lucia gave me a skeleton hunched over a computer."
       "Rather like the old English sarcophagi showing a rotting body?" Jenny went to rescue the insistently whistling teakettle.
       "Similar, I guess," said Hilary. "Thinking of death not as some ghastly end, but as a normal stage in existence. I wonder sometimes if people today don't put too much emphasis on the physical body."
       No, Mark thought with weary sarcasm, nothing as transitory as flesh should be savored. He accepted a mug of tea and doctored it with milk and sugar. Its sweet heat scoured his throat of the taste of decay. The light and air in the kitchen was a welcome antidote to the stuffy silence of the main house. He wasn't sure whether he was relieved or disappointed that, as a haunted house, Osborne had turned out to be a damp firecracker. Nothing like facing one's fears to defeat them, he told himself.
       Jenny drank deeply from her steaming mug. British throats were lined with asbestos, Mark told himself with a smile.
       Hilary sipped. "You know, I think there's an animal outside."
       "Eh?" Jenny listened, then put down her cup. "Let's make a recce."
       Outside the air was like glycerin in the shadowless glare of the sun. The braided branches of the oaks whipped in the wind. Scraggly azalea and crape myrtle crowded the foundations of the house. With visions of scorpions and fire ants, Mark pulled Hilary back and plunged into the narrow tunnel behind the hedge.
       At the edge of the veranda he found a small scruffy cat. Its piteous mews increased in volume as he picked it up, and its paws flailed, leaving parallel red scratches on his hand. "Hey," Mark protested, dropping it, "I'm trying to help you!"
       The cat squeaked indignantly like a rubber squeeze toy.
       "What is it?" shouted Hilary from beyond the shrubbery barrier.
       "A cat. Kitten. Feline teenager. Real scared."
       "Half a minute," Jenny called. Footsteps receded, returned. A bath towel came flying over the bushes.
       Mark wrapped the little creature so that only its pointed face, whiskers, and outsized ears emerged from the towel. The cat's squeaks subsided. By the time he crawled free of the hedges, it was purring. "Thanks," he told it, and wiped his torn hand on his shirt.
       "Oh, poor baby!" Hilary trilled, referring not to Mark but to the cat. "Is it hurt?"
       "Too loud to be hurt -- mostly hungry and dirty." Jenny took the towel and cat bundle and gingerly unwrapped it. Sensing a patsy, the animal turned on the charm, rubbing its head against the Oxford logo on her shirt and blinking its golden eyes. After a quick inspection, Jenny pronounced, "A female. She can stay here with me -- plenty of room for the both of us."
       "Is she all right?" Hilary asked.
       Jenny laughed. "My mum and I always had cats in our cottage. I've been through more feline crises than I have pottery shards."
       "She's in good hands, then," said Mark.
       "She's such a pretty gray," Hilary said. "Or will be when she's cleaned up. What was it they called witches' familiars in the Middle Ages?"
       "Graywacke," Mark replied. He swore the cat was smirking at him.
       "That's a variety of stone," Jenny told him. "You're thinking of 'Graymalkin'. Appropriate name for her. Not that I've ever been called a witch, but I've certainly been called something that rhymes."
       Mark wasn't sure whether she meant that as a joke, but was saved from reacting inappropriately when Hilary spotted his scratches. "Wounded in the line of duty, I see. Come on, let's get that hand cleaned up -- I've got some antibiotic ointment...." She saw his raw fingertips and flinched, knowing full well why he'd been playing his guitar so intently.
       "I need to clean all of me up," he told her, "if they're going to let me in the Lloyd."
       "I'll feed Graymalkin some milk and egg and make her a bed," Jenny said. "Tomorrow will be time enough for a wash and brush and a visit to the vet's. You'd best be off -- I imagine Lucia's flat has only one bath."
       Uh-oh, Mark said to himself. Jenny thought Hilary was living with him. Among other activities, no doubt.
       Hilary's rosy complexion became even rosier. "Actually, I'm staying at a townhouse over there." Her gesture could've included anything from the Lloyd to San Francisco.
       Jenny had the class not to compound her mistake by trying to apologize for it. She definitely didn't recognize its implications. "Right. I'll be seeing you tonight, then."
       "Thanks for the tea," Mark and Hilary called, and walked, each in a cocoon of personal space, toward the driveway. Behind them, Graymalkin's demanding meow was cut off by the shutting of the back door.
       Hilary unlocked her car and leaned on the roof, eyeing the house. "I'd hate to stay there all by myself. And I sure wouldn't be walking around at night. Jenny's something else, isn't she?"
       Mark eyed Hilary's profile. Here he was worried about the house spooking him, and it had spooked her. He felt obscurely guilty, as though he should've protected her. But she would have rejected his solicitude, just as he'd rejected hers. "Yeah," he said neutrally.
       "Did you notice that the clock in the entrance hall was the only thing outside of the kitchen that wasn't covered with dust? Jenny frowned at it."
       "Because she knew it was getting late."
       "If she was in a hurry, why did she ask us to stay for tea?"
       Mark hadn't a clue as to what Hilary was getting at, and suspected she didn't either -- the house had simply made her nervous. Symptom of a choked libido. He opened the door of the van. "I'll pick you up at seven-fifteen."
       Hilary shrugged off her uneasiness. "No, my turn to drive. Where's your apartment?" Using his toe, Mark sketched a map in the gravel. "Got it," she said. "Seven-fifteen, best bib and tucker."
       "Can't I just wear a suit?"
       Hilary laughed, then drove away with a jaunty wave.
       The turret of Arthur's Camelot was a green and yellow gleam beyond the trees. Mark wondered if Arthur, or his mother, Vicky, or his wife Felicia, had believed death was just a stage in existence.
       Time was wasting. He, too, turned away from Osborne House and drove off toward the sunset.
--------
         *Chapter Four*
       Hilary pulled on Mark's arm, stopping him just outside the doorway of the atrium. "I feel as though we're entering the palace of Versailles for an audience with Louis XIV," she whispered.
       "No kidding," Mark returned.
       Not that the classical marble entrance hall of the Lloyd was as ornate as that of Versailles. And the people in the atrium were reflected not in tall mirrors but in windows, so that their forms swam eerily in the shadowed depths of the gardens outside. But the banks of flowers, the long tables with their white linen cloths and silver trays, and the string quartet playing tasteful music in the corner reminded Hilary of a scene from a costume drama.
       Her own costume, a short black satin sheath with puffed sleeves, was going to stand out like a crow among a group of peacocks. Most of the other women were wearing voluminous gowns reminiscent of Scarlett O'Hara or Madame de Pompadour. Among the billowing pink and apricot taffetas, the men in their tuxedos looked like exclamation points.
       Hilary recognized political candidates and business tycoons whose photographs had been in this morning's paper. Oh my, she thought. She hadn't been at a gathering this sophisticated in years. It reminded her of her brother Gary's wedding reception at the country club, when she'd been a little girl in frilly socks and hair ribbons.
       Mark cleared his throat, as if the pressure of his tie on his Adam's apple was choking him. "You want me to duck out before I embarrass you?"
       "Why?" Hilary asked. "So you don't have a tux. The invitation said semi-formal, not full ball gown and monkey suit. Look at me, for heaven's sake -- this isn't even a Dior, I got it around the corner from Dior...."
       "Maybe it has some Dior lint on it," Mark said.
       "Lint? Where?" She'd already started brushing at her shoulders before she realized he was joking. The weight of her gold earrings and necklace must have shorted out her sense of humor. She pushed at him. He laughed.
       The charcoal wool of his suit shaded his gray eyes with the translucence of early morning. The jacket was cut along unconstructed European lines, emphasizing the depth of his chest and the slenderness of his hips rather than the weight of his checkbook. The red and blue of his tartan tie was a touch of the cheerful impudence Hilary so admired and envied in him. "You look very nice," she told him.
       "The suit's a guilt gift from my father. Every time he gets some fancy toy for my little half-brother and sister, he gets something for me, too."
       "I get status gifts. Like the money that eked out my fellowship -- heaven forbid my father's daughter should live in a Parisian garret. But I've got a real job now. Better late independence than never."
       "You've never been dependent. There's too much going on in there." Mark tapped her forehead. "Come on, we can't stand here all night."
       He wasn't intimidated, was he? How did he do that? Hilary toyed with the concept of fools rushing in where angels fear to tread -- no, Mark was no fool -- and familiarity breeding contempt -- it wasn't familiarity, his background was middle-class -- and finally decided that it was simply his stubborn refusal to be cowed. "Lead on," she said, and they entered the atrium.
       A white-jacketed official checked their invitations and directed them toward the refreshments.
       "Glass of wine?" Mark asked.
       "Just a sip, please. I'm driving."
       "Coming up." Mark strolled over to a table and asked the steward dispensing from a dozen sleek bottles, "_Como estas_?"
       The man was so pleased someone recognized his existence that he answered with what must've been his life history. Mark blanched, responded in labored Spanglish, and finally obtained two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc. Hilary rolled the wine around her mouth. California, she decided. Very good.
       The atrium was a carousel of baroque human figures bobbing up and down among potted ficus trees decorated with tiny white fairy lights. Overhead spotlights brought out the sparkle of jewelry, hair spray, and polished teeth. The string quartet played in mime, their music overwhelmed by chattering voices. A calliope, Hilary thought, might have been more appropriate.
       "Well if you aren't the prettiest little thing I've ever seen!" said a hearty voice in Hilary's ear, and she jumped.
       Mark's brows went lopsided, one up, one down. "Travis Ward, Hilary Chase. She's the new assistant curator here at...."
       Travis seized Hilary's hand and held her away from him in the attitude of a fisherman considering his latest catch. "Here at the Lloyd? Now, sugar, you're much too good-looking a gal to waste in those musty old storerooms."
       Hilary managed to swallow her mouthful of wine. A large air bubble went down with it. She croaked, "Nice to meet you, Mr. Ward."
       "Travis, sugar. Just Travis. We're all friends here, aren't we?"
       She pulled her hand away from his damp palm. His eyes weren't quite focused and his bow tie hung a bit askew. Judging by the faint miasma of alcohol he exuded, he'd gotten a head start on the evening.
       Hilary could step closer to Mark, asking for his protection and therefore inferring his ownership. Instead she planted her pumps on the marble floor and said with earnest breathlessness, "I'm looking forward to working in the storerooms. I can hardly wait to see the Bastianini quattrocento forgeries -- in the style of Desiderio da Settignano, you know, quite the cynosure in the nineteenth century. And the Tintoretto of the Gonzaga family, a gallery picture, but worthwhile as an example of Renaissance excess."
       Travis stared as though she'd suddenly started speaking in tongues.
       "Of course Leonardo's 'Ginevra dei Benci' was for quite a while not accepted as genuine. There's a reference to it in Proust's _A la recherche du temps perdu_."
       Muttering excuses, Travis retreated into the crowd, walking with the bowlegged deliberation of a man accustomed to high-heeled cowboy boots.
       Hilary looked shamefacedly around at Mark. Suffused with silent laughter, he raised his glass to her and said, "I hereby award you both ears and the tail."
       "For heaven's sake, Mark, I never got past the first chapter of Proust."
       Travis was intercepted by a woman whose blond hair flared around her head in defiance of gravity. "There you are," she said. "Go find the boy from the florist's and see what happened to that tea rose arrangement for the bar."
       "The bar has some flowers on it."
       "Those aren't tea roses, are they? They're gladioli. I swear, you're slower than Christmas."
       Travis seized another glass of sustenance as he passed the bar. The woman flounced -- her dress was appropriate for flouncing -- toward another table and demanded that a half-empty tray of finger sandwiches be replaced.
       "Sharon, right?" Hilary asked Mark. "Imitating Dolores?"
       "We're about to find out. Here comes the _mater familias_ herself, turned out to the best standards of Neiman-Marcus."
       Like a clipper ship under full sail, Dolores Coburg cut through the crowd toward them. Swirls of mauve silk accentuated her slender waist, and a deep ruffle was the pedestal from which her head and shoulders emerged like a porcelain bust. A diamond solitaire glowed at her throat. Her ash-blond hair swooped in meticulous waves away from her flawless face, where a fine layer of cosmetics didn't conceal the lines so much as make fashion statements of them. Hilary was impressed -- so many older women layered on more make-up and fancier clothes, emphasizing their age. But Dolores's taste was impeccable; at fifty, she looked fresher than her twenty-something daughter.
       "Mark, Hilary -- Jenny pointed you out to me -- I'm so glad y'all could join us tonight." Her eyes were like lighthouse lamps, dispelling murk and fog and reflecting the breathtaking azure of the sea. She exuded a subtle aroma of Chanel No. 5.
       Hilary and Mark chorused a polite murmur.
       "Your father and I have been on a couple of charity boards together, Hilary. How nice that you're coming to work at the Lloyd."
       _Oh no_. Hilary couldn't keep herself from asking, "Did you know I was applying for a job -- I mean, did my father...."
       Dolores's gentle laugh had the ring of fine crystal. "Oh no, no -- Nathan told me who you were after he'd already hired you. You got the job on your own qualifications, don't worry. Not that I have much power at the Lloyd anyway -- the Foundation is negotiating to build a permanent wing for my husband's collections, but the gallery's main funding comes from elsewhere."
       Hilary brightened. Dolores was not only beautiful, but also perceptive.
       Mrs. Coburg turned her amazing eyes on Mark. "I hear you're a Fort Worth native."
       "Yes, ma'am. It's -- er -- it's an honor to work at Osborne."
       "I hope you aren't put off by the ghost stories. I suppose any house with Osborne's history accumulates a few spooky stories, embarrassing as they may be for the family involved."
       Mark's face exhibited nothing but unconcern. Silently Hilary applauded his reserve. To reveal doubt or fear, anger or sorrow, was to invite ridicule. Just as she had upon leaving Osborne this afternoon, she suppressed her own uneasiness about the shadowed house.
       "They say the ghost is my grandmother Vicky, complete with bodice and bustle." Kenneth materialized at his mother's elbow. He held a glass of wine in one hand; his other hand was concealed in the pocket of his tuxedo, giving him an air of languid elegance. "Miss Chase, I presume?"
       Dolores introduced Kenneth to Hilary. He took his hand from his pocket, shook hers, and released it. Maybe his nose and neck were a little too long for him to be candy-box handsome, but his smile admitted a genial self-absorption that reminded Hilary of a P.G. Wodehouse character. Even his appraising glance up and down her figure was light enough for her to take it as a joke, not as the threat Travis's heavy-handed analysis had been.
       "Mother used to be an assistant here," Kenneth confided. "That's how she met Father. But girls don't look at their jobs as husband-hunting expeditions any more, do they?"
       "Work is important for its own sake, Kenneth," Dolores told him. "Go tell your sister to stop browbeating the florists and come meet our guests."
       "Okay." Kenneth ambled away, unabashed.
       Dolores turned back to Mark. "How long do you think it will take for your archaeological survey?"
       "Hard to tell," he replied. "Assuming we don't find anything that isn't in the records, only a month or so. I know you're in a hurry to get on with the development of Victoria Square...."
       "That's for us to worry about," Dolores assured him. "Since your investigation destroys the very evidence you're collecting, you need to take the time to do it right. You won't have a second chance." Kenneth, with Sharon and her stiletto heels in tow, arrived at Dolores's side. She went on speaking. They listened attentively. "Arthur used to talk about playing in the Osborne rose gardens as a child. If you find any toys or personal belongings that might have been his, you will let me know, won't you?"
       "Yes, ma'am. Be glad to." Mark hadn't even blinked, Hilary noticed; he looked like an ancient Greek peasant mesmerized by a mother goddess come to Earth, not sure whether she intended to take him back to Mount Olympus as a pet or to roast and eat him on the spot.
       Dolores turned to her children. "Maybe the flower order got a bit confused, Sharon -- the florist is only human."
       "But he shorted us by two arrangements. I'll call the manager tomorrow and have our account credited."
       "Now, it's not worth acting ugly over."
       "Yes, Mother." Sharon's smile never faltered; intriguing, Hilary thought, how she could talk with her jaw locked like a ventriloquist's. Kenneth covertly eyed his sister, and his own smile glinted.
       "This is Hilary Chase, Sharon," Dolores went on. "I think you've already met Mark Owen."
       "Oh yes, Travis and I stopped by the excavation yesterday. Gripping, isn't it, to see the old foundations reappear?"
       "Perhaps we can preserve a bit of them, make a little museum at Victoria Square," offered Kenneth. "After you and Dr. Galliard have done everything you need to do, of course."
       "No rush." Sharon stood stiffly, her hands clasped before her.
       "Take your time," said Kenneth. His nonchalant pose seemed to be drawn tighter by his sister's proximity, as though her tension was contagious.
       With an apologetic grimace, like a cook embarrassed by a souffle that hadn't risen properly, Dolores looked back at Mark and Hilary. "Jenny tells me she took y'all through the house this afternoon. Lovely, isn't it? What a shame it's so run down. But Arthur couldn't bear the thought of changing anything -- despite the unfortunate memories the place held for him."
       "Have you had any problem with vandals?" Mark asked.
       "Once or twice. When Jenny asked if she could stay in the kitchen quarters, I was only too happy to say yes."
       "Dolly!" called a distinguished-looking man.
       "The senator has to leave early," Dolores explained. "Please help yourself to the caviar." With a rustle of silk she swept away.
       Dolly? Hilary repeated to herself. What an appalling nickname.
       Sharon and Kenneth stood smiling, looking like a pair of fashion dolls abandoned by their owner. Then the hapless wine steward dropped a glass. Before the pieces had skittered to a halt, Sharon was on him. At her imperious gesture he scurried away and returned with a broom and dustpan. She supervised, foot tapping, arms crossed, while he swept up. Odd, Hilary thought, how Dolores's expressive blue eyes could look so glassily artificial in Sharon's face.
       "You an SAE there in Austin, by any chance?" Kenneth asked Mark, easing back into his languid attitude.
       "A what -- oh, the fraternity? No, afraid not."
       Hilary refrained from pointing out that Mark was having to work his way through college.
       Kenneth shrugged and focused on someone on the other side of the room. "If you'll excuse me. Hilary, we'll have to get together sometime." He backed away, barely avoiding a huge woman bedecked with faux emeralds the size of golf balls.
       Hilary's father and brother had been in a fraternity, but she couldn't remember which one. She'd resisted her mother's efforts to push her through freshman sorority rush, preferring to sit sketching in the university museum. Maybe she should be grateful for Ben's attack -- her parents had forgotten all their lectures on her social obligations. Too ashamed to have her show her face in public, no doubt.
       She'd wait until Kenneth defined "get together sometime" before she worried about him. "Dolores isn't what I expected," she told Mark.
       "Me neither. I've been seeing pictures of her all my life -- the ones of her sitting beside Arthur at his trial ought to go into a textbook of adoring wifely postures. But I thought she'd be a lot haughtier, a lot colder. And she might be pinching her pennies at Osborne, but not here."
       "Maybe Preston's right -- she can put on shows like this because she pinches her pennies behind the scenes. Now she's trying out for a textbook of gracious hostesses."
       "You know something? One reason we were expecting a stingy snob is because of Jenny's sarcastic attitude toward her."
       "You're right," agreed Hilary, adding, "Kenneth and Sharon are quite a pair. What animal is it that eats its young?"
       "The human being," Mark stated. "More wine?"
       "Oh no, thanks, that was plenty."
       "You're a real alcoholic, aren't you?" he teased.
       "I'm the only one in the family who hasn't had to dry out."
       Mark mumbled something that sounded like "Urk." Grimacing, he took her glass and his and set them on the table. The steward looked up with a sickly smile and went back to polishing the surviving stemware.
       Travis stood nearby, propping up a pillar. When Kenneth walked by, Travis's scuffed shoe edged outward. Kenneth skipped around his brother-in-law's foot without breaking stride, darting him a look of amused contempt. Travis slumped back against his support.
       "No love lost there," commented Mark.
       "Was Travis's marriage to Sharon arranged, do you know?" Hilary asked. "I mean, with the parents giving a dance at the country club and making sure only suitable spouses are invited, that sort of thing." She thought, I'm never invited to those any more. No longer suitable. Damaged goods.
       _Stop it_, she ordered herself. She'd gone months without letting those thoughts and memories get through her carefully constructed barricades. It wasn't Mark's fault, it was just that she was beginning to realize how much she despised the pretense she'd once embraced.
       "Like the ancient Spartans herding all their unmarried citizens into a dark room with orders not to come out without pairing off?" Mark chuckled. "A hundred years ago the Wards were running cattle west of town. Today they're real-estate barons -- Ward and Meyer, Inc. I think Travis has some sort of position on the board, but he's known for his cutting horses."
       "Cutting horses?"
       "Like sheepdogs. The rider hardly has to use the reins. The horse will separate whatever cow you want and hold it until you're done with it. There are even cutting horse contests these days, like rodeos. Making a sport out of what used to be bloody hard work."
       Hilary sighed. "I should've been nicer to him."
       "No you shouldn't," Mark told her. "You didn't see the belt buckle he was wearing yesterday. A sculptured couple -- er...." His hands made a quick, explicit gesture and then opened in a shrug.
       "Oh."
       They strolled along the periphery of the carousel, avoiding the arc where Sharon was working the crowd, and tried to guess what basic foodstuffs on the buffet were camouflaged by the truffles, sugared rose petals, and shimmery aspics. Across the way Hilary glimpsed Jenny's brunette head. Kenneth was hovering over her, oozing charm and expensive after-shave from every pore. Her smile was as starched as his shirt.
       "Didn't Jenny say Dolores asked her to stay in the house, not the other way around?"
       "Yes, she did," Mark answered. "I think I'd rather trust Jenny's version -- not that it matters."
       "Miss Chase?" Hilary turned to see a plump, black-haired man in his thirties whose tuxedo and prominent nose gave him a benign resemblance to a penguin. "I'm Nathan Sikora. Welcome to the Lloyd."
       "Thank you. Nice to be here," she returned with perfect sincerity, and introduced Mark.
       Nathan's hand was smooth, soft, and yet firm, that of a laborer in the fields of the intellect. Behind his glasses his hazel eyes were crinkled at the corners by years of squinting at palimpsests and rubrics. "You got quite a reference from the directors of the Rudesburn dig. They spoke very highly of your knowledge of medieval art."
       "They always gave me the benefit of the doubt. Let's just say I enjoy studying medieval art."
       "Then you should enjoy working with the Regensfeld artifacts."
       A twinkling rush of static poured through Hilary's body. "Me?"
       Nathan's face pleated with an engaging smile. "Oh yes. The artifacts have to be catalogued and packed before Mr. Vasarian takes them back to Germany the first week of April. I need someone who can work on them full time."
       "Oh, wow," Hilary murmured, dazzled. "That's great."
       "And you didn't even have to kill anyone," said Mark, grinning wickedly. He added to Nathan, "She'll make you a fantastic assistant."
       "Mark," Hilary admonished, both for repeating her intemperate words and for advertising her abilities. But her heart was beating too fast, her red corpuscles dancing like bubbles in champagne, to be angry at him.
       "Your enthusiasm is as valuable as your knowledge," Nathan told her. "I'll bring you some photographs before you leave this evening. And Mark, I'll see you at Osborne -- I'm working on a biography of Arthur Coburg."
       "Anything I can do to help, just let me know."
       "Well, there is one thing.... Oh, excuse me, there's Mr. Vasarian." Nathan bounded off after a tall, elegant man who looked as though he'd climbed from his coffin at nightfall and hadn't yet had his wake-up plasma cocktail.
       "Is that the guy from Germany?" Mark stage-whispered.
       "From Europe somewhere," replied Hilary. "The art expert-detective who tracked the artifacts to Arthur and then represented Regensfeld during the court case. I'm surprised Dolores isn't leaving him to pick through the garbage cans outside, since she lost."
       "A tidy ransom will make anyone a good sport."
       Centrifugal force spun Jenny off the carousel in front of them. Mark's eyes bulged. Not that she was an ugly duckling even in her T-shirt and straw hat, but tonight she was certainly a swan. Hilary recognized her long gold-embroidered burgundy gown as a Chanel, and her dangling earrings as copies of those displayed at the Topkapi Museum in Istanbul. The combination was as self-confident as Jenny herself.
       With judicious application of cosmetics, Jenny's face was transformed from interesting to striking. Her dark eyes and the fringe of dark hair across her forehead reminded Hilary of Josephine, Empress of France. Except Jenny didn't have Josephine's soft, compliant mouth and chin. If Jenny had been married to Napoleon, she wouldn't have been a wife but a Field Marshal.
       Awed, Hilary felt small and plain. Maybe when I'm her age and directing a museum, she told herself, I'll have that kind of presence.
       But Jenny's look at Hilary wasn't nearly as regal as her bearing. "What a posh dress," she said with a smile Hilary could only interpret as wistful. "I could never wear a frock in that style -- I'd look like a sack of potatoes. Are you enjoying your first look at the Museum? A grand place to be starting out -- especially since you get only one chance to start out."
       Jenny's envious of me! Hilary realized, and murmured something polite. That someone like Jenny could feel insecure was rather encouraging.
       Mark waded in. "We finally got to meet your Madame Coburg. Not what we'd expected."
       "Over the top, the lot of them." Jenny sipped from the glass she held.
       "How's Graymalkin?" Hilary asked.
       "Greedy little beggar scoffed her milk and went to sleep straightaway. I'll bathe her tomorrow."
       "Better you than me washing a cat," said Mark. "But you said you and your mother had lots of cats."
       "We lived in a thatched cottage in Wiltshire -- we had to have cats, it was part of the image."
       "Wiltshire?" Mark exclaimed. "Avebury and Stonehenge? No wonder you're an archaeologist."
       Nathan ushered Nicholas Vasarian toward them. Oh my, Hilary thought again, as Nathan made the introductions and Vasarian bowed with antique courtliness over her and Jenny's hands.
       "Have you seen the artifacts yet, Miss Chase?" he asked. "They are superb works of art. I can hardly blame Arthur Coburg for falling in love with them. You do believe, don't you, that it's possible to love an inanimate object?"
       "Is it love for the object itself," Hilary asked, "or for what it symbolizes?"
       "For the materials from which it is made," Vasarian said with a short laugh. "Gold, precious stones -- amazing, isn't it, how throughout history man has managed to put a price on his love?"
       Hilary glanced over her shoulder. No Coburgs were within earshot. Nathan's face puckered slightly, whether in accord or disapproval she couldn't tell. Mark's quick grin signified agreement.
       "I've always felt any ancient object deserves respect," said Jenny. "Even a comb or a cooking pot is evidence of human aspiration. And art objects, particularly religious ones, can't be divorced from the emotions, the intellect, that produced them."
       Nathan nodded. Vasarian inspected Jenny as narrowly as a scientist would a microbe. "Dr. Galliard, have we met before?"
       "No." Jenny took a step backward and moderated her brusqueness by adding, "Of course, I've heard of your work."
       Hilary thought for a moment that Jenny was going to add something derogatory like "treasure-hunting", but she was too polite to bait him.
       Vasarian's accent was upper-class British, except for its sprinkling of Eastern European gutturals like paprika on a crumpet. He had a Roman profile, his nose and forehead one plane. An elusive slackness beneath burnt brown eyes and square chin hinted of hard use, and pain, and vices tried and then rejected as unnecessary or perhaps unworthy. "I doubt," he said, smiling just enough to show his teeth, "that Arthur Coburg was as impressed by the spiritual aspects of the artifacts as he was by their materials and their workmanship. Objects without material value seldom survive long enough for esthetes to appreciate."
       Jenny inhaled for a riposte. Dolores Coburg glided to Vasarian's side. She smiled on everyone impartially and said, "Nicholas, I'd like you to meet the chairman of Panhandle Petroleum."
       "Certainly, Dolly. My pleasure." They walked off arm in arm, Dolores's gold head bent close to Vasarian's silver one. Her clear voice blended with the chime of wineglasses and plates, and the faint pulse of music, words unintelligible but tone light and bantering.
       "Nothing personal," said Mark. "Just a business deal."
       Nathan cleared his throat. "I agree with you, Jenny -- there's more to art than just the physical component. I wish I'd been an art intelligence officer for the Allied Art Commission after World War Two, like Arthur was. Tracking down the works of art the Nazis looted and returning them to their owners must've been like a James Bond thriller, but with a metaphysical aspect much more satisfying than any of Bond's gadgets or microfilm or fast cars."
       "Arthur thought he was James Bond," said Jenny, "getting the artifacts out of Regensfeld just ahead of the Russians but not turning them over to the Commission."
       "The Commission couldn't have returned them to East Germany," Nathan pointed out. "Better the artifacts stayed with someone who cared for them."
       Jenny set her empty glass on the closest table. "Hilary, Mark -- would you like to see Arthur's other collections?"
       "Sure." Mark's expression indicated that the social air of the atrium was getting a little rarefied.
       "I'll get those photos for you." Nathan bustled away toward the entry hall and the doors Hilary had already noted were marked "Offices -- Private."
       Away from the perfumed air of the reception, the atmosphere was museum-sterile. "Metaphysics, huh?" Mark asked Hilary under his breath.
       "Like sex," whispered Hilary. "There has to be more than just a pelvic thrust, or there's no point to it."
       Mark looked at her questioningly. She smiled, bland and innocent. He glanced at his watch. His fingernails were pristine; from her own experience in archaeology, Hilary knew the effort that had cost him. He had strong, well-proportioned hands, unencumbered by any jewelry except the battered wristwatch. His personality, she thought, was strong and well proportioned, masculine dignity kept from arrogance by self-knowledge. His admission of fear last night outside Osborne had been incredibly appealing.
       As for the final scene last night.... Well, she'd been tired after her trip and churlish after her visit with her family. She preferred to remember their last evening together last summer. Surrounded by friends celebrating a wedding, she'd had no trouble surrendering to an intoxicating blend of sentiment, music, and champagne. She and Mark had danced close together until the wee hours, thinking they'd never see each other again. The bittersweet goodbyes in her hotel room had been the most emotionally and physically exciting moments of her life.
       The regret for what hadn't happened that night had come later. Dolores's and Jenny's comments about no second chances didn't apply to romance.... Hilary blushed furiously, earning another inquisitive and somewhat hopeful look from Mark.
       Despite all the ego boosts she'd received there, Hilary was grateful to spin from the social merry-go-round in the atrium into the temporary exhibits gallery. At its entrance a sign reading "The Arthur Coburg Collection" stood beside a studio portrait of Arthur himself. The height of his brow caught his intelligence, the angle of his chin his ambition, and the set of his mouth his sardonic humor. His crisp dark hair was touched by gray at the temples. His heavy-lidded eyes suffered fools very poorly indeed.
       "The ghost at the banquet," commented Jenny.
       In the oblique lighting of the gallery, the array of display cases beckoned with mysterious gleams. This is why I'm here, Hilary told herself, for the art, not for the society posturing. She bent over a beautifully mounted display of Moche Indian jewelry.
       "Brilliant," said Jenny, inspecting a grouping of Sung porcelain.
       Mark considered several ebony West African masks. Together they moved past Persian miniatures, jeweled Russion icons, Tibetan fabric paintings, and a huge Aztec calendar stone resting beside a totem pole. "No one can accuse Arthur of not having catholic tastes," Mark said at last.
       "Quixotic tastes," said Hilary. "Look at that -- it's a fake Vermeer by van Meegeren. Amazing how the man got away with so many fakes and was only caught when the Allied Art Commission accused him of being a collaborator."
       "Arthur would be the first to trumpet the virtues of audacity," said Jenny.
       "You know a lot about him," Mark told her. "Did you ever meet him?"
       "Oh no, no. I just believe in using my references."
       They paused appreciatively before a Constable landscape, Jenny emitting a nostalgic sigh at the green English meadows. Nathan Sikora caught up with them among the Greek terra cotta sculpture and small Roman bronzes. He handed Hilary a manila envelope. "Here you are, just to whet your appetite."
       She peeked inside. A glossy black and white photograph of a brooch in Celtic interlace style caught the light and winked at her. "Thank you! I'll bring them back tomorrow. I can hardly wait to start work."
       All the way back down the gallery Hilary was caroling to herself, What a great job! What a good boss! Everything was going so beautifully it was almost frightening.... _Stop it,_ she told herself.
       She glanced at Mark. He glanced back. His smile was remarkably like Graymalkin's smirk upon being rescued from the shrubbery.
       In the atrium Nathan took his leave. Dolores was holding court beneath the glittering ficus trees, less like Louis XIV than like the fairy queen Titania receiving her suitors. Vasarian stood to her right, smiling inscrutably; Kenneth stood to her left with the amiable grin of the well-marinated social drone. Sharon was still working the crowd. Travis had disappeared -- Hilary looked but didn't see his feet protruding from beneath one of the linen-draped tables.
       Dolores saw Mark, Hilary, and Jenny. She waved, the benevolent despot acknowledging her subjects. They waved back. Safe in the entrance hall, Hilary said, "God help anyone who makes an enemy of Dolores Coburg."
       "No kidding," Mark said.
       "Amen," concluded Jenny.
       They left the fairy lights and the music behind and went out into the night.
--------
         *Chapter Five*
       After the glitter of the reception, the night was dark. Although, Mark decided as his eyes adjusted, not as dark as it might be. While the sky was matted with clouds, they reflected the glow of the city, casting a sickly luminescence over the cars in the parking lot. The wind that fluttered Jenny's skirt and ruffled Hilary's hair was fresher and considerably chillier than it had been that afternoon.
       Hilary and Jenny were doing a quick post-mortem on the evening which would've been catty if it hadn't been so good-humored. They commented on Sharon's contributions to ozone depletion -- her hairdo must've cost a full can of spray -- and wondered whether Kenneth was a ladies' man or simply fancied himself one.
       "With his money," concluded Hilary, "he's probably beating women off with a stick."
       "And where did that trout find those emerald golf balls?" Jenny asked.
       Hilary laughed. "She should be reported to the taste police for wearing costume jewelry with a Montana dress."
       Mark wondered vaguely when the San Francisco quarterback had gone into fashion design. Not that it mattered. What was important was that Hilary was happy, laughing that open, musical laugh he relished but so seldom heard.
       They parted in the middle of the parking lot. "Good night. See you tomorrow, Mark." Jenny disappeared into the darkness.
       Mark took Hilary's keys and unlocked the door of her car. Her glow was almost bright enough not only to illuminate the parking lot but also to warm them both. What poise she'd shown in that mob -- nothing like having been to the manner born. Her put-down of Travis had been the high point of Mark's evening; the cascade of compliments had no doubt been hers.
       Smiling, he handed her into the car, then went around to the passenger side. "You had a good time, didn't you?" he asked.
       "I felt a little awkward in that crowd, but yeah, it was great."
       "You, awkward?"
       She fumbled with the keys and found the ignition. "Yes, me."
       Her face was a pale oval, her eyes lustrous. Mark leaned across the seat and kissed her. His seat belt cut into his waist, but he hardly noticed.
       "Would you like to come over to my place for a while?" Hilary asked. "It's barely nine."
       "Sure, if you'll take me by Lucia's real quick so I can get the van. Then you won't have to drive me back later." He didn't mention his sudden hope that he'd still be at her place come tomorrow morning -- that the high point of the evening was yet to come. Don't make any assumptions, he told himself.
       Hilary started the car and drove out of the parking lot, Mark thoroughly entertained by her black-stockinged leg extended toward the gas pedal and the hem of her skirt riding halfway up her thigh. She was like a fawn, all legs and eyes, graceful and yet quivering with tension.
       "Do you know why Arthur Coburg never turned the Regensfeld artifacts over to the Commission?" she asked.
       "No," Mark replied. "Nathan's theory that he could hardly have sent them back to Russian-controlled territory sounds good."
       "That was still stealing. Our hero has feet of clay."
       "And Dolores is his rib of steel?" suggested Mark.
       "Adam's rib? That's good." Hilary laughed again.
       Osborne loomed through the trees. The front part of the house was a black contour against the night. In the kitchen the lights came on, and a stately figure moved from window to window, drawing the curtains. Mark imagined Jenny alone in the -- well, no, not haunted, just mysterious -- house. But she wouldn't be alone. The little gray cat would wake up, stretch, and trot to meet its benefactor.
       Just as the house disappeared behind the trees, Mark thought he saw not one but two human figures leave the lighted frame of the last window. Had Jenny, too, invited a guest? It was hardly his business if she had.
       Hilary was still musing on art puzzles. "But no one knew Arthur even had the artifacts until Vasarian showed up here last year. How he found them I don't know -- he must be a heck of a detective. Arthur was always selling off pieces of his collection, but none of the Regensfeld items."
       "Maybe Vasarian tracked down the surviving members of the Commission and asked them what they knew. Arthur's never kept a low profile."
       "Hardly. Nathan and Jenny talk about him as though he fought his way out of East Germany with the artifacts clamped in his teeth. What he really did was to mail them back here to Felicia."
       "Discretion being the better part of audacity," Mark stated.
       Hilary pulled up in front of the Hernandezs' rambling 1930's house. Mark's van was parked at the end of the long driveway, beneath the live oak that shaded the garage and his apartment above, and was boxed in by Gilbert's car. "It'll take me a minute to get out," he said. "I'll meet you there, okay?"
       "I'll make some coffee," Hilary returned. Smoothly she backed the Caprice out of the driveway and vanished down the street.
       Mark loped up the steps to the porch and banged on the screen door. From inside the house came not only a delectable aroma, but cheerful music and voices completely different in tone from those in the Lloyd, like the contrast between a china teacup and a pottery mug.
       A small, round woman, a dumpling with feet, appeared from the back of the house. Lucia's salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back from her face into a bun. Her no-nonsense cotton dress was covered by an apron embroidered with bright birds and flowers. "Mark? What can I do for you?"
       "Hey, Lucia. I need Gilbert to move his car."
       "Of course. Come in and have a sopapilla."
       "Thanks, but Hilary's expecting me over at her place."
       Lucia nodded understandingly. "Well then, I'll fix you some to take with you." She shouted down the hall behind her, "Gil! Come move your car! Colleen, put some sopapillas in a baggie!"
       Gilbert was a head and a half taller than his mother. With profuse apologies he slipped around her and Mark and hurried toward the driveway. Gilbert's twelve-year-old daughter appeared with a bag of fried dough pillows redolent of sugar and cinnamon. Playfully she flirted her shining dark eyes at Mark. He winked. Wreathed in giggles, she retreated. Mark grinned. "Thanks. How many rosebushes do I have to plant for these?"
       Lucia made a dismissive gesture. "I have a new Souvenir de Malmaison that needs to go in this weekend, if you get a chance. If not, I'll get Gilbert...."
       "Be glad to," said Mark. "If you'll show me again which bushes you got from Felicia Coburg at Osborne. I think I might have uncovered one of her garden beds today. Although...." He frowned.
       "Although?" Lucia prodded.
       "I finally got to meet Dolores tonight," Mark went on, and smothered a laugh as Lucia's expressive eyes rolled toward heaven. "Madame Coburg the Second said something about Arthur playing among the rose gardens as a child."
       "Madame Coburg the Second doesn't have the brains God gave a chicken. Felicia planted the roses there, starting in the forties when Arthur was traveling so much. Those roses and her cats were the children she couldn't have. I remember her sitting in the garden knitting, kittens playing with the end of her yarn."
       "So there used to be cats at Osborne? I suppose Dolores threw them out, too, when she took over. Clean sweep and all that."
       "Too much trouble, she said. Like the roses. Even though antique roses are so much less work than hybrids."
       Gilbert reappeared in the circle of porchlight. "How's it going at Osborne?"
       "Pretty good," Mark answered. "Come tour the dig any time you want. Not that there's much to see yet. Jenny -- Dr. Galliard -- is quite a character."
       "I like a woman who knows her own mind," Lucia pronounced, and added with an admonitory forefinger, "You'd better be getting on over to your young lady. Bring her to see me sometime. I'll bet she likes roses."
       "She will when you get done with her." Mark turned to go, calling over his shoulder, "Thank you, Gil. _Gracias, Mamacita_."
       The spicy smell of the sopapillas filled the interior of the van so that Mark's mouth was watering by the time he arrived at the town house. True to her word, Hilary had put on the coffeepot. "Decaf," she assured him as he sniffed the air like a bloodhound. "We have to work tomorrow."
       She took the warm, moist baggie and headed toward the kitchen. Muttering excuses, Mark went upstairs and into the bathroom. He mooched a dab of toothpaste and tried smoothing his hair, to no avail. A plastic packet lay among an assortment of French cosmetics at one end of the counter. He hesitated, then flipped it open. Birth control pills -- all right!
       He shut the packet and tried to position it exactly where he'd found it. No assumptions, he reminded himself, and went out to the kitchen shedding his jacket and tie and rolling up his sleeves.
       On one end of the table lay the six 8 x 10s of the Regensfeld artifacts. Hilary pored over them, leaning on her elbow. The sopapillas, mugs, napkins, sugar bowl, and cream pitcher were arranged on a platter on the table's other end. Mark reached for the coffeepot, filled the mugs, doctored the contents, and set one in front of Hilary. He pulled up a chair.
       Absently Hilary picked up her mug and drank, never taking her eyes from the pictures. "Look at them. They cover five centuries of history, and as many European countries. And they're only a sampling of the objects listed in the Regensfeld inventories of 1923."
       "If the other ones are still around," Mark said, "they're probably in somebody's attic in Moscow."
       "As far as we know, only these six still exist. And Regensfeld's most famous artifact, the Eleanor Cross, isn't among them. What a shame. What a waste."
       Mark considered the closest photograph, a small ivory carving of a bishop. The figure's face had only rudimentary features, two holes for eyes, two lines for nose and mouth. Its mitre, crook, and robes were carved in much more detail, the vestments and their meaning more important than the human being. "Was that once a chess piece?" he ventured.
       Hilary gave him an approving glance. "I bet it was. Tenth-century Danish. Someone broke up the set and left this one as an offering at the church in Regensfeld. That was the style in the Middle Ages. Royalty progressed from place to place leaving gifts like Santa Claus."
       "Didn't begin to make up for what their entourages would eat."
       "More than one nobleman or priory found itself bankrupt after the honor of a royal visit," Hilary agreed. She gathered up the photos and put them back in the envelope. "By the way, do you know where Regensfeld is?"
       "Besides Germany, you mean? Where?"
       "Outside the Thuringer Wald, just north of the city of Coburg."
       "Ah." Mark nodded. "Arthur was scouting around there researching his roots. He might've known more about his father's antecedents than we do. Or else he was under the impression that he really was descended from Queen Victoria. Prince Albert was something Saxe-Coburg Gotha, wasn't he?"
       "It was Albert who gave Regensfeld the Eleanor Cross -- a bow to the mother country from the Hanoverian upstarts," Hilary said, the last two words said with a Scottish burr. She gingerly picked up a sopapilla, and her pink kitten's tongue licked the sprinkling of cinnamon sugar. "Do you remember our last night in Scotland?"
       Mark took a bite of pastry and chewed. He remembered the odd sensation of the kilt floating around his knees as he danced -- if the other men could wear kilts to the wedding, so could he. Hilary's cheeks had been flushed, her eyes glowing with music, champagne, and sentiment. In her hotel room the buttons on her dress had opened, and his own face had flushed against skin so succulent it made the pastry he was now eating taste like cardboard. He hadn't given her a chance to panic; he'd kissed her goodbye, aching with disappointment and noble denial. For the next hour he'd walked along the darkened beach until the chill sea wind slapped him into coherence.
       He swallowed. "Sure, I remember."
       "You looked gorgeous in that kilt. It kind of turned me on."
       "Really?" Maybe he could rent a kilt outfit here in Texas.... He imagined Travis Ward's response to such garb.
       "Sometimes I really regret what didn't happen that night."
       "That makes two of us," Mark replied.
       Her eyes were soft, cautious and yet flickering with puckish humor. She finished the rest of her pastry and licked her lips. "You know, we should call the Guinness Book of World Records. We've been in foreplay since last June sometime."
       Mark managed not to spew coffee and crumbs all over the kitchen. He set the mug down with a clunk and wiped his hands. "Hilary, come here."
       Only a small table lamp shone in the living room. The radio was tuned to the Dallas classical station, and something tender wafted into the shadows. The couch was wide and soft. Hilary curled as snugly against his chest as he'd remembered, half beside him, half on his lap. Her black pumps tumbled onto the floor. Her mouth tasted of cinnamon.
       It was encouraging how well she could kiss, delicately, rather hesitantly, but with an imaginative flair of her tongue he found very stimulating. Hilary had style, no doubt about it.
       How appropriate that his fingertips should be so sensitive from last night's frustrated music. He had started to feel like a steam engine with a blocked throttle. Puffs were coming from his ears even now, probably, but he reset his gauges and dials. Control yourself, calm down....
       Her dress zipped up the back, unfortunately. He contented himself with stroking its smooth satin and monitoring Hilary's racing breath. His hand followed the sleek nylon arrows of her legs, ankle to calf, knee to thigh. I'll be damned, he thought. She was wearing stockings and garters, not pantyhose, the modern chastity belts which were the devil to get into. Her skin was silkier than the stockings. Careful, he told himself. His hand retreated to her knee and waited.
       Her face was hidden in his throat, her breath bathing his larynx. She sighed. Her hand against his chest tightened into a fist; the other one kneaded his back. "Go on. Please."
       Mark went on. His fingertips touched lace. Black lace, he was willing to bet -- Hilary would have coordinated underwear. He found elastic and, with a cooperative slither from Hilary, tugged. He didn't look at the flimsy garment to see if he'd been correct but tossed it aside.
       His nostrils filled with the warm scent of her body, a light perfume that reminded him of pale and fragile rosebuds. Like Lucia's garden on an April afternoon, her prized antique roses just starting, tentatively, to bloom. He imagined Hilary like Lucia's garden in June, blossom-rich, the sweet heady aroma of roses so thick he felt as if he were bathing in it.
       He was starting to sweat, steam building in his skull and in the pit of his stomach. Patience, he thought. Gentleness. A couple of choruses of "Give Me a Man With a Slow Hand".
       He played her like he'd play his guitar, aware of every subtlety of her breath and body -- sharp inhalation, slow exhalation, quick arch, prolonged wriggle. After a few minutes she was moaning, demurely, as he would've expected. He resigned himself to her tearing a handful of shirt off his chest, and focused on the tousled top of her head before the sight of her legs splayed to his touch made his eyes fall from their sockets. The steam in the pit of his stomach was condensing, rusting his resolve.
       Patience, he told himself, and was rewarded by her surprised, "Oh!" Her shudder at first threatened to buck her out of his arms and then left her limp in them. He flexed the blood back into his fingers, thinking, She didn't fake that. As if Hilary would ever fake anything.
       "Oh," she said again, breathing a long sigh of astonishment and gratification.
       Leaping up and thrusting his fist into the air in triumph wouldn't do, Mark told himself sternly. Neither would pushing her down on the couch and giving vent to the steam that was choking him. There were certain proprieties to be observed. He'd pick her up and carry her into the bedroom.
       "Oh," she wheezed. "No one's ever touched me there before. I've never felt like that before."
       No, he'd help her to her feet and have her walk; he'd never be able to carry her up those stairs. "You don't mean that, sweetness, of course you have."
       She stiffened. Her hand released his shirt. Oh God, he asked himself, what did I say?
       Her smothered voice said, "Ben wasn't trying to make me feel good. He wanted to hurt me."
       "Hey." Mark heaved her up so he could see her face. It was slightly crumpled, flushed pink and damp. Her eyes stared with incredulous horror. "Hilary, I wasn't talking about him -- God, what a time to bring him up -- I mean...." What did he mean? He raked through his memory, not so much trying to remember what he'd said, but why he'd said it.
       She pulled herself from his arms, smoothed down her clothing, and sat with her back to him. There was the zipper. Mark raised his hand toward it and stopped. If he could've bitten out his tongue and laid it at her feet, he would have. His teeth were clenched tightly enough to bite through iron. His sinuses twinged with unrelieved pressure.
       Hilary's voice was fast approaching its usual cool precision. "There's never been anyone but you, Mark. I thought you knew that."
       "Why should I know that? I -- I assumed you'd dated guys in France, that you'd gotten a little more experience...." He knew with awful certainty that that wasn't what she'd wanted him to say. No assumptions. Yeah.
       "I dated, yes. Some of the guys were really nice. Some of them just wanted a casual, meaningless grope and fumble. No thanks -- I don't need that."
       Mark's hand dropped away from the zipper. "I guess I wanted someone else to take the responsibility of -- of teaching you."
       "I'm not asking you to take any responsibility for me."
       He grasped her shoulders, with some inchoate intention of playing his trump card, declaring that he cared for her. But she flinched away. In his stomach, steam turned to ice. "Goddammit, Hilary, haven't I proved by now that I won't hurt you? That I won't force anything on you?"
       "I'm sorry," she said. "Don't you see? It's like being mutilated. I keep thinking that phantom limb is still there, that I can reach out and touch it. But it's not there, it's not there at all."
       "Yes, it is," Mark told her. "Haven't you been paying attention this last half hour or so?"
       The radio announcer was droning something about Mozart, punctuated with sprightly tinkling harpsichord phrases. If this scene had a soundtrack, it was some soulful ballad like "Foggy, Foggy Dew". She didn't seem to hear the music. She probably hadn't heard him, either.
       Mark scooted down the couch. Very carefully, as if Hilary were either fragile or poisonous, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her back against his chest. She didn't relax against him, but she didn't pull away, either. She was very still, taut and controlled. It occurred to him that he'd never seen her cry.
       They'd broken up last summer. They should've stayed broken up. And yet leaving her would be like strolling past a terrible accident, bloody bodies strewn across the pavement, offering no aid. It would be like amputating part of his own body. "How long were you in therapy?" he asked, his breath barely stirring the tendrils of her hair.
       "Not long enough, obviously. My mother took me to this old guy with a beard -- Freud's little brother, I think -- who'd been getting rich off her and her friends' bored social butterfly routine. He told me that unconsciously I'd been leading Ben on because he was some sort of father figure to me, and I needed to work through my incestuous desires before I'd recover."
       "Jesus," Mark groaned. "What crap!"
       "Then I went to one of the college counselors, and she pointed out how Ben wanted power, not sex, and that helped a little. But therapy can't do everything. You know that."
       "Oh yeah, I know. Therapy just gave me a handle on my folks' divorce, on Karen and the baby and my own break-up. I had to tote my own barges and lift my own bales. It was only last year I finally felt I was free of all that. After I met you."
       "I don't think I'll ever be free. Maybe I never wanted to, until I met you." She lay back against him, adopting a relaxed attitude, and yet still stiff, still wary, still turned away. "Mark, it's not fair. You're giving but not getting anything. We can go on into the bedroom. I'll be all right."
       His eyes crossed at the prospect, and his body reminded him that it'd been a year since he'd last broken his sexual fast. Not that he'd been waiting for Hilary, necessarily, it was just that he disdained the cheap fix. Typical of her to call his bluff.
       Her face was hidden by her bowed head. He considered the nape of her neck, slender and fragile, like sixteen-year-old Lady Jane Grey bending before the executioner. "Sure. And you lie there with your eyes shut and your teeth gritted, thinking of England or Regensfeld or whatever, doing your duty. What you're giving me now is your trust, and I know how valuable that is. When you're ready to move on, I will be too. Boy, will I be ready."
       "Your self-restraint is admirable," Hilary said.
       "So give me an Oscar -- best performance by a sensitive New Age guy." She turned, inspecting his expression. Her face was pale again, no longer crumpled. Her eye make-up had smeared just enough to make her eyes look bruised. He let her see the weary bitterness in his own face -- if she wouldn't fake anything, neither would he. "I'm all right," he said at last. "For God's sakes don't start feeling guilty about me."
       She smiled in similar weariness. "I was paying attention this last-half hour, believe me. I was absolutely riveted. Maybe next time..."
       A door crashed open in the neighboring town house. A woman shouted, her voice not muted nearly well enough by the wall, "You don't care, do you? Three lousy little words, that's all I ask, but no, you don't give a damn!" The sound of a male growl receded from the building. The door slammed shut. A car started up, then sped off.
       Three lousy little words, Mark repeated to himself. "I love you". Hilary had never once demanded those words, just as she'd never demanded an accounting of his past lovers. He'd said "I love you" to Karen often enough, and the words had frayed and broken. Actions were more meaningful than words.
       "Words are comforting," said Hilary. "Words are metaphysics. 'In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was made flesh.' I've always wondered if physical love wasn't once considered sacrilegious because when you start touching and kissing you stop talking."
       "Could be," Mark said obligingly.
       A sudden burst of music from next door, a country-western singer wailing the old standard "Your Cheatin' Heart", stopped as suddenly as it started. A crash against the wall made the windows rattle.
       Maybe, Mark thought, he should take Hilary to a junkyard, give her a sledgehammer, and let her beat up a few old cars symbolizing the male of the species.
       "Do you want to finish the coffee and whatchamacallits?" Hilary asked, her self-possession intact.
       "Sopapillas? They'll be cold by now."
       "Well, yeah, so am I. I'm sorry, Mark."
       "Will you please stop apologizing?"
       "Yes, dear." Hilary pulled herself away and stood up.
       Mark noted from the corner of his eye that a bit of black lace was draped rakishly over the philodendron on the end table. He decided he wouldn't mention it.
       Hilary thanked him with a smile. "Would you like me to ask Nathan tomorrow what it was he wanted you to do for him? When he was talking about Arthur's biography and Osborne and everything...."
       "Oh, yeah, when he broke off to fetch Count Dracula. Would you please?"
       They said their goodbyes, Hilary pale and composed, Mark somewhat less so. When he walked out the door he kicked the newspaper that lay on the front walk, then guiltily retrieved it and laid it on the astroturf doormat. His mouth still tasted of cinnamon, and the hand with which he rubbed his aching sinuses carried the scent of roses. The sweetest roses, he thought, always had thorns.
       The night was starting to clear, the cold wind sweeping away the clouds. A star or two shone out, interspersed by the twinkling lights of airplanes. The van was chilly, but Mark didn't turn on the heater.
       Osborne House was dark, not a light showing. Mark visualized Jenny's pine bedstead, the Navajo blanket mounded over her sleeping body, the gray kitten curled at her side. Or was a man -- Kenneth, perhaps -- curled at her side? No, not Kenneth. Surely Jenny had too much class for Kenneth.
       Swearing under his breath, Mark turned the corner and went home to a cold shower and his guitar.
--------
         *Chapter Six*
       Hilary parked in a space marked "Staff", locked her car, and walked purposefully toward the entrance of the Lloyd. This morning the building's granite seemed less pink than beige, sparkling in the sunshine just as it had in the nighttime floodlights. Dogwoods frothed with white blossoms along the sidewalk. Windblown daffodils huddled in the shelter of the building. A mourning dove called gently, either summoning its mate or issuing an all-points bulletin: "I'm available".
       Hilary plunged out of the cold, blustery morning into the still air of the museum. She might have imagined the carousel of people and voices last night; now the atrium floor was a smooth expanse of marble, glowing pale and austere. To one side a custodian looped the cord around his floor polisher and pushed it away. A guard strolled down one of the galleries, his steps echoing. Beneath the ficus trees a woman arranged postcards at a souvenir counter. Maybe the counter had been disguised as something else during the reception, a table of crystallized fruit and flower petals, perhaps; Hilary didn't remember seeing it. But she'd been pretty giddy last night -- if not quite giddy enough.
       Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment and pleasure, and with more guilt than she'd have liked. This morning she hadn't been able to slip on her pantyhose without touching herself curiously. But the glow was gone. Last night she'd lain awake, pacing the floor of her own mind, replaying the evening again and again.
       Just because the ending had been wrong didn't mean the rest hadn't been right. She didn't want to torment Mark. He hadn't meant to imply she'd enjoyed Ben's attack, like one of her mother's friends who'd found it all too thrilling, like a bodice-ripper novel. Mark was tiptoeing so warily around her emotional house of cards that inevitably he'd sometimes lose his balance and knock it over. She resolved never again to start anything she couldn't finish -- even though it would be safer never to start anything at all.
       Now she was safe in a museum, where voices were subdued, passions controlled, senses refined. She'd gotten her job here on her own abilities, not through family connections. She hadn't driven by Osborne House on her way to work; a glimpse of Mark's sturdy body and flashing grin would've been nice, but body and grin weren't all she had to interest her.
       Hilary pushed through the door marked "Offices -- Private", and started down a corridor. She peeled off her sweater, hoping her blouse, corduroy vest, and wool skirt would pass as properly businesslike attire.
       Nathan appeared out of a doorway. Even though he had replaced his tuxedo with a sweater and slacks, he reminded Hilary more than ever of a penguin. In fact, the steaming mug he carried was printed with a cartoon of a polar bear lurking massively among a group of penguins.
       "Hilary! Right on the dot! Come on, get your caffeine fix before I put you to work." Nathan whisked her into a small room where the crassness of a bank of vending machines was mitigated by posters of past exhibitions. A window overlooked a grove of young sycamore trees, their white bark glistening, the haze of green on their branches dancing in the wind. Hilary accepted a foam cup of coffee and passed on the doughnuts. Nathan took one, so casually that she realized with a smile that he already had a crumb of sugar glaze at the corner of his mouth.
       Wiping his hands, Nathan ambled back into the hallway. Just opposite the door a video camera swiveled back and forth like a vulture hovering over a water hole, ready to pounce on vandals and thieves. Nathan waved at two passers by and recited a couple of names Hilary didn't quite hear. The people nodded. Hilary offered them a crazed smile and trotted after Nathan.
       He opened a door marked, "Director: Wesley Bradshaw". An outer office contained a secretary's desk and two upholstered chairs where petitioners could gather moss. A statue of a Hindu goddess was balanced on a pedestal in the corner, treading bronze skulls beneath her bronze foot. Hilary frowned -- those bright green dots scattered over the goddess's ample thighs indicated corrosive bronze disease. A plaque on the pedestal read "Courtesy of the Coburg Foundation". It must be here to be treated.
       Nathan knocked on the inner door and opened it without waiting for an answer. "Here's our new assistant, Wes. Hilary Chase. I'm going to turn her loose on the Regensfeld collection. Hilary, this is Wes Bradshaw."
       A burly man rose from behind a desk the width of Osborne's front hall. A telephone, a felt-tip pen, and a legal pad containing four lines of cramped writing sat like desert islands on the expanse of polished walnut. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Miss Chase," said Bradshaw in a lotion-smooth voice at odds with his physique.
       His hand-shake was limply tentative, and Hilary suppressed the urge to wipe her own hand on her skirt. "I'm very pleased to be here, Dr. Bradshaw."
       Bradshaw looked at her so intently that she wondered for a moment if she'd dribbled coffee down her blouse. His features were crowded in the center of his face like a logo on a basketball, leaving his broad cheeks and high hairless forehead vacant. His mouth was an incongruous rosebud above his heavy chin; his eyes were an indeterminate blue that matched the indeterminate mousy brown of his remaining hair. A good, gray academic bureaucrat, Hilary calculated. A safe choice for Museum Director.
       A couple of years ago she'd heard about the previous director of the Lloyd. He'd been altogether too aggressive in weeding out fakes and forgeries, reproductions and replicas. Hilary could sympathize with the museum trustees, faced with attendance and upkeep figures. If they acquired only undisputedly authentic items, their entire collection could be housed in a telephone booth. Surely Bradshaw's compromise was the best possible one, to clearly label, for example, Arthur Coburg's Van Meegeren forgery.
       Outside the window the sycamores shivered. Several robins bounced about the gravel paths, stopping for a quick layover on their way north. Nathan looked quizzically at Bradshaw who was still looking at Hilary.
       "Ah, Nathan," the Director said at last, "I thought you were going to be the only one to work on the Regensfeld artifacts. That's what I told Dol -- Dolo -- Mrs. Coburg. With all due respect, young lady, those are priceless objets d'art that don't belong to us."
       Great, Hilary told herself. I've been here five minutes and I'm already juggling a political hot potato. Let Nathan handle it. She looked past Bradshaw's bear-like form to the bookcases behind his desk. Only a cup and a saucer bearing a used tea bag were evidence that a human hand had ever touched shelves as perfectly arranged as a photographer's backdrop.
       Nathan sighed. "Wes, either I drop something else I'm doing -- like the Coburg biography -- and concentrate on the artifacts, or I let someone else work on them. Hilary came with excellent references, and I'll be keeping an eye on her. Strictly speaking, the artifacts are no longer the Coburgs' responsibility, but Nicholas Vasarian's."
       "Er -- yes -- I know -- your references really are quite nice, Hilary."
       Hilary murmured a thank-you and looked down at the plush beige carpet. Even her low heels had sunk into the thick pile. She could see Sharon Ward and her stiletto heels in here, walking like a flamingo.
       Bradshaw sat down with a slight frown, focused inward. "No, Nathan, you're quite correct, I'll check with Mr. Vasarian -- he's staying at the Worthington downtown. I'm sure you'll do a good job, Hilary. It's just that there's more involved here than the artifacts. The Coburgs...."
       Nathan stood holding his mug, his head tilted to the side, looking like one of the robins considering a toothsome worm. Hilary tried her best wide-eyed innocent gaze. She was beginning to appreciate the humor in Nathan's bear-and-penguin cartoon.
       "The Coburg Foundation," Bradshaw went on, "might be making a sizable grant to us, to use for expansion: a new gallery for Arthur Coburg's collections, general improvement of the facilities, and perhaps even a contribution to our acquisitions fund." He opened his drawer and pulled out a plastic container of antacid tablets. "It would be very -- er -- awkward if one of the artifacts the Coburgs so generously donated back to Germany was mishandled in any way. It would be very unfortunate if Mrs. Coburg, or Mr. Coburg, or Mr. or Mrs. Ward -- or even Mr. Vasarian, for that matter, were disconcerted or annoyed in any way. I know I can trust your good sense, Hilary."
       "Yes, sir," Hilary replied. What a job he had, directing the Lloyd between the rock of Dolores Coburg and the hard place of financial necessity. Mark could mutter about ransoming the artifacts. Bradshaw couldn't. And as for her.... She didn't think Travis Ward had taken offense at her fending him off with intellectual double-speak last night. He probably hadn't realized he was being fended.
       Nathan looked as if he'd taken a drink of scalding coffee and was too polite to spit it out. "I'll get Hilary to work," he said and ushered her out the door. He managed to get into the hall before he laughed. "I don't have to translate that for you, do I?"
       "Let me guess. I'm supposed to brown-nose the Coburgs for all I'm worth. Will it really be all right if I work on the artifacts?"
       "Dolores is the only Coburg who can tell the difference between a Meissen figurine and a Venus de Milo with a clock in its stomach. She's already seen your references. And I'll be close by. No problem." Nathan walked farther down the hall and turned into his own office. He laid the by now-empty-mug on a battered desk paved with papers, books, computer printouts, sketches, and catalogues, and indicated a card table in the corner of the room, straddling several more stacks of printouts and tied bundles of pamphlets. "That's your office, I'm afraid. But you'll be in the conservation labs for the rest of this month. After that I have a long, long list."
       "No problem," Hilary told him.
       Past an elevator, through a heavy door, and down some steps, Hilary sensed a subtle change in the air. Here, where the museum's collections were stored, the temperature was kept between 65 and 75 degrees and humidity at 50 per cent. Her nose detected hints of varnish, mold, and woodworm, the elements of cultural alchemy.
       A security post on the right was where a uniformed guard read the morning paper and glanced up frequently at the dials, gauges, and screens ranged along one wall -- smoke detectors, alarms, thermostats. A series of monitors showed distorted black and white pictures of places Hilary didn't as yet recognize.... No, there was the atrium and the gallery where the Coburg Collection was arranged, and that was the office hall and the door of the break room. "Impressive," she said to Nathan, includeding in her comment the guard herself, whose finely molded face and long throat looked like the classic bust of Nefertiti carved from mahogany.
       "You can see why we're always desperate for money," Nathan returned. To the guard he said, "Leslie, this is Hilary Chase, my new assistant. Look at her good now, she'll be in and out of the labs."
       "Oh I know about you, Hilary," Leslie said with an engaging laugh. "I have a mole. Preston Baker was at my place for dinner last night."
       Hilary returned her laugh. So this was Preston's lady. What a handsome -- and formidable -- couple they made.
       Nathan led Hilary on through windowless corridors, as though descending into a submarine. One sliding doorway opened into a vault containing wire grilles hung with the paintings not on display, as much as 50 per cent of the museum's holdings. Three coveralled men were dollying a huge Bierstadt landscape gingerly down the aisle. Two other sliding doorways were shut, but Hilary visualized the metal and stone sculpture, the antique furniture, the ethnic materials of cloth and feathers and shells that were always so difficult to preserve. This is great, she said to herself.
       Then Nathan opened a glass door into the conservation labs, and her heart leaped. Computers, air hoses, magnifying lights, bottles of chemicals and paints, brushes, cloths -- this was a wizard's chamber. A white-coated figure worked on a painting on an easel.
       "June, this is Hilary," said Nathan. The conservator nodded affably, her eyes distorted behind her thick glasses.
       The atmosphere was as studiously peaceful as the scriptorium of a medieval monastery, a place sheltered from the world and the world's demands. The murmur of the air conditioning and the tiny clinks of tools were a quiet counterpoint to a radio playing Beethoven's "Pastorale". The lilting phrases complemented Hilary's mood, but jumping up and down like a high-school cheerleader would be entirely inappropriate. "Lead me to the artifacts -- I'm ready to go!"
       Laughing, Nathan led her to a worktable to one side of the room. He pulled out the tall metal chair for her. "Be right back with the goodies."
       Hilary took out the six photographs she'd brought back with her and tucked them into a row of clips along the edge of a shelf. She made a quick inventory of the available supplies -- pencil and paper, a computer terminal, various preservatives and cleaning agents. Not that she'd start to use any chemicals without explicit instructions. She turned on the angle-arm lamp, making a spotlight on the rubber mat on the table-top.
       Glancing impatiently over her shoulder, she saw Nathan emerge from a heavy door on the far side of the room. Carefully, as though it contained the Holy Grail, he rolled in a cart that held a wooden crate.
       Nathan braked the cart at her elbow. "Let's get you logged onto the computer. You need to fill out the official descriptions of the artifacts for the insurance forms. Not that these things are really insurable, it's just a pleasant little fiction we cling to, to preserve our sanity."
       Hilary laughed appreciatively.
       "Then you can start packing them. I'll show you where the supplies are when you're ready." His somewhat stubby fingers cavorted over the keyboard of the computer. The screen hiccuped and waited with blank expectancy, a twentieth century scribe-slave. "Database, Hilary. Hilary, database. Don't worry about cleaning anything. I've already given them the once-over."
       Hilary followed Nathan's instructions, and repeated them, and wished he'd hurry up and go away so she could get to the artifacts themselves. At last he did, trailing encouraging phrases behind him.
       She liked Nathan. His intelligence and sense of humor would serve him well in skirting the mine fields of the museum business, which combined academic backbiting with business skulduggery. As for his manifest integrity -- well, whether that would be an asset or a hindrance would depend on what particular mines he encountered. She wondered if he was going to tell Dolores Coburg that a lowly assistant curator, with barely a bachelor's degree and one fellowship, was handling her precious artifacts. Vasarian's artifacts, she corrected. Dolores probably couldn't care less, now that the deal was done. As for Vasarian himself.... Hilary envisioned herself holding up a cross to fend him off. But the collection didn't include a cross.
       The crate was made of featureless pine, probably constructed in the Lloyd framing and packing shop in order to bring the artifacts over from Osborne House. Hilary remembered the sunny study and the tower room so small that she and Mark, Preston and Jenny, had filled it up. More than just the four of them had been in the house -- another presence had followed them.... Stop it, she told herself. Old houses were creepy, and Mark's admission of fear had hardly helped.
       She picked up a screwdriver, opened the lid of the crate, and set it aside. Inside she found mounds of acid-free paper and an occasional strip of unbleached muslin. She sniffed. No mold or mildew.
       A pair of clean cotton gloves lay ready on the table. She pulled them on. Offering up a prayer to whatever saint watched over neophyte scholars, she took out the top bundle, laid it on the table, and unwrapped it.
       She held a boxwood carving of parishioners filing through a church doorway. The rounded arch of the door was edged by band after band of zigzags, lozenges, and tiny angelic faces. The human figures looked like grasshoppers, their round heads perched above tightly wrapped cloaks. The faces of the angels and the parishioners expressed similarly intense devotion, each a portrait achieved with only a few strokes of the chisel.
       Spontaneous impression? she asked herself. Vespers. Unpretentious but melodious chanting offering contentment and certainty. She thought of the west doors of Rudesburn Priory. In the evening the sound of their shutting would roll across the green grass, although the doors themselves had been gone for centuries. Closed doors meant security. They also meant exclusion. The doors in the carving were open wide, God's arms embracing the sinner.
       Hilary set the carving down on the mat. A pedantic description now -- age, wear, repairs, style. The symbols on the archway identified the piece as eleventh to thirteenth-century, probably Norman English, although it could be French. She found a label among the wrappings and read: "Thirteenth c. England. N.V." Vasarian's writing was a fine antique, almost copperplate, hand. Something to be said for a childhood in Eastern Europe, if you discounted war and political mayhem.
       Hilary's gloved fingertips slipped over the computer keyboard. The outermost figure of the carving had been repaired, probably a long time ago. No evidence of worms or rot. Size, weight, texture. Two dowel holes in the back of the piece showed it had once been attached to a choir stall, making a little seat called a misericord. Delicately she brushed her naked wrist across the smooth wood and detected a roughness. She reached for a magnifying glass. _Gloria tibi, domine_, the faint, scraggly letters spelled out. Glory be to God.
       The skin prickled on the back of her neck at this echo of a distant, long-dead mind, an intellectual ghost. The craftsman had thought no human eye would ever see his prayer. Today people didn't manufacture artifacts for God but for money and status.
       Hilary considered her cataloguing options -- attributed to, studio/workshop of, manner of.... She could check the museum library and make an educated guess as to where this was carved, but for now "England" had to be enough. It wasn't really her decision, after all.
       The next piece she unwrapped was the ivory bishop, feeling oddly heavy and cool even through her glove. She smiled at its stolid little face and body; no nonsense about that cleric, he'd keep priest and parishioner alike in line. The label read "Tenth-century Denmark", just as she'd predicted. She allowed herself a quick pat on the back and inspected the piece for cracks and discolorations, recording each tiny imperfection.
       Hilary set the ivory bishop next to the church door and dived again into the box. Part of her mind heard the radio playing the soaring hymn of "Appalachian Spring", but the rest of her mind was focused with telescopic intensity on her task. It seemed unreal that she was being paid to do something so enthralling.
       She unwrapped a small panel painting of "The Last Supper". It had to be a Giotto. She checked the label. All right, Giotto it was, early fourteenth-century Italy. A unique piece; almost all of the artist's known work were frescoes. But it would've been difficult for some potentate to haul a wall to Regensfeld. Maybe this was specially commissioned.
       The paint was faded, as Hilary would've expected, from exposure to sunlight. The human shapes were arranged simply but powerfully against a background consisting of little more than a misty landscape. They leaned toward the figure of Jesus, making His gilt halo the focus of the piece. Except for one, Judas, who turned his back on divinity. Every face seemed serenely self-conscious of its role in myth and history, even Judas's, as if that were justification for his deed.
       "Needs cleaning," Hilary typed, considering the yellowing varnish covering the painting. "Panel cracked." The painting felt as if it would break in two in her hands. A miracle it had survived all these years. Artifacts had a life of their own -- as Jenny had pointed out last night.
       The next piece was so heavy that Hilary knew it was the gold and enamel brooch before she unwrapped it. This was nonrepresentational art, the swirls and interlaces appealing to a different aesthetic taste than Giotto's straightforward depiction of the human figure did. Only the miniature clasped hands on the rim of the brooch were literal. Friendship, Hilary thought, her perception tracing the pattern. Love. Marriage. Last night the photo of the brooch had reminded her of a claddagh ring, the gift of a groom to his bride. Perhaps this brooch was a reminder of a nun's or monk's marriage to his or her faith.
       _But don't you have to know the physical before you can achieve the spiritual? Is clinging only to the spiritual a retreat from reality?_ Finding no answer in the gold, red, and blue surface of the brooch, Hilary typed its description and added, "twelfth-century Ireland", before she turned over the label. Vasarian had attributed it to the eleventh century. Okay, he was the expert. She moved the cursor and changed "twelfth" to "eleventh".
       Several layers of muslin and paper concealed a cylindrical silver and copper gilt reliquary. "Eighth century Bavaria," the label read, followed by the laconic notation, "Empty". Whatever relic it had once held -- bone, hair, or cloth -- was long gone. It was in beautiful condition, though, with only a hint of the dark purplish scum of corrosion in the interstices of the filigree and behind the figures. Some of them were demons, mini-gargoyles swarming over the precious metal, eyes bulging, tongues sneering, hands plucking at the shrinking bodies of sinners. The open mouths of the human figures screamed, and Hilary shivered. Torment. Guilt and shame and irredeemable memory. And yet the whole point of religion was to assuage such pain, to formalize penance and forgiveness. Penance, one of the seven sacraments.
       Instead of rearranging the row of artifacts before her -- which should be handled as little as possible -- she rearranged their photographs hanging on the edge of the shelf. Yes, there was an order to them. Now if only the last one had something to do with baptism.
       She unwrapped the largest of the artifacts, a bejeweled gold Bible cover so large and lush that she glanced around, hoping Leslie was standing guard behind her back. But no one else was in the lab -- the other conservator was gone. The faint electronic hum of the computer seemed suddenly loud. Hilary glanced at her watch. Twelve-thirty. Lunch time. It hardly seemed possible she'd spent an entire morning examining only five artifacts.
       She laid the Bible cover on a piece of muslin. Its rounded, raised gold figures depicted Jesus, hands folded, head bowed, before John the Baptist. John's upraised hand, meant to show he was in the act of sprinkling Jordan water over Jesus's head, almost touched the first of several rough-cut rubies. Spinels, Hilary corrected. The gaudy decoration detracted from the modest figures of Jesus and John, who had gone around the Judean countryside counseling the rich to sell all they had, give the proceeds to the poor, and follow them. Hilary could see Dolores Coburg in a simple linen shift, sitting like Mary Magdalene at Jesus's feet. He would've welcomed her. That's why He's divine, she thought, and the rest of us aren't.
       "Ninth century France," she typed, and set the label aside. "Inscriptions...." She had to use the magnifying glass to see the letters around the edge of the cover. Oh, no wonder -- the inscription was in Greek. She sounded out, "In archae ain ho logos," and smiled, completing the verse. "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God". So she hadn't quoted it correctly last night. Her version was appropriate for questions of sacred and profane love.
       "You noticed," said a voice in her ear.
       Every nerve ending in her body fired at once, propelling her six inches off the chair. "Nathan!" she exclaimed. "I didn't hear you come in!"
       "I'm sorry -- I should've realized you were thoroughly engrossed. You've worked right through lunch."
       "I can get something from the vending machines in the break room." She closed her eyes for a moment but could still see the gleam of gold.
       "There's a little restaurant at the end of the temporary displays gallery. They have a soup and salad buffet that's quite good, if they aren't trying to recycle the coleslaw, and they make a hot fudge sundae to die for. Come on, my treat."
       "Thank you. But shouldn't I put these things up?"
       June came through the door of the lab and took up her position before the easel. Nathan called, "Ride shotgun on the sacraments here, would you?"
       "Sure," June returned. She reached for a cotton swab, moistened it from a tiny bottle, and brought her face to within three inches of the canvas before applying it.
       Hilary collected her purse and stretched. "The sacraments? So the artifacts are a set; I tried putting the photos in order, and I saw the connection. The Bible cover with John and Jesus for baptism, the boxwood doorway for confirmation, the Last Supper for Communion, the reliquary for penance -- boy, would those demons ever scare me into penance." As they walked out of the door and down the hall she thought, What a shame Ben isn't religious. You can't suffer damnation if you don't believe in it.
       "The ivory bishop for holy orders and the brooch for marriage," said Nathan. "Very good, Hilary. Vasarian and I agree that what Arthur got was a prearranged set, a thematic grouping. Missing one item, though, the seventh sacrament, to make it complete."
       "Extreme unction, the deathbed prayer. A cross would work beautifully."
       Nathan bowed her out into the atrium. The vast space was brilliant with sunshine, and the voices of a flock of children being dosed with culture burst like fireworks in Hilary's ears. She fell back into the twentieth century. Gamboling through the pleasant green meadows of medieval myth, she'd conveniently forgotten the squalor, the disease, the tortures, and the old women burned as witches that had been part of the daily life of the people who had made the artifacts.
       "The Eleanor Cross?" Nathan asked.
       "Was it really the last piece of the set?"
       "It was listed as such in the 1923 inventory that Vasarian used to authenticate the artifacts. The Regensfelders weren't about to go to the trouble and expense of suing if the artifacts weren't genuine."
       "Dolores let him look at them? I mean, I assume they were here at the museum by the time he arrived on the scene, but they were still hers."
       "Vasarian turned on the charm, and Dolores scented money and prestige -- she has Arthur's reputation to uphold in the art world. And I think she learned long ago she could catch a lot more flies with honey, as the saying goes." Nathan glanced at Arthur's portrait as he passed. "Anyway, Dolores hired Vasarian to search for the Cross. But it's been a long time since 1923. And a long time since 1946, when Arthur brought the artifacts here."
       "The Cross is probably rotting in an attic in Moscow."
       "Much more likely that a Russian -- or at least a Communist -- soldier would have destroyed it. Religious symbol, after all."
       Hilary winced but still managed several appreciative looks at Arthur's more mundane collections. The African or Amerindian artifacts carried more metaphysical weight for their believers than any number of Bible covers or reliquaries.
       Maybe her aesthetic appetite had been admirably served this morning, but she hadn't realized how hungry she was for temporal sustenance until she smelled the beef barley soup and saw the array of salad fixings. She filled her bowl, loaded her plate, buttered a couple of rolls, and chewed several healthy bites before she asked Nathan, "So if Vasarian finds the Cross for Dolores, she'll include it in the Regensfeld deal?"
       "The contract ups the price considerably in that case, the whole being greater than the sum of its parts." Nathan chased a crouton across his plate, captured it, and crunched.
       The small terrace restaurant bridged the ends of two galleries. A glass wall overlooked a lawn sloping down to York Boulevard. Osborne House was in that direction, but Hilary couldn't see it.
       What she could see was a familiar figure mincing along the sidewalk from the parking lot. With one hand Sharon held a red and purple scarf around her blond curls, and with the other she clutched the collar of her leather coat to her throat. Her tall cavalry boots had ridiculously high heels. Storm warning, Hilary said to herself. She scooped the last of the broth from her bowl and asked Nathan, "Does Vasarian have any leads on the Cross?"
       "If he does, he's not telling me. And I love detective stories as much as I love art."
       Hilary was going to say, "I was involved in a murder mystery last summer, and it wasn't at all entertaining," then decided that wasn't tactful. She ventured, "I love religious art, for the emotion, you know?" Nathan nodded, his hazel eyes bright. She went on, "Funny, because when I was a kid we only went to church for Christmas and Easter. I don't even remember the denomination, except it wasn't Catholic. I picked up the Latin liturgy and symbolism in my art classes."
       "You miss both the best and worst parts of Western civilization if you don't know something about Christianity and/or art," said Nathan. "Me, I didn't go to church either. Used to have a very good attendance record at temple, though."
       "You're Jewish?" Hilary asked.
       "I'm like a kid looking through the window of a toy store at some of these artifacts. Well -- no -- that would imply that I wanted and envied the items inside. Let's just say that I find my dogma-free perspective to be rather valuable at times."
       "I imagine so." They smiled at each other, in perfect accord.
       A nasal voice said behind Hilary's back, "Nathan, here you are. I looked in your office, but Wes said you were out with the new girl."
       I'm maybe two years younger than you are, girl, Hilary thought, but she didn't turn around. She took a long drink of her iced tea. The cracked ice slid forward in a miniature avalanche, and she barely kept it from cascading down her blouse.
       "Hilary was ready to work right through lunch until I intervened," Nathan returned equably, rising to join Sharon. And to Hilary herself, "Sorry to desert you."
       "I can find my way back to the lab, thanks.... Oh! Mark wanted me to ask you what you wanted him to do for you."
       "God," said Nathan, "my mind's like a steel sieve! I need an introduction to Lucia Hernandez, as a source for Arthur's biography."
       "She was only a servant," protested Sharon.
       Hilary said, "Sure. Mark's known Lucia for years."
       "I'm going to be at Osborne on Friday, we'll arrange something then. See you later -- keep up the good work."
       Hilary slowly counted to five before she looked around. Sharon's heels clicked like the keys of an adding machine down the gallery. The heels, and the height of her gravity-defying hairdo made her taller than Nathan. He smiled up at her as she spoke, her gloves and scarf flying as she gesticulated. Hilary could almost hear him saying, "Yes dear, yes dear," although he was certainly saying something more like "I see, Mrs. Ward." What bee did she have in her bonnet today?
       Nathan had already paid for lunch. Virtuously, Hilary passed on the ice cream and went down the opposite gallery to reach the atrium.
       Interesting, someone had placed a Fragonard painting teeming with fat little nymphs and pastel draperies right next to a sleek metal Brancusi sculpture; the juxtaposition said more about style than any textbook essay. She doubted Bradshaw had the imagination to create such an arresting combination. Nathan's charmingly off-center insight must be at work here.
       Hilary ducked into the restroom just inside the office hallway and a few minutes later paused at the security post. "Don't they let you out for lunch?"
       "I always brown bag it." Leslie lifted an empty yogurt container from the wastebasket. "I get off at three, plenty of time to fix dinner. And believe me, I need it. Preston's a better cook than I am."
       "He asked me for drawing lessons," Hilary told her. "Maybe I can trade him for cooking lessons. Where did you meet him?"
       "I was working at the Historical Society. Here was this gorgeous dude spending hours with musty old books of deeds and wills and old photos. Hey, I figured this was one guy who needed loosening up. Turned out he was plenty limber, he just figured that anyone he attracted with the scholar routine was his kind of woman." Leslie made a face of comic resignation.
       Hilary laughed, then noticed a movement in one of the video monitors behind Leslie's back. The break-room door was half closed, but not closed far enough. Just inside, Sharon held Nathan in a close embrace, like a Venus fly trap consuming an unwary beetle. Don't offend the Coburgs, she repeated to herself. Brown-nose them for all you're worth. No wonder Nathan was so completely unintimidated by the local Medici family.... No, that wasn't fair. He had his integrity.
       The gray figures in the monitor parted with every appearance of affection. With a slightly strained smile at Leslie, Hilary walked on down to the lab. No accounting for tastes, she thought. Art and money make strange bedfellows.... Well no, that was leaping to conclusions. Nathan's private life was none of Hilary's business. At least she hoped it was private. Travis might not take kindly to any incursions into his territory. Hilary laughed under her breath -- what a contrast, Travis and Nathan. Sharon had the wide-ranging tastes of her father.
       Hilary nodded to June, who'd cleaned approximately one square inch of her painting in her absence, and sat down at her own table. Back to the green meadows of myth, she told herself. Now that the flames had died down and the blood dried, it was much more peaceful there than here.
--------
         *Chapter Seven*
       By quitting time, clouds sketched in shades of gray were piling up in the west, and the breeze was scented less with diesel fuel than with damp earth and grass.
       Preston made a triumphant gesture with his trowel. "All right! We made it through an entire week with the Duke. No criticism implied."
       "None taken by me, but she might not appreciate the comparison." Mark glanced over his shoulder.
       Jenny stood in the garden trench, one boot propped on the side, her pointing finger ramrod straight. "Monday we'll have those fence rails up, and plot the post holes. Amy, leave that arrowhead on a pedestal -- I want to see if it's an intrusion or a sign of a hunter-gatherer encampment."
       "Hunter-gatherer?" Amy asked.
       "In this context, American Indian. Any other questions? No? Come along, then." She led her troops across the control zone between the excavated areas. Small crisp olive-drab leaves drifted like confetti across the dig and around the shed, crunching underfoot. "Why are these trees only now losing their leaves?" Jenny asked as she passed Mark and Preston and the pile of tools they were cleaning.
       "They hang onto their leaves all winter," answered Mark, "and only dump them when the new ones are about to pop. That's why they're called live oaks. Better than anal-retentive oaks, I guess."
       Jenny shot him a look of amused exasperation and craned her neck to see the tiny new leaves knotted in the branches. A laugh moved along the line of students. Amy glanced at Mark more indignantly than flirtatiously; she must have glimpsed Hilary's kiss of greeting yesterday afternoon.
       "Pollen analysis," announced Jenny, "shows that this area was once a rose garden. If those bricks over there continue in a straight line, we'll have a proper building. Since our reference material goes rather sketchy about it, we'll also have an exercise in extrapolation. Have a care for the burned fragments, they're extremely friable."
       "You and Hilary got plans for this weekend?" Preston asked Mark.
       "She said she'd cook dinner for me -- using me as a guinea pig, I think, but I'm not much of a cook myself."
       "It's the thought that counts, man. The cake Leslie made Tuesday was burned outside and raw inside, but there's more to a relationship than food."
       Or sex, Mark added silently. He set down a carpenter's level, its edge restored to rust-specked cleanliness, and reached for a roll of plastic sheeting and a bundle of wooden stakes. Together he and Preston spread the plastic over the garden trench. A navy-blue Lexus pulled up in the driveway.
       Jenny dismissed the students, and they went away jostling each other like puppies -- the invigorating influence of Friday, no doubt. Amy swished her ponytail at Kenneth Coburg as they passed. He made a 360-degree turn, eyeing her until she and another girl were ensconced in Hong's pickup. Sharon and Travis, a few wobbling steps behind Kenneth, exchanged an annoyed look.
       Good God -- Sharon had gone red-headed since Tuesday night; her frizz was now traffic-light scarlet. She had on so much perfume that Mark's eyes watered. Her hair, leather mini-skirt, and high heels conveyed only one message: Look at me! Mark wondered if she was prepared to deal with the kind of looks that outfit would get.
       "Hi!" Kenneth called to Jenny. "How's it going? Found anything?"
       "The usual. Wood, metal, an arrowhead. No diamonds, no gold."
       "Awww, you haven't turned up Jean Lafitte's treasure? I'm crushed."
       Jenny's grimace was an expression that Mark had learned to interpret as "Give me strength".
       He reached for his Swiss Army knife. It wasn't in his pocket. He remembered putting it on his dresser last night but didn't recall picking it up this morning. Hell. He considered the stake he held -- sharp enough for a vampire, perhaps, but not for the corner of the plastic sheet.
       Sharon stopped beside Kenneth. Travis slipped his leash and ambled toward Mark. "How about them Mavericks? And everybody said they couldn't beat the Lakers. Of course I know diddly squat about basketball."
       "You don't happen to have a penknife?" Mark asked him.
       "Will this help?" Travis pulled out a six inch long clasp knife.
       It was razor-sharp, and peeled transparent shavings from the stake. "Thanks. Get it right back to you."
       "I suppose the old log stuff is mostly rotten anyway," Sharon said to Jenny, "but what about all the concrete beneath the garage? That'll have to come up before we can start on Victoria Square."
       "This ground is clay -- gumbo, we call it -- and shifts real easy," explained Kenneth. "New foundations can settle unevenly over old ones. Do I need to schedule a bunch of spics with jackhammers?"
       Jenny either ignored his ethnic slur or didn't recognize it as one. "When we get the foundations uncovered, then I'll know what their extent is, and what kind of condition they're in, and whether they should come up."
       Mark and Preston picked up another sheet of plastic and headed toward the garage trench. "Jesus," whispered Preston. "It's an invasion."
       "Run away, run away!" Mark replied in his best Monty Python voice.
       A silver Cadillac pulled up beside the Lexus. Nicholas Vasarian climbed out of the passenger side and handed Dolores from behind the wheel. She was wearing a pair of chino pants, a blouse and sweater, and running shoes -- despite which she hung onto Vasarian's arm as they advanced over the rubble. He smiled and patted her hand, as abstractedly as though he were phoning in his attentions from the Carpathians.
       Dolores looked nothing like Medusa, but still Kenneth and Sharon stopped lecturing Jenny and stood silent, expressions of mild imbecility petrifying their faces. Travis ducked behind the toolshed.
       "I see you're making progress," Dolores said to Jenny.
       "Yes, the excavation is coming along nicely."
       "No surprises so far, I take it?"
       "None whatsoever." Jenny glanced toward Vasarian. His gaze was even, appraising, rather amused, as though Jenny were a bottle of wine.
       "Are the students working out all right?" Dolores went on. "Would you like me to hire some temporary workers to help them out?"
       "Oh, no, no -- the work here is just an academic exercise."
       Mark staked the last corner of the plastic sheet. Jenny actually sounded rather flustered. Did she think Vasarian was measuring her jugular or that Dolores was plotting a coup? From behind the toolshed came sounds indicating Travis had mistaken it for a port-o-potty.
       Dolores looked at Sharon and emitted a pained sigh. "Darling, that color does nothing for you. And those clothes are in very poor taste."
       "I paid good money for this look."
       "Is that why the skirt looks like an open wallet? Really, you can do better. You're a Coburg."
       Sharon's red lips collapsed into a pout, but her eyes glinted.
       Kenneth sidled closer. "Mother, would you and Nicholas like to come to the Caravan of Dreams with me tonight? The jazz is cool and the clientele up scale -- your kind of place. Maybe Dr. Galliard will join us...." He turned expectantly toward Jenny.
       "Oh, ah, thank you," she answered, "I have to work on the records tonight, and Nathan Sikora's coming here to collect some papers."
       And Hilary and I have been invited to join the party, Mark added to himself. Beside him Preston smoothed a corner of the plastic, poker-faced into invisibility. Travis emerged from behind the shed, and Mark folded and returned the knife.
       "Nathan doesn't need a guide through the house," Kenneth wheedled.
       "No, thank you," insisted Jenny.
       Dolores smiled patiently. "Kenneth, darling, you know Nicholas and I are going to the opera tonight. Thank you anyway."
       "Well, some other time then." Kenneth summoned a brave smile. "Sharon, let me get y'all on home -- Travis has that horse thing tonight -- has to apply a little eau de manure before he goes, right?"
       No one laughed. Travis shot his brother-in-saw a truculent look. Sharon said, "I'm not going with him. I have nothing planned tonight."
       Kenneth stared blandly at her. Sharon looked as if she'd like to stick her tongue out at him. She turned and stalked off across the rubble so quickly that she would have turned her ankle if Vasarian's free hand hadn't shot out and seized her elbow. Good save, Mark thought.
       "Thanks," said Sharon with her knee-jerk smile, and continued back toward the driveway, Kenneth several paces behind.
       Travis thrust two slips of cardboard at Mark. "Here, show that little egghead gal of yours how real people live. Cutting horse trials at the Coliseum tonight -- finals next Friday. And the horses don't smell at all -- Kenneth's two bricks shy of a load."
       "Thank you," Mark said.
       Travis considered a moment, then pulled out another pair of tickets and poked them toward Preston. "Don't know if you folks like this kind of thing, but, what the hey...." He turned and scrambled after Ken and Sharon. Preston stuffed the tickets into his pocket, his face suffused with something between laughter and weary resentment.
       Dolores smiled graciously. "It's all very impressive, Jenny. We're so lucky we have you to run things. If you'll excuse us, we need to check on the workmen." Trailing a faint whiff of her signature perfume, she led Vasarian toward Osborne House, her sweeping gesture commenting on the painters working on the gingerbread trim. He bent over her, asking questions, the rest of him having jetted in from Carpathia to give her his full attention.
       "Is that an imperial 'we'?" Jenny asked under her breath, "Or is Mr. Vasarian as keen on real estate as art?"
       Mark picked up the box containing the week's haul of artifacts from the garden: bits of harness, lead shot, coins, buttons, broken pottery, worked wood, the meat and fish bones of main courses past, rusty nails, and barbed wire. The garage was so far producing only charred lumps, but then, Jenny's trained X-ray vision saw treasure even in those.
       Two more cars came up the drive. Hilary emerged from the first one juggling two boxes of pizza. Nathan shut the door of the second and stood in bemused appreciation as Sharon maneuvered her miniskirt into the Lexus.
       "Looks like they're trying out for 'The Blue Angel', the professor and the hooker," Mark whispered.
       "Guess so," said Hilary, with studied indifference.
       The Lexus skidded onto York Boulevard right in front of a delivery van, which honked a protest. Preston took his leave and followed, his middle-aged import departing much more sedately. Shaking his head, Nathan picked up a paper sack and joined Jenny, Mark, and Hilary.
       The painters gathered their buckets and tarps. A group of carpenters banged down the steps. Outside the kitchen door a gray bird bounced back and forth, wings fluttering, squawking at Graymalkin who was huddled on the edge of the step. "What's that bird on about?" Jenny asked.
       "It's a mockingbird," explained Nathan. "It's teasing your cat. Natural selection at work -- the only mockingbirds that survive are the ones fast enough to tease and get away."
       Graymalkin shuddered, fur erect, eyes huge yellow globes. Her tail switched once, twice. Suddenly she was no longer at the edge of the step but three yards away, a feline missile impacting the exact spot where the bird had been. But the bird had already somersaulted onto the roof and was continuing its tirade. "Nyah, nyah, nyah." With infinite dignity Graymalkin stretched, licked down her fur, and padded nonchalantly toward the house.
       Jenny opened the door, ushered everyone inside, and tossed her hat in her bedroom. She nodded toward a cardboard box on a chair by the hearth. "I collected all the papers that were in the attic for you, Nathan -- it'd be a right nuisance to suss out the place after dark."
       "Thank you," Nathan replied. "I'll have to come early to clear out the study -- that's where most of the documentation is, anyway."
       Mark laid the pizzas on the table. Arthur had died in the study, true, leaving his autobiography barely begun. But the rest of his life's work was over, and his death had been a natural one. It was the memory of terror and pain and sudden obliteration that possessed the house.... Mark looked around the cheerful kitchen and told himself he'd seen the very death room, and nothing was there. Even so, the back of his neck itched, as though some malevolent spirit were playing-hide-and seek with him.
       "Tea?" Jenny asked. "I've kept some cold for you lot."
       "You don't think iced tea is the equivalent of spitting on the Union Jack?" returned Hilary.
       Jenny laughed. "When in the hinterlands, indulge the barbarians."
       "You any relation to that mockingbird?" demanded Mark.
       "I've had a lot of practice dodging." Jenny filled four tall glasses and set them on the table. "Don't wait for me. I have to feed my familiar."
       Out of respect for Nathan, Hilary had brought vegetarian pizza. She doled it out while Graymalkin cavorted around Jenny's feet and then settled down to her bowl, crunching happily. A door slammed in the front of the house. Jenny peered out the window over the sink. "Alone at last -- Madame and _her_ familiar are leaving."
       "I'd say she was more interested in Vasarian than he is in her," said Hilary around a mouthful of mushrooms and olives.
       Nathan added, "He's asked several questions about you, Jenny. Should I hint that you're interested?"
       Jenny's back was still turned. Her shoulders stiffened and her hands closed into fists against the porcelain sink. "What did he ask?"
       "Oh, where you were from, where you got your degrees, if you were related to an historian named Pamela Galliard -- she used to work for the National Trust, I think he said."
       "English Heritage, a similar organization." Jenny's hands relaxed. She turned on the water and washed them. "Pamela Galliard was my mother. Fairly prominent in her field, restoration and preservation. Flattering but not surprising that Vasarian would know her work."
       "Was?" Hilary asked softly.
       "She died two years ago. Motor accident -- she was hit by a car at a traffic junction in Waltham Cross. Left a book, her magnum opus, unfinished."
       "I'm sorry," said Hilary, and added under her breath as if chasing the tail of a thought, "Waltham Cross...." She must have lost it. "And your father?"
       "I'm an orphan. Straight out of Dickens." Jenny threw down the towel, pulled out a chair, and took a piece of pizza. Her dark eyes fixed Nathan with an ironic gleam worthy of Vasarian himself. "No, I'm not interested. Mr. Vasarian is not my type."
       Who is? Mark wondered. He sincerely hoped Jenny's sumptuous body hadn't lived the life of a cloistered nun. What a waste. He took another piece of pizza.
       Sunlight gleamed through the windows, vanished, and gleamed again like pink gold as the clouds thickened in the west. At last the sun disappeared for good, as did the pizza. Mark gathered up the empty boxes and took them out to the garbage can beside the back porch. The evening was a hazy gray, and the lights of the cars on York Boulevard seemed like UFO's, distant and mysterious. The damp wind shifted the leaves around his feet.
       He went back inside to the scent of coffee, and reclaimed his chair at the table just as Jenny pronounced the new shade of Sharon's hair "strawberry tart". She smiled sweetly when Mark and Hilary got the double meaning.
       Nathan, a certified gentleman, ignored it. Hilary glanced at him and changed the subject. Jenny's tongue could be a bit tart itself, Mark thought, although invariably entertaining.
       The warm kitchen and the British voice reminded him of Rudesburn. Even though Jenny's accent wasn't Scottish but Oxbridge English, broadened just enough to betray her West Country home, the scene was sufficiently nostalgic to have mellowed him out. But tension crawled up his spine and laid cool fingers on the back of his neck. A soundtrack played ominous chords in the back of his mind, so that he almost expected a shark's fin to break through the polished floorboards and rows of sharp teeth to seize his ankle and pull him into the dank, dark cellars.
       Hilary arranged and rearranged crumbs on the tabletop. Nathan stared at the back of the computer. Graymalkin bounded into an empty chair and started washing her face. She was filling out, but was still small; her ears were so big her face looked like a bat's. Jenny watched her, the affection in her eyes fraying around something hard and sharp.
       The coffeepot emitted a sigh of steam, and everyone jumped. The house didn't have to be haunted, Mark told himself; everyone just had to believe it was.
       Jenny served the coffee. Nathan emptied his paper sack onto a platter, revealing chocolate chip cookies made by his grandmother. The ensuing blitz made the California Gold Rush look tame.
       "Delicious!" Hilary exclaimed. "Is your grandmother a character from 'Fiddler on the Roof' -- a little round person with granny glasses and a shawl?"
       "No way," said Nathan. "She's round, yes -- who wouldn't be, the way she cooks -- but she wears polyester pants suits and is on the national bridge tour."
       Mark let the confection melt on his tongue. Chocolate was the most benign of drugs. "You're a native Texan, Nathan?"
       "Fourth generation. My ancestors got out of Russia just ahead of a mob of Cossacks and opened a dry goods store in Galveston. I was born here."
       "So was I. One of my earliest memories is of Felicia's murder."
       "Mine too," said Nathan. "It was spring break, I was home from college. My father was one of Arthur's defense lawyers, so I know more about the murder and the trial than I'd really like. My life has been measured out in Coburgs." He glanced toward the partially open door connecting the kitchen with the front of the house, as though Felicia's corpse might come tottering through it, and took another cookie. "Well, I need to be going. I'll have to rush to get to services on time. Thanks for the box of goodies, Jenny. Even old receipts can be useful. I'll tackle the study tomorrow."
       "What if you find old love letters?" Hilary asked. "I mean, from someone other than Felicia or Dolores. Will you tell?"
       "As exciting a life as Arthur had -- determined to prove himself, I think -- I'd expect him to have had several love interests besides his wives. Or maybe I should say lust interests. By all accounts, Kenneth's somewhat lecherous tendencies are hereditary."
       "No harm in appreciating the female of the species," said Mark. Nathan grinned in agreement.
       Jenny told them both, "There's appreciation, and there's devaluation. I'm not sure Kenneth knows the difference. He followed me here from the reception Tuesday night. I had to turf him out."
       Aha, Mark thought, remembering the second figure in the window. Ken probably tried to seduce all his female employees, in some kind of wealth-equals-power-equals-dominance ritual. Mark silently thanked Jenny for warning Hilary.
       "He did go away," Hilary said into her cup. "That's okay."
       Nathan stood up. "I'm going to ask Lucia Hernandez some questions I wouldn't ask Dolores. Not just about Arthur's love life, but about Felicia. For example, the findings at the trial were that Felicia surprised a thief here at Osborne, but no one ever decided why she was here to begin with, especially on a night Dolores and the kids were out of town."
       "Not surprising she'd try to avoid Dolores," said Jenny.
       "The divorce was quite civilized, considering," Nathan told her.
       Mark said, "It was Felicia who interested Lucia in heritage roses."
       "Heritage roses?" asked Nathan.
       "Antique roses, varieties dating back a hundred years or more. Collectors swarm over homesteads and cemeteries looking for the old stock. Antiques grow wild -- they're a lot hardier than modern hybrids. I've put in many an hour in Lucia's garden. Good digging practice."
       "I'd be glad to trim a rosebush or two in exchange for an interview." Nathan hoisted his box from the chair. "Thanks, Mark, for paving the way for me. Lucia's involved in the Fiesta de las Flores in Dallas this weekend, but she invited me to dinner a week from tomorrow. She said she'd tell me where all the bodies are buried. Figuratively speaking, of course."
       "Hilary," Mark added, "we've been invited, too -- Lucia promises tamales. And Jenny, if you'd like to come...."
       "Depends on how badly the records are mucked up. I'll ring her later on this week."
       "See you Monday, Hilary. Good pizza, everyone." Nathan fumbled at the doorknob, and Jenny leaped up and opened the door for him. She followed him out, saying, "I'll unlock your car, shall I?"
       "Bye." Hilary eyed the back door after it shut, frowning slightly.
       "All right," Mark asked her. "What do you know that I don't?"
       "Wednesday I saw Nathan hugging and kissing Sharon Ward."
       "What? Geez, I was only joking about 'The Blue Angel'."
       "I don't know what to think, whether she's after him and Nathan is gritting his teeth and thinking of Regensfeld, or if he really wants her."
       Mark was encouraged that Hilary could repeat some of the words he'd said to her during that awkward scene on her couch Tuesday night. Not that all of it had been awkward. "One kiss does not an affair make," he reminded her.
       "I know, I know."
       Sharon and Nathan could run their own lives. Mark stretched. He'd left his guitar by the fireplace this morning, and there it was still, leaning against the brick. He cradled the familiar shape in his arms, tried a quick trill or two, and settled back into his chair. Graymalkin looked inquisitively over the edge of the table. Hilary leaned her chin into her hand, her luminous eyes alert and characteristically uncritical. No doubt she remembered how Mark had once called his guitar his pacifier. Well, she had her knitting.
       Despite her innocence her eyes could be shrewd. But then, in many ways she was innocent simply because she chose to be, like an Elizabethan lady ignoring the sewage-strewn streets. Tuesday night Mark had lain awake, pacing ruts in his own mind, resolving not to try again until Hilary was certain she could go through with it. But she wouldn't know whether she was certain until she was actually trying.... Sex wasn't like death or taxes, after all, although he could see resemblances.
       He tested the strings, played a few bars of "Greensleeves", then moved into "The Loch Tay Boat Song", and its chorus, "For my heart's a boat in tow". Graymalkin clambered into Hilary's lap, kneaded her jeans -- Hilary grimaced and detached a claw -- and burrowed into her lap. Mark was jealous.
       And what if he offered her some kind of commitment? Would that calm her fears? Maybe, but it might exacerbate his own. If she'd been burned by Ben's casual brutality, Mark had been burned by guilt. After his divorce it had been three years before he'd been able to touch another woman. He was committed to Hilary, more or less, for the moment anyway, so why go around bleating about it?
       He strummed a few emphatic chords. Jenny walked in the door and smiled at the guitar. Little did she realize she was a chaperone, that Osborne was neutral ground, no-man's land, whatever. Mark settled into "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring", thinking of only the ordered notes spilling from his hands.
       He came out of his reverie to hear Jenny and Hilary talking quietly. "....South Cadbury," Jenny was saying. "I was just an undergraduate, quite naive, and was mortified at the end of the term when they voted me 'Miss Undercut Balk'."
       Mark swallowed his guffaw -- Jenny was always making him do that, darn her -- but Hilary didn't get it.
       "A balk is the side of the trench, right?" Jenny explained. "Should be exactly vertical. In an undercut balk the top extends out farther than the bottom -- it's top-heavy."
       Realization dawned, and Hilary hid her blush by bending over the cat. Jenny quirked an eyebrow at Mark's grin, no longer mortified. He seized the first topic that came to mind. "The cat looks a hundred per cent better. I guess we'll have to call you Florence Catingale."
       "She's very affectionate. Good company in the evenings, when it's dark and quiet and I can hear that damnable clock ticking away like in Poe's 'The Pit and the Pendulum'."
       "Why do you keep winding it, then, if it bothers you?"
       Jenny's expression froze, as though she were reeling in her tongue. "Dolores -- the workmen -- I don't wind it, actually."
       Oh? Mark thought. Osborne has little clock-winding elves?
       "I guess if you hear things going bump in the night you can always blame them on her." Hilary smoothed Graymalkin's fur.
       "Unless she's with me at the time," Jenny replied. "But she's a good sentry -- last night she woke me, and I thought I heard someone walking around outside. But when I put on the light, no one was there."
       "A prowler?" Hilary asked
       Mark added, "You sure you're all right here by yourself?"
       Jenny was taking on her defiant Wellington look. "I probably heard an animal trying to get at the dustbin. Of course I'm all right. All those stories about a resident ghost are just that -- stories."
       Mark began picking out an exercise. Hilary should rent out those guileless brown eyes of hers not as lie detectors but as truth attractors -- her sober sweetness invited confidences.
       "Kenneth was trying to make me leap into his arms," Jenny continued. "He went on and on about a spectre in Victorian dress floating down the front stairway. Me, I've seen sod-all. There's nothing here but old furniture and someone else's memories." She stood up, walked over to the chair where Nathan's box had been sitting, and picked something up.
       Mark looked at Hilary. She leaned across the table to whisper, "Methinks the lady doth protest too much." Mark nodded, thinking, Yeah, that makes all of us, and began the exercise again.
       "I knew I should've put this in the parcel. He's left without it." Jenny laid a glossy silver and blue portfolio on the table, its cover displaying a photograph of the 1989 Dallas Cowboys football team.
       "What's in it?" Hilary asked.
       "Old photos and newspaper cuttings." Jenny opened the folder, and the contents spilled across the tabletop, exuding a breath of mildew.
       Mark set down his guitar. "Look, here's an old manila folder torn almost in half -- no wonder someone replaced it with a new one."
       "Labeled in Arthur's handwriting," said Jenny. "Whitechapel murders."
       Hilary sifted through the pile of papers, sorting old photographs mounted on thick cardboard from fragile yellowed newspapers. Printed forms filled out in faded handwriting lay next to a letter written in a forceful scrawl. Ink smears and blots were scattered like bomb craters across the page.
       Mark picked it up and read: "From Hell. Mr. Lusk. Sir I send you half the kidney I took from the woman preserved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it...." He stopped at Hilary's harsh intake of breath. Graymalkin looked up, offended that her soft perch had stiffened, and leaped from Hilary's lap to the floor.
       Jenny's lips thinned to a slit, compressing her voice. "Ink and paper of the period, all right -- it's the only authentic letter from Jack the Ripper. It disappeared years ago, and now we know why. Who did Arthur bribe to get it, do you think? Some records clerk at Scotland Yard?"
       With only her fingertips Hilary picked up one of the documents. "Post Mortem report, dated November 10, 1888. Gross."
       "Not so much so as these photographs." Jenny indicated several scratched sepia pictures, two of slum street corners, a third of a battered woman's body stitched together like a rag doll, a fourth of what might have been a body once, but now looked like a pile of meat in a butcher's display case. A drawing beside them resembled a page out of a biology student's notebook, except that the dissected body was that of yet another woman.
       In the back of Mark's mind Osborne's ominous soundtrack crescendoed and stopped with a squeal. Leaden silence filled the room. He scooped everything back into the manila folder and placed that firmly inside the portfolio. His mouth was so dry he had to swallow before he spoke. "Did Arthur do a film about the Ripper?"
       "No." Jenny dropped her face into her hands and kneaded her temples.
       "Why would he want these?" Hilary asked. "Wasn't his mother killed the same way?"
       "So was his wife," replied Mark. "Did he get these before Felicia died or after?"
       Hilary picked up his thought. "Did this particular collection of Arthur's ever come out at the trial?"
       "I don't think so. The prosecution would've marched this stuff in with a brass band. Nathan would know, wouldn't he?"
       "I'll ring him tomorrow," said Jenny's muffled voice. "Tell him to come and collect this lot. I want it out of the house."
       Hilary's face was slightly greenish, and Mark didn't feel so well himself, chocolate and tomato sauce bubbling uneasily in his stomach. Jenny and Hilary were no doubt picturing the same scene he was, the bodies of Vicky and Felicia sprawled before the parlor fireplace. Arthur's father Edward had been found in the hall doorway, still holding the straight razor he'd used to mutilate Vicky and finally turned on himself. But who had mutilated Felicia, making sure that history repeated itself? Arthur had played enough parts -- James Bond, Lowell Thomas, perhaps Casanova -- so maybe Jack the Ripper had been part of his repertoire, too. But just because his father had been a murderer didn't meant that Arthur had been, too. He'd been found innocent in a court of law.
       "Dolores wouldn't want to go public with this stuff," Hilary said.
       "Someone other than Arthur knows about them," Jenny told her. "The date on that portfolio is 1989, and Arthur died in 1988."
       Mark got up and laid the portfolio on the mantelpiece, next to Lucia's skeletal burial detail. "Nathan probably knows all about it -- Arthur was just researching a movie or a book -- no big deal."
       "Right." Jenny slapped the table with her palms. "That's it, then. There's a Scrabble game in the cabinet: I challenge you both to a duel and will even spot you American spellings...."
       The connecting door creaked further open. Mark, Jenny, and Hilary froze. Graymalkin trotted through the gap and smugly presented Jenny with the tiny body of a mouse. The collective exhalation almost blew it away. Thanks, Mark thought, and exchanged a sheepish glance with Hilary. Jenny drew herself up and said sternly, "Graymalkin, we are not amused."
       The cat stretched, first her front legs, then her back, and proceeded to wash her face. From the front of the house the tick of the clock echoed, inexorably scything time.
--------
         *Chapter Eight*
       Morning rush hour in the back corridors of the Lloyd was every bit as genteel as Hilary could have hoped. Secretaries opened doors for conservators, security guards greeted administrators, and all wafted away to their individual tasks with the self-possessed smiles of the virtuous.
       "Cream or sugar?" Hilary asked Leslie Underwood.
       "Black, please," she responded. "You've been here a whole week now. Ready to run screaming out into the real world?"
       "This is the real world. Some of these artifacts have more human vitality than living people."
       Leslie grinned as Exhibit A, Kenneth Coburg, strolled into the break room. "Happy first day of spring, ladies. Someone go tell all those flowering trees they've jumped the gun."
       "Around here March twenty-first is just a formality," Leslie agreed, and disappeared with her coffee toward her sentry post.
       Kenneth opened the box of doughnuts he held and with a slight bow extended it toward Hilary. "You get first choice. May I recommend the glazed ones?"
       "No thank you." Hilary picked up her notebook and edged toward the door, but Kenneth blocked her path.
       "How're the artifacts coming? Are they almost ready to go back home?"
       "I'll finish the formal descriptions today, after I look up some iconography -- what the symbols mean. Then I start packing. Even with temperature and impact tests they should be ready by the end of the month."
       Kenneth captured her hand and held it to his lips. His dark, liquid gaze made her feel like an otter swimming through an oil spill. "I do appreciate an intelligent woman, Hilary. Let's drive over to Dallas Saturday. We can go bar and gallery-hopping in Deep Ellum."
       And end up in a hotel room, Hilary told herself. "Thank you, but I've been invited to dinner with Lucia Hernandez."
       "Ah yes, you and Nathan and your archaeologist friends." Kenneth released her hand and drew himself up, assuming a noble expression. "Surely we can go for a drink without Mark coming after us with a shovel. Or is he the jealous type?"
       "I have no idea," Hilary told him, although she knew full well Mark hadn't a possessive bone in his body. "Speaking of the artifacts, I really need to be going...."
       Kenneth shrank back against the door frame, allowing her to slip past and into the hall, although not without a quick tickle in the small of her back. "See you later!"
       Kenneth, Hilary thought with a sigh, was amusing and annoying at the same time. Not threatening -- so far he'd good-naturedly taken "no" for an answer -- but irritatingly persistent. He liked women. So did Mark, for heaven's sake. But Mark liked them as people, and Kenneth liked them as collectibles.
       She walked into the library and sat down at a computer terminal. Typing, "purgatory", she copied the titles that unfurled down the screen. "Sacrament" was next, and then the individual ceremonies. She took her list into the stacks and found the bound research papers she needed.
       Friday evening with Jenny had been, overall, very enjoyable; the house and that horrible portfolio, the conversation, and the Scrabble game had provided a welcome distraction from Mark's and Hilary's personal tensions. The lasagna dinner Hilary had prepared for Mark on Saturday had actually been edible, and the kisses they'd shared afterward were proper enough for a convent parlor. On Sunday Mark had introduced her to Lucia, who'd proudly displayed her granddaughter's Folklorico costume with its embroidered designs, and reiterated her dinner invitation for the following Saturday. Mark and Hilary had lingered late on the bench beneath the heavy limbs of the live oak, venturing up the stairs to his apartment over the garage only when the crane flies -- which Hilary had at first thought were Texas-sized mosquitos -- came out at nightfall.
       Mark's apartment was furnished with casual charm, a mixture of antiques and Salvation Army rejects, part Mark's and part Lucia's. Books, papers, and pottery shards filled every horizontal surface, interspersed with kachina dolls and pots of cactus, model castles and the odd trowel. The bedroom contained an old brass bed with a spread made of bright Indonesian fabric.
       Hilary had lain awake Sunday night visualizing herself in Mark's bed, in his arms, abandoned to sexual bliss. Although which of the postures she'd read about constituted abandon and which gymnastic skill she wasn't sure. The media led her to believe that everyone else in the world was engaged in a sexual Olympiad while she sat, arms folded protectively, choked by desire, wondering if she'd ever care enough for Mark or for any man to permit -- no, not violation, but consummation.
       Poor frustrated Mark was sitting on the sidelines as well. And unless Jenny was also protesting too much about Kenneth, she was currently celibate. She might have a lover waiting for her back in England -- surely a woman couldn't reach her late thirties in a state of chronic virginity....
       Stop it, Hilary told herself. She took the books to a table and sat down, crossing her legs and knotting her ankles. First she consulted, "Demonology in medieval art". Demons had different names now. Purgatory, where the souls of the departed suffered until they were purged of sin, was a state of mind.
       Several references later, a shadow fell across her notebook. "Oh, Nathan, good morning."
       "Hello, Hilary. How are you? Isn't it a lovely morning?" Having delivered himself of the formula greeting, Nathan stood with his hands in his pockets, staring at her notebook, his face puckered with thought and with an edge she couldn't quite identify.
       She said, "Earth to Nathan."
       He shook his head and adjusted his glasses. "First of all, if your ears have been burning, it's because Wes, Dr. Bradshaw, really did call both Vasarian and Dolores Coburg and ask whether it was all right if you worked on the Regensfeld artifacts. I just found out."
       Nathan obviously felt his judgment was being called into question; what whetted his expression was anger and resentment. Hilary asked, "Are you going to have to take me off that job?"
       "No way. You're doing good work, and I defy anyone to say otherwise."
       "Thank you."
       "Nicholas Vasarian is in the lab right now running over your files -- I got the artifacts out of the storeroom for him. And Bradshaw is dancing attendance on Dolores. Go ahead and finish here before you go down. I trust you to answer any questions without me being there."
       "Sure -- I mean, thanks again."
       Nathan's eyes focused beyond the top of her head. "I won't be there because I have a lunch date with Sharon Ward. Dolores has decided to go ahead with the biography."
       "Good," Hilary said, straining upward like a giraffe after a tender treetop, trying to intercept Nathan's gaze.
       Still he avoided her, his words coming faster and faster. "I'm not going to tell Dolores about that Jack the Ripper portfolio. I don't think it's relevant to Arthur's life and achievements. I'm asking you to ask Mark and Jenny not to mention it. And you shouldn't yourself, of course."
       "But that's..." Hilary told herself that yes, it was cheating, and Nathan knew it. It must have been Sharon who'd placed the old folder in the new portfolio. She was in the perfect position -- and had the brass -- to exert a little emotional blackmail on Nathan, protecting her family from.... From what? Nathan was right, the Ripper material was disturbing but didn't necessarily mean a thing. "Mum's the word," Hilary finished lamely.
       "Thanks. Hang in there." Nathan walked out of the library, his shoulders slumped as though his integrity had become a heavy burden.
       Hilary replaced the bound volumes she'd used, pulled out an encyclopedia, and killed a few minutes browsing before she admitted she was hoping Vasarian would give up and leave before she made it to the lab. I know what I'm doing, she assured herself.
       She gathered her notebook and marched off down the corridor, only to swerve into Nathan's room when she heard his phone ringing. "Nathan Sikora's office, Hilary Chase speaking."
       "Well howdy there, you sweet young thing. This is Travis Ward."
       "May I help you?"
       "Is my wife there?"
       Thanks, Nathan, she mouthed at the man's cluttered desk. Among the printed sheets was a piece of pink notepaper folded in half, bearing a woman's rounded script. Hilary looked quickly away and clutched at the exact truth. "No, I haven't seen her today."
       The silence in her ear stretched out so long she thought Travis had hung up. Then, "Okey-doke. Don't suppose you're free for lunch?"
       "I'm supposed to meet Mr. Vasarian in the lab."
       "Just my luck. Some other time. Bye-bye, sugar."
       "Goodbye." Hilary hung up the phone, wondering whether Travis was checking up on Nathan and Sharon.
       The note was signed not "Sharon" but "Felicia". _That_ Felicia? Hilary hesitated, then with a guilty grimace turned back to the desk. Only the lower back half of the paper was exposed. "...and the roses, too. 'Dolly' says she doesn't have the ring, but I know she wormed it out of poor foolish Arthur. Do you think I could sue to get it back? Thank you. (How is Nathan enjoying college?) Yours truly..."
       Yes, that Felicia. Writing, it appeared, to Nathan's father no more than a year or two before she died -- judging from her reference to Nathan being in college. Sikora Senior must have been the family lawyer, continuing to work for Felicia even after the divorce, then defending Arthur against the charges of murdering her. Ironic, Hilary thought. She wondered if Dolores was still using him, and why the old letter was lying on Nathan's desk, and what had happened to her own discretion. She double-timed it out of the office.
       Wes Bradshaw was just disappearing into his office. Great -- she'd outwaited him and hopefully Dolores. Hilary hurried down to the lab. Appropriately enough, June's radio was playing Bach's "Brandenburg Concerto"; the exquisite music complemented the elegant form of Nicholas Vasarian seated at her computer terminal.
       When he saw Hilary, he rose from her chair, peeled off his cotton gloves, and shook her hand. "I hope you don't mind my more or less reading over your shoulder, Miss Chase."
       "It's your responsibility to see that the artifacts return safely," Hilary replied. He seated her at the table, scooting in the chair like a maitre d' in a posh restaurant. All six artifacts sat in a row across the mat, in order, each label laid neatly in front. He'd added a line or two to some of those labels -- details of provenance, she noted. The computer screen glimmered with her description of the Giotto, measurements, materials, symbolism.
       "You're doing a fine job," Vasarian assured her. "I'm simply checking on some details for my own use. The Regensfeld case is my most important, but not my only one. With Eastern Europe opening up, I expect quite a few similar cases."
       Hilary thought of the Eleanor Cross. "Will you be tracking missing artwork to the Soviet Union? I imagine the Russians are a lot harder to deal with than we Americans are."
       "Not so much so as you would expect. These artifacts were created during the Age of Faith, but today is the Age of Cynicism. Where once you could go to any country and celebrate the same mass, now you can go to any country and celebrate the same bank account. Instead of crucifixes and communion wafers, we now have dollars, rubles, pounds, and yen."
       In spite of herself, Hilary laughed. "Are you British, Mr. Vasarian?"
       "Nicholas, please." His leisurely posture was only a pose; his long, narrow hands were braced on the edge of the table, and his brown eyes watched the door of the lab like D'Artagnan watching for the Cardinal's guards. "My family escaped from Armenia at the turn of the century. I was born in Czechoslovakia not long before Hitler invaded. My earliest memories are of muddy roads clogged with refugees, dive bombers whining overhead. I have a British passport, yes, but for many years I lived in France and Germany. With the advent of the European Community I can finally feel at home."
       "I imagine so."
       Disdainfully turning his back on the door and its possible dangers, Vasarian pulled the gloves on again and picked up the Bible cover. "This reminds me of Russian icons that have been so decorated with gold and pearls that the face of the saint is overwhelmed. I notice your description points out the dichotomy between medium and message."
       "I suppose I shouldn't indulge in editorial comments, but it struck me rather forcibly."
       "Would these artifacts have survived if they hadn't been so valuable in either workmanship or material? Forgive me -- I believe we were discussing this very question at the reception last week, and Dr. Galliard disagreed with me. Do you suppose she was playing devil's advocate?"
       "I wouldn't be surprised," Hilary answered. "She's a fighter."
       The look in Vasarian's eyes was bright, almost feverish, for a moment. Then the jaded look fell again on his face. "These artifacts were created in belief. Believing is fighting, isn't it? Fighting against death and pain and nothingness. A very Western concept, that to be strong we have to fight. In the East strength is in surrender."
       "Taoism?" asked Hilary. "Just being?"
       "Exactly." Vasarian set the Bible cover back on the table. One gloved forefinger traced the tiny face of the ivory bishop, then brushed lightly around the empty interior of the reliquary.
       His diction was that of a classical actor. Hilary thought of Prospero, the old magician in Shakespeare's "Tempest", asserting "Our revels now are ended". Despite his expensive suit and tie, Vasarian's face was austere, as though the clothing was a costume over a hair shirt. What are you really looking for? she asked him silently. Not artifacts, but the certainty the artifacts represent? Assurance that surrender is not defeat?
       Dolores Coburg strolled in the door like Queen Elizabeth visiting her subjects, handbag dangling at her side. "Nicholas," she called, "have you forgotten our lunch date?"
       "No, no, Dolly, not at all." He took off the gloves and with a slight bow extended them toward Hilary. She suppressed a smile. Kenneth had been aping Vasarian's continental courtliness. He probably meant it as satirical comment. Not surprising he'd be uncomfortable with his mother's seductive manner toward the art sleuth.
       "Hello, Hilary," Dolores said. "Wes Bradshaw assures me you're doing a good job with the paperwork."
       Hilary replied graciously, "I'm very fortunate to be able to work with such artifacts."
       "We're fortunate to have you." Dolores linked her arm with Vasarian's and led him away. He shot one last sardonic smile over his shoulder, making a silent comment about Dolores or the artifacts or Hilary herself.
       Hilary sagged against the table, feeling like a private released from general inspection. Dolores. Sharon, Ken, and Travis. Vasarian. They spent a lot of time hanging around either the Lloyd or Osborne -- like the lilies of the field, they neither toiled nor spun.... _I might have ended up neither toiling nor spinning._ Hilary opened her notebook and scrolled through her computer files until she found the description of the reliquary. "Purgatory", she typed, and almost added, "The condition of skipping your lunch to impress people who have nothing better to do than eat it."
       It was about two o'clock when June called Hilary to the telephone. "Hello?"
       "Hilary, it's Gary."
       She'd been prepared for Mark's soft baritone drawl. Her mind stammered, hardly recognizing her brother's voice. They were so far apart in age -- he was twelve years older -- she might as well be an only child. "Rats, you found me," she said. "And I thought I was safe here."
       As usual, Gary ignored her joke. Not that she was really joking. "You've got to go home, kid. Dad's had a heart attack."
       "What?"
       "Mom says he's sitting up in bed ordering the nurses around, so I think she's panicked. You know what a ditz she is.... Hang on a minute." Gary spewed muffled curses -- his vocabulary of four-letter words was truly impressive. "Idiot," he said into the receiver. "I told him to buy that stock before the company declared a dividend."
       "You're not in Indianapolis, I take it? Still in New York?"
       "Hell yes, I can't leave the office, got to keep my finger on the old Wall Street pulse. You're not doing anything, you go home. Call me when you get there and tell me what the blazes is going on."
       "Thank you," Hilary said sweetly. "I'll take care of it. Don't worry about a thing." Out of the corner of her eye she saw the gleam of gold and ivory, the sculpted and painted faces gazing into another dimension. She hadn't even looked at them today. Not doing anything. Right.
       "Gotta run, kid...." Gary was already shouting at someone else when mercifully the line went dead. Mr. Type A plus, Hilary said to herself. Even Vasarian didn't buy with such zeal into the sacrament of the bank account. As a child she'd imagined she was really the offspring of poor but honest artists or musicians who'd left her in a basket on a wealthy family's doorstep. Maturity hadn't changed her fantasy.
       Wearily she packed the artifacts, put them back in the storeroom, saved her computer files, and trudged upstairs.
       Nathan was sitting at his desk, his chin resting on his fist, his other hand tapping a pencil against a catalogue from the Prado in Madrid. The eraser was leaving smudges on the glossy Velasquez on the cover. Felicia's pink notepaper was gone, replaced with a printout of Hilary's own descriptions of the Regensfeld artifacts.
       "Nathan?" Hilary said. "I'm sorry to bother you..."
       With a start he looked up. His face was drawn, as though he'd had liposuction during his lunch hour, and his hazel eyes were flat and colorless. Hurriedly Hilary explained her problem and was rather relieved when he offered no explanation of his.
       He reached for the telephone directory and called the airport, ascertaining that she could get a flight to Chicago at four-thirty. "Can you get a commuter flight on to Indianapolis from there?"
       "Yes. Thanks. I really hate running out on you like this. I'll work next weekend or something...." Only then did it occur to her that her father might die. What was sobering was how little that prospect meant to her. But it was safer, after all, to pursue a psychic scorched earth policy -- destroy your own emotions so no one else can. "I'll try to be back Friday. My brother didn't think the situation was very serious."
       "Take as long as you need." Nathan forced an encouraging smile onto his face, the effort becoming almost a grimace of pain, and slumped again over his desk before Hilary was out of the room. I don't have the energy to worry about him, she admonished herself, and ran out of the museum.
       The afternoon sun sparkled in a clear sky. From Osborne's hill the city looked like an Easter basket, blue sky, green grass and trees, yellow forsythia, pink redbud, and purple wisteria nestled around chocolate and marzipan buildings. The breeze was warm with the scent of burgeoning green, sharpened by a hint of fertilizer and weed-killer.
       Preston ramrodded the students in the garden trench. "That's a line of post holes," he was saying. "See where the soil changes color?"
       In the knee-deep garage trench, Jenny was taking photographs of Mark and a meter stick by a brick right angle, his Garfield T-shirt adding a note of whimsy. "Left two paces," she directed. "Steady on. I think we're almost through the burned rubbish and into the foundation."
       Mark saw Hilary approaching. He put the stick down and leaped from the pit. "What's the matter?"
       She realized she must be exuding unease as obviously as Nathan had been. Again she explained -- Gary, her father, the hospital, how she would come back as soon as possible. Even to herself her voice sounded dull and detached.
       "I'll drive you to the airport," Mark offered.
       "No thank you, I'll drive myself."
       "Parking is expensive."
       "So my parents can damn well pay for it."
       Jenny murmured her sympathies and glided discreetly away. Mark's perceptive gray gaze, shaded blue by the sunlight, thudded onto his muddy shoes. Hilary bit her lip, wishing she hadn't been so terse. Surely Mark, at least, knew her well enough not to think she enjoyed being an ice princess.
       "Check the weather if you're planning to come back tomorrow," was all he said. "They're predicting a blue norther."
       "A what?"
       "A winter storm. High winds, a sudden drop in temperature, and sometimes snow or sleet. You know what we say about Texas weather -- if you don't like it wait fifteen minutes. It'll change."
       Mark's tentative smile drew one from her. She raised her voice to include Jenny. "Nathan's got the go-ahead on the biography, but he's decided the Ripper material is politically incorrect, and we're not to tell the Coburgs about it."
       "I'm not going to faint in astonishment at that," Jenny replied.
       Mark offered Hilary a hug. "Are you all right?"
       She leaned against his chest, dirt or no dirt, thinking, Thank God we can still be friends; the little sex demons haven't spoiled that. And, I don't want to go back. It's not home, I want you to be my home.... She said, "It's not just me. Nathan's upset about something -- Bradshaw, Sharon, I don't know."
       "Let them worry about their own problems," Mark told her. "I'll miss you, sweetness. Keep on fighting."
       "Sometime I'd like to stop fighting." But Mark hadn't heard her conversation with Vasarian; he didn't know what she meant. Hilary contented herself with kissing him. Cheers rose from the students in the garden trench despite Preston's half serious, half joking scowl at them. Jenny offered Hilary a grin and a backhanded British salute. The small red flame of a cardinal landed in a nearby oak, its call echoing Mark's affectionate pet name for her: "Sweet, sweet, sweet."
       She walked toward the driveway, her shoulders as bowed as Nathan's had been, her carapace of composure growing heavier by the moment.
--------
         *Chapter Nine*
       To the northwest the horizon was an ominous blue-black. The wind drove streamers of cloud across a leaden sky and monochrome landscape. Mark ducked his head against the chill blast and ran from the garage around Osborne's hulk. The windows were blank eyes staring out into the prematurely dark evening. All the scene needed was narration by Vincent Price.
       Mark banged at the kitchen door with his foot, since his arms were full. It opened so abruptly, he almost tumbled inside. Jenny peered over her reading glasses at his rosy face and windblown hair and said, "You weren't having me on, were you? When the weather changes here, it changes good and proper. It's like the Yorkshire moors out there."
       Mark handed over his burdens. "Careful, the bottle's cold and the food's hot. I didn't know any Indian places, so I brought Chinese."
       "Brilliant." She shoved the paper sacks of food in the oven and inspected the bottle of wine. "Well done -- good plonk, nothing too posh."
       "I was contemplating a package of bologna in my fridge when you called. Thanks for the invitation." Keep me from brooding over Hilary, Mark added to himself. He tossed his coat onto the chair by the hearth and extended his hands toward the cheerfully popping fire. Graymalkin promptly took up residence on the coat, toasting first one furry flank and then the other. The wind moaned in the chimney, angry at being closed out.
       "I wasn't keen on spending the evening alone, to tell you the truth," said Jenny. "I saw too many horror films as a child, I suppose -- the ones that start on a dark and stormy night."
       "You're welcome at my place, you know."
       "Thank you. But since I'm earning my bed by playing security guard, I feel I ought to stay here as much as possible. Half a minute while I finish these." Jenny settled her glasses on her nose and considered one of the printouts stacked on the table. "Mind you, that's a sizable structure for a carriage house-cum-garage, quite complex."
       "Supposedly Arthur liked to tinker with his cars and had a workshop in there."
       Jenny shrugged. "I'll ask Lucia tomorrow night. And Nathan, too -- he was turning over the study both Wednesday and Thursday afternoons -- collected almost everything of value."
       "The garage burned down the night Felicia died," Mark said. "Maybe a coincidence, maybe not, if anyone could ever figure out why she was murdered. Fifteen years ago yesterday." He glanced at the door leading into the rest of the house. The dark rooms beyond seemed like massive boulders teetering atop a precipice, threatening to roll down and crush the unwary. So much for his smug assumptions the day he'd first stepped inside; the place had been teasing him.
       Jenny took off her glasses, folded them into their case, and rubbed her eyes. "The door is closed and locked tonight, I assure you. If Miss Cat wants to go mousing, she can go on her own."
       "Any cat worth its catnip knows how to walk through walls," said Mark.
       "Or find a secret passage. There's a loose board behind the old stove. Opens into a cupboard in the butler's pantry. Clever boots, our Graymalkin,"
       Graymalkin looked up from her nest on the coat. The angle of her ears reminded Mark of a samurai helmet.
       With a sigh Jenny folded the papers and stacked them with a couple of photos next to the computer. She rotated her head and shoulders and rubbed the back of her neck. "I'm whipped."
       "You should let me do some of that," he chided.
       "You shall, don't worry. But for now you can open the wine."
       Mark pulled out his knife and unfolded the corkscrew. When Jenny had called an hour ago, her voice had been brittle. Now she laid out plates and silverware with her usual poised efficiency.... No, her movements were a bit jerky, like a marionette manipulated by an inexperienced puppeteer. The strain of dealing with the Coburgs and the Coburgs' haunted house would tire anyone, he supposed.
       One of the photos on the table was of Arthur looking proudly at Dolores and Dolores looking proudly at a miniature Kenneth and Sharon. In the other, a younger Arthur and a tiny, blond woman with a remarkably penetrating gaze stood beside several rosebushes. Felicia, Mark realized. He wrenched the cork from the bottle. "A wild night like this should keep Kenneth out of your hair."
       "I can't barricade the house, can I? He's lord of the manor."
       "Which wouldn't be so bad if he didn't expect seigneurial privileges?"
       Jenny held out her wineglass and said acidly, "Right."
       The delectable odors of ginger and peanut oil, plum sauce and peppers beckoned. Mark and Jenny opened the cartons of food and squabbled amiably over who got how much of what. After several moments of peaceful munching, Jenny asked, "Have you heard from Hilary?"
       "She called last night saying she'd try to be in tomorrow for Lucia's dinner party, and would I let Nathan know she'd be back to work on Monday. Her father had a mild heart attack, but he'll be all right."
       "Hilary didn't seem terribly upset."
       Mark glanced up. Jenny was wrestling with a noodle; she had merely commented, not criticized. "Hilary says she used to think she was an alien adopted by a family of humans, until she decided they're the aliens and she's the human. They're not a particularly close family." There was more to it than that, but he didn't need to broadcast the gory details.
       "I don't think any of us feel really connected to our relatives," Jenny said. "We end up paying their debts, that's all. Pass the mustard."
       Mark offered her both the mustard and a curious look. "I thought you were close to your mother -- the cats and the history and everything."
       "Oh yes, I was close to my mum. There were only the two of us. I never knew my father. I'm a bastard, you see. Fortunately bastardy isn't the albatross it used to be."
       "Mmmph," said Mark around a spicy mouthful of chicken and peppers, and managed to swallow. "I'm sorry. Or should I be sympathetic?"
       "Damned if I know. You had two parents, you tell me."
       "I don't know, either. My parents kept saying they were staying together for my sake, even though they hated each other. They should've divorced a lot sooner -- they ended up hating me, I think, because they were trapped. Hard to believe they were ever in love, but here I am."
       Graymalkin nestled further into Mark's coat, making sure it was thoroughly fuzzed. Feline nirvana, Mark thought. Human beings required a little more comfort than a coat and a fire. Although the fire was undoubtedly pleasant, and the food and the wine muttered sweet nothings to his senses. The wail of the wind and the creak of the old house were atmospheric touches making the kitchen all the more cozy. A shame Hilary wasn't here. But then, Jenny was here -- it was her place -- and sometimes three could be a crowd.
       "I decided early on I would never have children," Jenny said. "I even had a tubal ligation, just to make sure. Children should have parents who want them." She swirled the wine in her glass as though the red liquid was her own bloodline.
       "I had a daughter," Mark said, and stopped dead. But Hilary's eyes weren't the only ones that inspired confidences -- Jenny's dark, even gaze asked nothing and judged nothing. "I was seventeen, desperate for comfort, searching for it the way too many kids do. In the most ludicrous moment of my life, I traded my virginity for Karen's and got her pregnant all at once."
       Jenny winced.
       "There we were, seniors in high school, married. It was fun at first -- we worked our way through three different sex manuals before she got too big and uncomfortable. Then the baby came. Karen had a terrible time. It seemed like days she lay there sweating and screaming and cussing me out. It was all my fault -- she didn't want to be married, she didn't want the baby. Dammit, she climbed into the back seat of that car just as fast as I did."
       "You stayed with her," said Jenny. "That's more than most men would have done."
       Mark shook his head. "I never even got to hold Chelsea, she was hooked up to so many machines. She lived three days. I remember looking out the hospital window the night she died. It was the Fourth of July -- you know, Independence Day -- and the horizon was lit by fireworks. Like in a movie, when the couple makes love and they cut to bombs bursting in air. But they never show how badly the sparks burn and how you spend the rest of your life tasting ashes. I'll always wonder if we'd wanted Chelsea, would she have lived?" He drank. But no amount of alcohol would ever answer that question. He'd tried. "Karen and I realized overactive libidos were all we had in common. Divorced at eighteen -- I'm not proud of that. I'm not proud of any of it."
       Jenny stacked the empty food containers. "Now that you've learned how to handle fireworks, you won't get burned again."
       Mark didn't reply. He remembered Hilary writhing in his arms, and his gut cramped.
       Graymalkin looked up, ears perked, as if she heard something. Jenny rose and with a sharp gesture poked at the fire. Sparks flared and died. She leaned against the mantelpiece, her back turned to Mark's uncomfortable seated huddle. "And Hilary. What about her? Do you love her?"
       "I would if she'd let me."
       "You're not sleeping with her?"
       "No." His voice squeezed a Niagara Falls of emotion through a pinhole.
       In a younger woman, Jenny's response to his strained inflection would've been a giggle. As it was, her laugh was filled with rue. "Her choice, not yours, I take it. Don't tell me why, that's not my affair."
       "Celibacy isn't my style. Neither is masochism. But I guess they're my choice, since I care for her." Mark topped off his wine, got up from the table, and tilted the last drops from the bottle into Jenny's glass. She had offered him no sympathy. He didn't want sympathy, not over Karen and Chelsea, certainly not over Hilary, when Hilary herself shied away from sympathy. He wasn't sure what he wanted. The faint odor of smoke in the room came from the fireplace and not his own scorched nerves.
       Graymalkin leaped down from the chair, stretched, padded toward the connecting door, and proceeded to sharpen her claws on it. Jenny watched her intently, unblinking. Mark was beginning to realize how guarded Jenny's eyes usually were, their rich dark depths covered like a well. Not that they were open now, by any means, but she was sending up a bucketful or two of candor.
       The wind shrieked outside. Pellets of rain spattered against the windows. Perhaps Mark could hear the limbs of the oaks and the branches of the azaleas thrashing, perhaps not. At least he couldn't hear the ticking of the clock. He set the empty bottle on the counter. The food containers were still stacked on the table. He threw them away. The photograph of the Coburgs gazed up at him.
       Again Jenny rotated her shoulders and rubbed her neck. "All Souls' Day," she said, looking at the _Dia de los Muertos_ figurine. "Is this bare your soul night, do you think?"
       Let's get naked, Mark almost replied, but instead gave a noncommittal grunt.
       "I had an ulterior motive in asking you here tonight," Jenny went on. Behind her back Mark drew himself to attention. "I have seen and heard things in the house. Footsteps in the upper hall, notes played on the piano. And that damnable clock. I've asked, but no one admits to winding it. It was Felicia's, did you know that?"
       "No." Mark slumped against the cabinet, asking himself what he'd expected her to say, for heaven's sake.
       "The first night of the dig, when you drove by and saw lights in the windows -- I lied, Mark, that wasn't me. Since then, I've seen lights three times. I've waked up thinking someone was looking at me as I slept, but there's never been anyone there. I've felt a presence, not in the parlor, oddly enough, but in the study. And Graymalkin seems to see things."
       "Cats do."
       "Then, earlier this evening when I was making my usual recce, I saw the ghost. On the main staircase. Very pale, dressed in the full skirts and bonnet of a Victorian woman."
       The hair rose on the nape of Mark's neck. "Don't tell me Kenneth was right -- his grandmother really is haunting the place."
       "I don't know. I saw the shape, and I scarpered back here, locked the door, and called you like the worst coward. But that's all it was, a shape, not a presence. I know one tends to see wee Nessies on the way home from the pub, but this is the first drink I've had since the reception."
       "You don't have to rationalize anything to me," Mark told her. "There was a ghost at Rudesburn last summer -- I tried my darnedest to deny it, but I couldn't. Supposedly a soul will linger to finish something or to guard something or for vengeance. With the two murders and the suicide here.... Well, I've been scared of this place for years, myself." Odd, how the second time he admitted that wasn't nearly as wrenching as the first.
       "Thank you," said Jenny, her alto voice deepening to an even lower register. "I do appreciate that."
       Mark looked again toward the blank face of the connecting door. Graymalkin was gone. Osborne's formal rooms were pitch-black. What could the little cat see there, in the dark? Anything more than shrouded furniture and dilapidated gimcracks? The house lurked beyond the door like a thief waiting to jump out and shout, "Your money or your life!"
       The wind filled the already cool kitchen with sneaky little drafts. The fire was dying down, yellow flame subsiding to dull orange ripples above a forlorn pile of charcoal. The wine in Jenny's hand shone like a ruby, reflecting the firelight. A twinkling ruby; her hand was shaking.
       So a skeptical, take-charge individual like Jenny could be unnerved by things going bump in the night. Mark's own fears of Osborne stemmed less from the place's history than from the disruptions of his own life, and he wondered what wounds Jenny was protecting in the depth of her eyes.
       She drank down the wine, set the empty glass on the mantel, and rubbed the back of her neck. Her accent, Mark thought, had thickened under the benign influence of the wine. The various British dialects made his own sound like the flat whine of a buzz saw. They were expressed with such resonance in the mouth and vigor in the lips and tongue.... The image of those body parts at work exploded in the pit of his stomach and sent a wave of warmth into his face. Get a bellyful of wine and melancholy, he sighed to himself, and the intellect takes a hike.
       He hiked across the room and started to massage Jenny's neck and shoulders. Her tendons hummed like the strings of his guitar. "You're working too hard," he said.
       "Probably. That feels good." She leaned into his touch.
       A mild woodsy scent emanated from her hair, perfume distilled from the golden green glades of an English forest. Although she was almost as tall as he, Mark didn't have to crane forward to see down the front of her shirt; the top two buttons were unfastened, and the fabric gaped above the valley between her breasts. At that vision his breath caught in his throat, and his hands stopped on either side of her neck.
       Jenny turned her head so that first her cheek and then her lips were against his hand. Delicately she kissed each finger, caressed the nails with her tongue, then drew each fingertip in turn into her mouth.
       With an effort Mark kept his knees from buckling. He didn't quite recognize his own voice, it was so hoarse. "Jenny, is that an invitation?"
       "It's a request," she murmured, her breath bathing the palm of his hand, her shoulders not quite pressing against his chest.
       "Would you still respect me in the morning?"
       "In the morning I'll pretend nothing happened. And whether anything does is up to you, Mark." She slipped away from his hands, turned in his arms, and looked at him with that uncompromising gaze that in the last two weeks he'd come to know and respect. "I'll be in the bedroom. If you'd like to join me, you'd be very welcome. If you'd prefer to go back to your flat, go on. No recriminations, no burning sparks, no ashes either way, I promise you that."
       Mark opened his mouth, found nothing in it, closed it again. His head swiveled to follow Jenny as she paced across the kitchen and disappeared into the bedroom.
       He touched his damp fingertips to his lips. It was suddenly very warm in the kitchen, warm enough, he thought, to melt the resolve of a much stronger man than he. At his shoulder Lucia's little skeletons dug on. "The grave," Mark quoted under his breath, "is a fine and private place, but none, I think, do there embrace." The flesh might be transitory, but it was damnably insistent.
       He started toward the bedroom and stopped. That chair at the table was where Hilary had sat a week ago tonight. He could see her there now, looking up at him with eager affection, the scent of roses clinging to her delicate body. Roses with thorns, like the brambles surrounding Sleeping Beauty's castle. Sleep, he said to his mental image. Sleep, and heal, and soon I'll wake you with a kiss.
       He imagined her laying her head on her arms, closing her eyes, sighing like a weary child. Anyone who would hurt that exquisite creature should be hanged, drawn, and quartered.... He wasn't hurting her. This was a parenthesis in his life that had nothing to do with her. "I'll be right back," he said to his fantasy Hilary. "I promise, I'll be right back."
       Mark turned off the kitchen lights, plunging the room into amber-tinted gloom. The bedroom was lit by a small lamp on a bedside table. Jenny's clothes lay over a chair by the dresser -- she'd been that sure he'd come. Jenny herself lay in the bed, the Navajo blanket mounded over her body.
       Mark sat down beside her. "You called?"
       "Oh yes, I'm afraid so." She reached a well-toned arm from the covers and pulled him down to her. Her lips were firm and soft at once, and her limber British tongue tasted of deep woods, ginger, and grapes.
       He struggled to maintain the kiss and take off his shoes at the same time -- the laces were in a knot -- no, there they went, the twin thuds on the floor barely audible above the wind. Sleet was hitting the windows now, its gravelly sound deceptively gentle.
       Jenny's capable hands helped him wriggle out of his sweatshirt and jeans. The room was icy cold, the bed beneath the covers warm, and Jenny's body just as sumptuous as he'd imagined. Mark jettisoned rational thought and abandoned himself to her embrace.
       Nothing ambivalent about Jenny. Once she'd made her decision she savored it, concentrating on Mark as she'd concentrate on uncovering a priceless artifact. She knew what she wanted and how to get it -- her whispered directions tickled his ears. Enthusiastically he complied; if anyone annoyed him, it was a woman who equated lovemaking with mind-reading and expected him to know instinctively what turned her on.
       Jenny's knowledge of male responsiveness inspired Mark to make his own requests. He luxuriated in her body, inhaling it, tasting it, playing the changing rhythms of her breath. The wind, the sleet, the mutter of the house and its surrounding trees retreated to a distant dimension well beyond the creaking of the bed. Hiding in Jenny, he was safe.
       At last Mark rolled his eyes back into their sockets and looked down at Jenny's sweaty, slightly stunned face. The lines beside her mouth and eyes had been deepened by her efforts, so thin was the boundary between pain and pleasure. Her eyes were guarded again, retreating from that moment of surrender. But her smile was no less genuine for being cautious. "Thank you," she said.
       "Thank you." Mark knew his own smile was dazed to the point of goofiness, but he didn't care. He was in suspended animation, above the house, above the storm, in a cocoon of warmth and security found as much in the depths of the brain as in the depths of the body.
       His back puckered in the chill of the room. Reluctantly he extricated himself and collapsed at Jenny's side. She rose, pulled the covers up from the foot of the bed, spread them over him, and vanished into the shadows. Quiet splashings came from the bathroom.
       Mark's eyes barely focused on the bedside clock. What a perfect example of relativity -- he would've sworn he'd been in that bed all night, but the clock read ten-thirty.
       A snapshot in a metal frame sat beside the clock. A little girl with crisp dark hair -- Jenny as a six-year-old, Mark guessed -- stood beside a woman. Pamela wore the mantle of single motherhood with great dignity, the arch of her plucked brows as steadfast as the doorway of a Norman church, the waves of her blond hair set as firmly as those of the plaster saint she'd manifestly not been. Two cats sat at the feet of mother and child, gazing in deep suspicion at the camera.
       The picture blurred. Mark sank into the pillow, inspecting the insides of his eyelids, listening to the sleet scratching the windows. Pretty smart, he thought drowsily, to leave his van in the garage, not only out of the weather but away from prying eyes. Not that anyone in his right mind would be out on a night like this. As for tomorrow morning -- Jenny might enjoy an encore, or she might expect him to politely take his leave. Tomorrow he would face Hilary, sated as he was with another woman, his lips still moist with grapes and ginger. But Hilary would never know.
       Jenny turned off the light and slipped beneath the covers beside him. Her skin was cold as marble. He tucked her into the curve of his body, warming her, and slid smoothly into oblivion.
         * * * *
In his dream, Mark wandered through a forest alive with ginger-flavored sunlight. A stream at his feet sparkled like wine, blood-red.... No, he wasn't in a forest, but in the turret room of Osborne House, the gold and green of its windows muted and something sickly sweet clogging his nose.
       Someone was watching him. Mark woke up with a start and lay disoriented, blinking into the darkness. The sleet had stopped, the wind had died down. The silence was so profound he could hear the air thrumming like a cello in his ears, accentuated by a faint pulse that was either his own heartbeat or the tick of the clock in the front hall. A woman's body stirred uneasily beside him. "Hilary?"
       "No. Sorry." Jenny sat up. A cold draft shattered Mark's cocoon. "It's gone midnight. Graymalkin, what're you on about?"
       The cat crouched at the foot of the bed, fur spiky, looking like a Brillo pad with ears and a tail. A faint musky odor clung to her. Her yellow eyes were fixed as balefully on Mark and Jenny as though they had snatched away her food bowl.
       Mark, too, sat up. The chill of the room seeped down his spine. Jenny turned on the bedside lamp. "Here, kittlin." The cat made a noise part growl and part whine. Abruptly she withdrew a paw from beneath her body, licked at it, and made a face.
       Jenny captured the little creature and dragged her, still grumbling, toward the head of the bed. Graymalkin's usually pink pads were smudged with russet brown. "What the...?" The cat turned up the volume, her grumble becoming a yowl. All four legs flailing, she leaped from the bed and dived beneath it.
       Jenny recoiled against Mark. He put out an arm to steady her. In the lamplight her hands where she had grasped the cat's paws were smeared red. The cold tracing his spine plunged inward, freezing his viscera. No, his mind protested, no, no.
       "Someone's slagging me off," said Jenny. "Gormless fool. I'll sort him out." The bed heaved as she grabbed for her clothes.
       Maybe it was a practical joke. Stifling an inner voice -- _don't go look_ -- Mark clambered toward his own clothing.
       In the kitchen the fire had died to sullen embers. Jenny turned on the lights, seized her flashlight from the table, and unlocked the connecting door. Mark stayed close beside her past the yawning doors of the pantries and into the dining room.
       The beam of the flashlight picked out the chandelier, its cobwebs like gossamer, the massive table squatting below. In the music room the chairs stood in rows before the piano, a phantom audience for a phantom recital. The rictus grin of the ivory keyboard flashed and died in the moving light. In the entrance hall the pendulum of the clock swished back and forth, back and forth, gleaming as Jenny waved the shaft of light across its face. The ornate hands indicated twelve-thirty.
       A long dark shape lay on the carpet in the front parlor. Jenny stopped in the doorway, light puddled at her feet. Mark heard her inhale to speak, and then exhale in a moan, her anger draining into fear. His stomach felt like a clenched fist. _Please let it be a joke. Please_.
       The air was still, thick with musky organic odors. Mark set his hand on top of Jenny's and lifted the flashlight. The beam revealed a pair of feet in running shoes, toes turned up and slightly out. Then khaki pants legs smeared with russet. Then a leather jacket, plackets open wide around a glistening, spongy red mass.
       Mark's face went tingling cold. He gulped, quelling a surge of nausea. Jenny's hand trembled. "Bloody hell," she murmured. "Oh, bloody sodding hell."
       A pair of glasses lay just beyond an outstretched right hand. The formerly white collar of a rugby shirt shone wetly crimson. Above it was the face of Nathan Sikora, eyes wide with uncomprehending shock, mouth open on a cry whose echo still seemed to hang in the air, stirring the curtains, raising dust from the rug, drawing the hair on the back of Mark's neck tautly erect.
       But beneath Nathan's body the carpet was sodden, its dust laid. Photographs lay strewn across it. A multitude of faces looked up -- Coburgs of every age and description, a young Lucia, a blond woman with plucked brows, chauffeurs and businessmen and cowboys in wide hats. In the crook of Nathan's left arm was a pink sweater splattered with reddish-brown smudges.
       His eyes were as glazed as those in the photographs, no longer human. That gaping mouth had laughed with Hilary at the reception. Those inert hands had handed around chocolate chip cookies.
       "Who could do such a thing?" whispered Jenny.
       Mark choked out. "God, why?"
       They retreated to the entrance hall, juggling the flashlight between them so that shadows swooped like birds of prey across the paneling and disappeared into the dark at the top of the stairs. "We'll have to have the police," Jenny said grimly.
       "Yes."
       "You should go. Now. I'll say you weren't here."
       Mark saw himself fleeing into the cold, clean, outside air. He thought longingly of his apartment, with its familiar books and models, Hilary's picture on his dresser.... She was coming back today. "No lies," he said. "It'll all come out in the end anyway, and lying just makes it cheap. It wasn't cheap, Jenny."
       For a long moment her eyes searched his. Then she looked away, withdrawing into some private place that even in their most passionate moment he had never reached. "Right."
       Each relentless tick-tock of the clock was a sledgehammer blow against Mark's head. Nathan. Hilary. Jenny. Not cheap, no. Love and death were never anything but hideously expensive.
       He and Jenny walked back to the kitchen through the dense shadows of Osborne House.
--------
         *Chapter Ten*
       The television set angled out from the wall, seemingly suspended in mid-air. Hilary craned her neck to look up at it. "...Dallas/Fort Worth area," said the announcer, "with the cold front hitting about six p.m. Our Friday night weather here in central Indiana isn't as startling."
       Hilary visualized the kitchen at Osborne, Jenny pouring tea, Graymalkin dozing in a picturesque pose, Mark playing his guitar. Her eyes smarted in the glare of fluorescent light. She leaned over the blast of the radiator and pulled aside a corner of the curtain. The view was of a dark parking lot, not a huge live oak tree. Last Sunday in Mark's apartment the air had been filled with the warm sweet scent of roses. The hospital room smelled of disinfectant. Hilary tasted it in the back of her throat, as though a shocked parent had washed out her mouth with it.
       Her father's voice interrupted the drone of the weatherman. "What's this boyfriend of yours do again?"
       "He's an archaeologist. In graduate school."
       "Living on some kind of university grant? About time he settled down to a real job. Maybe I can find him a place in Research and Development."
       "He's perfectly happy working on his Ph.D., Daddy."
       "If he's going to be supporting my daughter, he needs to do it right."
       Hilary's jaw had been clenched for forty-eight hours and ached all the way into her ears. You don't have to buy Mark off, she thought. She said, "We're just friends. Besides which, I'm supporting myself now."
       "In a museum?" Everett Chase snorted his disdain. "Gary, now -- he's well on his way up the ladder on Wall Street. His wife's the perfect hostess, helps him along, you know."
       "Gary and Dawn have very different interests from mine." Hilary tried to settle back into the chair. Every bony projection on her body cringed, while the pads of flesh between them had long ago gone numb. She decided the hospital provided uncomfortable furniture in an effort to drum up more business. Turning the piece of sweater in her lap, she began another row of stitches, wrists snapping, needles flashing. This particular shade of teal would look very nice on Mark, sparking his clear gray eyes with blue and green.
       Everett looked like a tortoise flipped onto its back and propped up in a hospital bed; his jaw disappeared into a crepey neck, his mouth turned down in a frown and the expression in his eyes moved ceaselessly from suspicion to belligerence and back. His color was better today, but he still looked sickly around the edges. This morning he'd demanded that his hair be restored to its usual tidiness, parted just so above the distinguished gray at his temples. Hilary had done her best with comb and gel while he grumbled at her ineptness.
       The door opened, admitting Hilary's mother. The lacquered crash helmet of her hair accentuated the thinness of her face, while its artificial mahogany color emphasized the pallor of her complexion. The jewelry she was wearing today was from the line designed for Tiffany by Paloma Picasso; after every trip to New York Everett would produce yet another velvet jeweler's case from his attache case and announce, "Only the best for my wife!" The huge earrings, necklace, and bracelet, combined with her fashionable oversized shirtwaist, made Olivia looked like a child playing dress up.
       "Everett," she said, "here's Dr. Nye to check you over."
       "I'm fine," said Everett. "I have to get back to work. I have a family to support, a business to run."
       Nye was as sleekly handsome as a soap opera character. Applying his stethoscope to Everett's chest, he said, "You had a myocardial infarction, Mr. Chase. A mild one, yes, but still a heart attack. You won't be going home until Thursday, at the earliest. And that's only with strict instructions. You need to lose twenty pounds."
       "I've studied the list very carefully," said Olivia. "A low-fat diet. No more cigars. Exercise. We'll outfit a gym in the conservatory." She looked from her husband to the doctor, bright-eyed and eager.
       "Doctors," said Everett, his frown becoming a scowl. "Take the steak right out of your mouth. A man needs a piece of meat now and then. None of this pantywaist salad and quiche stuff. A man needs a good cigar. You have any idea what a Havana goes for these days?"
       "The doctor knows what's best, dear," Olivia said. "We want you to be nice and healthy again."
       With a sunny smile, Nye turned and checked Hilary over. "What's this pretty thing? Yours?"
       "This is our little girl," Everett said with a proprietary smirk.
       Olivia beamed, flattered. "Baby, say hello to Dr. Nye."
       Hilary felt like a doll in a frilly dress, a key sticking out of her back. Defiantly she conjured up the image of a woman in a black sheath holding her own with the Coburgs. She pictured Nathan trusting that woman with the Regensfeld artifacts. "Hello Dr. Nye," she parroted.
       "I'll bet she attracts men like honey attracts bees." Nye slipped out the door. The room went so silent that the burst of music from a TV commercial detonated like an artillery shell.
       Olivia's mouth pinched shut. Everett's smile curdled into disgust, and he kicked peevishly at his covers. Instantly Olivia was at the bed, loosening the blankets and then tucking them in again. If Hilary's knitting needle had been plastic it would have snapped in the spasm of her hand. _It wasn't because I'm pretty! I don't care what Ben said, he didn't do it because I'm pretty!_
       "There, is that better?" Olivia asked Everett.
       "Give me one of those magazines."
       "_Time? Business Week? Golf Digest_?"
       Everett accepted the _Business Week_ and his reading glasses.
       With a shuddering breath Hilary smoothed the stitches on the metal needle. Everett might have preferred one of the issues of _Playboy_ and _Penthouse_ he kept in his den, but Olivia never acknowledged they were there. As a teenager, Hilary had looked through them in appalled fascination. Now she gagged at the very thought. Those magazines were tame compared to the sleaze the police had found in Ben's apartment.
       Olivia took a pitcher from the bedside table and started watering one of the flower arrangements on a nearby shelf. The only flower Hilary could identify with certainty was the rose, and there were no roses among the blooms brightening the monochrome of the room. One arrangement had cheerful red bell-like flowers, another blue globules and little schoolbus-yellow puffs. A couple of people had sent green plants which had already wilted in the artificial light. Hilary sympathized with them.
       Olivia pulled a card from a bunch of spiky purple things. "Oh look, dear. John Linton sent you some flowers. Isn't that nice?"
       "Am I supposed to know a John Linton?" Everett demanded.
       "Oh. I think that's what the card says. It's kind of a scribble."
       Everett took the card. "Oh for the love of God, Livvie, it says James Lytton. From the office. I've worked with him for fifteen years. James Lytton," he repeated, like Mr. Rogers enunciating a word for his pre-school audience.
       With the dignity of a martyr, Olivia drew herself up and replaced the card in the plant. Hilary swore between her teeth -- how unfortunate that patricide wasn't a socially acceptable form of self-expression -- and crammed her knitting into its bag. When she stood up, pain rolled up her back and crashed into the spot between her brows, tightening her head in a vise. "Let's go on home, Mother. Daddy's had his supper, but you haven't eaten a thing. Ruth left some lasagna in the fridge for us."
       "Lasagna's so rich," said Olivia. "Look at how big Ruth is. Disgraceful, the way she's let herself go."
       "Daddy," Hilary went on gamely, "I have to go back to Fort Worth tomorrow morning. Call me when you get home, let me know how you feel."
       "Tomorrow's Saturday, baby. You don't have to work on Saturday."
       "I need to get back," Hilary repeated. Before I self-destruct, she added to herself. She leaned over to kiss her father's forehead. Her lips touched stiffened hair gel.
       Like the cavalry appearing over the horizon, a nurse opened the door and carried in a tray of pills and potions. "Here we go, Mr. Chase."
       Grudgingly Olivia picked up her purse and sweater. "Well...."
       Everett looked at the pretty nurse appraisingly. But he couldn't dance with her the way he danced with the young second wives of his cronies at the country club. Hilary wondered if he had a prospective second wife, assuming he and Olivia really did divorce. No one had mentioned the subject since her arrival. Her parents had gone through an alcohol abuse program together, but maybe they weren't ready for marriage detox.
       "Take care, dear," Olivia said to Everett.
       "I need some water for these pills. My glasses are smudged..."
       The nurse set down her tray. "I'll take care of him, Mrs. Chase."
       Everett's face caved in, the flesh shrink-wrapping itself to the bone. Hilary felt a twinge of pity; the blustering old bully was losing his power. His son, his daughter, his wife, his health, were no longer his to control. He gazed unhappily after Olivia like a toddler left for the first time in a day care center. He was hurting. Hilary could hardly hate him for that.
       She steered her mother out the door. "He's going to be all right. You need to take care of yourself." Olivia didn't seem convinced, but she let Hilary walk her through the hallways and into the elevator.
       Two floors down, the car stopped and the doors opened. Outside stood a girl of perhaps eighteen, holding a baby with a crumpled red face. She sported a jaunty ribbon in hair that was much the worse for wear, but on her face she wore an expression of panic, as though she wanted nothing more than to leap onto the departing elevator and flee.
       The doors closed, and the car began again to descend. Hilary could still see the girl's stricken, bewildered eyes. Shuddering, she thought, But for the mercy of God that could be me, holding Ben's baby, knowing even if I give it up, an invisible umbilical cord will forever bind me to it and to him.
       "She made her bed," Olivia humphed, "now she has to lie in it."
       "That baby has to have a father," Hilary remonstrated.
       "Boys will be boys," said Olivia in the same tone of voice she reserved for such eternal verities as "Ladies don't wear white shoes before Easter or after Labor Day."
       Boys weren't necessarily jerks, Hilary thought. Mark had cared for his child. But he wasn't a typical man. That was why she trusted him.
       Outside it was full night. The low clouds over the city gleamed with reflected light. A chill breeze sped Hilary and Olivia to the Chase's Lincoln Town Car. They purred into the darkness, the lights of the hospital winking out behind them.
       Hilary felt as though she were riding in an upholstered tank. Olivia seemed strangely small behind the steering wheel; perhaps she'd shriveled, drained by propriety and convention, a caterpillar sucked dry before it ever became a butterfly. In the dashboard lights her carefully made-up eyes were as empty as Osborne House's front windows. No, not empty -- haunted. What had Jenny said about someone else's memories? Olivia lived on Everett's success, Gary's ambition, and Hilary's beauty, and died in her own despair.
       Then there was Dolores Coburg, Hilary thought. As fair as porcelain, not pale; confident in her intelligence and competence. She had been a second wife. If she'd sold her soul to Arthur, she'd retrieved it when he died. It was Felicia whom Arthur had discarded like a used tissue.
       "Are you going to back to your art and your music after the divorce?" Hilary asked her mother.
       Olivia stopped the car at a red light and waited until it turned green before she answered. "I'm not sure we'll be getting divorced. Thirty-five years of marriage is a lot to throw away."
       "It would be hard to break up such a long-running act," said Hilary, adding to herself, Red Riding Hood and the Wolf. Snow White and Grumpy. "But you wouldn't be throwing the years away. You'd be moving on."
       "Your father needs me."
       "I wouldn't put it past him to have had a heart attack on purpose, just so you'd have to go on taking care of him."
       "It's my fault," Olivia said, so quietly Hilary almost didn't hear her. "He did have the heart attack because of me." She waited in a left hand turn lane until the closest headlights were in the next county.
       Years of car-pooling with other people's kids, Hilary thought. Dance and music lessons, soccer, Little League, Scouts -- everything Everett's money could buy, except his time. "What do you mean, your fault?"
       "Last December I withdrew some money from one of the money market accounts. The accountant found out about it on Wednesday. He called Everett. Everett was shouting at me when he clutched his chest and fell down, right there at my feet. Norman called the paramedics."
       Her bald recitation hardly did justice to what must have been both a ludicrous and ghastly scene. For a moment Hilary regretted that Norman, the household factotum and the husband of Ruth the housekeeper, had been so quick to act. But no, it was hardly right to regret her father's survival. "The country club dues are pretty steep, and Daddy just bought himself a Porsche. He doesn't have any right to complain about your spending habits."
       "But it wasn't for me. I took enough for a fast food franchise for Ben."
       Hilary's shoulder blades contracted. "What?"
       "He was on parole, he had to have a job. I thought this time, after -- everything -- he'd make something of himself."
       "We've been giving him money, finding him jobs, and paying for detox programs for years. He's never stayed with anything. Some nerve, coming back to you now."
       "I know, I know. But I had to help him. He's my brother." Olivia stopped at another traffic light and stared fixedly up at it.
       Hilary's shoulder blades were so tense they were pulling her ribs apart. She was the sacrificial victim at a pagan ritual. An obsidian blade was cutting out her heart. "Daddy told you never to give him anything again."
       "That's just the point, Baby. It's my fault."
       Everett's exact words had been, "After all I've done for that son of a bitch, still he helps himself to my daughter." Hilary knew Ben had gone on an alcohol, cocaine, and gambling bender back in January -- that was what had put him back in prison. She hadn't known about Olivia's role in it. "You were just enabling him, Mother. With us to fall back on, why should he ever learn to take care of himself." What was the point of lecturing the poor woman about it now? That was as bad as the self-righteous sermons Everett had inflicted on Ben before handing over each check.
       Hilary looked out the window, forcing her shoulder muscles to relax. The ghostly shapes of trees and houses passed in the night.
       "Enabling?" asked Olivia with a tentative laugh. "That's one of those psychology words, isn't it?"
       "Yeah, that's one of those psychology words."
       "I went back to that counselor a couple of times -- the one you asked me to see with you. But she kept telling me I had to do things for myself. That's selfish. She shouldn't tell people that."
       "She was talking about self-esteem, not selfishness," Hilary said. "Like not making yourself responsible for Daddy's health. Or Ben's."
       Olivia didn't answer. She turned into the driveway of stately Chase Manor, an island of mock Tudor in a sea of manicured lawn, as isolated as Alcatraz. Everett's Porsche hunched desolate in the garage. The house was dark. Its scent of Pine-Sol and cigar smoke, an uneasy mingling of feminine and masculine elements, made Hilary's nostrils close like gills.
       Olivia went upstairs to change. Hilary checked the answering machine and found a message from Gary. "Hey Mom, Kid, how's it going? Glad the old man's still clipping his coupons. Dawnie and I are off to the theatre -- front row center seats for _Les Miz_ -- if you need us, leave a message. Bye-bye."
       When Hilary had called Gary Wednesday night, he and Dawn had been out. She'd left a message. Thursday night, ditto. She'd tracked him down at his office this afternoon, but his secretary had apologetically explained he was taking a meeting. She stuck her tongue out at the inoffensive face of the answering machine and turned to the refrigerator.
       The lasagna went into the microwave and a container of salad onto the table. Hilary would have liked a glass of wine with her meal, but there was -- theoretically, at least -- no alcohol in the house. She'd had two glasses when she'd eaten lunch with some girlfriends yesterday, the better to swallow their tales of new lovers and brilliant careers. Of course, she herself was doing well in the career department, and after mentioning Mark a time or two, had probably left the impression she was dating Indiana Jones.
       Beyond the kitchen, the door into Ruth's and Norman's apartment was shut; Friday night was their night out. It had been shut the Tuesday night Ben had found Hilary studying in her bedroom. The servants said they'd never heard her scream. She'd always wondered whether they simply hadn't wanted to get involved. Working for the Chases had to have given them a jaundiced view of the upper crust -- a crust that should be vented with steam holes, like a pie. No wonder Lucia spoke so wryly of the Coburgs.
       When Olivia reappeared, silk housecoat swishing, Hilary served her the lasagna and mouthed her mother's usual refrain along with her: "That's too much. I couldn't possibly eat all that." Bad girls, Hilary thought, do drugs and sex. Good girls have eating disorders. Rebelliously she cleaned her plate.
       Olivia shoved her food around, piled the dishes in the sink, and drifted away murmuring something about an article in _National Review._ In the hall she paused to straighten a framed cover of _Fortune_ depicting Everett Chase, Captain of Industry, in his Brooks Brothers suit. "Your father is very successful," she said, repeating her favorite mantra.
       Hilary strolled through the darkened house like a sightseer. Olivia's out-of-tune baby grand loomed in the living room, beneath the watercolor landscapes she had painted before her marriage. One wall of the study was lined with Everett's leatherbound classics -- he disdained best sellers. The other rooms resembled displays in an upscale furniture store, expensive and soulless. Hilary thought of abandoned Osborne House. But its furnishings belonged to another day's taste, and its atmosphere tingled with unresolved emotion. In its front parlor, two Coburg wives had entertained Death. Hilary scurried upstairs to the safety of the guest room.
       She brushed her teeth and massaged her brows, trying to loosen the vise that was squeezing her head. Remembering that she wanted to take some books back with her, she went down the hall to the room that had once been hers. If any room in the house was haunted, it was this one. Hilary's stomach tightened, sending an acrid wave of tomato sauce into her throat, but she forced herself to walk through the door.
       Only her mother would have left the room a shrine to Hilary's shattered childhood, the bubble gum trinkets and dolls of the girl on one side, the desk and bookcase of the scholar by the window. A bulletin board displayed grade-school crayon drawings and university copies of Leonardo and Durer. Stuffed animals sat in plump patience on the bed. The bedspread was pink and red, patterned with full-blown, almost wanton, roses.
       From her parents' room down the hall came the faint strains of a piano concerto; Olivia had hesitated for months before buying herself a CD player. Shaking her head, Hilary extracted _The Atlas of British Historical Sites_ from the bookshelf. She'd been wondering why Jenny's mention of Waltham Cross rang a bell. A few bells would be a pleasant distraction. She found the entry and read:
       "Waltham Cross. Situated on the A10, the London-Cambridge road, this Essex market town is noted for the Four Swans Inn, dating to 1260. To the west is Waltham Abbey, burial place of King Harold." Okay, Hilary thought, but what.... Aha! There was a photograph of an intricate Gothic tower supporting a stone cross, resembling a spire gone astray from its church. The caption read, "The perhaps rather too sharply restored Queen Eleanor memorial in Waltham Cross now finds itself in the centre of a frantic traffic junction."
       The same traffic junction where Pamela Galliard died, too intent, maybe, on the antiquity she was studying?
       Queen Eleanor was Eleanor of Castile, Edward I's consort. She had died in Nottinghamshire in 1290, and her grieving husband had ordered a cross erected at every place her body rested on its mournful journey back to London. Crosses that were supposedly modeled on a walrus ivory crucifix carved in Winchester in the eleventh century, Queen Eleanor's most prized possession. The Eleanor Cross had survived incredible vicissitudes to complete the set of artifacts in Regensfeld. How tragic that it was now gone.
       Hilary pulled out another book, _Medieval English Iconography_. Sure enough, the index listed "Galliard, Pamela". Among the list of articles under the historian's name was one described in commendable academic-speak, "An exploration of the iconography of the Eleanor Cross (properly a crucifix), as reflected in the surviving memorial crosses at Geddington, Hardingstone, and Waltham Cross. With a consideration of the authenticity of the replica at Charing Cross in London. Abstract; ms. unfinished. Photographs and drawings from Regensfeld inventory 1923."
       There was one of the photographs, smeared and faded with age. Hilary turned the book to the light, the better to see an elongated ivory crucifix richly carved with Biblical figures supporting an ivory Christ. His body seemed heavy, pulled down toward mortality, its pain heartbreaking. And yet, juxtaposed with the upward-reaching arms of the Cross, its anguish became redemption. The crucifix was a glorious work of art, fully deserving Pamela Galliard's attention. Whether it had been worth her death was another matter. No wonder Jenny didn't care for Vasarian. His inquiries after her mother must feel like the equivalent of fingernails screeching across a blackboard.
       Hilary leaned against the edge of the desk. Dolores had hired Vasarian to search for the Cross. Nathan and Hilary had assumed he'd have to wait until he'd returned the other artifacts to Germany before he picked up the Cross's very cold trail -- six artifacts in hand were more important than one that might no longer exist, after all. But Vasarian had found the trail in Fort Worth.
       Well no, not the trail, just a half-obliterated footprint. Small world, though, to locate both Jenny Galliard and Nicholas Vasarian in the same town, associating with the same family. As soon as she got back to Fort Worth, Hilary resolved, she'd ask Nathan's opinion about it. If she respected anything, it was Nathan's opinion. Closing the book, she chose several more and turned away from the desk.
       The bedspread was smooth and crisp. The stuffed animals sat in a row, their beady eyes glittering in the ceiling light. The light had been on that night. Hilary had been sitting at the desk in her flannel nightgown, researching a term paper due after the holidays and feeling smug she was doing so well in her freshman year in college. Ruth and Norman had shut themselves away. Ben had been watching television in the den, sulking after losing yet another job. Everett and Olivia had gone out to a Christmas party -- after making it very clear that Ben wasn't invited. Canned laughter had muttered in the distance like the thunder of an approaching storm.
       Hilary shrank against the desk, holding the books protectively against her chest. The kernel of horror and pain in her stomach cracked and sent out a sickly tendril of memory.
       She had looked up at Ben's sudden appearance. He had a lean and hungry look, not from too much thought but from too little contemplation. His hollow eyes glittered and his nose ran -- allergies, he kept saying. But now, after a campus drug abuse program, Hilary realized with a start that he'd been snorting cocaine. "Pattycake, come watch TV with me. I'm lonely."
       "Sorry. I have to study."
       "It's Christmas. You don't have to study over Christmas. Come on, Pattycake, come sit with me."
       "No." Sitting with him meant squeezes and embarrassing off-color jokes. And she hated that nickname. Ben was pitiful, like a child trying to get attention.
       "Then just give me a little kiss. Come on...."
       Bewildered, she tried to push him away. It wasn't until he'd pulled her from the chair that she grew more frightened than annoyed. "Come on, come on, give me a kiss." He took a kiss, his hand knotted in her hair, fouling her mouth with Everett's best bourbon. She fought in earnest then, but with berserk strength he pinned her to the bed. Terror overwhelmed her, and she screamed. He seized a stuffed bear and pressed it over her mouth. When he ripped her open and impaled her, her cry of agony was muffled by the toy.
       Stunned, her mind amputated from her body, she went limp. He grunted against her, crushing her, murmuring words in her ear she'd never heard before. When at last he crawled away, she lay trembling uncontrollably, staring upward at each individual plaster nodule in the ceiling. Chill air blew from the vent across her torn body. The front door slammed. A car roared away. The laughter of the sitcom jeered at her. Her fingers clutched the bedspread so tightly that when rational thought came crashing back, she had to consciously loosen them. Weeping with pain and humiliation, Hilary cut her nightgown to shreds and threw it and the teddy bear into the trash compactor. She put her bedspread through the washing machine and lay in a tub of steaming water so long her fingertips puckered.
       If she looked closely at the spread, she could still see the stain of blood amid the roses. She could taste the stench of alcohol and sweat and feel the tickle of damp plush against her skin. Even now she could feel Ben's body crushing and stabbing. That night her adolescent romantic fantasies had been incinerated as surely as a flower by a flame thrower, leaving her with a psychic heartburn that only Mark had cared enough to soothe.
       She grimaced, forcing shut that kernel in her stomach. Mark's apartment smelled of fresh roses. He had the confidence to be gentle.
       Hilary turned. Olivia stood in the doorway. "You should have pretended nothing happened," she admonished. Her words were slurred, her eyes glassy with the prescription tranquilizers that had taken the place of alcohol.
       "I did pretend nothing happened, didn't I? But I hurt so bad -- the bladder infection, the laceration -- I had to see Dr. Mehta. He was perceptive enough to realize I hadn't volunteered to be mauled. He was the one who told you, who made you call the police. I was a good little girl." Hilary stalked off down the hall, past Gary's room still full of baseball bats and model cars, his letter jacket draped over the desk chair.
       Olivia followed her daughter to the guest room, her slippered feet shuffling. "I always pretended Ben never touched me and told me dirty jokes."
       "What?" The books plummeted from Hilary's arms onto the bed.
       "He kept reminding me we weren't really brother and sister. He liked to hug and kiss me and put his hands on my -- well, on me."
       "Mother, that's corroborating testimony! The case against him would've been stronger if the police knew he'd been harrassing you, too!"
       "No, no, no," Olivia said. "You don't understand. Men always talk to an attractive woman that way. It's normal."
       Feeling dizzy, Hilary insisted, "No it isn't! And it has nothing to do with being attractive. That's the criminal blaming the victim, evading his own guilt." At the trial, Ben had evaded Hilary's anguished look -- _why? why?_ -- and presented to everyone else a stubborn not-my-fault expression. Everett had looked like Mr. Toad playing Winston Churchill. Olivia had hidden behind a wide-brimmed hat, mortally embarrassed.
       Now tears rolled down Olivia's sunken cheeks; suddenly she looked old and frail. "It's a terrible thing, to get yourself..." She'd never been able to say "rape", and it had no juvenile euphemisms. "I kept trying to be respectable, but still Ben touched me. I wanted you to be above that kind of thing. What did you do to make him do it to you?"
       She turned away, crying, hiding her face in shame. Hilary had never seen her mother cry. Once she'd thought it was because Olivia didn't want to ruin her makeup. Now she knew that admitting to fear or sorrow or anger was for Olivia an unaffordable luxury. Hilary choked back her retorts. _You raised me from birth to be pretty, docile, and dumb -- is that asking to be raped? You know what he was, and still you left him alone with me?_
       "TV, movies, magazines," Olivia gasped, "are filled with nothing but sex and filth these days. I tried to rise above it. I tried to bring you up that way. I tried." Her "I failed" hung twisting silently in mid air.
       Awkwardly Hilary went to her mother and embraced her. In her entire life she had never heard Olivia utter the word "sex". She couldn't think of a reply that didn't require a lecture on psycho-sexual stereotypes. No doubt Olivia approached the marriage bed with the same sense of duty and distaste she approached a bathroom that needed to be cleaned. That was not surprising, with Everett waiting in that bed. He'd been raised to fear and deride any "feminine" characteristic such as compassion or tenderness.
       She heard the voice of the counselor again: "Mrs. Chase, just because the trauma occurred several years ago doesn't mean Hilary should be over it by now. Some victims take a lifetime to recover." She didn't like being a victim. She didn't like her family victimizing each other.
       "I didn't do anything," Hilary managed to say at last. "You didn't either. It's over now. It's finished. Let it go."
       Olivia inhaled raggedly and pulled away. "I'm sorry. I'm just tired, upset over your father. I'll be all right tomorrow. Go to bed, baby. Forget I ever said anything."
       "Mother...." Hilary stood, her arms empty, watching Olivia weave her way down the hall and into the master bedroom. And it was the _master_ bedroom. "Good night, Mother," she called.
       Olivia would be all right tomorrow. For the millionth time she'd have denied everything. If that's what it took for her to face her life, so be it. She, too, was hurting. Hilary couldn't hate her for that. She shut the door and pressed her aching shoulders against it.
       The older she got, the more she sympathized with the adult knack for selective ignorance that had once infuriated her. It wasn't always pretension; sometimes it was self-preservation. And yet pretending nothing happened all too often meant retreat, leaving wounds untreated and festering. It's not over, she thought. I haven't yet let it go.
       In the last forty-eight hours, she'd looked at her parents as though she'd never seen them before. Maybe Nathan's ability to see things from a different perspective had rubbed off on her. Maybe she'd learned something from another dysfunctional family, the Coburgs, who where as knotted into their patterns as the Chases into theirs.
       The old patterns could be broken, new stitches tried, different designs juxtaposed. Hilary couldn't change Olivia, Everett, and Ben, but she could change herself. She could leave this house and go home, whether home was in a conservation lab, in Mark's arms, or in some place she didn't yet know.
       The clock beside the bed read ten-thirty. Hilary wondered whether Mark could sense her emotion across the miles. But no, she shouldn't expect too much of him. Neither should she expect too much of herself. She couldn't hate someone hurting as badly as she was.
       Slowly the vise squeezing Hilary's head loosened. She left the doorway, picked up the scattered books, and packed them away.
--------
         *Chapter Eleven*
       Mark leaned against the frame of the open tower window. The early morning air was fresh and cold, doing more to clear his head than the scummed cup of coffee he'd left on the table. Arthur's notebook was gone, and his old chair seemed more derelict than ever. Surely if Mark turned around, he'd see the old man sitting there, staring into the dawn. Jenny had said she'd sensed a presence in the study. Mark's shoulder blades contracted as though tickled by the tip of a knife. He didn't turn around.
       Light rose in the east behind him and lapped at the western sky, turning it from gray to pink to a delicate robin's egg blue. The shadow of Osborne House clotted from the darkness below him. Beyond it grass and trees sparkled, polished by the diamond dust of the sleet. Human figures moved from sun to shadow, slamming doors and exchanging muted shouts. Yellow tape was looped from oak to oak to seal off the crime scene.
       They could tie as many yellow ribbons as they wanted around those trees, Mark thought, but Nathan Sikora wasn't coming back.
       Patrol officers had arrived within five minutes of his call and discovered the front door closed but unlocked. They had called more uniformed officers and an ambulance. The paramedics never bothered to open their first aid kits, but summoned the coroner and the homicide squad. Following hot on their heels came the reporters.
       By two a.m. a variety of investigators had set up bright lights in the parlor and entrance hall. At two-thirty Mark had opened the case of the grandfather clock and stopped its pendulum. "Thank you," Jenny told him, the first words she'd uttered to him since her weary "Right" just before he'd called the police.
       A little after four, two morgue attendants had trundled away a sheet-draped form. Mark and Jenny had watched from the kitchen door, clutching cups of coffee that tasted like a high-school chemistry experiment and leaning studiedly away from each other. Graymalkin remained under the bed.
       Beside the window Mark straightened and sandpapered his fingertips on his unshaven cheeks. Last night his desires had been bewilderingly complex. Now they'd been pared to the minimum. He wanted a toothbrush, soap and hot water, and clean clothes. He wanted to wake up from this nightmare, but it went on and on.
       Footsteps sounded behind him. A police officer stood at the top of the stairs. "Detective Zapata would like to talk to you, Sir."
       "Yeah." Mark shut the window and allowed the officer to herd him through the study, along the hallway, down the back stairs, and into the kitchen. The room was bleak, stuffy with stale Chinese food and the acrid reek of carbonized wood. Every knife, from small parers to huge carving blades, lay along the counter, glittering like shark's teeth.
       A couple of investigators were working over the bed in Jenny's bedroom, damn them. Or damn the killer, rather. To expose that delightful hour to public scrutiny was like putting Hilary's Giotto in a plastic frame.... _Oh God. Hilary._ She'd liked Nathan, Mark thought. She'd liked me, too.
       Rosalind Zapata was sitting at the table, inspecting a printout. Her glossy black hair was pulled back into a bun, not severely but loosely enough to leave a flattering fullness around her face. The ruffles of her blouse peeked less firtatiously than defiantly from beneath a sober navy suit. Even her features were a compromise, an intellectual forehead over eyes as satiny brown as a greeting card child's, softly curved cheeks and chin surrounding a mouth held so steady it was a straight line. The toes of her no-nonsense shoes barely touched the floor.
       The first officers on the scene had asked Mark and Jenny a few basic questions: Who were they? Did they know the dead man? As soon as Zapata arrived, she'd asked for their names, addresses, and occupations, and verbally put them in a holding cell until later. Despite her diminutive size -- or perhaps because of it -- her firm voice and compact gestures left no doubt that she was In Charge here.
       Jenny sat opposite the detective, her elbows planted on the table, her head sunk into her hands. Mark pulled out the chair next to her and lowered himself into it. The door opened and admitted Zapata's partner, Frank Yeager. His face was reddened by the cold, his blond hair ruffled by the breeze. A big man with the narrow blue eyes and heavy jaw of an Aryan recruiting poster, he looked like Preston Baker's negative image.
       What a pair, Mark thought with a covert glance from Zapata to Yeager and back. Whoever assigned teams downtown had not only an eye for balance but also a sense of humor -- unless their pairing was due to simple alphabetical proximity. Zapata was perhaps a year or two older, but neither could be much over thirty.
       "Have you notified the owners?" asked Zapata.
       "I finally raised some Foundation flunkey," Yeager replied. "He said since nothing was stolen he'd call Mrs. Coburg when it gets to be a more reasonable hour."
       "Oh no, we mustn't wake Mrs. Coburg up just because someone was murdered in her parlor."
       Mark would've applauded the detective's sarcasm if he hadn't been much too tired to care. Nathan had sat in this very chair, his glasses gleaming with goodwill. Something small, cold, and hard plunked in the pit of Mark's stomach, and he clenched his jaw until the muscle crawled in his cheek.
       Yeager pulled out his notebook and sat down at the end of the table. "They're still picking up all those pictures in the parlor. Do you want them? And what about that sweater?"
       "Run everything through forensics," Zapata told him. "I want every print on those photographs identified. I want to know who that sweater belongs to and how it got here."
       The men from the bedroom carried their attache cases toward the front of the house. A little gray face peered around the door frame, ears crestfallen, whiskers quivering.
       Zapata told Jenny, "There's a British consulate in Dallas, if you'd like to contact them. We can appoint a lawyer for you."
       "Are you making an accusation?" Jenny asked.
       "No. But don't leave town."
       An edge to Zapata's voice made Mark visualize her rolling siege engines up to Jenny's raised drawbridge. But Jenny didn't have anything to hide -- only a prude would accuse her even of sexual indiscretion. She couldn't be a suspect. Zapata was taking the precaution of questioning them separately and she'd see that their stories dovetailed. Jenny's private nature simply wouldn't admit that self-revelation defused suspicion.
       She said, "I have work to do here. I won't be leaving. Now, if you don't mind...."
       "Go right ahead," Zapata returned.
       Jenny went over to the cabinet, pulled out a box of cat food and a dish, and went into the bedroom. The door shut.
       "Mark Owen," said Zapata, turning to a fresh page in her book.
       "Yes." He wriggled uncomfortably. _Here we go again, the official equivalent of drop your pants and bend over._
       "You gave your address as Moss Street. Why were you here last night?"
       Her expression was unblemished by editorial comment. Just the facts, sir. He sighed. "I've spent several evenings here since the dig started."
       "Alone with Dr. Galliard?"
       "Last night was the first time we'd been alone."
       "And you were with her in the bedroom at the time of the murder?"
       Yeager managed to turn his snicker into a cough.
       Mark would've expected a little more sympathy from a man. "I can't tell you that. I don't know the time of the murder."
       "Mr. Sikora was last seen alive a little before nine, when he left Temple Ahavoth Shalom. The preliminary report from the medical examiner says that he'd probably been dead no longer than three hours and no less than one when you found him at twelve-thirty. Of course, it was very cold in the front part of the house. He might have died even later."
       Mark thought of Nathan lying there, death slowly freezing his limbs. He thought of the killer standing in the upstairs hallway as he and Jenny blundered through the darkness. "How did he die?"
       "Very quickly," Zapata said, with the first hint of emotion Mark had seen in her. "His throat was cut. From behind, maybe, but the M.E. isn't sure yet. He might never have known what was happening. The mutilation -- partial disembowelment -- came afterward."
       "Not during a struggle?"
       "No. The blood was pooled beneath his body."
       That was little consolation. Someone had not only killed but deliberately mutilated one of the most inoffensive people Mark had ever met. Someone was not only warped, his or her logic skewed from reality, but also sickeningly malicious. And while it would be comforting to assume that that someone was in Texarkana by now, Mark wasn't about to assume anything simply to make himself feel better.
       He tried to focus. "So Nathan was killed between nine-thirty and eleven-thirty. But he must've stopped off at home to change clothes before he came here -- he wouldn't go to services in a rugby shirt and running shoes."
       "He lives -- lived -- with his father in Ridglea," said Yeager, flipping pages in his notebook. "He could've gone by there, changed, and arrived here about nine-thirty."
       "Only to be killed as he walked into the house?" Mark asked. "He had to have time to pick up those photos. From the study, I guess."
       "Dr. Galliard told us he'd been collecting the papers in the study the last two nights," Zapata said. "Mrs. Coburg gave him the go-ahead on a biography of her husband. He told Dr. Galliard she'd lined up a publisher, Excelsior Press."
       "Hilary -- my friend who works in the Lloyd..." There, he'd managed to say her name without looking like a rabbit caught in the sights of a shotgun. "...told us Wednesday about the biography, but I didn't know the name of the publisher. Excelsior, huh? Odd -- that's a vanity press, where the author pays to have his book published instead of the other way around."
       "Why is that odd?"
       "I wouldn't have thought a -- well, penny-wise -- lady like Mrs. Coburg would do a deal like that. Surely a biography of a prominent figure like Arthur could get a good deal from a real publisher."
       "We'll ask her," said Yeager and wrote in his notebook. He added, apparently reading something from Jenny's interview, "Hilary Chase. Assistant curator under Sikora. Out of town, due to return today."
       "She'll probably leave Indianapolis as early as possible," Mark told them, "but I don't know what specific time to expect her here."
       Yeager nodded and made another note.
       Hilary's name evaporated into the chill air without either detective using it to beat him about the head and shoulders. Not that Mark regretted the hour with Jenny -- he couldn't possibly regret anything that sublime. What he rued was the insult it would add to Hilary's injuries. He didn't even want to consider what the news of Nathan's death would do to her.
       "Did Mr. Sikora have a key to the house?" Zapata asked.
       "He must have -- he got in."
       "Then the murderer took the key away. The only ones in Sikora's pockets were his own. His car is still in the driveway."
       "We didn't let him in," Mark said. "We didn't know he was here."
       "Would you have heard him come in the front door?"
       "No. The wind was howling, the sleet was falling, and we wouldn't have heard the Fightin' Texas Aggie Band come in the front door."
       "Would you have heard him if he'd come in the kitchen door?"
       "If we were in the bedroom when Nathan arrived, he could've let himself in this way, and we wouldn't have heard him." He might have heard us, Mark added to himself. But with the windows dark, Nathan probably thought Jenny had either turned in early or left for the evening, so he went to the front.... His thought veered. "My van was in the garage with Jenny's car. Nathan wouldn't have known for sure that anyone was here at all."
       "So you planned on spending the night?" asked Yeager.
       "No. It was fixing to rain and maybe sleet. I didn't want to have to clean off my windshield when I left."
       Zapata shot a part warning, part amused glance at her partner. He looked blandly back.
       Her eyes moved to Mark's chest. Yesterday when he'd put on his sweatshirt inscribed, "Warning: Contents under Pressure", he hadn't realized how accurate a label it was. Zapata presumably decided he wasn't going to detonate on the spot. "When did you and Dr. Galliard go into the bedroom?"
       Again Mark sighed. Relativity. "Maybe about nine-thirty. I didn't look at the clock until after -- until ten-thirty."
       "Was Dr. Galliard out of your sight at any time between ten-thirty and twelve-thirty?"
       Mark's jaw twinged. "No."
       "Not even to visit the bathroom?" Again the blade of sarcasm glinted briefly beneath Zapata's voice.
       "Oh. Yeah. She went into the bathroom about ten-thirty."
       "For how long?"
       He'd looked at the clock and at the photograph of Jenny and her mother, and he'd thought about the weather. He'd been dozing when she'd returned to the bed, her skin cold as marble.
       Zapata's dark eyes and Yeager's pale ones were fixed on him from either side. Mark felt like a medieval prisoner confronted with the spiked jaws of an Iron Maiden. "I don't know. A very short time, maybe five minutes."
       "Which is it?" asked Yeager. "I don't know, or five minutes?"
       "As short a time as possible," Mark replied testily. "It was cold, and she wasn't wearing anything."
       "I saw a TV movie about Lizzie Borden," Yeager mused aloud. "Said Lizzie was nude when she axed her parents. That's why they never found any bloodstains on her clothing."
       "They never found any bloodstains because they didn't have modern testing methods," Zapata told him.
       Mark scowled. "You think Jenny ran to the front of the house, killed Nathan, and ran back again? You think she set me up as an alibi? Give me a break -- she wouldn't have any more reason to kill Nathan than I would."
       "All this is just formality," murmured Zapata. She looked at her printout. Yeager gazed into the middle distance. Mark forced himself not to jump out of the chair and pace up and down the floor.
       The detectives had no doubt asked Jenny if she'd been with him the entire time. He and Jenny alibied each other. Unless the police thought it possible they had both killed Nathan, or that one of them was lying for some other reason, or.... Or nothing. This was absurd, a nightmare of distorted images and events wrenched out of order. He glanced at his watch. It was ten to nine. He would've testified under oath it was half past Armageddon.
       "Who besides Dr. Galliard has keys to the house?" Zapata asked.
       "Any or all of the Coburgs," answered Mark. "The workmen, maybe. It's an old house. There could be keys all over town."
       "The door connecting the kitchen to the front of the house was locked the entire evening?"
       "Jenny unlocked it at 12:30, after the cat woke us up."
       "Do you know anyone who might want to kill Mr. Sikora?"
       Jealous possessiveness was no longer considered the excuse it had once been, but it was still a motive. Mark crouched defensively -- tattling was not his favorite activity -- and said, "Hilary told me she'd seen Nathan and Sharon Ward kissing each other. Travis Ward has a six-inch-long clasp knife. I borrowed it for a few minutes last week. The first time I met Sharon she was wearing a pink sweater." Now that he'd articulated the suspicion it sounded ridiculous. Travis was a lout, but.... No, Mark could see Travis killing someone before he could see Jenny doing it.
       Yeager's sandy brows shot up his forehead. Zapata's dark brows puckered in a frown, and she scrawled a brisk note. Neither detective seemed horrified by the thought of a Coburg or a Coburg satellite being the murderer. In fact, Yeager said with relish, "Dr. Galliard was telling us about a folder of Jack the Ripper material she found in the attic."
       Mark explained about the manila folder contained within the shiny blue and silver portfolio, concluding, "Nathan took it away last weekend. I don't know whether he decided on his own not to tell the Coburgs about it, or whether one of them told him to cease and desist. Hilary's the one he talked to. You'll have to ask her." He rubbed his jaw. There, he'd thrown her to the wolves. Protecting her would make everything worse.
       A police officer glanced inside. "There's a guy from the excavation out here, wants to make sure we keep the reporters from trampling the trenches."
       "Preston Baker?" Mark called.
       "Yeah, that's him. And there's a woman with him, Leslie something."
       "She's a security guard at the Lloyd," Mark told Zapata. "Jenny and I would appreciate it if you'd let them keep an eye on things. The last thing we need is problems with the dig." He remembered what he'd told Preston about guillotines the first day of the dig, and smothered a groan. This was going to look great on his resume.
       Zapata said over her shoulder, "Tell them to stick around, I'd like to talk to them, too." The officer vanished. Zapata turned back to Mark. "Do you think this murder has anything to do with Felicia Coburg's death in 1975? Not to mention the murder-suicide in 1912."
       Yeah, Mark thought, the house is cursed. Aloud he said, "No one knows why Felicia died or who killed her. I suppose the same person could've killed Nathan, but the only connection I can see is the house."
       "Like the way cattle trucks keep turning over on the mixmaster downtown, one particular combination of speed and gravity happening again and again?" She tapped her pen against her white, even teeth. "Something in the house -- although fifteen years is a long time to wait for -- ah, hell. Frank, I want to see all the files on the Felicia Coburg case."
       "That's a long shot," he muttered.
       "I never said it wasn't," she retorted with a smile that looked like the one in the limerick, not on the lady's face but on that of the tiger.
       One of the investigators pushed through the kitchen door and started bundling the set of kitchen knives -- not that any of them was likely to be the murder weapon. Edward Coburg had used a razor to kill his wife and then himself. Felicia's assailant had utilized an edged weapon of some kind, which had never been found. Some theorists thought that Jack the Ripper, appropriately enough, had employed a long autopsy knife. Whether Travis's clasp knife was a likely candidate this time around was up to the forensics specialists, the psychologists, and God himself.
       Mark fished in his pocket and produced his Swiss Army knife. "Here. You might as well check this one out while you're at it. You'll probably find British fingerprint dust still on it."
       Yeager picked up the knife. "What do you mean?"
       Mark filled in the two detectives and the investigator on the Rudesburn case, both to insure they couldn't accuse him of hiding anything and to set them a good example to follow.
       They wrote it all down. At last Yeager said, "They sent an entire team to handle just one case? Must be nice to have such a big payroll."
       "Must be nice to have so few murders," Zapata corrected and turned to Mark. "This case will be the headliner of the month, I'm sure. But it's not the only case we have. If there's anything else you'd like to add, anything at all that can help us...." She paused expectantly. Yeager gnawed at a fingernail. The investigator carried away the knives.
       The Rudesburn murder had been sudden and shocking. Mark felt as if he'd been expecting this one. The house had fooled him with its initial passivity. Now it had betrayed him -- and with perfectly sadistic timing.
       The pain in his jaw radiated outward like the shock waves of an earthquake. His entire head throbbed and the room fuzzed out at the edges. He tried to think -- the means was all too dreadfully apparent, the motive unknown, opportunity wide open. Poor Nathan, just a statistic, another job for already overworked detectives. "The longer a case goes unsolved, the better the chance it'll never be solved. And someone gets away with Nathan's murder like someone got away with murdering Felicia. There's no justice, is there?"
       "We'll do our best," Yeager said stiffly. Zapata's look was almost amused, as if she agreed with Mark.
       "Sorry," he said. "Are you going to give Jenny and me lie detector tests?"
       "If we think it necessary," said Zapata. "Don't..."
       Her "leave town" hung in the air unsaid as the patrol officer opened the door again. "Woman named Lucia Hernandez wants to talk to you," he said to Mark.
       "She's the dinner date we all had tonight," Mark explained. "Nathan was going to interview her for the biography. She used to work here; she found Felicia's body."
       He added to himself, Maybe Gilbert killed Nathan for his share of the food. Maybe Nathan's rabbi killed him for planning to eat non-kosher tamales. Maybe little Colleen did him in for a science fair project. Maybe, maybe, maybe....
       Zapata's dark eyes sparked. "Send her in."
       Lucia was already brushing the policeman out of her way. "Ay, Mark, there you are! I heard the news on the radio and went out to tell you, and you weren't there! I thought maybe you were the victim!"
       "It was Nathan Sikora," Mark said.
       "Ay!" Lucia pulled out a chair and sat down. "Who did it? Why? What's going on with this house?"
       Zapata cleared her throat. "Mrs. Hernandez, I'm Detective Rosalind Zapata, and this is Detective Sergeant Frank Yeager. May we ask you some questions?"
       "Let me tell you, this house has had something wrong with it ever since Arthur's father killed his mother back in 1912. I know Arthur loved the place, but he hardly lived here until the sixties. That was when Dolores -- you know her, all fur coat and no knickers -- staged her coup."
       Yeager started writing furiously. Zapata's eyes glazed. The officer at the door admitted Preston. "Mark, Mrs. Coburg is here," he said, then ducked back out.
       Speak of the devil. Mark didn't wait for permission -- he slipped away from the table and knocked on the bedroom door. "Jenny? I'm sorry, but Dolores is here."
       The door opened immediately, as if Jenny had been listening at the keyhole. She couldn't have been there the entire time, though -- her hair was damp, and she was dressed in a clean blouse and pants. Her eyes were so bruised, her mouth so pinched, that Mark wondered if she'd been crying. He wasn't far from tears himself. Beyond her shoulder Graymalkin was a fur stole sprawled across the tidily made bed.
       "It's a proper cock-up and no mistake," Jenny said.
       Mark had always had a hard time keeping a straight face at that particular bit of British slang. Jenny's use of it almost unnerved him. He suppressed a gurgle of hysterical laughter. "Yeah. It sure is."
       From the table came Lucia's musical voice. "My son came running in to say the old carriage house was on fire. It was a windy night, and we thought Osborne itself was gone. Since Dolores and the children were out of town, and Arthur was at a meeting, I let myself in with my own key to try and save some of the papers and pictures. And there in the front parlor was Felicia, lit up by the orange light of the fire, holding a rose in one hand and her intestines in the other. _Madre de Dios,_ I'll never forget that moment if I live to be a hundred and twenty."
       Mark had heard that story before, but only now did he fully realize how Lucia must have felt. How she probably still felt, with Felicia's murder not so much unavenged as unexplained. "You didn't tell them about seeing the ghost, did you?" he asked Jenny in a low voice.
       "They doubt my morals already. I don't want them doubting my sanity." She shook her head. "Mark, I've always made it a policy not to get involved with dig personnel. Professional colleagues," she amended quickly, as though he would object to her reminding of him of his inferior status. "I'm sorry I put you in a compromising position, with the police and with Hilary. And I know Nathan didn't die because we had it off, but I can't help but feel...." She turned away and made a show of smoothing the covers of the bed. Graymalkin opened a baleful eye and closed it again.
       Surely, Mark thought, the medieval concept of the evil eye was started by people who owned cats. "Just as long as you're not sorry about everything."
       "No, not everything." She offered him a quick smile. He smiled back. Lucia was saying, "When Dolores came back and found out about the murder, she started spitting nails. How dare Felicia come into her house while she was gone? How could her children be safe in the house any longer?"
       Jenny strode across the floor and out the back door. Mark followed, inhaling deeply of air so crisp it tingled like club soda.
       Dolores Coburg was no doubt in the midst of that feeding frenzy of mini cameras by the driveway; Mark could just see her blond head and the shining silver one of Vasarian. He wondered idly if Dolores had also found herself involved with a professional colleague last night. If so, they would both have alibis, too. What they didn't have was a reason to kill Nathan.
       Jenny greeted Preston and Leslie and inspected the plastic covering the trenches. If not for himself, Mark thought, Jenny would have no alibi at all except her good character and complete lack of motive. He could hardly blame Zapata for wondering if Jenny had used him -- men had been known to think with their gonads. But Jenny's need for him had been as sincere as his need for her, wine, melancholy, and all. She couldn't possibly have used him; she couldn't possibly have returned to his embrace with blood on her hands.
       A couple of police officers extracted Dolores and Vasarian from the circle of lenses and hurried them toward the kitchen. Dolores's face was pale, perfectly composed, a mask not of cosmetics but of self-control. Her nostrils flared as though at an unpleasant smell, registering disapproval, whether of the reporters, the police, or of whoever had the bad taste to murder a man in her house, Mark couldn't say. She breezed by Jenny without acknowledgment and would've walked right over Mark if he hadn't skipped out of the way. Vasarian nodded to them both, graciously if hurriedly, impelled by Dolores's hand on his arm. His lips quirked in just enough of a grimace to excuse her rudeness and to deplore either the untimely death or its attendant circus.
       With a muttered oath, Jenny turned on her heel and followed them in the kitchen door. Mark realized the cameras were now turned in his direction. He rejected the urge to offer them an obscene gesture -- like the police, the reporters were only doing their jobs.
       He waved his gratitude to Preston and Leslie, who were prowling like lions up and down the control zone between the trenches, and headed back to the house. "Once more unto the breach," he muttered under his breath, and ducked the curious look of the policeman guarding the door.
       Mark was certain of only one thing; that hour in Jenny's bed last night, which he'd intended to be only a parenthesis in his life, had turned out to be an exclamation point.
--------
         *Chapter Twelve*
       For years Hilary had been expecting to see a newspaper headline reading, "Gary Chase Indicted For Stock and Securities Fraud." But what she saw in the newspaper wrack outside the airport baggage claim area was a headline that said: "Another Murder at Osborne House".
       Her knitting bag fell from her hands and the ball of yarn spun off across the floor. She fumbled with her purse and then with the rack. Unwieldy pages of newsprint slipped in her hands as she sped through the article. A redcap picked up her yarn, put it back in her bag, and handed both to her. Absently she thanked him.
       The story trailed off into inconsequentialities about the Coburg Foundation without ever naming the victim. "Pending notification of relatives" was the excuse. But it did say "he".
       Hilary seized her suitcase from the carousel and ran down the escalator. She found her car, screeched out of the parking lot in front of a bus and sped down the access road. A man had been murdered at Osborne House early this morning. Why should it be Mark? He'd no doubt been safely in his apartment, sleeping in that handsome brass bed, perhaps dreaming of her.
       Hilary negotiated the first interchange with a passing nod to the speed limit and accelerated past a vast landfill, birds wheeling overhead like vultures circling carrion. Gun shops, wedding chapels, warehouses, outlet stores, and shacks nestled beside the highway, the frayed skirts of the city awaiting the next politician who promised urban renewal. Ahead rose the glass towers of downtown Fort Worth, Oz rising from the prairie. Icy white patches, the remains of Mark's blue norther, slumped in the shade of overpasses and fences. Now the sun shone brightly in a crystalline blue sky, blunting the chill in the air. The schizophrenic weather would have seemed funny to Hilary, had her sense of humor not been withered.
       She took the exit for the Cultural Arts District, cursing the leisurely pace of the other cars, whose innocent Saturday morning drivers wended their way to golf courses and malls. There was the peaked roof of the Lloyd, York Boulevard, and the topmost turret of Osborne, its glass similar to the skyscrapers behind it. The house was under siege by squad cars displaying the blue and white logo of the Fort Worth police, and vans painted with the alpha-numeric designations of television and radio stations. Yellow tape marked "Crime Scene, Do Not Cross", hung between trees. An orange-vested officer waved her on by. Ignoring him, Hilary turned, bumped over the curb, and stopped next to Dolores's silver Cadillac.
       Several figures with mini-cameras and microphones looked around curiously. She slipped under the tape and ran toward the house. Someone shouted at her. The familiar faces of Preston and Leslie materialized from the sun-dappled shadow of the trees.
       "Mark," Hilary wheezed. "It's not him, is it?"
       A firm hand grasped her arm as she swayed. "Mark's all right," Preston assured her. "He's in the house."
       "It's Nathan," Leslie said. "Nathan's dead. I'm sorry, Hilary."
       For a moment her mind filled with static. Her knees sagged and the one steadying hand was joined by another. Of all the possibilities, Nathan's name was the last one she'd expected to hear. _Nathan -- oh, God, no._
       "Hey you," someone shouted. "You can't just come running in here."
       "She knows the victim, Officer," Preston said calmly. "The detectives'll be wanting to talk to her."
       Fainting wouldn't help, Hilary told herself. Neither would screaming. Clenching her teeth against both inclinations, she extracted herself from Preston's and Leslie's solicitous hands. "I guess I'd better go inside. Thanks."
       They indicated awkward sympathy. The policeman who'd run behind her waved her toward the officer guarding the kitchen door. She stepped into the dim, stale air of the house and blinked, momentarily blinded. The room was empty.
       Hilary slumped against the closest counter, a sob bursting from her chest, tears springing into her eyes. _Not Nathan -- not kind, good-natured, intelligent Nathan._
       The house had been waiting for another victim. She had sensed its dark expectation, its silence that of a bated breath, its shadows clotted like dried blood. Nathan hadn't been one of the Coburgs, but he'd said his life had been measured out by them. Now the Coburgs' house measured out his death.
       Someone was watching her. Hilary stiffened her spine and gulped down the threatening tears. Jenny stood next to the connecting door. Not surprising that her expression would be one Hilary had never before seen on her face, grimness around the mouth, grief around the eyes. "Hello, Hilary. We've been expecting you. Is your father recovering?"
       "Yeah, he's fine. Are you all right?"
       "Quite," Jenny replied. Her chin jerked toward her closed bedroom door. "Mark's in there. He asked if he could have a bath. I'll get the detectives, shall I?"
       Why would Mark take a bath here? Hilary wondered.
       The door beside her slammed open and Sharon Coburg walked inside. "What the hell is going on?" she demanded.
       Hilary avoided her scowl. "I just got here myself."
       Travis and Kenneth crowded into the doorway behind Sharon. Travis's features were set in something between bewilderment and petulance. Kenneth's large dark eyes and somber expression reminded Hilary of the portrait panels on Greco-Egyptian sarcophagi. Sharon's red face, almost matching her red hair, and her blazing eyes denoted anger, but Hilary interpreted her quivering lip to be less an expression of sorrow than of open fear. "Mother!" Sharon called. "Mother! Where are you?"
       Jenny looked back through the door. "This way."
       The younger generation of Coburgs swept by her. Voices echoed from the front of the house, culminating in an unfamiliar feminine one saying, "Frank, take them around and do the preliminaries." A dark-haired woman in a blue suit emerged with Jenny from the doorway, saw Hilary, and asked in the same voice, "You're Miss Chase?"
       "Yes, I am."
       "I'm Detective Rosalind Zapata. Have you spoken with anyone yet?"
       "Just Preston and Leslie outside, and Jenny."
       Zapata looked sharply up at Jenny. Jenny sidled back toward the front of the house. Zapata pulled a notebook from her shoulder bag and a chair from the table. "Sit down, please, Miss Chase. You're an assistant curator at the Lloyd?"
       "Yes. I worked for Nathan." Hilary sat down and tried to force a deep breath into her lungs. It snagged on an undissolved sob. "How did he die?"
       "His throat was cut."
       "Is that all?" she asked, hoping Nathan had been spared the indignities heaped upon Vicky and Felicia and the women in the Whitechapel portfolio.
       The detective's eyes were such a dark brown that Hilary could see her own unwavering reflection on their surface. "Are you sure you want to know?"
       "No, I don't guess I do. Just tell me when and where."
       "Mr. Owen and Dr. Galliard found his body in the parlor -- the same room where the other murders took place -- about 12:30 this morning."
       Jenny and Mark both? Hilary thought. So they'd had another gabfest in Osborne's kitchen, and she'd missed it. They owed her one. "I don't suppose you have any idea of who or why?" she asked.
       "Either a man or a woman could've crept up on him from behind," replied Zapata. "Perhaps the assailant was someone he knew and would therefore turn his back on. Perhaps someone hiding in the house. There were no signs of a struggle."
       Midnight at Osborne House. The darkness itself alive and menacing. A knife glittering. Hilary clenched her fists in her lap and focused. She knew the routine, question after question, the verbal death of a thousand cuts.
       "When did you last see Mr. Sikora?"
       "Wednesday afternoon, right before I left town. I had just gotten a call that my father had a heart attack in Indianapolis. So I flew home."
       "Did Mr. Sikora say or do anything that afternoon that could shed some light on his murder?"
       "He was very upset about something. What, I don't know. He said he had a lunch date with Sharon Ward, and he asked me not to tell anyone about the portfolio of Jack the Ripper material -- do you know about that?"
       "Yes, I do."
       "I thought maybe Sharon had warned him off, but I don't have any reason for that assumption."
       Zapata nodded, approving her caution.
       "Then Travis called while Nathan was gone. He said he was looking for Sharon. Not that Nathan and Sharon couldn't have lunch if they wanted to, I mean, they were both connected with the museum...." Hilary shook her head. "I didn't tell him they were together."
       "What do you know about their relationship?"
       "I saw them hugging and kissing the first day I was there."
       "Did they know you saw them?"
       "Oh, no. I just happened to look at one of the video monitors, and there they were. You could ask Leslie, she's been there longer than I have."
       "Leslie Underwood," said Zapata, referring to another page. "Security guard. She's outside now."
       "Yes." Hilary felt as though she were kicking dirt on Nathan's grave. She added, "But all I saw was just the one kiss. I thought maybe Nathan was going along with Sharon so the Coburgs would donate to the museum...." She stopped. That wasn't any better.
       "Was he still upset after lunch?"
       "Yes. Even more so, I thought. But I hardly talked to him then." Hilary remembered Nathan's cluttered desk. When she'd answered his phone she'd seen a letter from Felicia Coburg. Later the letter had been gone. She tried to describe to Zapata exactly what it had looked like.
       "The letter was written to Nathan's father?"
       "Another assumption, I'll admit, but a reasonable one."
       "And Felicia wanted him to get a ring back from Dolores."
       A door opened behind Hilary's back. Mark. She turned around.
       He hadn't eyed her with such intensity when he'd picked her up at the airport two weeks ago, after they hadn't seen each other for more than six months. His keen gray gaze studied and memorized every one of her features, as though she were a snowflake about to evaporate in his hand. He looked terrible, pale, unshaven, his eyes rimmed with red and his face creased like his sweatshirt.
       "How are you?" Hilary asked, sincerely meaning the standard greeting.
       "As well as can be expected. How are you?"
       "I'm glad to be back here, despite all of this." She tried a wan smile. Mark's answering smile was as wry as a pickle.
       Zapata cleared her throat. "If you'll excuse us, Mr. Owen...."
       "Certainly." He turned back into the bedroom.
       The detective pulled a Polaroid photograph from her notebook. "Do you recognize this, Miss Chase?"
       Hilary took the picture and considered it. A pink sweater was spread out against a dark, muddled background -- the carpet in the parlor, she realized. It was splotched with brown on one sleeve. "Nice sweater, hand-made. No, I don't recognize it."
       "Why handmade?"
       "It's a really intricate pattern. You'd set a knitting machine to repeat the pattern exactly, but this one varies." Hilary angled the photo toward Zapata, her fingertip moving from one row of stitches to the next. "See, this side has a simple cable, but over here it's a corded cable. There's seed stitch on the one side and garter stitch on the other. You don't happen to have a photo of the back of the sweater, do you?"
       Zapata smiled. "My aunts were always trying to give me sewing and crocheting lessons, but I avoided them. Didn't want to be typecast as a girl, I guess."
       "I just do it as a hobby," Hilary returned.
       "No," Zapata went on, "I don't have a photo of the back, but I'll get one. The sweater itself has been bagged and labeled by now."
       "What does it have to do with Nathan?"
       "He was found holding it."
       Hilary slid down in the chair. Those brown blotches were Nathan's blood. "And you want to know who it belongs to."
       "Exactly. There were a lot of photographs scattered on the floor around him, as if he'd been holding those, too. We're still collecting them. I'll need to take your fingerprints. But Mr. Owen tells me this isn't the first murder you've been involved in."
       "No, it isn't, more's the pity."
       A large blond man herded various Coburgs, Nicholas Vasarian, Lucia Hernandez, and Jenny through the connecting door.
       "My partner, Frank Yeager," Zapata told Hilary. "Everyone else you know."
       Jenny dropped into the chair by the fireplace. Vasarian solemnly shook Hilary's hand. "Dreadful business. So sorry." Lucia patted her shoulder, sniffed, and opened the window above the sink. The Coburgs and Travis stood in a stiff row by the back door, all four faces expressing a desire to be in Acapulco, perhaps, or on the Riviera. Even Sharon's cosmetic-perfected features were now so inert that Hilary wondered if she'd imagined that anger and fear. If Sharon had felt anything for Nathan, she was hiding it well.
       Zapata rose to her feet. "Mrs. Coburg, please tell me about the ring that the first -- that Felicia Coburg wanted you to give her?"
       "What?"
       "Did Mr. Coburg ever give you a ring that had once belonged to Felicia?" Zapata asked. "Did she ever threaten to sue you to get it back?"
       "I don't know what you're talking about," said Dolores. "Arthur was much too considerate to give me secondhand jewelry. And what does that have to do with Nathan's death?"
       Cool, fresh air flowed through the open window, carrying the sounds of voices and engines. Lucia appeared to be looking outside, but her back was alert, responding to Dolores's innuendo with a la-di-da wriggle.
       "You gave Mr. Sikora the go-ahead on the biography," Zapata went on. "Why did you choose a vanity press to do it?"
       Dolores smiled an appropriately pained smile. "Nathan had never written anything commercial before. I didn't want his feelings to be hurt by rejections. If we published the book ourselves we could control the distribution and save ourselves the impertinences of formal reviews."
       So, thought Hilary, Dolores was willing to forgo publicity in order to have complete control of the material. Not that she couldn't hire a publicist once the book was written to her specifications. Hilary was encouraged to see that in the bright morning light the matriarch's cheeks and chin sagged slightly, subject to the same gravitational assault as everyone else's. No matter how hard she tried, Dolores couldn't control everything.
       "Have you seen this sweater before?" Zapata passed the photograph down the row.
       Everyone shook his or her head except for Lucia. "I haven't seen this particular sweater, no, but Felicia used to knit a lot. Pink was her favorite color -- like the roses, you see. She had a grouping of Archduke Charles and Old Blush bushes out by the garage."
       "That notepaper was pink," said Hilary from the table. "And the note said something about roses."
       Every eye in the room turned toward her. She felt like an insect caught in a magnified ray of sunlight, shriveling with the heat.
       Yeager read from his notebook. "Mrs. Coburg, Mr. Coburg, and Mrs. Ward were at a charity ball at the Worthington Hotel until past midnight. Mr. Ward was at the cutting horse preliminaries over at the Coliseum and then with friends at the Silver Dollar Saloon until three a.m. or so."
       That was a topless place, Hilary thought. Travis had the good grace to look embarrassed. Sharon didn't react.
       "Mr. Vasarian was at the Lloyd until ten, at which time he joined the charity ball. Mrs. Hernandez was home all evening, but her son was in and out -- might be worthwhile talking to him."
       Lucia shrugged, as if to say, Be my guest.
       "I'll go out and speak to Mr. Baker and Miss Underwood now," Yeager concluded, his inflection indicating a question. Zapata nodded, and he headed out the door.
       "Leslie?" said Kenneth. "What a little chocolate drop...." His mother shot him a squelching look. He squelched, staring down at his shiny Italian loafers. Hilary toyed with the image of Leslie practicing martial arts on Kenneth's tongue.
       "Really, Detective Zapata," Dolores said, "I firmly believe that all good citizens should cooperate with the police, but I don't see why we should have to account for our movements last night."
       "Just a formality," stated Zapata. "Would you please take your family home with you, Mrs. Coburg, so we can come by and ask you some questions later? And you, too, Mrs. Hernandez, you may go home now."
       Except for his quick embarrassment, Travis's wooden expression hadn't changed since he'd come in. Sharon seemed to be contracting to smaller than life size. Vasarian looked speculatively from face to face. Lucia turned to Hilary. "I'll give y'all a rain check on that dinner, okay?"
       "Thank you." Hilary wondered if she'd ever be able to eat again.
       "Good luck," Lucia told the two detectives and left.
       Dolores said to her offspring, "I'll have Pilar fix Eggs Benedict and espresso. Nicholas?"
       "Thank you," said Vasarian, "but I believe I'll stay on. Perhaps I can help the detectives identify some of those photographs. I'll ring for a taxi."
       Something sharp in his gaze caught Zapata's eye. The European manners, Hilary guessed. She wonders if he's putting her on.
       Dolores looked at Vasarian with what could've been called bewilderment, if she'd ever publicly admit bewilderment. "I'm sure Arthur's family will best be able to help with the photos, Detective Zapata, if you'll bring them with you to the house. Nicholas, I'll tell Pilar to keep a plate warm for you." She shot one last look at Jenny that Hilary couldn't decode; it was almost the look of a headmistress who'd caught one of her charges misbehaving.
       Dolores swept out the door, Hilary thinking for a moment she was going to tip the waiting policeman the way she would a doorman. Sharon followed, then Travis. Kenneth lingered, also eyeing Jenny with an expression that suggested he was both amused and vaguely offended. His gaze moved to Hilary. She felt as if they were all in on some practical joke and that she was going to be its victim.
       Kenneth made an almost mocking about-face and left. Jenny sat in the attitude of Rodin's "The Thinker". Zapata walked toward the front of the house, Vasarian in tow, calling to one of her investigators. Odd how quiet the house was even when full of people. Hilary slipped into the bedroom.
       Mark sat on the edge of the bed, stroking Graymalkin. The cat faced away from him, pretending indifference, even as she tilted her head back and forth to make sure he scratched her ears, too.
       "How are things at home?" he asked, glancing up at Hilary and then down again.
       "It's not home any more. I decided that much." She sat down beside him. He inched away from her. Puzzled, she continued with a few superficial statements about her trip. Now wasn't the time to show him her wounds. He was probably sick and tired of her wounds.
       Mark abandoned the cat and took Hilary's hand. Instead of warming it, his fingers seemed to be drawing heat from hers. Graymalkin looked jealously back over her shoulder.
       "And your parents' divorce?" he asked.
       "That seems to be on hold at the moment. My feelings about them are on hold, too, I think. And with Nathan being murdered, it all seems so petty."
       "It's not petty," Mark told her. "Hang in there, sweetness. You can do it."
       Do what? Hilary wanted to ask. Make peace with her family? That she could at last believe. Forgive Ben? She grimaced.
       But that wasn't important now. Mark looked like the character from Greek mythology who walked around beneath a sword suspended from a hair. "You and Jenny found Nathan? Pretty bad, huh?"
       "Terrible."
       "I wish I'd been here last night -- that must've been a heck of a Scrabble game to keep you and Jenny up until 12:30. I guess Zapata asked if you heard or saw anything in the front of the house."
       "There was a bad storm last night -- wind, rain, sleet. We didn't hear anything." Mark released her hand and stood up so abruptly the bed heaved.
       Hilary followed. She wanted to hug him. But he was protecting his own wounds now, and she had to respect that.
       The kitchen door opened and shut. Heels tapped across the hardwood floor. Yeager's voice said, "Miss Underwood wasn't at the museum last night. She says we need to talk to the security chief."
       "We need to check out Sikora's office," said Zapata. "I want the letter and the portfolio. We'll need to talk to his father, too. And get me the sports and society editors at the _Star-Telegram_. Surely someone was taking photos of that cutting-horse contest and the charity ball, both."
       Checking alibis, Hilary told herself. Good thing Mark and Jenny were able to give each other alibis -- not that either of them would dream of harming Nathan.
       Two more sets of footsteps drummed across the kitchen floor. "Here they are, Rosalind," said a male voice. A police investigator, Hilary supposed.
       Zapata said, "Dr. Galliard, this is the picture from your bedroom, of you as a child with your mother."
       Mark turned toward the bedside table. Hilary saw nothing there but a lamp and a clock, but he muttered cryptically, "I saw it lying on the floor in the parlor, but I didn't place her. What the hell?"
       "And this one," Zapata continued, "was lying with all the others beside Sikora's body. Mr. Vasarian recognized it earlier but didn't want to speak in front of Mrs. Coburg."
       Mystified, Hilary stepped forward so she could see into the kitchen. Jenny sat beside the fireplace, her face set, her eyes closed, as though willing herself back in England's green and pleasant land. In the doorway Vasarian stood at parade rest, his hands behind his back, his lips not quite concealing a smile. Zapata was turned three-quarters away from the table, to give Hilary a clear view of the two photographs she held.
       One was in a metal frame, a little girl -- Jenny, obviously -- and a blond woman with disciplined hair and plucked brows. The other was a studio portrait of the same woman, the gothic arch of her eyebrows unmistakable. But in this picture she was younger, her face higher and firmer, her expression less sober. Her hair was rolled back from her face in the style of the forties and she wore a military uniform.
       "Is this your mother?" Zapata asked, turning the picture toward Jenny.
       Jenny stood up and backed against the fireplace as if preparing herself for a firing squad. "Yes."
       Zapata read from the back of the picture. "Pamela Galliard. Munich. 1946."
       Mark joined Hilary in the doorway. The tension radiating from his body was like an electric field, making her own nerves shiver. Okay, she thought, Arthur was studying the Regensfeld artifacts by reading Pamela Galliard's work on the Cross. But that didn't explain why he had a picture of her taken forty years before she started writing the book she never finished. Or why Nathan was carrying that picture when he died.
       Vasarian purred, "It's time to stop playing games, Dr. Galliard."
       "I'm not playing games," retorted Jenny. "Are you?"
       Vasarian stood his ground. "I'd hoped for a private discussion, Jenny. But I'm afraid -- poor Nathan -- forced my hand." He turned to Zapata, who was up on her tiptoes, lips parted impatiently. "Pamela Galliard met Arthur Coburg at the Allied Art Collecting Point in 1946. In 1952 their liaison produced a daughter."
       Zapata spun around to Jenny. "You're Arthur Coburg's illegitimate daughter?"
       "Yes, I am," Jenny replied. And to Vasarian, "Judas."
       "Judas had his role to play," Vasarian told her.
       Hilary's mind tripped, fell, and smacked hard against the ground zero of perception. Why, she asked herself, should she have noticed the resemblance between Jenny and the portrait of Arthur in the Lloyd, the crisp dark hair and the intelligent brow, the ambitious chin and the sardonic mouth? During the reception, Jenny had shied away from Vasarian as though shaking his hand would be like touching a red-hot iron. That was before Nathan had told her Vasarian was asking about Pamela; Jenny must have suspected then what he knew. Did Nathan figure it all out last night? If he had, so what?
       Hilary glanced around at Mark. His stunned expression made his face look like that of the mouse Graymalkin had presented to Jenny last week.
       "I can see why you wanted to wait until Mrs. Coburg was gone," Zapata said to Vasarian. "Now, what's this about an artifact?"
       From behind his back Vasarian produced a small wooden crate about the size of a shoebox. He strolled across the room and with the bow of a duelist to his second, presented the crate to Zapata. "I took the liberty of replacing the artifact in its packing material. A jacket pocket is hardly an appropriate place for such a valuable item."
       "Sikora's jacket pocket," explained the investigator. "We found the crate standing open and empty in the study."
       Jenny's eyes widened, then narrowed. Her teeth gleamed between her pale lips.
       Zapata opened the box, Yeager breathing over one shoulder, Hilary oozing forward to look over the other. In a polyurethane form reposed a six inch long figurine of Christ.
       The words spilled involuntarily from Hilary's lips. "Ivory. Style of the twelfth century. English. Judging from the extended arms, the crossed feet, the sagging head, it's the figure from a crucifix. And not just any crucifix. The Eleanor Cross."
       "I thought as much," Vasarian said.
       Hilary heard the screeching of tires in a traffic circle in Waltham Cross. She stepped back against the brick wall of Mark's chest. Jenny's expression wavered between relief and rueful amusement. Go on, she seemed to say.
       "It's the one missing artifact from the Regensfeld collection," Hilary finished. "Pamela was writing a book about it when she died."
       Yeager's mouth fell open. Zapata pursed her lips in a silent whistle and inspected the label on the box. "It's addressed to you, Dr. Galliard. Postmarked London, United Kingdom, three weeks ago."
       "Arthur sent himself the other artifacts from Regensfeld." Hilary tried not to look at Jenny. She liked Jenny. She also liked honesty.
       "A convenient way of circumventing the questions of customs agents," Vasarian added.
       Behind Hilary's back Mark was swearing under his breath like a teakettle letting off steam. Hilary herself could think of no more words. Even articulating a simple "Why?" took more energy than she could summon.
       "All right, Dr. Galliard," said Zapata. "It's time to tell us about it. Mr. Vasarian, Miss Chase, if you could serve as expert witnesses, please."
       Lifting each foot as though it were mired in asphalt, Hilary walked over to the table and collapsed into a chair.
--------
         *Chapter Thirteen*
       Mark drained his entire profane vocabulary and stood sputtering. He'd had so little sleep, he told himself, and his nerves had been scraped so thin, that he must be hallucinating. People changed their roles, masks fell away, the kitchen itself pulsed as gently around him as Jenny had pulsed in his arms. She hadn't used him. She couldn't possibly have used him. Give her a chance to explain. Eventually this would make sense. It had to.
       With a pained, apologetic look at Mark, Jenny walked across to the table and sat down. She folded her hands in her lap and fixed her eyes on the empty wine bottle by the sink, as though clinging to the one element of the last twenty-four hours that was pleasurable. A block of sun stretched from the east window behind her but left her in darkness.
       "Why didn't you tell us who you are?" Yeager demanded. "Why didn't you tell us you had the figurine?"
       "I didn't know it was relevant, did I? I didn't know poor Nathan knew anything. Now I do. And I won't let Vasarian here blackmail me for it."
       "Blackmail?" Vasarian murmured. "My dear woman, if I had wanted to blackmail you, I'd hardly have confided in the constabulary, would I?"
       Jenny didn't respond. Zapata's acerbic eye moved from Yeager to Jenny to Vasarian and back again, but she made no comment. She covered the wooden crate and set it on the counter, out of range of any random shots.
       Hilary sat gingerly on the edge of her chair, her back turned to Mark. It was poetic justice, he supposed, that it was her hand helping to pull the rug out from beneath Jenny. Not that Hilary realized the justice of it, not yet. He had to tell her before someone else did. The situation was already far enough out of his control.
       Mark backpedaled to the wall beside the bedroom door, sure that if he tried to sit at the table Zapata would order him away. The detective sat down across from Jenny -- Hilary and Vasarian at her right, Yeager at her left -- like a judge taking her seat on a tribunal. "I've read about the Regensfeld artifacts, of course, but you'd better fill me in on the details."
       She spoke not to Vasarian but to Hilary. Hilary's brows rose, her sense of propriety violated, but she managed to give a relatively coherent recital about the artifacts and their significance. "If the Eleanor Cross were included, the overall value of the set would be astronomical. The whole would be worth more than the sum of its parts, as Nathan said."
       "Nathan," repeated Zapata.
       "The seven sacraments," Yeager said, busily writing in his notebook. "I'm a Southern Baptist boy, Miss Chase, if you'd explain...."
       "I'll fill you in later," Zapata told him.
       Hilary added with scholarly caution, "We're assuming, of course, that that ivory figure is genuine. An age test would be nondestructive."
       "The figure belongs to Regensfeld," Zapata told her. "Mr. Vasarian, if we need to check with Germany before any tests...."
       Vasarian murmured something courteous and cooperative. Yeager pointed out, "It's police evidence now." Jenny eyed the wooden crate like a medieval worshipper eyeing a holy relic.
       "Now, Mr. Vasarian," said Zapata, "please continue with your story of Pamela and Arthur and the Allied Art Collecting Point in Munich."
       "Dolores has asked me very few questions about just how I traced the Regensfeld artifacts to Arthur," said Vasarian. "I think she suspects that her husband's adventures in post-War Germany were considerably edited. And his story would've remained edited if the Iron Curtain had not come down. I do not believe that Dolores knows about Pamela Galliard, and therefore about Jenny."
       Jenny winced, perhaps at the prospect of claiming Ken and Sharon as relatives. There was an interesting argument in nature vs. nurture, Mark thought.
       Vasarian steepled his long, elegant hands on the table before him. "I started by tracing the last living custodian of the treasure room at the Regensfeld Kirche. I found him in a hospital ward in Leipzig, dying of tuberculosis. He told me that the artifacts -- all seven of them -- had been looted by one of Reichsmarshal Hermann Goering's minions in 1943. In other words, they were not even in Regensfeld in 1946, when Arthur was supposedly rescuing them."
       Mark watched, fascinated. Vasarian's hands resembled those of a priest making ritual gestures.
       "So then I traced Goering's collections. Many of the artifacts ended up at the Collecting Point -- including the Van Meegeren forgery which is now hanging in the Lloyd. It's ironic that Van Meegeren could only defend himself against charges of collaborating with the Nazis by proving that the Vermeers he had been selling were fakes he had painted himself."
       No one so much as blinked.
       "People from many different nations worked at the Collecting Point. I interviewed as many of them as I could, asking questions in particular about Arthur Coburg. I discovered that he had had a special friend among the young ladies who catalogued the recovered artwork -- an English historian named Pamela Galliard. They were very discreet, and only two of the people I interviewed knew for certain what their relationship was. But that was enough to set me searching for Pamela. I discovered that she died in 1988 -- the same year Arthur died, coincidentally. But I also discovered that whilst she had never married, she had a daughter. Half the people in the Wiltshire town where the Galliards lived recognized a photograph of Arthur and agreed that he had visited there frequently during the 1950's."
       "Until 1960," said Jenny. "Always when I was away, with friends or relatives and later at school. When I said I'd never met Arthur I was telling the truth. I didn't know he was my father until the year my parents both died."
       Jenny had told Mark when they first met that her name was short for Guinevere, and how she wished her parents had been more imaginative. He eyed her glacial profile, gauging the depth of the ice beneath which she concealed the nature he now knew to be highly passionate. The palms of his hands were sweaty against the paint and plaster of the wall. A door slammed in the front of the house. Electronically amplified voices echoed from outside.
       "And Pamela catalogued the Regensfeld artifacts?" Zapata rearranged the two photographs on the table before her. Pamela's even features peered into infinity, beyond any earthly summons.
       "Not according to the surviving records," Vasarian replied. "In fact, there are no records of the artifacts ever having been in Munich at all. That, like Sherlock Holmes's dog that didn't bark in the night, is what interested me. Because at least two veterans of the Collecting Point told me -- independently of each other, mind you -- that they had seen Pamela inspecting a Giotto 'Last Supper', and a carved boxwood misericord. The bracket beneath a hinged chair seat in a church choir," he explained in response to Zapata's and Yeager's raised brows, "upon which the priest or other celebrant can lean during a long service. Hence the root in the Latin word for 'mercy'."
       "There could be more than one misericord," said Hilary, "but I'm not so sure about the Giotto."
       "Exactly." Vasarian agreed. Mark decided that the man resembled Cardinal Richelieu sitting behind the throne of France, solemn and smug.
       "You think Pamela and Arthur stole the artifacts from the Collecting Point?" Zapata asked.
       "I certainly do. That makes much more sense than Arthur somehow stumbling over them and liberating them, doesn't it?"
       "I've always wondered why he didn't turn the artifacts over to the Commission," murmured Hilary.
       Jenny sat with her hands folded in her lap; Mark, from his vantage point, could see her knuckles white with strain. But her face was very still, like a drowning victim pulled more dead than alive from deep, cold water. "He didn't turn the artifacts over to the Commission," she said, "because he wanted them for himself. He'd been collecting and dealing in objets d'art all his life. He valued the Regensfeld items for their workmanship and history rather than their intrinsic worth."
       "Are you sure about that?" Vasarian asked.
       "No, I'm not." A tremor moved through Jenny's jaw, the drowning victim sensing life and pain. "I'm repeating what my mother told me two years ago on her deathbed. I know she valued the artifacts for their history and meaning. Perhaps she was projecting her sentiments onto Arthur's more crass ones. Everyone is guilty of self-delusion from time to time."
       Amen, Mark said to himself.
       Two investigators stepped into the kitchen from the front of the house.
       "We're heading back downtown," one of them said to Zapata. "The reporters want a statement of some kind. Like the name of the victim."
       "Has the victim's father been contacted?" she replied.
       "Not our department, Rosalind."
       "Take all these people's fingerprints before you go."
       "Okay. Present hands, everyone."
       The men moved briskly through the group. Mark was last. He ducked into the bathroom as soon as the investigator returned his hand, but the ink would simply have to wear off. He came back to find Vasarian offering his handkerchief to Hilary. When Hilary passed it on to Jenny, she scrubbed so diligently that Mark wondered if she'd have any fingerprints left.
       The investigators hoisted their attache cases and evidence bags and trudged away, their progress across the lawn punctuated by the rise and fall of shouted questions and then the sound of an engine starting and tires squealing. So Nathan didn't even have a name any more. He was just "the victim". Mark's stomach gurgled with pain, rage, and bitter bile.
       "Pamela was trying to justify her and Arthur's theft of the artifacts from the Collecting Point," said Vasarian, picking up the narrative where Jenny had left it.
       "No telling what would've happened to the artifacts in Communist East Germany," Hilary interceded. "If the Commission had sent them back there, even to a museum.... Well, 'theft' might be too strong a word for something much more ambiguous."
       Vasarian's hands mimed a shrug. Jenny glanced in baffled gratitude at Hilary. Even if Hilary had known about his and Jenny's -- well, call it an indiscretion -- Mark believed she would still have given Pamela the benefit of the doubt.
       "We're not here to debate morality." Zapata tapped her pen on the table, gaveling her courtroom to order. Yeager looked more and more out of his depth, but he kept doggedly transcribing the interview into his notebook.
       "The figure was affixed to the Cross in the inventory of 1923," prompted Vasarian, with a nod at the crate and an inquiring look at Jenny.
       "It was affixed to the Cross in 1946," she replied. "Arthur -- you'll excuse me if I don't call him 'Father', as he was never one to me -- Arthur left my mother with the figure when he sent the artifacts back here to Fort Worth. Her share of the loot, you might say. Although I'd like to think it was a promise of affection, rather like a groom presenting his bride half a claddagh brooch and keeping the other half for himself."
       "You weren't a promise?" Hilary asked, and then flushed.
       "I didn't come along for six more years. That's a different story."
       "I'm listening," said Zapata.
       Jenny sighed. This had to be agonizing for her, thought Mark. By all accounts, the Duke of Wellington had also had a quintessential English stiff upper lip. "Arthur never married my mother. Because he was already married, to Felicia. What a scandal it would've been if he'd divorced her for a foreigner. What a scandal it was, in any event, when he divorced her for a local girl."
       "But you told us you didn't know who your father was," said Yeager.
       "I didn't know any of this was going on at the time, did I?" Jenny retorted. "My mother told me when she was dying."
       "Arthur was married to Felicia," prodded Zapata.
       "They were having problems. He was narked that she sold the property around Osborne in the late forties, whilst he was in China, I believe. He was unhappy that they had no children, although, unlike many men, he was willing to admit the problem might be his."
       Mark remembered that Napoleon had divorced Josephine because she had borne him no children, even though she had children by her first husband.
       "I am the product," Jenny continued, "of a blatant effort on my mother's part to get herself a wedding ring."
       "That's been known to work," said Yeager.
       Jenny's short laugh had little humor in it. "This time it backfired. Once Arthur realized the fertility problem wasn't his, he started looking for someone young, pliant, and socially acceptable. It took him a few years, but he found her. Or perhaps she found him."
       Mark couldn't picture Dolores ever being pliant. And yet, as a twenty-year-old setting her cap for the local celebrity, maybe she had been. He could see why Jenny disliked the second Mrs. Coburg, although he had to admit that her blaming Dolores was a prime example of her own wishful thinking. Dolores had never known about Pamela and Jenny. Or at least, Vasarian didn't think she did, and he had been right on the money so far.
       "I never met Arthur," Jenny said under her breath. "My mother wouldn't let him see me, since he took no responsibility for me."
       The telephone rang, and Yeager leaped up to answer it. "Osborne. Yeager." He listened attentively. Zapata slipped the two photographs of Pamela into plastic bags, Exhibits Y and Z. Vasarian considered the angle of his hands on the table. The block of sun subtracted itself across the floor.
       "Yes, yes, I see," said Yeager. "Yes, sir. Will do. Goodbye." He hung up and said to Zapata, "Chief Mound. He says to go ahead and give a statement to the reporters, but to bear in mind we're talking about Coburg property."
       "I get the message." Zapata replied. "Dr. Galliard, there is one question that may or may not be relevent to Mr. Sikora's death. Namely, where is the Eleanor Cross?"
       "I don't know," Jenny said. "Arthur told my mother he'd hidden it here at Osborne. That's why I brought the Christ. That's why I applied for this job to begin with."
       "To restore the Cross to the rest of the artifacts," Hilary said rather than asked.
       To pay your parents' debts, Mark almost said, remembering Jenny's words of last night. He and Hilary felt alienated from their families, but they were next-door neighbors of Ozzie and Harriet Nelson compared to Jenny. No wonder she had decided not to have children of her own.
       Jenny said, "I felt that I owed it to -- oh, let's be idealistic and say justice -- to put the Cross back together and return it to Regensfeld. Without demanding ransom."
       Vasarian coughed gently. Zapata's mouth moved quickly in and out of a lopsided smile. "You haven't found the Cross?" she asked.
       "No."
       "Would you have told anyone if you'd found it?"
       "No. I intended to do what had to be done and then go back home. I never had any intention of knocking on Dolores's door and claiming an inheritance, if that's what you mean."
       "Did you or your mother inherit anything when Arthur died?"
       "My mother died first, by a month," Jenny answered. "If he left me anything, no one sussed me out to tell me so."
       "You weren't working with Mr. Vasarian, Dr. Galliard?"
       Both Jenny and Vasarian looked indignant. She said, "Of course not" just as he said, "Not a bit of it."
       Zapata frowned, lips tucked in, pen tapping on her notebook. Mark could almost hear the circuits humming in her mind, trying to put together a case, trying to work out a campaign. She'd told the Coburgs to wait for her at their mansion, and it was almost noon. Would it be her job to tell them who Jenny was, or could she discreetly ignore that aspect?
       This wasn't even beginning to make sense. Mark wondered if Vasarian really had been intending to blackmail Jenny, perhaps threatening to expose her to Dolores unless she turned the Cross over to him. He'd have no compunctions about asking ransom for it. And what if the word got out that Jenny had had a secret agenda in taking this job; would it damage her reputation? Mark thought not, but that could well be his own wishful thinking. His reputation was similarly at risk.
       He rubbed his gray fingertips together, remembering Jenny's lips touching them. No wonder she had been so desperately passionate last night, like an unexploded bomb. That passion couldn't have extended to violence, he told himself, even as something slimy crawled from his stomach up his windpipe and back down.
       In his mind's ey he saw Nathan idly opening the wooden crate, then staring in appalled recognition at its contents. He saw him slipping the figure into his pocket.... Wait a minute. Why would he do that? The wooden crate sat innocuously on the counter. "Where was that crate with the figure before it was in the study?" Mark asked, his voice shattering the silence.
       Everyone started. Zapata looked up and around. "Another county heard from, Mr. Owen? But that's a good point. Dr. Galliard, I assume you weren't keeping that crate in the study, or Mr. Sikora would've found it long since."
       "It was in my bedroom cupboard," said Jenny. "I last saw it there yesterday -- no, today is Saturday -- I last saw it there Thursday morning. But it wasn't in the study Thursday evening. I was there with Nathan packing some old receipts and diaries."
       "I can't see Nathan -- Mr. Sikora -- searching your closet. It's almost as if someone put it in the study, hoping it would be found...." Zapata's voice trailed away into the realm of thought.
       First Jenny glanced sharply at Vasarian. He met her eye with such a defiant expression, almost a challenge, that Mark expected him to ask her to choose her weapon. Then Jenny looked more slowly from the connecting door to the door of her bedroom, giving Mark a full, if brief, view of her face. Her expression was the same it had been when she'd told him about seeing the Victorian ghost, and about sensing a presence in the house. Did she think Osborne had poltergeists that moved objects around? Great. Mark pressed his shoulders against the wall.
       "Do you know where Sikora found all the photographs he had with him that evening, including the one of your mother?" Zapata asked.
       "I daresay they were the last items in the desk," Jenny replied.
       "How thoroughly have you searched the house yourself?"
       "As thoroughly as I could without bashing open the wainscoting and peeling off the wallpaper. The Ripper material in the attic, some old books in the drawing room -- I gave Nathan a go at whatever I found."
       "Do you think the Cross is still here?" Hilary asked. "Arthur had plenty of opportunity in the last forty years to take it someplace else."
       "What about Felicia?" queried Yeager, his blue eyes flaring with a mental light bulb. "Do you suppose she knew it was here and took it? Maybe she knew about Pamela and Jenny."
       "Could be," Zapata told him, "but it'd be a little hard to call her as a witness."
       "That might be just the point," said Mark. "Maybe someone silenced Felicia before she could expose the theft of the Cross."
       "Could be," Zapata replied, rather more tartly than necessary. "But if someone had silenced Nathan for the same reason, why leave the figure in his pocket?"
       "Yeah." Mark subsided. He visualized the walls of the house shifting, expanding like balloons into the rooms to smother the inhabitants. Hilary glanced back at him. He offered her a wan smile. He suddenly remembered that Dolores hired Vasarian to look for the Cross. Did she know that it might have been under her nose all these years? But, he rationalized, if Vasarian didn't tell her about Jenny, then he didn't tell her about the Cross.
       Zapata slapped her notebook shut and focused on Jenny. "Why didn't you tell Dolores who you are?"
       Jenny laughed a laugh so dry it almost left dust eddying in the cold air. "Would she have hired me, her husband's by-blow? I think not."
       "Why hide the ivory figure?"
       "Because it's my own unfinished business, not Dolores's, not Vasarian's." She didn't add, "not yours", but the words were implicit.
       "Did Nathan know who you are?"
       "Not unless Vasarian told him."
       The art expert shook his head, indicating an offended negative.
       "Did you kill Nathan Sikora?" Zapata asked.
       "Why? To conceal the figure? To conceal my birth? Would I have left the figure in his pocket and my mother's photograph on the floor? Would Nathan wait obligingly in the parlor until I had a chance to run out and kill him? And where's the murder weapon? If I hardly had time to kill him, I wouldn't have had time to hide the knife so thoroughly you lot couldn't find it."
       Zapata didn't even begin to wither in Jenny's dry desert blast. She glanced around at Mark, regarding him with something between calculation and annoyance. It was his fault, that her prime suspect had an alibi. And even an imaginative woman like Zapata couldn't come up with any reason for Mark to have killed Nathan. Although, her look warned, that didn't mean she wasn't going to search for one.
       Jenny's lack of motive was no longer so complete, and her character wasn't quite as good as it had been. Mark went over and over last night's sequence of events, but still the wheels of doubt creaked slowly down ruts of memory. A sublime moment and then a nightmare he couldn't shake -- Nathan dead, Hilary hurt, images of peace and pleasure as smudged as his fingertips.
       "Check the FBI murderer profiles," Zapata told Yeager. "This killer might be the same one as in 1975, or he or she could be an imitator. I want a transcript of Arthur's trial that year. See if you can find any records -- coroner's report, anything -- on the 1912 deaths. Find me something on the Jack the Ripper murders. When were they?"
       "In 1888," said Jenny.
       Yeager stared at his partner, his expression saying, Give me a break.
       Zapata didn't look at him. She pulled out the photograph of the sweater and passed it around. Mark stared at the pattern, unable to discern the variations he'd overheard Hilary pointing out.
       "Nothing? Anyone have anything else to add?" No one did. Zapata tucked the sweater photograph and the two of Pamela into her notebook. She pushed her chair back from the table. "We have to be getting out to Casa Coburg. I'll bring the ivory figure to the museum on Monday, Miss Chase. If you'd like to be there, Mr. Vasarian, fine. None of you even think of leaving town."
       "You're not going to arrest me?" Jenny asked.
       "We only arrest for probable cause, when we have enough evidence to get an indictment and then a conviction."
       Jenny's brows quirked. "Very sporting of you."
       Yeager gathered up his notebook and stood, looking faintly worried. Who wouldn't, having to beard the Coburgs in their den, armed with only the limp whip and broken chair of official caution? But Zapata assumed what Mark recognized as her habitual stance, head up, shoulders back, straining upward to look taller. If she wore higher heels, she would be taller but would sacrifice efficiency. She licked her lips, seeming to savor the contest to come. She probably was the type who would consider working in a hospital emergency room exciting, not stressful, and would be darned good at it. Mark was suprised she didn't conclude the interview by slashing a "Z" in the tabletop.
       Zapata walked out the door with nothing more dramatic than a boldly inquisitive backward look. Yeager picked up the crate and followed. Voices rang out as they ran the gantlet of the reporters, only to be quelled by Zapata's businesslike tones.
       Vasarian went to the telephone and called himself a taxi. "Miss Chase, Dr. Galliard, Mr. Owen -- until we meet again," he said, walking away as though he were out for a stroll through Hyde Park.
       "I almost have to admire the man," Mark said. "He seems to be working both ends against the middle."
       "Letting Dolores hire him to find the Cross?" Hilary replied. "I'm not ready to trust him." She shot Jenny a troubled glance. "I'm sorry."
       "It's just as well all the balloons went up at once. Don't apologize."
       There was one balloon left to pop, Mark thought. Actions speak louder than words. He'd acted last night. Now he'd have to talk. Hilary, too, was passion compressed into a bomb.
       Hilary, unaware her fuse was burning, got to her feet. "Mark, my car's parked on the street. I'll drive you home."
       "Thanks. See you later," he said to Jenny, in the calmest, most casual tone he could muster.
       She nodded, eyes not quite focused, all passion spent.
       Mark escorted Hilary out the door, and they were quickly intercepted by Preston and Leslie. "Are you all right?"
       "We'll live," Hilary replied bravely.
       God, I hope so, Mark said to himself with no bravado at all.
       "I assume the police are trying to tie Nathan's murder in with Felicia's?" Leslie asked. "That's standard procedure."
       "Watch out," warned Preston. "She's studying for the police exam -- won't even wash the breakfast dishes without lifting fingerprints off them."
       Leslie elbowed him indignantly. "Was anything stolen from the house?"
       "Not that we could tell," Mark replied.
       "Do you think, then, that the murderer intended to kill Nathan?"
       "What do you mean?" asked Hilary.
       "I mean, did the killer accomplish what he or she wanted to accomplish, or will he...." A warning look from Preston stopped Leslie in mid-sentence.
       But Hilary was too quick. "Was Nathan's death just an accident, like Felicia being killed when she supposedly surprised a thief? If so, will the killer be back to finish what he -- she -- started and was distracted from when Nathan happened by? Or was the killer out to get Nathan all along?"
       Thanks. Mark fixed Leslie with the glassy stare of a fish out of water. "Do you think Jenny might be in danger?"
       "I don't think anything," Leslie replied, making soothing gestures. "When you study police work, you get a little paranoid."
       "Yeah," added Preston. "She checks all the locks, inspects the closets, and looks under the bed before she turns in. So much for romantic spontaneity."
       Mark felt his face crack into a grin. He thought, So that's why they turned up together so early this morning. It's just human nature to pair off.
       Hilary looked like a child watching other children frolic in a playground, her head stuck between the bars of the fence. Vaguely irritated, Mark said goodbye to Preston and Leslie and hurried Hilary down the lawn before the reporters baying around Zapata and Yeager sensed fresh blood and began pursuit.
       The air was actually warm, the sun erasing all remaining traces of sleet and cold. The police had rolled up their yellow tape. Only one squad car still sat in the driveway among the media vehicles, Osborne having already been dropped to a lower notch of importance. But the two patrol officers who paced along the veranda were evidence it hadn't been taken off the list altogether.
       With one last glance at Osborne's inscrutable brick and copper face, Mark climbed into Hilary's car and hoped she would drive him sane.
--------
         *Chapter Fourteen*
       Mark lay back against the headrest, eyes bloodshot, face as gray as the sodden ashes of fireworks the day after the Fourth of July. "You remember from last summer how it is, how helpless you feel, how frustrated."
       "I remember," Hilary replied. She thought, So Arthur had more than feet of clay. Devoid of accountability, like all men. Most men. Mark had loved his daughter -- he simply hadn't loved her mother. If men didn't separate sex from love, they wouldn't cause so many problems.
       Lucia's house was an oasis of normality, white clapboards and red shutters playing peek-a-boo with the leaves of the huge oak. Hilary turned into the driveway and stopped. "You need to get some sleep."
       "Good idea. Maybe I'll wake up and find it was all a bad dream."
       "I hope so."
       Mark's brow furrowed with the effort to explain. "Last night, Hilary, Jenny asked me to come over. She'd seen the ghost, the woman in Victorian clothing, on the staircase. She's been aware of something supernatural at Osborne all along, she just never admitted it."
       "I'm not surprised that Jenny would see something, or that she'd not want to talk about it. I bet she didn't tell the police, did she?"
       "No, she didn't. But there was one thing she did tell them. That I told them, too."
       "Yes?" Hilary had the queasy sensation he was walking her along the edge of a cliff.
       Mark looked right and left, up and down, as though hearing the swish of a descending blade. He said, "Jenny and I were in bed together when Nathan was killed."
       Hilary scrabbled for purchase on the rim of the cliff and then fell into space. "You mean you and Jenny were...."
       "Making love? Having sex? Yeah. While poor Nathan was being cut to pieces in the front parlor and while you were alone with your folks' problems." The toothpaste scent of Mark's breath didn't quite cover a sour smell, that of stale wine and acidified spices.
       So that was the joke. And it was on her. Hilary stared at the house next to Lucia's. Chimes hung from the porch roof, ringing gaily below the rustle of the leaves. Beyond the rooftops and the trees the sky arched blue, brittle, indifferent. She hadn't expected her thesis on men, sex, and love to be so instantly proved. She ought to feel something -- jealousy, envy, anger. But this revelation came like a pop quiz, and she hadn't studied.
       "It was just a one-time thing," Mark went on, his hand hovering at her shoulder. "It was completely separate from you and me. It's over and done with, as if nothing happened."
       "No," Hilary told him. "Something happened."
       Mark's hand fell away. He looked out his own window toward Lucia's garden fence. Pink roses peeked over the top.
       Mark had good taste, Hilary told herself; Jenny was someone she liked and admired. It wasn't as though she and Mark had made any commitments. She'd told him in so many words he had no responsiblity to her. Men were held hostage by their gonads; they enjoyed sex. Her girlfriends enjoyed sex. Jenny, obviously, enjoyed sex. Hilary imagined an airbrushed version of the scene, the bed moving rhythmically, the coupled bodies glistening with pleasure, voices saying "Oh!" just as her own voice had once. Only once. And that had been her voice alone.
       Now Hilary understood the accounts she'd read of mortally wounded soldiers feeling no pain. "It's all right. I know how frustrated you are with me. I wasn't there for you, and she was. You were there for her."
       "God, Hilary," Mark exclaimed, "just once will you stop being so bloody composed? Bawl me out, throw something at me, hit me upside the head, but don't blame yourself!"
       "I'm sorry." Odd, she wasn't even breathing. Free-fall. Zero gravity. Dislocation. Nothing. "Get out of the car, please, Mark."
       "Hilary...."
       "Get out."
       He got out, shut the door, and stood beside the driveway, hands rammed deep in his pockets, jaw tight, eyes brimming with pain and pride, anger and chagrin.
       Very carefully Hilary drove back to her condo, averting her eyes as she passed Osborne House. She'd only been gone a few days, but the condo seemed subtly altered, like an optical illusion. Too many new patterns at once, she told herself. Psychic jet lag.
       She scrubbed her fingertips with a nail brush until they were pink again. Then she unpacked her bag. Her clothes smelled of disinfectant and smoke. She piled them in the washing machine. Placing her books on an empty shelf, she promised herself she'd get the rest as soon as she had a permanent place to live. She watered the plants and dusted. The clock read one-thirty.
       Exercise relieved stress. She walked the four blocks to the grocery store, where she bought bread and vegetables but not ice cream -- she had to pinch her pennies, after all. She carried everything back, put it away, and moved the clothes from the washer to the dryer. Three o'clock.
       Hilary took her knitting bag and sat down on the couch in the living room. The cushion still held the imprint of her own heels, ground into the fabric in that moment of rapture the night of the reception. She picked up the cushion, pounded it vigorously, and replaced it upside down. That's a man for you. Sex isn't any more meaningful than a sneeze....
       She fell out of space and hit the earth, splattering like road kill across a pavement. Ben had ripped away her sexuality. Mark had given her recovery to someone else. She'd trusted him, and he'd betrayed her. He really was like all men. And, to add injury to insult, she would never have known about his infidelity if Nathan hadn't died. She valued the truth, yes, and she'd gotten the truth right between the eyes. So had Jenny. But gloating over Jenny's anguish sickened her.
       Gritting her teeth, Hilary pulled out the half-completed sweater and envisioned cramming it down Mark's throat. It might make her feel better, but it wouldn't help anything. She picked up the TV remote.
       Nothing was on the commercial channels but sports, Westerns, and monster movies. On PBS a calm voice behind scenes of slicing and dicing machinery described how to make a wooden rocker. Her wrists flicked the knitting needles and her fingers manipulated the yarn, blunting the whetted edge of her nerves. Nathan was dead, her own problems were trivial.
       Nathan was dead. Maybe someone had stalked and killed him. Why? Not for the photo of Pamela. Not for the sweater. Not for the figure from the Cross, although the murderer might not have known Nathan had it in his pocket. Maybe the murderer was a casual passer-by. Nathan left the door unlocked, and a burglar had been watching the house and slipped inside. No, watching the house suggested premeditation. So did someone's taking the crate with the figure from Jenny's closet, even if that someone hadn't been after Nathan.
       His death hadn't been a random murder, Hilary concluded, and loosened the too-taut stitches on the knitting needle. She had known a murderer last summer. She didn't want to know another. Mark wasn't the killer, she assured herself -- he was a sex-crazed rat, not a murderer. It wasn't Jenny, Miss Ripe and Available. It wasn't not Preston or Leslie, Lucia or Gilbert.
       The dryer buzzed. She was cremating her cotton blends. As Hilary rescued her clothing, the phone rang and she jumped like grasshopper. Mark? She didn't want to talk to him.
       It rang again. Cautiously she picked up the receiver. "Hello?"
       "Baby?" said Olivia's voice. "What's going on? Some lady detective named Zapata just called me, asked me when you'd left here this morning."
       Hilary tried not to be irritated; Zapata was doing her job. "My boss, Nathan Sikora, was found -- er -- dead last night. Zapata's just checking on where everyone was. I've already talked with her. No problem."
       "Well, if you're sure. I won't tell your father. It might upset him."
       Unless he sees it in the newspaper, Hilary thought. But he might not make the connection with Daddy's little girl. "Thanks for calling, Mother."
       Back in the living room Hilary found that the woodworking program had been succeeded by one on gardening. She glanced dubiously at the patio door, but it was closed and locked, the broom handle wedged into its track. Jenny was alone with only the little cat at haunted Osborne. I'd never be able to take it, Hilary told herself. You're a better woman than I am, Jenny Galliard.... She realized she'd dropped a stitch two rows back and laboriously retrieved it. Yes, Jenny was the better woman in more ways than one. Mark had certainly taken advantage of that, hadn't he?
       From the television came a new voice, this one droning about sizing, wallpaper, and sheetrock. Hilary's head throbbed. Unlike mortally wounded soldiers who felt nothing, she survived to hurt. Unlike Nathan, who no longer felt anything at all. Now, safely alone, she laid down her knitting and cried, for him, for herself, for all the innocent victims of life and love and rage.
       Seven o'clock. Dusk thickened outside. Hilary washed her swollen face. She fixed herself a sandwich, consumed it, and went through the condo checking windows, closets, and under the bed. She threaded the end of a new ball of yarn into the sweater. A cooking show segued into a science program, _Casablanca_, and finally _Dr. Who_. Hilary watched and knitted, her eyes crossed, her wrists sore, her mind echoing, drained of all emotion.
       When she went to bed, she lay staring at the bedposts thrusting into the darkness and listening to the wind caressing the limbs of the trees below the window. At last she slipped into dreams of glittering knives and grasping, grunting bodies.
       By Sunday morning Hilary felt as though she'd run a marathon. Groaning, she crawled downstairs and brought in the newspaper. An article on the front page was headlined, "Lloyd Curator Murder Victim." She scanned it worriedly, but Jenny's revelation had yet to reach the ears of the media. Zapata was well and truly in charge of the case.
       Hilary was lingering over the bright, uncomplicated world of the comics when the doorbell rang. Through the fish-eye distortion of the peephole she saw Mark. His face was as drawn as that of an animal forced to gnaw off its own leg to escape a trap. Pretending she wasn't there would let the wound develop gangrene. She opened the door. "Hi."
       His face seemed too stiff to smile. He lifted his guitar with one hand and a paper sack with the other. "It's a pretty day. Would you like to have a picnic in the Botanical Gardens?"
       This was as close to groveling as she'd ever get from Mark; his stubborn pride was something she'd always admired, after all. "If I'm going to hit you," she told him, "I'd rather do it in private."
       With an exhalation that could've been either relief or reluctance, Mark followed her through the living room. The back yard was the size of a commemorative stamp. A cottonwood tree soared above the fence, its leaves laughing, strewing bits of white fluff on the breeze. Purple martins indulged in matrimonial aerobatics around their miniature condo.
       Mark laid sub sandwiches, tortilla chips, a can of Coke for her, and a can of Dr. Pepper for himself on the umbrella-topped table. Hilary pulled up a couple of lawn chairs. They munched, exchanging looks as quick as a wet finger on a hot iron.
       "I walked over to Osborne," Mark said at last, "and got my van. It was in the garage. I didn't want to have to scrape ice off the windshield Friday night. I hadn't intended to spend the night there. Jenny asked me to stay with her. It was spontaneous combustion."
       "Whatever happened to 'just say no'?" Hilary used a chip to scrape up a little pile of lettuce.
       "She wanted me. I wanted her. I'm not going to explain or apologize. I told you, it didn't have anything to do with you."
       "If you'd been sleeping with me, would you have slept with her?"
       "Hell." He shoved back his chair, took his guitar out of its case, and began tuning it. The plinks and plunks reverberated in the warm air. His body radiated irritation. The sun edged past noon, its light filtering through the cottonwood and filling the yard with an odd underwater luminescence. An odor of charcoal and barbecue sauce hung in the air as a neighbor enacted the ritual Sunday cookout.
       Hilary rested her chin on her hand and her elbow on the table, watching Mark's fingers move on the guitar strings. They had played her, once. They had no doubt played Jenny just as well. "How could you hurt me like that? Why don't you just plunge a knife into me?"
       "There's a Freudian image," Mark retorted. "You act as though I deliberately hurt you, as though I studied ways and means for a month before I found the best way -- the worst way -- to do it. You just don't understand, do you, what it means to want and need someone." His fingers began playing "Seventeen Come Sunday".
       "I do understand. I want you desperately. But I'm like Tantalus, in the Greek myth, starving to death with the fruit just beyond his reach."
       "You're punishing yourself because of what Ben did to you. You're punishing me because I have the same plumbing he does."
       "Men think they have a right to sex, don't they? All they want, whenever they want it, and let the woman pay the price."
       The song ended on a crashing discord. Mark looked up from below his brows, irritation becoming anger. "I know better than that. I've never been anything but considerate of you."
       What the hell did he have to be angry about? She was the plaintiff! "Sure. Hitting me when I'm down. I felt like I'd really made some kind of breakthrough in Indianapolis. I was coming back to you, coming home to you."
       "Hilary," he said, "I love you."
       She crossed her arms protectively. "Damn funny way of showing it."
       "I wasn't trying to show it, not then. Now I am. Take it or leave it." Mark strummed tunelessly, then began "Amazing Grace".
       Hilary paced across the patio. She and Mark might as well have been on opposite sides of an abyss, trying to communicate with smoke signals. The smoke of their burning nerves, she told herself. It was almost funny. Jenny, with her mordant wit, would appreciate the humor.
       Hilary wondered suddenly if Mark doubted Jenny's motives for approaching him Friday night. She'd been troubled by the ghost, by living in her father's house, and by the burden of the ivory figure. Odd way to get reassurance, seducing a co-worker.... Well no. Hilary could understand that much, why Jenny liked Mark. He knew what it meant to hurt.
       Mark had probably fallen asleep. If so, he hadn't really been with Jenny the entire time. Surely he wasn't wondering if Jenny actually had killed Nathan. Jenny was troubled, yes. Aren't we all? Hilary asked herself caustically. But Jenny hadn't killed Nathan. Over and beyond the logical objections she herself had made, Jenny was no murderer. If Mark thought she might be, his own guilt was speaking. And that was probably as loud as it would ever speak.
       Hilary leaned back against the cool glass of the patio door. With the fence cutting off the breeze, the yard was growing hot. The purple martins had decided it was siesta time. Even the cottonwood dozed, leaves muttering. Mark played "Look Away". "I'm coming back," Hilary hummed. "I'm coming back, though I go ten thousand miles."
       One of these days she'd wake up and discover that like Everett, she too, was an old tortoise trapped in nets of belligerence and suspicion, incapable of any emotion except anger. She'd already decided not to expect too much of either herself or Mark.
       "You hurt me," she repeated wearily.
       He finished the verse and looked up, his gray eyes silver in the reflected sunlight. "I'm sorry. That I hurt you, not for anything else. But I proved years ago that I'm no good with relationships."
       "You didn't prove a thing -- you got burned, same as I did. Now you're afraid of the emotional just as I'm afraid of the physical. Jenny didn't ask anything of you. I do. Maybe too much. Men! Always separating the emotional and the physical!"
       "Well excuse me!" Mark said, but he looked up with a rueful smile. "I never promised you a rose garden, now did I?"
       Despite herself Hilary laughed. "I sure didn't promise you one."
       "Just a garden of thorns?" He shook his head. "Let's go on over to the Botanical Gardens. It's cooler there beneath the trees. We can take the crumbs and feed the goldfish."
       "Just as long as we're not pretending nothing happened."
       "Yes, dear." Mark put away his guitar. Hilary gathered up the remains of their picnic. She'd never really wanted to hit him.
       They strolled through the gardens, admiring the flowering trees. The fish glinted in their pools like unexpressed emotions. Hilary told Mark about her family; he told her about his. Each of his parents had called him upon learning of Nathan's murder, each had left him to deal with it. His independence had been hard won, Hilary told herself. As for hers -- somewhere in the back of her mind she heard the ping! of breaking nets.
       When the shadows lengthened, Mark drove Hilary back to her condo. "I'll come by tomorrow after work," she told him. "Preston wanted me to help with the drawings. And I have to see if I can look Jenny in the face."
       "She has to look at you," Mark returned. "But she has other things to worry about. So do we." He pecked Hilary's cheek, saw her in the door, and left. Starting over again? she queried his departing back. Mark had told her he loved her. Whether he meant it, or whether he had merely been activating a male defense mechanism, she couldn't say. She wanted nothing more than to love him, if she could, if he'd let her, if, if....
       Hilary knitted and read and watched television the rest of the evening, finishing up with the nightly news and a report on the latest Osborne murder. No news was emphatically not good news. Here Mark and I are playing games, she thought, and Nathan's dead.
       That night she dreamed she was sketching Osborne House. But the cupolas and porches kept changing. She erased and erased again, until the paper ripped beneath her pencil. Still the house flowed noiselessly toward her, until she was drowning in its shadows. She awoke, heart hammering, when her alarm rang. She'd never been so grateful for a Monday.
       And yet her usual pleasure at walking into the Lloyd was spoiled. Her sanctuary had been violated, Nathan dragged ruthlessly from it. Hilary peeked in the door of his office to see the papers and books arranged in tidy alien stacks, the bear and penguin mug sitting scrubbed and forlorn to one side. Zapata and Yeager's work, no doubt; they'd probably spent Sunday afternoon inspecting every piece of paper in the room.
       Bradshaw's secretary looked into the hall. "Hilary? The Director wants to see you."
       Hilary smoothed her hair and straightened her blouse. The secretary waved her into the plush inner sanctum, where Wesley Bradshaw's bulky form loomed by the window. Dolores Coburg sat on the corner of his desk, resplendent in a crimson Lagerfeld suit, her legs crossed and one foot twitching back and forth like the tail of a cat. Her welcoming smile was just the right blend of warmth and sympathy. "Good morning, Hilary. Is your father feeling better?"
       "Ah, yes, he's much better, thank you." Hilary wondered just what grape on Dolores's vine had squeezed out a seed about Everett's illness.
       "This is quite a shock," said Bradshaw. "We'll be doing some scrambling until I can hire a new curator. Now that the Regensfeld artifacts are catalogued, we'll put you to work on the ethnographic material."
       "Are the artifacts catalogued?" Hilary asked.
       Bradshaw turned around. Dolores's foot stopped swinging. Her porcelain complexion cracked in the subtle pattern that ceramics experts called crazing. "Weren't you working on the artifacts?"
       "Yes, but I wasn't done when I left Wednesday afternoon. Nathan was awfully busy -- I don't know whether he finished them himself." The room was silent. Bradshaw's colorless eyes didn't blink. Dolores's blue ones did. Hilary felt as though she'd been called on the carpet -- literally -- but had no idea why. "The police said Mr. Vasarian was here Friday night. He might've finished cataloguing the artifacts, but technically that wasn't his job. And they still have to be packed."
       "Well then," Dolores told her, "you go and get out the artifacts, and I'll ask Nicholas about the catalogue -- he's around here somewhere -- and we'll have everything shipshape in no time."
       "Hilary, check over the catalog very carefully. Make sure everything's correct," said Bradshaw. And, to Dolores, "She's not very experienced, but I'll keep an eye on her. Don't worry."
       Dolores looked vaguely offended. "If Nathan trusted Hilary to deal with the artifacts, Wes, who am I to dispute her competence?" Abashed, Bradshaw turned back to the window. Dolores made quick shooing gestures at Hilary. "That little policewoman, Zapata, she's going to bring the ivory figure by this morning. You can deal with her, too."
       "Yes, ma'am," Hilary muttered, and fled into the hallway. Catching her breath, she asked herself, If Dolores is on my side, why does she make me so nervous? Perhaps the second Mrs. Coburg was still on Jenny's side, too, but her perfectly manicured demeanor revealed nothing.
       Hilary started briskly off, exchanged smiles with Leslie in the security room, and found the conservation labs unchanged from last week when she'd left so abruptly. June had uncovered a few more inches of her painting, revealing draperies as yet unattached to a body, human or otherwise.
       Checking out the box of artifacts from the strongroom took only a moment, calling up the computer files another. Hilary was pulling on clean cotton gloves when Leslie opened the door and ushered in Zapata, who was carrying the wooden crate beneath her arm like Nemesis on moving day.
       I haven't done anything, Hilary reminded herself. Even Mark and Jenny haven't done anything actionable. "Good morning, Detective."
       "Good morning, Hilary. I hope I'm not interrupting you."
       "I hadn't started yet, Rosalind."
       Zapata set the box on the workbench and pried up the top. "Here it is. We checked it for fingerprints and extraneous material, but I assure you we didn't damage it."
       "Did you find anything?" Hilary reached out and gently lifted the Christ from its foam bed. It was heavy, smooth, and cool. The detailing of the tiny face was impeccable, conveying an expression both grave and joyous.
       "The only fingerprints were those of Nathan and Jenny, and a set from someone not in our files, Pamela or Arthur, maybe. A bit of lint clinging to it matched the lint in Nathan's jacket pocket; a bit of foam, this in the box. On the outside of the box was some pink yarn from the sweater."
       "Anything else?" Hilary spread out some tissue and laid the figure on it. She stretched upward to get a small ultraviolet light.
       "From Nathan's body, you mean?" Zapata considered a moment, her judicial manner conducting a quick competency hearing. But Hilary's alibi was sound. "Two dyed red hairs were on his shirt. Sharon Ward's, probably, although her mother wouldn't let her give us a sample to test."
       "How did the Coburgs take the news about Jenny and the figurine?"
       "The Snow Queen -- Dolores -- looked like she smelled something bad but was too well bred to mention it. The others acted suitably shocked and indignant. Sharon was adamant that we not let this get into the papers, and I have to agree. Arthur's trial in 1975 should've had a change of venue after all the publicity. Now the media circus could go exponential. We'd have to try the case in Timbuktu."
       Assuming there was a case to try, Hilary thought with a glance at Zapata's partly disgusted, partly resigned expression. The detective's olive skin didn't show the dark circles under her eyes nearly as starkly as Hilary's pale complexion did, but the circles were there. She could play good cop all she wanted, but Hilary couldn't tell her any more than she already had. "Did you find anything in Nathan's office?"
       "A mash note from Sharon. Boxes holding the papers from Arthur's desk at Osborne, although not the portfolio of Jack the Ripper material or the letter from Felicia. Your catalogue. Other museum stuff."
       "Oh." Hilary switched on the light. In its ultraviolet glow the ivory Christ shone a deep rich yellow, like a buttercup in the sunshine.
       "That means it's old?" asked Zapata.
       "Sure does. New ivory looks lavender. I'd have to pare off a bit for a dating test, but there's no reason to do that. This figure's identical to the one on the Cross in the 1923 inventory -- oddly enough, I was looking at a photograph of it Friday night." Hilary switched off the ultraviolet light. The figure still glowed from within. "Walrus ivory, like the Cross. Harder to work, but takes detail better. A beautiful piece, not only in workmanship but in connotation."
       Zapata gazed critically at the artifact, admitting nothing, and reached into her purse. "Here's a photo of the back of that sweater. I can't imagine what it has to do with anything, but that's half an investigation, finding out what's evidence and what isn't."
       "I have that problem, too." Hilary took the photograph. Her fingertip moved from several lumpy patches in the design to rows of stitches stretched diagonally across a stockinette background. "Bobble stitch and moss stitch. Ripple stitch, zigzag stitch, some kind of lozenge. I don't know what those squiggles are called. Whoever did this might have been teaching herself some new stitches. It's sure not the work of an amateur."
       Zapata logged it all in. "If anything else occurs to you, let me know. I'm going by Osborne now, to give Mark back his Swiss Army knife."
       "No bloodstains?" Hilary asked, more flippantly than she should have.
       "Not a one," said Zapata, half smiling. "Sign this receipt for the figurine, please."
       Hilary signed. Zapata marched away. The lab seemed oddly quiet now, not the busy quiet of the scriptorium, but the eerie quiet of concealed thoughts and bated breaths. June wasn't listening to her radio, probably filled to breaking with news of Nathan's death.
       Just because she'd been cheated of her haven didn't mean she couldn't do her work. Hilary put the figure back in its box. A quick check of the computer files showed her that someone had indeed completed the catalogue. One last run-through, then, and she could start packing.
       The first piece she drew from the box was the ivory bishop. Carved of narwhal or walrus, she hadn't been sure. But as heavy as the figure.... No. It wasn't as heavy as the figure. It wasn't as heavy as it had been last week. Too much on her mind, she chided herself. She'd have to focus more closely. She picked up a magnifying glass. Yes, there was the minuscule crack in the bishop's pointed mitre. There was the faint stain between the hand and the staff it held. And yet the figure's face was different, no longer no-nonsense stolid but benign, looking almost Buddha-like.
       Hilary laid the piece down and closed her eyes. Subjective impressions are important, she told herself, but let don't them get away from you.
       She turned the boxwood misericord around and around beneath the bright light until the shadows of its intricate carvings left afterimages behind her eyes. Size, texture, dowel holes, the repaired figure, the prayer scratched on the back. Everything was there, and nothing was quite the same.
       The blood drained from Hilary's face and hands, leaving them frost-cold. She pulled out the Giotto painting. Yellow varnish, gilded halos, the crack in the panel. But this artifact felt sturdy, not at all as though it would break in two in her hands. The expressions on the painted faces were bland, drained of emotion, somehow cartoonish.
       Through the magnifying glass she studied the silver and copper gilt reliquary. The corrosion lingering in the interstices of the filigree and behind the demonic figures wasn't quite the same color, and seemed more even, somehow, as though painted on instead of appearing naturally with age.
       The Irish brooch was lovely, sparkling gold, shining red and blue enamel. Almost perfect enamel, like plastic. Too shiny. Too light, strangely unassertive against her skin.
       Hilary pulled out the last artifact, the Bible cover. The spinels gleamed. John the Baptist raised his hand over Jesus's head. The figures had been rather stiff to begin with, she told herself. Peering closely, she read the Greek letters around the edge of the cover. The inscription was complete, as tidy as if the letters had been printed into the gold. She remembered them as being slightly uneven, hand-engraved. Her fingertips had thrilled to that passage, like a blind person discovering braille. Now they felt nothing.
       Hilary arranged the artifacts in a row and considered them. She was hearing a symphony rendered note by correct note by a student workshop, when she was used to listening to a passionate performance by the New York Philharmonic. The difference was subtle, almost subliminal, but undeniable. Since she'd packed the artifacts away last Wednesday someone had substituted fakes for the originals. Beautiful fakes, superb reproductions, expensive works of art in themselves. But new, not old, not haloed with antiquity and devotion. These items were dull and dry. Next to the ancient ivory figure of Christ, they were mockery.
       Her palms were so damp, despite their being cold, that her gloves stuck to her hands. Chemical and dating tests, she thought. X-rays. Infra-red photography. But no. She didn't dare manhandle such precious objects. And tests were equivocal at best -- like her own intuitions. God, she thought. Who am I to jump to conclusions? I'm only an assistant curator.... That was just the point. Whoever had made the substitution had counted on her inexperience. She'd either notice nothing, or she'd lack the courage of her convictions. But courage had nothing to do with this overwhelming certainty.
       Behind Hilary the door opened and shut. June said, "Good morning, Mr. Vasarian."
       "Good morning," came the cultured accents.
       Hilary's body slumped like soft-serve ice cream, her perceptions dripping. Vasarian had been here alone Friday night. Had he brought in the fakes? Where were the real artifacts? And what about Nathan.... Dear God, she thought, I've just found a motive for his murder!
       Footsteps paused at her back. She envisioned Bela Lugosi, eyeteeth bared, ready to plunge them into her neck. She could throw herself protectively over the artifacts or she could thrust them indignantly into Vasarian's face. With tremendous effort she did neither.
       "Good morning, Miss Chase," said Vasarian.
       She tried to read his expression. Affable courtesy. Intelligent query. He wasn't even looking at the artifacts. Her mouth was so dry she could hardly speak. "Did you finish the catalogue?"
       "Nathan was so busy, he asked me to help. I hope you don't mind?"
       "You're the expert."
       "Dolores asked me to drop by and see how you were getting on. Can I help in any way? Packing, whatever?"
       "No, thank you. I can manage."
       "Very well then. There's no need to rush. I'll be staying on here longer than I'd originally intended." His eyes fixed on the box holding the figure. An ember glowed in their charred depths, lust more complex than that of the flesh.
       Hilary wondered if he would have taken either the figure or the Cross if he'd gotten to them in secret, or whether he would have tried to blackmail Jenny into handing them over to him. And then he would have collected his fees from Dolores and Regensfeld both. Nothing personal, all in a day's work.
       "Thank you for looking in," she said, and turned back to the table. He'd think she was rude, but that was better than fainting in his arms.
       The door opened and shut. Hilary took off her gloves and rested her clammy forehead on her hands, counting each breath, swallowing until her mouth was moist again. What is this? she asked herself. Some kind of test to see how many traumas it takes to drive a person into gibbering idiocy?
       The row of fakes sat snickering like hostile witnesses. The same wrappings, Hilary saw. The same penciled notes. The same box. But the artifacts were different. She had the courage of her convictions, but that courage only encompassed so much. Who would believe her wild stories of fakes and substitutions? Bradshaw? He was a straw man. Any of the Coburgs? They might be working with Vasarian. Zapata? She would demand proof, proof that Hilary didn't dare provide.
       Jenny? Oh God, Jenny. Her interest in the relics was far from academic. She might well have the courage -- or foolhardiness -- to charge, guns blazing, banners flying. Maybe charging was what got Nathan murdered. Maybe cooperation had signed his death warrant. Maybe it was simply his existence, the threat of his knowledge, that had killed him.
       I exist, Hilary told herself. I know. She'd never realized just how little room to maneuver there was between a rock and a hard place.
       Numbly, she turned to the computer and printed a copy of the catalogue. That was innocuous enough. No one would suspect her of gathering evidence. A printout wasn't evidence.
       The clatter of the printer echoed harshly from the walls around her, but not as harshly as the cold, bony fingertips of fear pinched her spine.
--------
         *Chapter Fifteen*
       Supposedly work was therapeutic. Mark stepped down into the carriage-house trench and knelt, and genuflected before a pile of what had once been garden tools but was now a pile of blackened pick-up sticks.
       All the students had appeared this Monday morning, even though they worked with frequent curious and wary glances at the house and at the procession of people coming and going from it. Amy and a couple of other girls kept looking at Mark and Jenny and giggling.
       Jenny's cool dignity helped her to ignore the students' innuendo. Her dignity wasn't quite so cool when she spoke to Mark. When he'd come by Osborne yesterday to get his van, he'd found Jenny clearing a horizontal layer across the carriage house foundations while Graymalkin played among the oak leaves.
       "Are you all right?" he'd asked.
       Jenny's smile had been lopsided with irony, highlighted by the charcoal smudges on her face. "Just. Are you?"
       "I'm not sure. I'm on my way to Hilary's now, to try and make up."
       "Tell her she's welcome to shy a brick at me."
       "Hilary? No way."
       What Hilary had done was elicit a declaration of love from him. A Freudian slip, probably; he wasn't going to analyze it. Her withdrawal Saturday had been frightening, but her Sunday forthrightness had been oddly comforting -- none of these guess-what's-bothering-me games that most women played. If women would just separate sex and love, they wouldn't cause so many problems.
       But then, Mark thought, he'd learned a long time ago that there was no such thing as free sex. He'd known Friday night that what he was doing, no matter how compelling, would hurt Hilary if she found out. Damned rotten luck that she did find out. Committing hara-kiri with his Swiss Army knife wouldn't help. It was Nathan who'd been eviscerated.
       Jenny, armed now with clipboard and trowel, stepped down into the trench. Mark glanced nostalgically at her T-shirt. "Carpe Diem" it read. "Seize the Day". Yeah, he thought, we did.
       "I'm going to send the students who're working here," she said, "to start another trench in an area that was covered by the houses and shops. This structure will be a bugger to sort out -- we'll have to peel it away stratum by stratum. And that's not an imperial 'we'."
       The students were pecking at a collapsed brick wall a few yards away. Quietly Mark asked Jenny, "You think the Cross is here?"
       She quirked an eyebrow at him.
       "This structure has been Osborne property since it was built," he explained. "What we're uncovering doesn't agree with the documentation -- does that signify inefficiency or secrecy? Why expand the trench to an open-area excavation? Why exclude the amateur diggers?"
       "Right." With a soothing "down, boy" gesture, Jenny turned to inspect the fricasee of garden tools. Her trowel delicately separated a blackened axe head from a gap-toothed rake. "I've tapped on every wall, sounded every floor, tested every ceiling in the house. I didn't find any secret doors in the wainscoting or any hidden passages behind a fireplace."
       "Or behind the grandfather clock?"
       She grimaced. "When I took a shufti Saturday night, the pendulum was swinging again. I thought I heard footsteps on the first floor Sunday morning, but I didn't look."
       "Ghosts? Or trespassers?"
       "Or my own guilty conscience?" Jenny looked toward the house. Dolores's Cadillac was parked beside Osborne's veranda, flanked by Kenneth's Lexus and the Wards' BMW. The sunlight radiated in waves from each waxed finish, almost incinerating the carpenter's truck nearby. "Carrion crows, the lot of them, picking over Arthur's bones. And Nathan's. And my mother's."
       "They seem to hate each other," said Mark. "And yet they stick together. Maybe no one else will claim them. Not that you have to. I'll tell you what I told Hilary yesterday: We can't choose our relatives. Blood is most emphatically not thicker than water."
       Jenny's tense expression relaxed a little.
       Encouraged, Mark continued, "I don't see how the Coburgs are going to find the Cross when you couldn't. Of course, they might have that carpenter in there dismantling the place."
       "It's their house." Jenny stood and called to the students. "Here, gather round. I want you lot to start a new trench over there. Preston, if you'd be so kind..."
       Mark watched her stride through the dust and dandelions. If the Cross had been in the garage, it had burned, too. She knew that. No need to point it out to her.
       So Jenny was "safe", was she? Hilary's insight made Mark shift uneasily, his knees crunching. If it weren't for Nathan's death -- and Jenny's startling disclosures -- Jenny would've been a delightful and uncomplicated encounter. They would still be friends, sharing the secret smiles of people with money in the bank.
       Mark had told Hilary he loved her. He'd done what he could to mend matters. As for the matter of Nathan's death, he didn't see a blasted thing he could do. Someone had either murdered Nathan with cruel and deliberate malice aforethought, or had brushed him aside from some plot as casually as swatting a fly. Just as someone had brushed Felicia aside? No, that was too much of a coincidence. Mark voted for malice.
       He'd had nightmares Saturday and Sunday nights, distorted visions of Hilary lying bloodied, eyes staring sightlessly, in Jenny's bed. Adult versions of the dreams he'd had as a child, he decided. And yet whatever the killer's motive, it had nothing to do with Hilary.
       Preston detoured to the tool shed for pegs, string, and measuring rods. "What started the fire in the garage, do you remember?"
       Mark remembered. "A defective space heater. It was pretty chilly that night. March 22. It was a hot fire. They must've been storing paint or insecticides or something out here." He scraped at the cremated remains of a shovel; its metal scoop was warped, its handle a long strip of carbon which collapsed at his touch. He glanced around, but Jenny hadn't noticed.
       "What else would you put in a garage?" Preston walked over to Jenny's designated spot and drove a peg into the ground.
       Mark sat back on his haunches. The ruined garage-carriage house had been bulldozed after it burned, leaving a twelve-to-eighteen inch stratum of intact foundation and carbonized debris beneath a layer of dirt and gravel which the students had sliced through in the first two weeks of the dig, and which Jenny was now starting to clear away entirely. The Coburgs had covered the building like a cat covering its waste; why bother to rebuild when Dolores was moving them out anyway?
       A car door slammed. Rosalind Zapata crunched through the debris toward the dig. On any other woman her skirt, blouse, and jacket would have looked casual. She might as well be wearing a uniform with a badge on the pocket and a gun holstered at her hip. Behind her, Frank Yeager leaned against an unmarked car, all too obviously working backup.
       "Jenny?" Zapata called. "You called this morning, said you had a photograph for me?"
       "All right," Preston said to the students' bugged-out eyes, "let's start digging." He set the example by whistling "Heigh Ho, Heigh Ho", his shovel scooping and emptying industriously.
       The students followed suit, but their ears almost rotated backward, they focused so intently on Jenny and Zapata.
       Jenny took a photograph from her clipboard. "There are precious few snaps of Felicia in the house, mind you, but I did find this in a magazine in the tower room. Arthur must've been remembering the good old days."
       Mark sidled around to where he could see the picture. Yes, the tiny, resolute blonde was Felicia. And it certainly looked as if the sweater she was wearing was the same one Nathan had been clutching as he died. Zapata turned the picture over. The back was inscribed "Tyler Rose Festival, September 1974". "Six months before she died. Hm."
       Mark waited for some revelation to follow that "hm", but none came. Instead, Zapata put the photo in her jacket pocket and took out Mark's Swiss Army knife. "Here you go. It's clean."
       "Have you tested Travis's clasp knife?"
       Although Zapata was a head shorter than he was, she still managed to look down her nose at him. "Yes. Nothing."
       "Well, they all have alibis."
       "So they do. We have photographs showing Dolores, Sharon, Kenneth, and Vasarian at the charity ball. And there was some controversy at the Cutting Horse Stakes that had to be resolved with an instant replay camera, so we have pictures of Travis, too."
       "Hilary was in Indiana," said Jenny. "Mark and I vouch for each other."
       "Jenny!" Mark complained.
       "Most homicides are committed by an acquaintance of the victim," Jenny retorted, "Isn't that so, Detective?"
       "I'm afraid so."
       Mark asked, "Are you making any headway?"
       "This isn't my only case."
       He rather liked her proprietary _my_. "But the Chief is leaning on you, isn't he? Socially prominent family and all that."
       Zapata was a lady. She only looked disgusted, she didn't spit in the dirt. "I spoke to Jacob Sikora, Nathan's father, about Felicia's letter. Which we didn't find either in Nathan's office or his house, by the way -- it's vanished along with the Ripper material. Anyway, Jacob remembers the squabble over the ring. It was English garnet, used to belong to Felicia's grandmother. Arthur swore he'd lost it, and Dolores swore she'd never seen it."
       "A garnet ring?" Jenny demanded. "My mother had an antique garnet ring. I first saw it in her jewelry box -- it must've been right after Arthur gave her the push."
       "Do you still have it?"
       "No. It wasn't among her effects. I last saw it...." She stopped, contemplating the pastel colors of the city fast ripening to emerald green. "I last saw it on holiday from university, perhaps 1974."
       "Felicia was murdered in 1975," said Mark.
       "Is there a connection?" Zapata asked him with such labored courtesy it became sarcasm.
       He could see himself like a struggling swimmer in the depths of her dark eyes. "It might be worth pursuing."
       "That's for me to decide." Her tone distinctly told him not to worry his handsome little head about that.
       Mark turned on his heel and climbed back down into the trench. She sure had a low tolerance for suspects. Male suspects, especially.
       Speaking of which, Kenneth Coburg was ambling across the lawn toward the dig, trailing his tweed jacket over his shoulder like a fashion model. His wide, flower-emblazoned tie added to the effect, but his saturnine expression didn't. He looked like a sulky child forced to attend a cotillion.
       Jenny's shoulders straightened, running out her cannon. Mark propped one foot on the edge of the trench and draped his forearm across his thigh. In the driveway Yeager took a couple of steps forward. A mutter ran through the female segment of the student population, but Kenneth wasn't shopping today. "Good morning, Rosalind," he said. "Jenny. Mark." For a moment Mark expected Kenneth to throw him his jacket and ask for it to be pressed. "My mother tells me you delivered the ivory figurine to the museum."
       "Yes," Zapata replied. "It's quite safe."
       Hilary had it, Mark told himself. It couldn't be safer.
       "And that you found my sister's hair on Nathan's jacket."
       "It might be her hair. It might not."
       "The little bitch was..." Ken's lips and teeth formed the "f" and then abandoned it. "...having an affair with Nathan, and she's got a hell of a temper -- my eardrums are permanently damaged from growing up with her screaming -- but she's too much of a wimp to have stabbed him or anything."
       "Or anything?" Zapata asked.
       Kenneth turned to Jenny. "As for my long-lost sister, you'll forgive me if I don't throw myself on you in transports of joy."
       "You would've been only too pleased to throw yourself on me last week."
       Kenneth's face hardened, freezer-burned. He glanced at Mark. Mark looked blandly back, tapping his leg with the trowel. That was the best he could do without a buck's antlers, or a cock's spurs, or the bladder capacity of a tomcat.
       Kenneth slowly shook out his jacket, put it on, and assumed his best board room manner. "Jenny, how much longer do you think the excavation will take? We'd like to start working on at least one end of Victoria Square -- this one, closest to the house."
       "I'm going to do an open area excavation of the garage," she replied. "It's a superb example for the students of destruction stratigraphy, especially when we consider how much documentation we have to back up the physical evidence. It might take three weeks or more, depending."
       She's fudging, Mark thought. But then, she's in competition with Vasarian for the Cross. With the Coburgs, too, since they now know Arthur had it here forty years ago.
       "The Foundation," Kenneth said, "contracted for an archaeological survey lasting no longer than five weeks. If it goes longer than that...."
       "You'll find me in violation of contract and give me the chop?"
       "Let's not jump to conclusions. After all, you are family."
       Jenny's expression seemed to hover between a whoop of laughter and a gag reflex.
       Zapata said evenly, "Don't worry, I'm sure the notoriety of the house will be bringing in customers for years to come." She didn't need to add, You don't have any contracts with me.
       With a mocking little bow, more like an impression of Vasarian than an imitation, Kenneth turned and strolled back toward the house. Several figures left the veranda and sorted themselves into cars; Travis and Sharon hurriedly, as though escaping school before they could be given detentions, and Dolores with a neck-craning inspection of the dig and of Ken's advancing figure in which curiosity warred with contempt. She climbed into her Cadillac and drove so closely by Yeager that he had to flatten himself against his car.
       The maroon BMW passed with room to spare, Travis and Sharon invisible behind their tinted windows. Eyes narrowed, Zapata stalked back to the car, took the wheel, and disappeared toward downtown.
       "No Vasarian," mused Jenny.
       "Napping in his coffin in the Coburgs' basement," Mark returned. "You did check Osborne's basement, didn't you?"
       "No trapdoors. No whips and chains, either." With an exasperated snort, Jenny returned to the students.
       Before long it was lunch time. Mark went home, ate a microwave pizza, considered calling Hilary, and rejected that notion. By the time he returned to the dig, the day was growing cooler, a flock of cumulus clouds crowding up the sky from the west like sheep blocking a Scottish highway.
       He saw that Jenny was sitting on the back porch, contemplating a printout, while Graymalkin sunned herself on the step. At the edge of the garage trench, Preston put away the camera, produced the drawing board, and glanced warily upward. "Harold Taft said it's going to rain tonight, and since he's been predicting the weather here since I was knee-high to a horned toad, I believe him."
       "Don't see horned toads any more," said Mark. "Pesticides got 'em." Students were milling around in the garden trench. Amy called excitedly, "Look, look, we found bones! Should we call the police?"
       _What?_ Mark sprinted to the trench with Preston on his heels. Jenny was still bent over the print-out, too far away to have heard.
       Those sprawling spider-legged streaks at the bottom of the trench were the decayed roots of rosebushes; having planted numerous roses for Lucia, Mark was intimately acquainted with the species. Among the roots were several cylindrical chalky brown lumps. Mark poked at one with his trowel. Various hot breaths made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
       He laughed. "Ossified garden hose. The heat of the fire probably dried it out. Although most hoses will eventually desiccate if left out over the summer in this climate. Plot it on your chart, then bag it."
       Muttering in disappointment, the students went back to work. Preston exhaled in relief. Jenny and Graymalkin were looking curiously at him; Mark went to clue them in.
       "That's all we need, isn't it?" Jenny asked. "Another body." Graymalkin fastidiously washed her paws and went back to sleep.
       By quitting time the sheeplike clouds had turned to wolves, crowding the sky with black misshapen bodies, growling with thunder. The students sped to their cars in a cold, rain-scented wind. Mark and Preston staked the plastic over the excavated areas while Jenny fussed over the ruins of the garage, muttering incantations against wind and water erosion. Whatever artifacts were hidden there had been safer beneath the ground.
       The carpenter's truck followed Preston's import down the driveway and onto York Boulevard, barely missing Hilary's Caprice turning in. She and Preston exchanged waves. The carpenter offered her an apologetic salute.
       Her car stopped, but she didn't get out. She can't be nervous about facing me or Jenny, Mark thought. No matter what her internal barometric pressure, Hilary was almost always externally calm. He admired that, and yet, at the same time, it annoyed him. If she could shout at Ben the way she'd shouted at him, she might finally heal. But Ben had intended to hurt her. Shouting was inadequate.
       "I'll put on the kettle," said Jenny, "if you and Hilary want a cuppa."
       "Thanks," Mark told her.
       Jenny trudged toward the house. Hilary was still sitting in the car. Mark thought about pressing his nose against the window and making faces at her, but when he saw her hands clenched on the steering wheel and her tight, pinched mouth, he decided against it. He opened the door. "Take off your coat and stay a while."
       "Oh, hi," she said, as if she hadn't expected to find him there. "How are you?"
       "Fair to middling,"
       "Oh."
       Mark helped her out of the car, retrieved and gave her her car keys, and shut the door. It was like manipulating a doll. "The Coburgs had a carpenter out here today, looking for the Cross, I guess. But Jenny thinks it's in the excavation."
       Hilary sent a searching glance across the dig. The clear plastic sheets, mottled with dirt, puffed as fitfully up and down in the wind as though the ground breathed.
       Now what? Mark asked himself.
       The wind whipped her hair back from her face, and her supple body bent like a reed in the blast. Mark braced her with an arm around her shoulders and told her about Zapata's visit, the picture of the sweater, and the garnet ring.
       She nodded. "That's not all, Mark. That's far from all."
       A gust of wind turned the leaves of the live oaks inside out. Raindrops hit Hilary and Mark like buckshot. They climbed back into her car and slammed the doors. A streak of lightning bifurcated the clouds, thunder rattled the windows, and rain pounded down on the roof. It was like sitting in a car wash, the world blurred behind a noisy cascade of water.
       Mark asked, "What's wrong?"
       "I looked at the Regensfeld artifacts today," Hilary said, her usually melodious voice dull and flat. "They're not the same. Someone's made a group of forgeries and left them in place of the real ones."
       Mark's jaw dropped, and his eyes bulged. In the back of his mind one tiny voice said, what the hell, while another said, of course.
       "Whoever did it must've killed Nathan. Maybe he found out. Maybe he wouldn't help. Maybe..." Hilary slapped the steering wheel in a gesture of mingled rage and frustration. "...maybe he was helping them."
       Mark managed to close his mouth. "Are you sure they're fakes? What tests did you do?"
       She turned on him, eyes blazing. He ducked. But she wasn't angry with him. "How can I do tests? I don't dare. Either someone who's in on the plot will notice, or someone who isn't will accuse me of overstepping my authority -- whichever, the word will get back to the killer."
       And then the killer would be after her. Mark laid a hand on her arm as if he could pull her back from danger. Every fiber of her body shivered.
       "God," Hilary murmured, "what should I do with the ivory Christ? If the other artifacts weren't safe at the museum, then it won't be, either."
       "Can you smuggle it out?"
       "Steal it?"
       "Protect it."
       Lightning struck nearby. A deafening explosion rocked the car, and the world flashed stark white. Mark winced. Hilary gasped, then inhaled, obviously trying to calm herself. Her eyes were enormous with confusion and fear that had nothing to do with the storm. He wanted to take her in his arms and tell her everything was all right, but from the set of her mouth and jaw he deduced she didn't want him to hug her. And everything wasn't all right.
       The rain slackened. Osborne loomed beyond the thrashing branches of the trees. "The house," Hilary said, "looks like the mansion in Poe's 'Fall of the House of Usher'. I keep expecting to see it slide into the excavation and disappear."
       "It might be better if it did." His hand tightened on her arm. "You have to tell Zapata about the forgeries. Give her the figure for safekeeping."
       "She'll ask for proof. I don't have any."
       "How did you know they were forgeries, then?"
       "By the way they feel. I know that sounds crazy, but -- but -- a forger can't copy the age of an object, the generations of use. Maybe that's what I sense...." Hilary's clenched fist hit the steering wheel again, this time in a gesticulation of decision. The horn bleated. "I can weigh them without hurting them! Weight is almost as hard to duplicate as age. I have the old numbers on the print-out."
       "Great! Good idea!"
       Hilary deflated. "Unless someone changed the computer files to match the new items. If he or she was competent enough to make such fine copies...."
       "You won't know until you check. Tell you what -- tomorrow morning you weigh the artifacts. I'll take a long lunch hour, and we'll go talk to Zapata."
       "I ought to tell Jenny," said Hilary, "but I'm afraid she'll come out fighting."
       "She's not that aggressive," Mark said and ignored Hilary's oh-yeah? look. The only reason he didn't quite trust Jenny, he assured himself, was because he didn't want her to have made an ass out of him.
       The rain thinned to a watery veil. A ray of sun gleamed beneath the lowering cloud, making Osborne House stand out starkly against the navy blue sky. The green-and-yellow of the turret shone like beacons. An attenuated human shape moved behind those multicolored windows.
       Hilary followed Mark's eye upward. "There's Jenny now."
       "That's not Jenny. That's not her body shape." He realized what he'd said when Hilary rolled her eyes heavenward. Groaning, he stepped out into the rain.
       The kitchen door opened. Jenny emerged onto the back porch and waved the teapot. Still the shape stood at the turret window.
       Mark raced through the squishy grass, Hilary at his heels. He brushed by Jenny, saying, "Someone's upstairs in the study. Come on."
       Jenny put the teapot down and seized her flashlight.
       The odd half light of the storm distorted the rooms and their antique furniture, so that Mark could have sworn gargoyle faces leered from shadowy corners. He wasn't about to stop and make their acquaintance. Hilary's breath was harsh beside him, her shoulder bumping his -- she saw them too, he thought incoherently. He wondered if ghosts existed only because people saw them.
       Jenny turned the flashlight on and off, replicating the flicker of lightning outside the fly-specked windows. The clock ticked hollowly in the hall, and the treads of the stairs groaned beneath their hurrying feet. No one was in the study. Mark raced up the tower stairs and was shamefacedly relieved to find no one there, either. Through a green pane of glass he inspected the plastic sheets covering the excavation, now sodden puddles of water. Hilary stood with her arms crossed. Jenny gazed at the empty chair and table, one hand outstretched. "He's not here," she said.
       "He?" Hilary asked. "I thought the ghost was a woman."
       "The ghost on the staircase is a woman. The one here and in the study -- the presence here, I should say, as I've never actually seen anything -- is a man. It's Arthur. It's my father. I've tried to talk to him, but I can't."
       Mark remembered sensing Arthur's presence here the morning after the murder. Jenny had told him of someone watching her while she slept. He himself had felt someone was watching them both as they slept together. But that had been the cat. Hadn't it?
       "Come through to the kitchen," Jenny said with a sigh. "The kettle's on, and I've been saving a bottle of Glenmorangie."
       "Funny," said Hilary, her voice quavering, "I never liked Scotch until I drank it in Scotland. The atmosphere, I guess."
       Right now Mark would've settled for considerably less atmosphere. In a tense, silent knot, he and the two women started back down the stairs, leaving the little turret room empty behind them.
--------
         *Chapter Sixteen*
       Just to make sure no flesh and blood person besides themselves was in the house, Mark, Hilary, and Jenny checked every room on their way back to the kitchen. They saw nothing and heard nothing except their own ragged breaths, the plod of their footsteps, and the insistent tick of the clock. Hilary couldn't vouch for the others, but she didn't even feel anything, and her nerves had been pared finely enough to sense the touch of a gnat's eyelash.
       When they walked through the parlor, Hilary kept her eyes on the smudged plaster ceiling. Through the soles of her shoes her feet sensed bare floor -- the police had carried away the blood-soaked carpet. Her mind's eye saw Nathan lying before the fireplace and then shied away.
       The roving beam of Jenny's flashlight found neat squares cut in the walls and ceilings of every downstairs room, just enough for a head, and a hand holding a light, to inspect the empty spaces between walls and floors. But Jenny suspected the Cross had been hidden in the old garage and she presumably had her reasons. Long nights tapping with sensitive fingertips on these very walls, no doubt. Long nights trying to reach the father she'd never known.
       The kitchen at Osborne would never again be as comfortable as Hilary had first thought. Like the tide creeping up a beach, the darkness of the house had at last engulfed it, too. Hilary remembered Mark's self-satisfied smile after their first tour. Damn the house, to lull him into complacency and then pounce. She wanted to hug him, but from the set of his mouth and jaw she deduced he'd object to that. Especially in front of Jenny.
       Jenny put the kettle on the burner. She brought out the bottle of whisky, assorted cups and glasses, and boxes of crackers and cookies. Biscuits, Hilary amended, since that's what Jenny would say. Mark stared into the empty fireplace. On the mantel Lucia's skeletons either dug a grave or searched for treasure. Graymalkin's chair sat beside the hearth, but the little cat was nowhere in sight.
       "I'll have to borrow Graymalkin sometime," Hilary said. "I've got a mouse in my kitchen."
       "Small as she is, she drags in all manner of things," Jenny returned. "Pre-emptive strikes, I suppose." She added slices of cheese to the platter.
       Next to the computer was a small white box pierced with holes. "A nursery monitor," Mark said. "Like a walkie-talkie. Where did you put the transmitter?"
       "At the top of the stairs," said Jenny.
       Hilary turned the dial. The electronically amplified tick-tock-tick of the grandfather clock reverberated in the speaker. Hastily she lowered the volume so that the ticking as was subtle as a heartbeat. "When did you get this?"
       "Sunday afternoon. I heard the piano and footsteps but couldn't make myself look. It wasn't Arthur. He never makes noise." The kettle whistled. Jenny poured boiling water into the teapot, placed the platter on the table, uncorked the whisky, and poured generous dollops into three glasses.
       "I wouldn't have looked," said Hilary. "I would've been afraid it was the killer revisiting the scene of the crime, not a ghost." Jenny shot her a grateful look. "So there are two ghosts. The woman -- Vicky, not Felicia -- plays the piano and walks up and down the stairs. Maybe she starts the clock. You saw her once, didn't you?"
       Jenny glanced reprovingly at Mark -- he'd told on her. He sat down at the table and made a cracker and cheese sandwich. "Yes," she replied. "Odd -- I've seen her, but I don't sense her presence. Not like I do Arthur's. Maybe ghosts fade out over time; she died in 1912, after all."
       "My mother," Mark admitted, "says she was hearing stories of Vicky's ghost when she was a little kid in the forties and fifties."
       Hilary realized this conversation was a continuation of one Mark and Jenny had already had; they'd worked through the obligatory "I must be crazy, I think I'm seeing ghosts". Scraping her chair, she sat down and took a cup of tea and a glass of whisky. The one was hot and sweet, the other as stinging fresh as sea spray over a Scottish cliff. Whisky, tea, and sympathy, she thought. Not a bad combination. Maybe she should be grateful for the ghost in the turret. Here she was sitting with Jenny without any awkward, accusatory preliminaries.
       "Remind me," Jenny said, "to get Arthur's notebook, the one in which he started his memoirs, back from Nathan's father. Someone should do a biography of the man, warts and all."
       "Arthur really is here?" Mark asked. "How do you know?"
       "I don't know how I know, but I do. I'm afraid that blood will tell."
       Hilary heard her own voice responding to Mark's question, By the way they feel.
       Jenny went on, "I don't think Arthur wants to leave his memories. So much of his personality is invested in his collections. We possess nothing certainly except the past, as Evelyn Waugh says."
       "What if we don't want the past?" Hilary asked. "Don't we possess a future, too?"
       "I hope so," said Mark. "Nathan's future was cut short."
       A breath of cold air wafted through the room. Thunder rumbled, rattling the teacups in their saucers, and another wave of rain assaulted the house. On the table the monitor ticked quietly. Hilary was facing away from the connecting door, and the back of her neck prickled. But if she wasn't safe with Mark and Jenny, she wasn't safe with anyone. Defiantly she took a chocolate biscuit and ate it in two bites.
       "Who killed Nathan?" Mark asked.
       Jenny poured him another dram. "His murder has something to do with Felicia's, I'm sure of that. Same method, right? And he was holding her sweater."
       "Zapata says that yarn from the sweater was caught on the box the figurine was in." Hilary held out her glass.
       "Arthur might have killed Felicia," said Mark, "but he certainly didn't kill Nathan."
       Jenny refreshed her own glass. "I don't think he killed Felicia. He was an overbearing tin-plated dictator with delusions of godhood, but I can't see him as a killer. Arthur and Felicia had their problems, true. She sold off some of Osborne's land -- I wonder now if that's where he hid the Eleanor Cross. But he'd have had plenty of time to retrieve it."
       "So could any one else," Mark pointed out. "The Coburgs could've had it all along."
       "All they'd need is the Christ figure to complete the set." The possibilities for more murder and mayhem were appalling; Hilary bit her lip, hard, to keep from listing them.
       "Personally," Jenny went on, "I think Dolores killed Felicia -- not that I can fathom why. But I'll be the first to admit I'm prejudiced against Dolores. My mother, by the way, was never in America."
       It had never occurred to Hilary that Pamela might have killed Felicia. Jenny had been listing her own possibilities, it seemed.
       The rain slackened again. Another feeble gleam of sunlight glanced through the kitchen windows. Mark rested his chin on his hand and his elbow on the table. "Me, I think Travis killed Nathan. Maybe his and Sharon's marriage was simply a dynastic merger, not a love match, but he'd still regard her as his. And for her to cross the ethnic boundary -- well, some of these society types are still just rednecks wearing cologne, with the mentality of cavemen. If that's not insulting cavemen."
       "The Ripper material was in a sports portfolio," offered Jenny, "and Travis seems to have little on his mind bar sports. Although, you have to admit, Sharon herself is just as likely a candidate for the killer -- a lover's quarrel, whatever. We all saw her ticking off that bloke at the reception."
       "We don't know why Sharon and Nathan got together to begin with," Hilary pointed out. "I could never see that they had anything in common, other than the museum...." She stopped abruptly.
       Mark shoved the plate of cookies and crackers toward her, offering what comfort he could. Jenny stood, got the tea kettle, and warmed up the pot. Hilary took so deep a gulp of tea that she burned her mouth. She saw the beauty and glory of the artifacts tarnished by lies, mockery, and fear.
       Mark was gazing at her expectantly. Yes, of course, she had to tell Jenny. Who had a better right to know?
       "I found the killer's prime motive this morning," Hilary said. "The Regensfeld artifacts." She explained, item by item, about the forgeries that had been substituted for the real objects, and how her own inexperience must figure in the plot. "Nathan had a copy of the catalogue printout on his desk the Wednesday I left," she concluded. "I hate to think he was part of the scam. I'd much prefer to think he discovered it, and the criminals eliminated him."
       "Vasarian." Jenny's face was as severe as that of a general sending her troops into battle, but she didn't, after all, jump up to lead the charge herself. "Maybe he's working with the Coburgs, maybe he's trying to do them over. What neck he has, to mention Van Meegeren's forgeries when he himself is involved in one of the all-time great confidence jobs."
       "Is he?" Mark asked. "I admit he has the background and the know-how to get the forgeries made, but wouldn't it be easier for him to simply substitute the fake pieces for the real ones after he leaves for Europe?"
       "The pieces would've been packed and sealed. And Vasarian thought he was leaving for Europe -- it's Nathan's death that's kept him here in Texas." Hilary rubbed her neck. Her muscles were sore; all day they'd been tense, anticipating a blow.
       Mark began massaging her shoulders. "If Vasarian was honest, he'd blow the whistle on the fakes just as quickly as Nathan would. Whereas the Coburgs wouldn't know the difference between real and fake -- they'd have to trust Vasarian. Has he seen the artifacts recently, do you know, Hilary?"
       "He was at the museum Friday night," she answered, "but not necessarily in the lab."
       "He might have done a bunk with the real ones on Friday," Jenny said. "Maybe he and the Coburgs are all in it together. Maybe the artifacts are already gone." She ran her hands through her hair, as though considering pulling it out by the roots.
       "Would Nathan confront them?" Mark asked. "Would he die for art -- for Christian art at that?"
       "For the concept, yes. For the principle." Hilary turned to Jenny. "Have you ever wondered if your mother's death was an accident?"
       Jenny's eyes widened. "The driver who hit her stopped and tried to help her. The police were satisfied it was an accident. Why do you ask? How could she have been a threat to anyone?"
       "Maybe she knew where the Cross was. Maybe someone thinks you know where it is." Gently Hilary put Mark's hands aside, uncomfortable with him touching her while Jenny watched. "I don't know, just a thought."
       "You're very comforting," Jenny said dryly.
       "About as comforting as you are, suggesting that the real artifacts are already gone."
       Mark asked, "How did the ivory figurine get into the study? Why did Nathan have it in his pocket? Why didn't he just leave it in the box, and ask you, Jenny, about it on Saturday?"
       "Because he'd seen the address on the box," Hilary answered. "He might've wondered why Jenny hadn't told him about it and was doubtful of her motives. He might've wanted to get the figure into the vaults at the Lloyd where it would be safe. Not that it is safe." And who the hell am I to sneak it out? she asked herself.
       "My motives do seem rather dicey." Jenny said and looked at Mark, not at Hilary.
       He shook his head, still stubbornly denying his suspicions of Jenny. But then, Hilary told herself, he only suspected her because he was afraid she had used him. Not that she did. She couldn't have. Hilary wondered why she, of all people, could be so sure Jenny was trustworthy. Probably because she was too tired to create any more conspiracy theories. "Nathan liked detective stories," she said. "He had a dogma-free perspective -- he could look at something from the outside, without preconceptions. I'm not surprised he'd figure out the artifact scam. I only wish he could help solve his own murder."
       "Indeed." Jenny got up from her chair and walked down the room to the connecting door, trailing a clenched fist along the countertops.
       Mark looked after her. "I don't see how you could've prevented his death."
       "By showing him the ivory figure straightaway?" she returned. "By putting him in the picture about Arthur and the Cross and me?"
       "I don't see how that would've made any difference," said Hilary stoutly, too well acquainted with her own games of what-if.
       Mark drained his cup and his glass. "Hilary and I were involved in a murder investigation last summer. I don't think police methods vary that much from country to country. But Zapata's up to her neck in cases -- the murder rate here in Fort Worth gets higher every year -- while the British cops were able to bring a full court press to the problem."
       "Eh?" Jenny asked. She leaned against the cabinet, hands braced on the edge of the counter.
       "Basketball analogy. It means all-out effort."
       "Ah. You're saying Detective Zapata needs our help."
       "The longer a case goes unsolved, the more chance it will never be solved. I sure don't want this one to go unsolved."
       "Right."
       Hilary swirled her remaining drops of whisky up the sides of her glass, pretending not to see the glance, part challenge, part regret, that passed between Mark and Jenny. The murder was only one of several problems, but it had become the focus of them all. "Means, opportunity, motive," she said quietly.
       "The means are obvious," Jenny said. "Someone killed Nathan with a knife. Whether the -- er -- embellishments indicate the same killer at work, or an imitator, or a berk with a sadistic streak, we can't say."
       "Even if we assume that the killer and the person who substituted the artifacts are one and the same," Mark pointed out, "that doesn't explain Felicia's death."
       "I talked to Leslie this afternoon," Hilary said. "Zapata was in the museum security office late Saturday, checking the logs for Friday night. Out of the likely people, only Vasarian was there. He signed out at nine-thirty and went off to the ball -- I doubt in a pumpkin coach, unless it was a jack-o-lantern." She was rewarded by smiles from Mark and Jenny. "I checked the logs back to Wednesday. All three of the Coburgs and Travis were in the lab at least once. Not to mention Bradshaw -- he was in and out several times. He might only be acting dumb, you know."
       Mark nodded. "The artifacts might have been switched earlier than Friday. One at a time, maybe, hidden beneath a jacket."
       "Or in Dolores's handbag," said Hilary.
       Jenny grinned, then quickly sobered. "As for a motive, the classics are love and money. In this case, it's money -- the artifacts, obviously."
       "You can't discount the bitter side of love," Mark pointed out. "Jealousy. Travis jealous over Sharon and Nathan. Dolores jealous over Felicia and Arthur. Or vice versa, for that matter -- what if Felicia attacked Dolores way back when, and she had to defend herself?"
       "Then why didn't she say so?" Jenny asked. No one answered.
       Thunder grumbled in the distance, retreating from the city. Water dripped outside. The tea kettle clicked on the stove as it cooled. If any ghosts glided through the front of the house, they did so in utter silence.
       Hilary ran her tongue over her lips; the tea and the whisky had left an unpleasant acid taste in her mouth. "It might help to research Coburg family dynamics -- Arthur, his parents, and so forth. There has to be reference material somewhere."
       "Preston can track a reference like a bloodhound," Mark said. "I'll ask him to help. And I'll talk to Lucia, too -- she worked for Felicia long enough to have uncovered a family skeleton or two. Maybe that's the real reason Dolores fired her."
       "I'd like to see those photographs of the charity ball," said Jenny.
       "Zapata sent Yeager to the newspaper office," Hilary told her. "I don't see why we can't do that, too -- it's public information."
       "We need to find the real artifacts." Mark took the last cracker from the platter and chewed thoughtfully. "Now that's a tall order."
       In the stillness the splash of water running off the eaves seemed as loud as Niagara. Jenny paced back to the table and collected the dishes. "Detective Zapata won't be best pleased to have three amateur criminalists mucking about in her procedures."
       Mark rubbed his forehead but couldn't erase the line engraved between his brows. "Tough. We have to do something, if only to save our sanity."
       Hilary found a dishcloth and stood ready to dry the cups and glasses as Jenny washed them. Talk about an uneasy alliance, she thought. Maybe she, Mark, and Jenny were sweeping important confrontations beneath the carpet and stepping carefully around a mound the size of the Hoosier Dome. Maybe they were being mature and letting bygones be bygones. She hoped it was the latter.
       "If you don't mind, Jenny," Mark said from the table, "I'll take Hilary downtown during my lunch hour tomorrow to tell Zapata about the artifacts. She needs to have all the evidence."
       Jenny nodded. "I'll hold the fort. No problem."
       "I can go by myself," Hilary told Mark.
       "I don't mind coming with you."
       "You don't have to."
       "I'd like to..."
       The door to the cabinet against which Jenny had been leaning opened with a slow, tooth-grating squeal. A cup fell from Jenny's hand into the soapy water and splashed Hilary's blouse. Mark leaped to his feet.
       Graymalkin stepped smugly out of the cabinet, dragging behind her a rodent half as big as she was.
       Hilary resumed breathing and mopped at her blouse. Mark's laugh sounded more like a groan.
       Jenny offered the cat a mock scowl. "That's twice, Mighty Hunter. So you have more than one secret passage, do you?" She picked up the flashlight and directed its beam into the cabinet. "Ah yes, an old drain. Opens beneath the veranda, I reckon. A proper moggie postern. I'll suss out the other end tomorrow."
       "That figures," said Mark. "As soon as Dolores turned her back the workmen hid holes in the wall instead of closing them off."
       Graymalkin dragged her prey to Jenny's feet, looked up and meowed. "Ambitious, aren't we? That's not a mouse, but a field rat...." Jenny's expression went from satirical to horrified. She threw down the flashlight, seized her reading glasses, and fell to her knees. Shoving Graymalkin's inquisitive nose aside, she retrieved two small white chips from the rat's fur. She peered at both so closely that her eyes crossed. "Hilary," she said, "is this ivory, or am I a whacking great idiot?
       Ivory? Hilary dropped down beside Jenny, took a tiny chip, and held it to the light. "Looks like it. Feels like it. Could be old bone, I guess."
       Paper fluttered as Mark laid a sheet of plastic on the table. With thumb and forefinger he picked up the rat by the tail and set it on the sheet. Jenny rooted in the box of supplies next to the computer and produced a pair of tweezers. Graymalkin jumped up in a chair ready to defend her prize.
       Hilary tried to forget everything she'd ever learned about rats, fleas, and the black plague. With the tweezers she rescued three more chips. "I see what I'll be doing tomorrow morning after I weigh the artifacts -- testing these. Jenny, they might not be walrus ivory." She didn't have to add that they might not be from the Eleanor Cross.
       Jenny folded away her glasses. She found a small jeweler's box in the supply box. Hilary placed each chip carefully inside and taped down the lid. Jenny's face reminded her of pictures taken in London during the Blitz, the dome of St. Paul's cathedral rising in desperate aloofness from flames and smoke.
       Mark took the dead rat to the trash can outside the door. Graymalkin sat down with a thump, the angle of her ears and whiskers denoting bemused indignation: _People! A nice fresh rat and they throw it away!_
       Jenny turned on the hot water in the sink and doled out squirts of disinfectant. Pine-flavored steam billowed upward into the cool air. The water spot on Hilary's blouse was icy. "I'll let you know as soon as I learn anything," she told Jenny. "Thanks for the tea."
       Mark offered Jenny a thin, not entirely humorless smile.
       Outside it was twilight. The clouds still hung heavy in the east, but the west was clear, shaded gold, red, and orange, and the air was scoured as damp and clean as Hilary's hands.
       "I'll meet you here at noon," Mark told her. "I'll drive."
       Hilary swallowed her protest; they didn't need to compete. She gave Mark a quick, astringent kiss. His van turned one way on York Boulevard, her car the other.
         * * * *
When Hilary arrived at the condo, she checked every door and window. She tried not to think about the rat's death-scummed eyes and the bloody wound in its neck. She tried not to imagine Nathan lying in the parlor, gnawed by shadows. She tried not to worry about the Cross -- the ivory chips were from something else. It was the figure of Christ that was in danger.
       That night Hilary dozed fitfully, and by the time dawn began leaking into the room she couldn't sleep at all. She climbed out of bed and dressed, then forced herself to read every section of the newspaper so she wouldn't get to the Lloyd suspiciously early. Then she found herself in a traffic jam on York and arrived ten minutes late. The museum's granite facade blushed pink in the clear cool morning light, as though the rising sun had caught it in mischief. A meadowlark sang an aria from a nearby pecan tree.
       Hilary sped down the hallway to the lab, nodding to Leslie as she passed. If Mark was asking Preston to help dig out the family skeletons, then she should ask Leslie to help, too. Not now, though. Not when she was carrying her largest handbag and debating larcenous intentions.
       Within moments she had the box of artifacts on her worktable -- six fakes and one genuine antique. She lifted out the ivory figurine and touched it with a gloved fingertip. This was just a piece of old bone. It was the emotion, the love and the faith, that had gone into its shaping that made it valuable. It was the inspired artistic skill. How could she let it go to someone who saw only its dollar value?
       She set the figure on some tissue paper and one by one unwrapped the forgeries. Again, for just a moment, she doubted her own senses. But the objects weren't real antiquities.
       She retrieved her file on the computer and compared it to the printout she'd made yesterday. The weights were the same. So far so good. She set a scale on the table and laid the bishop chess piece on it. All right! This one was three tenths of an ounce lighter. Not very much but, dammit, if Olympic records were decided in thousandths of a second, then surely a few tenths of an ounce could decide an art forgery.
       "Good morning, sugar!"
       Hilary spun around, her heart plugging her throat and forcing her eyes to bulge.
       Travis Ward stood behind her. He looked like the proverbial bull in a china shop. "Aw hell," he said, "I really throwed you, didn't I? I'm sorry."
       Hilary managed to mutter something ambiguous.
       Travis looked over his shoulder. Nicholas Vasarian stood chatting affably with June, nodding now and again toward the painting under restoration. "He wanted to check on the thingamabobs you have there. Dolores had a board meeting, so I'm playing gopher. Nick's okay, for a foreigner."
       Hilary shrank toward the artifacts. If Vasarian pointed out they were fakes, the egg was really going to hit the fan -- without Mark, Jenny, and Hilary doing the egg-pitching. If he didn't, he'd condemn himself.
       "You okay, sugar? You look like you swallowed a horny toad. All this murder stuff kind of sticks in the old craw, doesn't it?" Travis didn't pat her shoulder so much as caress it with a meaty hand. She flinched.
       Here came Vasarian. Travis found himself removed several paces away, blinking in bafflement, while the art expert greeted Hilary. "I'd like to see the Christ figurine for a moment, if it's no trouble."
       "No trouble," said Hilary. With her foot she shoved her handbag further under the table. Damn. She couldn't take the Christ, Vasarian -- or someone -- would miss it.
       With his Armani suit and silver hair, Vasarian played the part of the European aristocrat perfectly. Although he probably had just about as much noble blood as she did, Hilary thought. Despite Olivia's frequent protestions that Everett's family had come over on the Mayflower, they could only have done so if the Mayflower had docked at Ellis Island.
       "Lovely," Vasarian pronounced. "A shame the Cross is still missing."
       "Yes, it is."
       His elegant hands tugged on the paper beneath the reliquary, scooting it closer without touching it. Hilary watched, not daring to blink. Perhaps that was satisfaction in his scorched eyes, perhaps not. But he certainly didn't look in the least bewildered.
       He inspected the bishop, the brooch, and the Bible cover. He asked Hilary to hold up the Giotto painting and the boxwood misericord. Forcing her hands to remain steady, she did. He only looked at her once, sending another sword-flash query in her direction. Every muscle in her body spasmed in dread and anticipation, but he said nothing.
       At last he thanked her and turned away. Travis waited, his hat pushed back on his head, his thumbs hooked in his belt so that his hands framed the obscene buckle.
       "I'm going to browse through the galleries," Vasarian told him. "The morning light has such a crystalline quality, doesn't it?"
       "Sure thing," said Travis brightly. "I'll go get some java. Want to join me, sugar?
       "No, thank you," Hilary said, her voice almost squeaking.
       "Your loss." Saluting her with a forefinger to the brim of his hat, Travis loped away at Vasarian's heels.
       Hilary set the painting down and leaned against the table, trying to keep herself from sliding bonelessly off the stool. Vasarian hadn't recognized the artifacts as fakes. Those quick sideways thrusts of perception had been evaluations of her own knowledge -- or lack of it.
       She toyed for a moment with the idea that Vasarian wasn't really an art expert at all, but some penniless Transylvanian parasite.... But no, she'd too frequently seen his name and picture. He had to be cheating the Coburgs. Not that she was eager to defend them. The artifacts, and Nathan, and Jenny -- that was where she drew her defensive line.
       Chewing her lipstick, Hilary forced herself to focus on her task. She weighed each artifact, noting small but significant discrepancies on her printout, and folded the paper into her purse. Then, with a wary glance behind her, she pulled out the jeweler's box.
       She applied microscope, ultraviolet light, and a discreet comparison peck at the authentic ivory of the Christ figure. The five chips were walrus ivory. Old walrus ivory. God, Hilary moaned to herself. The Cross is on Osborne property, and rats are chewing at it.
       One more hour until noon. Hilary busied herself collecting packing materials for the artifacts. She couldn't improve on the polyurethane nest Jenny had made for the figurine, but it was a miracle the other objects had arrived in Fort Worth in such pristine condition, mailed from Germany by Arthur in the 1940's. She felt like a hypocrite for packing forgeries so carefully when the real artifacts were gone.
       At ten minutes to twelve Hilary stowed everything, including the figurine, in the strongroom and headed upstairs. As she passed the security room, she called cheerfully to Leslie, "Keep an eye on things!"
       "That's what they're paying me for," the guard returned, nonplussed.
       Hilary breezed down the hall. The door to the director's office opened, and Wes Bradshaw peered out. "Hilary, come in here just a moment, please."
       Hilary detoured into Bradshaw's den and shifted from foot to foot while he sat down at his desk and arranged antacid tablets like checkers before him. "How are you getting along with the artifacts?" he asked.
       "Fine. I'm starting to pack them."
       "They're all right then. The little Jesus and everything."
       "They're fine," Hilary lied. Now's your chance, she said to herself. If I can get him to look at them.... "Dr. Bradshaw, there might be more fakes in the museum than just the Van Meegeren."
       "My predecessor went overboard in weeding out the copies. But everything's under control now." Bradshaw's tiny features creased even smaller. He took two tablets, put them in his mouth, and crunched.
       Hilary set her chin. "Do you suppose we could get the Regensfeld artifacts copied before Mr. Vasarian takes them away?"
       "No, I don't think so. Not a good idea."
       "Perhaps Mrs. Coburg would like souvenirs."
       "The artifacts are much too important to entrust to a copier. I think you can just stick to your job, Hilary, and not get sidetracked about that kind of thing."
       "Yes, sir," Hilary said, feeling as though she'd been lashed with a wet noodle. She slipped out of the room and asked the bronze goddess in the outer office, "Was there any significance in that?"
       The goddess didn't answer. Shaking her head and reassuring herself that she was much too young to have a heart attack, Hilary walked out into the parking lot and climbed into her car.
       Someone had bumped into her side mirror. She rolled down her window, reached out to adjust it, and saw reflected a maroon BMW which was parked in a handicapped spot. As Hilary looked, the tinted window on the BMW's passenger side glided down. Inside were Sharon and her red corona of hair, her lips moving in some obviously spiteful statement. Beside her Travis's hat glimmered faintly behind the windshield, like a manta ray in deep water.
       Quarreling again? Hilary asked herself. Not that she could feel particularly smug about lovers' quarrels.
       Sharon's hand flashed out. Travis's hat vanished from the windshield, knocked into the back seat. Two huge hands appeared from the shadows and closed on Sharon's throat.
       Hilary sat openmouthed. That was more than a quarrel.
       Sharon's fingers curved into talons, her lacquered nails glinting red. She struck. A muffled yowl emanated from the car. The big hands vanished. Sharon threw the door open and catapulted out, her own screamed obscenities mixing with and matching her husband's.
       _Good Lord!_ Hilary started her own car, backed out with a screech of tires, and fled the scene. In her rearview mirror Sharon and the BMW dwindled and vanished.
       In her mind's eye Hilary saw hands, large meaty ones, or thin sharp-nailed ones, or even long, elegantly tapered ones, carrying a knife through the darkness of Osborne House.
--------
         *Chapter Seventeen*
       Mark left the dig early enough to rush over to his apartment and clean off several layers of dirt, charcoal, and sweat. He returned to find Hilary already there, sitting with Preston beside the widening garage excavation. He touched up something on his drawing board, she made a pencil mark of her own, and they nodded in mutual satisfaction.
       Jenny had reluctantly abandoned her idea of keeping the amateur fingers out of the pie. Now she and a couple of the more reliable students were expanding the peg and string grid across the garage ruins. As Mark approached she called, "Lunch break!"
       The students drifted away. Preston thanked Hilary and followed. He'd already promised to do some research on the Coburgs -- "gossip column archaeology" he'd termed it. Mark and Jenny hadn't told him about the artifact forgeries. Anyone who knew about them was not necessarily in danger, Mark rationalized, but the knowledge simply wasn't relevant to Preston's work.... Right.
       Hilary turned to Mark with what she obviously intended to be a smile. But her face was drawn too tight; he could almost see the sunlight shining through her, as though she were an image on a stained glass window. Even the waves of her hair seemed tightly clenched. For one dizzying moment he wanted nothing more than to carry her off to his apartment, lay her across his bed, and make love to her until the world and its terrors dissolved away.
       He cleared his throat. "Hello, sweetness."
       "Everybody has a nickname for me," she retorted.
       "Hello, Hilary."
       "Sorry," she said.
       "Everyone's gone," Jenny called, leaping from the trench. "You can tell me about your tests now."
       "The artifacts don't weigh the same," Hilary reported. "Small discrepancies, but important, I think. I wrote it all down."
       "And the ivory bits?"
       "They're old walrus ivory, all right. I don't know whether to be glad the Cross really is here somewhere or upset that rats have gotten to it."
       Jenny jerked as though slapped across the face, but her expression didn't change. "I found the end of that old drain beneath the veranda. The crawl space is still the tangle of rats' nests and cobwebs it was when I searched it two weeks ago. No Cross, not even any more ivory chips. Did you bring the figure out safely?"
       "No. Vasarian came to look at it. I didn't dare take it. Not unless we had a fake of our own, and I wouldn't begin to know where to get one."
       "Maybe he's planning to get one from Taiwan or wherever the others were made," said Mark. "You sure he didn't have a camera behind his lapel or something?"
       Hilary rolled her eyes at him. "God only knows."
       "Did he look at the rest of the artifacts?" Jenny asked.
       "Yes, he did. He acted as though they were perfectly genuine."
       "Bastard!" Jenny kicked at a dirt clod.
       Hilary's lips tightened over her teeth, making her look like a snarling kitten. "I made some general statement about fakes to Bradshaw, trying to get him to go look at the artifacts, but he basically told me to mind my own business. And then I saw Sharon and Travis fighting in the parking lot. Not just arguing -- physically fighting. _Merde de vache!_"
       Mark had to smile; she'd learned years ago, she'd told him, to swear in French so her mother wouldn't be shocked.
       Jenny emitted a dry laugh. "Yes, I'd say we were hip-deep in _merde_."
       A TV station van cruised slowly by; Mark hummed a few bars of the "Jaws" theme. The carpenter hurried across the veranda and down the steps to his truck. It spun out of the driveway like a sled pursued by wolves and vanished up York Boulevard. A cloud drifted across the sun, and the leaves of the oaks exchanged secrets with the breeze.
       Mark glanced at his watch. "Yeager said we could meet them at a truck stop out on the Jacksboro Highway -- some kind of stake-out, I gather."
       "Kind of them to make time for you," Jenny said.
       "Yeah." Mark ushered Hilary to his van and headed toward the interstate. Soon the gleaming shopping malls on the west side of town gave way to down-at-the heels mobile home parks and adult video stores. Mark turned into the parking lot of a low building. Its windows were all but obscured by posters advertising tractor pulls, wrestling matches, and rodeos. "Jackelope Cafe" proclaimed a sign picturing a rabbit with antlers.
       "A jackelope?" Hilary asked.
       "Local Loch Ness monster, sort of. Like a cattywampus."
       "Yes, dear."
       Behind the cafe was a motel apparently made of cardboard shoeboxes. Several cars and a truck loaded with oil field equipment sat on the gravel-pocked blacktop. Mark parked his van between two pickups. "I hope you're not expecting a salad bar."
       Hilary shook her head. "Don't worry."
       They stepped into the dim interior of the restaurant and stood blinking. The latest Reba McEntire hit wafted from a speaker. A charred grill was a study in grease stratigraphy. Advertisements for various brands of beer were posted next to cereal promotions. Several male customers leaned over their bellies to reach the counter, gimme caps pushed back on their heads. They looked curiously around, registered first Hilary, then Mark at her side, and turned back to their chicken-fried steaks.
       The odd couple of detectives sat in a booth in a corner, where two windows afforded a view of the motel. Zapata moved to Yeager's side of the table, carefully draping her pin-striped jacket over the back of the seat. Mark wondered what she was concealing beneath it.
       He and Hilary slipped into the booth. A waitress with teased hair and a mouth full of gum lounged toward them. They ordered soft drinks and barbecue sandwiches. She lounged away.
       Zapata rammed a straw into her glass of shaved ice and tea. "What's up?"
       Hilary pulled out a printout and spread it on the table. In a few terse words she explained about the artifacts. Her forefinger, every bit as ramrod straight as Jenny's, emphasized the incriminating numbers.
       The detectives stared. "Do you realize what you're saying?" Yeager exclaimed. "You might have uncovered the motive for the murder!"
       "One of the motives," Zapata pointed out. "The business with the artifacts doesn't explain everything. Especially not Felicia's murder, not that we're likely to solve that after all this time. You're sure you weighed the artifacts right to begin with?"
       "Yes," Hilary replied rather stiffly.
       "Who else have you told about -- ah -- your suspicions?"
       "Mark. Jenny. I tried to hint to Dr. Bradshaw, but he didn't react."
       Zapata's narrow glance at Mark expressed reservations about sharing important information with suspects. Come off it, he said mutely, and glared back at her. Shrugging, she turned to look out at the motel.
       The waitress plunked bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches down in front of the detectives and bulbous glasses of Coke and Dr. Pepper before Hilary and Mark. Yeager took a sizable bite of his sandwich. Zapata inspected hers first, removing a shred of brown lettuce. "You haven't consulted with Mr. Vasarian?"
       "When he looked at the artifacts this morning he didn't express so much as one doubt about them."
       "You think he made the switch?" asked Yeager around his sandwich.
       Zapata answered, "He said he was in the museum Friday night to pick up a copy of your catalogue, that Nathan had left one for him."
       "There was one on Nathan's desk Wednesday," Hilary confirmed.
       "A catalogue of the genuine artifacts," added Mark. He took a drink of Dr. Pepper. He'd never seen any of the artifacts, genuine or otherwise. Except the Jesus figurine, and that was just a glimpse. Neither had Jenny, that he knew of. But when it came to her work, Hilary exuded self-confidence. He'd never doubted her suspicions for a moment.
       An air-conditioning vent oozed a dank draft. Reba gave way to a voice that could have been George Strait's -- country music wasn't Mark's strong point. The waitress brought two more sandwiches, chopped mystery meat in a viscous brown sauce on hamburger buns, ringed by potato chips and pickles. Hilary forked up a bite and made a face.
       Yeager finished his sandwich and swiveled to scan the parking lot and the facade of the motel. Zapata gnawed off a bite of mayonnaise-sodden toast and chewed, delicately, as though even her teeth were alert. "How could Vasarian get away with such a scam?"
       "Once he and the Lloyd certified the artifacts as genuine," Hilary explained, "no one in Regensfeld would ever question the replacements. They're beautifully made, works of art in themselves. There was a case in Holland back in the forties where a man forged eight Vermeers and fabricated a history for them. Despite the difference between his style and that of the real painter, museums and collectors paid exorbitant amounts for his work without doing one scientific test. Even when he confessed to the forgery, some experts still claimed the paintings were genuine."
       "Vasarian mentioned Van Meegeren the other day," Mark said, "which may have been more challenge than coincidence. The first time we met him he was talking about the intrinsic value of the artifacts."
       Yeager looked back into the room. "We did check him out, by the way. He's who he says he is, a consultant for most of the major European art collections."
       "I could've told you that," said Hilary.
       "Can't you just see Vasarian," Zapata said, "aiming a dueling pistol right between your eyes and then pulling his shot, just to humiliate you?"
       "He reminds me of my grandfather, the one we used to call 'the Prussian'. Smoother, though." Yeager drained his glass of tea.
       An electronic burp came from beneath Zapata's jacket -- aha, Mark thought, a walkie-talkie. She glanced toward the motel. A maid trundled a cart of linens dejectedly down the sidewalk.
       The barbecue sandwich was congealing in Mark's stomach, making him feel as though he'd swallowed a soccer ball. Hilary had abandoned hers and was munching the stale potato chips.
       "What about the real artifacts?" Zapata asked.
       "Vasarian could sell them to a private collector," Hilary answered. "Or he could keep them himself. I'd expect the Coburgs to keep them and the ransom money and gloat all the way to the bank."
       "The Coburgs?" Yeager repeated. "Aren't they Vasarian's victims? He already admitted not telling Dolores what he knew about the Cross."
       Hilary wriggled uneasily. Mark snaked his arm along the back of the seat behind her and said, "Yeah, well -- who are we going to believe? The Coburgs kept the artifacts more or less illegally for years. Nathan was killed in their house. They could well be working with Vasarian."
       Zapata's eyes glinted bright and dark, polished onyx turned beneath a light. Her lips curved in a speculative smile. Putting away a pride of social lions would make a detective's reputation, Mark told himself.
       Yeager still looked shocked. Hilary compounded her heresy by detailing Sharon's and Travis's fight in the Lloyd parking lot.
       "Kenneth said she has quite a temper." Zapata nodded. "And it was her hair on Nathan's shirt. Although that's easily explained."
       "Got a hair sample from her beauty parlor," added Yeager.
       "I wouldn't believe anything Kenneth says," Mark stated. "I bet they all have good tempers. Sharon and Travis use bludgeons, Kenneth and Dolores stilettos."
       "Would any of them use a bowie knife?" Zapata managed to drain her tea without dumping the solidified lump of ice onto her blouse.
       "A bowie knife," Hilary said doubtfully.
       "An Arkansas toothpick," explained Mark. "Kind of a pregnant chef's knife. Over a foot long, including the handle -- not something I'd like to meet in a dark parlor. That was the murder weapon, then?"
       "The medical examiner thinks it's likely," said Zapata.
       "Is that something Vasarian would have?" Mark went on. "Sounds more like Travis. Like I was saying yesterday," he added to Hilary.
       Zapata's eyebrows did a slow wave of skepticism. But she couldn't stop anyone from thinking about the case.
       Hilary scooted closer to Mark, linking personal spaces. The angle of Yeager's mouth commented on Mark's and Hilary's more-than-friends positioning. Mark ignored him. The sun shimmered off the blacktop parking lot. The maid trudged back again and disappeared around the corner.
       Hilary gave up on the potato chips and pushed her plate away. "Jenny thinks the Eleanor Cross is somewhere on the Osborne property. The cat dragged in a rat last night with bits of walrus ivory in its fur. That's what the Christ figure is made of."
       Zapata winced. "The figure hasn't been substituted, I take it?"
       Mark and Hilary shared a quick, surreptitious glance. "Not yet," Hilary replied. "I thought about sneaking it out and bringing it to you for safekeeping, but I was afraid someone would miss it."
       "Sneak it out?" Yeager queried indignantly.
       "No problem," said Zapata, not quite quelling a laugh. "I'll have our lab request it for more tests. Who's the security guard that's studying for the police exam -- Leslie Underwood? She can bring it down to headquarters."
       "Thanks," Hilary told her.
       So much for his moment of larceny, Mark told himself.
       "Anything else?" Zapata folded the printout, slipped it into her purse, and craned her neck to look over at the motel. That was probably a dismissal, but Hilary didn't give up easily.
       "Yes," she said with another sideways glance at Mark. "There are ghosts at Osborne House. Not that that necessarily has anything to do with the murders or the artifact scam, but you yourself said it was hard to tell what was evidence and what wasn't."
       As one Yeager and Zapata turned back to the room, he rolling his eyes, she tilting her head. "I've been hearing ghost stories about the place for years," she said, "but never put much faith in them."
       "Jenny's living there, and she's seen and felt -- well, something." Mark shifted uncomfortably. "She's not the type to imagine anything."
       "I'm not saying she's imagining anything," Zapata replied, "I simply doubt if what she's seeing are supernatural apparitions. More likely some human being's playing games with her. Or with the Coburgs, since the stories go back so far." She said to Yeager. "Remind me to ask Mrs. Hernandez about this." Then, turning back to Mark and Hilary, she added, "We have been working on this case, believe it or not."
       Mark replied, "We're not trying to step on your lines."
       "You do realize you're in danger," Yeager said to Hilary. "If the murderer finds out you discovered the forgeries...."
       Hilary said bravely, "I know."
       Kicking Yeager beneath the table was hardly appropriate. Mark rested his fingertips on Hilary's shoulder. Her body hummed like a high-voltage wire.
       "The art forgery story is a good one," Zapata told them, "but technically it isn't in my jurisdiction. I don't want the fraud squad to go scaring off any murder suspects, though, so I won't pass it onto them just yet. I've already told Vasarian not to leave town." She leaned across the table, her voice low, her expression stern. "Y'all don't start playing TV detective -- leave this case to the professionals. If Nathan had come to us with the art fraud to begin with, he might not be dead now."
       "You don't know that," Mark told her.
       She didn't bother to slip her iron hand back into its velvet glove. "Don't split hairs with me. We've got a very frustrated psychopath out there. The profiles indicate he won't hesitate to kill again. Don't tempt him. Or her, as the case may be."
       Her jacket crackled with electronic voices. Zapata and Yeager spun toward the window. A door in the facade of the motel opened, and a disheveled man stood on the sidewalk looking warily right and left.
       "Excuse us." Zapata leaped up, putting on her jacket and giving Mark a fleeting glimpse of the hardware concealed inside it.
       "This is going to wrap up a case," Yeager explained. He threw some bills down beside the cash register and followed Zapata out the door. Every face along the counter swung toward the back windows. Mark felt as though he and Hilary were caught in a crossfire. He pulled her out of the booth and reached for his wallet.
       The parking lot erupted with people, most of them wearing jackets labeled "Police" in garish yellow letters. Zapata and Yeager sped across the blacktop. The suspect dived back inside. Shouts echoed, and something splintered and broke behind the building.
       First one, then several more sharp reports sounded from the motel room. The official jackets dived for cover. Yeager picked up Zapata like a toy and went to ground behind the oil field equipment. She elbowed him impatiently away and peered around the corner, gun in hand.
       An officer appeared in the doorway, shaking his head and waving a rifle. Slowly the other police converged on the now silent room. The denizens of the truck stop shrugged and turned back to their lunches.
       Mark and Hilary piled into his van and drove quickly away. After ten minutes or so of oppressive silence, Hilary said under her breath, "'Love, let us be true to one another'." Mark was trying to decide whether she was making some snide remark about his moment with Jenny when she went on, "'For we are here as on a darkling plain, swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, where ignorant armies clash by night.' Or by afternoon, I suppose."
       Oh. "Dover Beach," with apologies for her edited version. Funny, when other women quoted poetry at him, it seemed either goofy or pretentious, but when Hilary did it, she was so wistfully charming he wanted to hug her. "Would you like me to stay with you at night? I'll sleep on the couch."
       "No, Mark, I don't need to be scared any more than I already am."
       "I'm not trying to scare you...." Ah, hell, he thought. He drove with one hand, enfolding her hand with the other. She hung onto him and at the same time looked out the window, presenting him with the back of her head and the angle of her shoulder. She wanted to forgive him, he guessed, but hadn't quite worked up to it. Calling him "love" had been simple rhetoric.
       He delivered her to Osborne House and her car, and watched her drive away. Jenny, Preston, and the pet students were producing ceramic shards from the garage trench. Mark inspected the scattered pieces baked onto the cement floor of the building. Not pottery, he decided. Porcelain.
       "Only the Coburgs would keep porcelain in their garage," said Jenny, holding one scrap a couple of feet from her face and squinting. "I reckon this is part of a Meissen figurine."
       "Bag me a few pieces, and I'll let Hilary look at them," Mark told her.
       "Right." Jenny inched a little farther away from the students and asked under her breath, "What did the detectives say?"
       "They'll send for the Christ figure. That should keep it safe. As for everything else...." He snorted. "They listened more or less politely, and agreed that artifact forgery is a likely motive for Nathan's murder, but what they're going to be able to do I don't know. They barely managed to wedge us in before they got involved in a shoot-out."
       Jenny's eyes widened. "Just like on the telly, eh?"
       "Afraid so...." Mark turned.
       Amy was hovering expectantly. "I found some old beer bottles."
       "Great!" Mark went to deal with both girl and bottles, thinking how gawky was the former compared to Hilary, and how uninspiring the latter compared to the Cross. The afternoon progressed and the trench expanded, the students working with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Osborne dozed in the afternoon sun. The carpenter never returned from lunch.
       Although Mark lingered to take photographs after everyone else had left, Jenny didn't ask him in for tea. As he drove away, he saw her petting Graymalkin on the back porch, gazing up at Osborne's topmost turret like a sapper planning how to bring down the walls of a fortress.
       That evening Mark had Hilary over for hamburgers, cooking the meat patties on a tiny hibachi beneath Lucia's oak tree and feeling disconcertingly domestic. Hilary sat on the bench encircling the tree trunk and considered the ceramic scraps. "As far as I can tell without a microscope, Jenny's right. This is a fragment of a Meissen figurine. This one is from a Royal Worcester teacup. This one is Wedgewood, I think -- a pity it burned, I can't tell what kind of glaze it had."
       "That leaflet about Osborne said the house was once full of 'vases, decorative pieces, and tableware'."
       "Maybe Dolores was storing some of the old-fashioned pieces in the garage workshop and they were destroyed in the fire. Maybe they were broken and she was having them mended. Although my mother sends her Staffordshire to an expert restorer."
       Mark flipped a hamburger and sprinkled pepper on it. "I'll ask Preston to ferret out the reports on the fire -- that should give us an idea of what was destroyed."
       "Funny how it's never occurred to us to simply ask Dolores." Hilary replaced the fragments in their bags and went to get the buns and relishes.
       They did not conclude the evening in Mark's brass bed. He went there alone, to dream fitfully of Rosalind Zapata playing Rambo.
         * * * *
Wednesday morning dawned tentatively. Mist gathered around Osborne House as though the mansion were veiling its face in shame. Mark took his suit and tie to work and at eleven used Jenny's bedroom -- not without a glance or two at the bed -- to change. Graymalkin watched him so clinically, he wondered if she were envisioning him as a main dish garnished with catnip.
       At eleven-thirty Hilary picked up both Mark and Jenny and drove to Temple Ahavoth Shalom for Nathan's funeral. The grim silence in the car was broken only by Hilary reporting that Leslie had taken the ivory figurine downtown, where it was now safe in the police strongroom. "The genuine figure," she added. "I checked it before I gave it to her."
       The temple was scented not by funeral wreaths but by the acrid odor of fear. Jenny sat, head bowed, hands twisting in her lap. It wouldn't do any good to reach across and separate those nervous fingers, Mark told himself; she wanted to think Nathan's death was somehow her fault.
       He looked around at Hilary, pale and composed in her tasteful dark dress, and resisted the impulse to leap from his seat and scream in frustration. It was like having yeast fermenting inside his gut, fed by fear and anger, a head of irritation foaming in the back of his throat.
       Bradshaw, the Coburgs, and the museum contingent displayed suitably sober expressions. Nathan's father and sisters looked stunned. The rabbi delivered an inspired but not, under the circumstances, inspiring eulogy. The service was a reproach, to the killer and to those who by ignorance or design had empowered him. Her, Mark thought. Maybe her.
       The day had cleared and grown hot while they were inside. At Osborne the students were stripped to tank tops and shorts. Hilary muttered, "See you later," and returned to the Lloyd. Preston handed the reins of the dig back to Jenny. Mark changed back into his jeans and T-shirt.
       That afternoon the students at the garden trench reached bedrock, and Mark started them on a fourth trench in the debris. In the third trench, Hong found a Franklin Roosevelt campaign button, which, Mark pointed out, might explain the cache of beer bottles Amy had found yesterday. The students replied with blank looks. Sighing, he explained about Roosevelt and the repeal of Prohibition. Prohibition? the students asked. No beer? Major bummer.
       Jenny, every movement sharp and meticulous, continued peeling away the stratum of dirt over the ruins of the garage. Mark cleared as much of the floor that had so far emerged. Beneath the shards the concrete was stained with soot; the ceramics had broken during the fire, perhaps by falling off a collapsing shelf.
       Methodically Mark recorded every fragment. The late afternoon sun was pouring honey through the trees, repeating the effect of the Tiffany turret, when he waved good-bye to Preston and carried the shards inside.
       Jenny was already seated at the computer, entering the position and type of each fragment, Graymalkin reposing helpfully on a stack of printouts next to the white box of the nursery monitor. "Curiouser and curiouser," Jenny said. "No shelves -- no traces of wood or metal. And look at the distribution pattern of the pieces. The objects fell not from above but from the side."
       "Someone threw them," Mark said.
       "Exactly. From the direction of the outer door, I think." She indicated the photograph of Arthur and Felicia and the rose bushes. Behind them was the complete garage/carriage house, the large doors for vehicles flanked by a smaller one. "And they were all thrown at the same time. See how the different pieces are mixed together and how the burn marks correspond? I'd say the Coburgs were using the garage as a rubbish tip, except that these pieces are much too dear to bung about. If Dolores didn't want them, she could've sold them for a packet."
       "Maybe little Sharon had a temper tantrum and smashed them.... No, she'd hardly have been standing in the doorway as the garage was burning. And Dolores and the kids were out of town that night, weren't they?"
       "So Arthur testified," Jenny said. Mark knew that if he touched her shoulder, she, too, would be electrically charged.
       He didn't. In the bedroom he found his suit jacket crumpled on the floor. Since it was adorned with various gray hairs, it had probably had feline help in jumping off its hanger. He picked it up and shook it out.
       The back door opened. Hilary's voice called, "Anybody home?"
       "Hello, Hilary," Jenny replied. "Come in."
       "Is Mark here?" The door shut, and footsteps crossed the floor.
       Mark smoothed the jacket over its hanger. His "Hi!" was covered by Jenny's flat, "He's collecting his clothes in the bedroom." She could've said that some other way, Mark thought.
       Pottery shards clinked. "Wow," said Hilary, without enthusiasm. "Sevres. Old Sevres -- this style was discontinued around the turn of the century. Arthur started his collection back when antique porcelain was a bargain. Did he ever mention it in his notebook?"
       "I don't know," Jenny replied. "I never read his notebook. Too squeamish, to tell the truth."
       "Afraid he'd say something unflattering about your mother?"
       "Quite. But now I must read it. I asked Jacob Sikora for it after the funeral. He said he'd look for it among Nathan's things."
       Mark hung the jacket back on the doorknob. The women's voices chafed against each other, a reminder of Nathan's funeral coming altogether too close upon a reminder of Mark's -- well, Hilary would call it infidelity.
       Jenny continued, "Mr. Sikora also said he would recommend a lawyer, if Mark or I need a defense. But I don't see that we do."
       Jenny, Mark thought exasperatedly, are you trying to provoke a scene?
       Hilary's acerbic voice said, "Fortunate, isn't it, that you were..." She paused, then concluded, "...with Mark."
       The gap could've been filled with a clinical term or a euphemism, but Mark knew she was thinking something bluntly four-lettered. He backed against the dresser. If he walked into the kitchen now, he'd be as welcome as a Klan member at a "Juneteenth" Emancipation Day picnic.
       "Fortunate, yes," replied Jenny. "He's a good man."
       "So you just helped yourself?"
       "I asked. He accepted. Nothing wrong with that."
       "How could you?"
       "How could I ask, or how could I enjoy what I got? Come off it, Miss Prim and Proper."
       Mark recoiled. In the kitchen a chair scraped. Maybe Hilary was preparing to smash it over Jenny's head. "If all you wanted was cheap sex, you should've taken on Kenneth -- he was eager enough."
       "I wanted a man, not a chipmunk. And nothing cheap. Besides, Kenneth's my brother, isn't he? For my sins."
       "No, not for yours, for your parents'. We're always paying for our parents' sins."
       The silence stretched out longer and longer until at last Jenny said, "I'm sorry. That 'prim and proper' remark was uncalled for. Something's wrong, isn't it? Something happened to you, and you're still hurting."
       Hilary told her, in more explicit terms than she had ever used with Mark. Her voice was compressed tightly between her teeth, damming a torrent of anguish. Mark clutched the edge of the dresser, sickened.
       "And the berk's in prison now?" Jenny asked, her tone indicating that prison was too good for him. "Good show. I hope they're sweating the addictions out of him."
       "I used to feel sorry for Ben -- never able to keep a job, always gambling and boozing and bragging, trying to fill up what must've been a hole inside him the size of the Grand Canyon. My father would make him grovel every time he asked for a loan. He wanted someone to notice him, or some situation he could control, or simply someone to pick on. But he picked on me, and I don't feel sorry for him any more. Sure, he was a victim, but he didn't have to victimize me. He had choices."
       "And he made the wrong ones." Jenny's voice was tired, as though strained through a colander. "I once had a lover who would come home drunk and beat me. He kept saying I made him do it. I kept trying to please him."
       "You?" Hilary asked, her inflection adding, Competent, confident, you?
       Jenny? thought Mark incredulously. God, abuse was epidemic.
       "The relationship ended with me in hospital," Jenny continued. "For years I hated myself for letting that sod have his way with me."
       "And you still like sex?"
       "Now I know what makes it good, don't I?"
       Jenny's ex-lover sounded like a prime candidate for staking out on a fire ant mound. Mark eyed her bed, honored to have come up to her standards.
       "Supposedly," Jenny went on, "women who grow up without fathers can have serious problems with relationships. I literally had no father. Sharon Ward had him more than I did, but he was, I understand, much more intent on his books and movies, his collections and his investments, than on his family. Children were woman's work. The traditional family man, eh?"
       "Like my father? He always said providing lavishly for us was much more important than being there. Why do men think that masculinity is defined by selfish arrogance?"
       "And that sex means power, not love?"
       Mark paced the length of the bedroom and back. They'd forgotten him; the confrontation had become a feminine seminar on the evil that men do.
       Jenny sighed. "I never intended to come between you and Mark, Hilary. As I said, he's a good man. He cares for you. He's worth caring for. Take off the chastity belt and enjoy him."
       "I'm trying. But I didn't put that belt on."
       "You're letting Ben keep the key? Why should he make your choices?"
       "No!" Hilary's voice cracked.
       "Steady on," Jenny said soothingly.
       In another moment they'd gang up on him. Mark envisioned himself tucked inside one of the collection bags and labeled "Politically Correct Male." He strode out of the bedroom.
       Hilary sat crouched over one end of the table, fists clenched. Jenny was slumped before the computer with her eyes closed. Graymalkin sat between them like a referee at a prize fight. "If y'all raise my consciousness any farther," Mark said, "I'm going to get a nosebleed."
       All three faces looked up at him; Hilary with a wry smile, Jenny with a rueful nod, Graymalkin with a whiskery smirk.
       Jenny had deliberately provoked the confrontation, Mark realized, to clear the air. Now if she could only clear away all the other thunderheads that loomed over Osborne House. He was opening his mouth to say something not self-deprecating but conciliatory, when the monitor on the table emitted a slow, thumping noise.
       Instantly Jenny was on it, turning up the volume. Footsteps.
       The gears of Mark's mind clashed. Yesterday Zapata had asked whether the Osborne ghosts were really supernatural. This was a chance to show her. This was a chance to show something about masculinity, although he wasn't quite sure what. "It's Vicky," he said. "Come on, let's get her."
       They burst through the connecting door and into the dining room, Mark at point, Jenny at his right, Hilary at his left. Even though it was still light outside, the heavy curtains darkened the rooms to a gloom that wasn't opaque but illusory, making shadows dense and objects transparent. The clock was ticking sonorously, almost smugly, in the front hall. "You haven't wound it?" Mark asked Jenny.
       "Not once."
       "Look," gasped Hilary.
       A pallid figure moved in the darkness at the top of the stairs. Long skirts swirled and a feather topped bonnet nodded soundlessly. The dress had the high collar, snug bodice, and puffed sleeves of the late nineteenth century. The gray face had the smeared, distorted features of an image in a nightmare.
       Damn her for plaguing the little boy Mark had been with such nightmares. Damn her for snaring him in this evil adult dream. Swearing -- and not in French -- he charged up the stairs toward the ghostly shape. Behind him came the women, either protesting or urging him on, he wasn't sure.
       The figure whisked into a doorway. The door was shut. She had gone right through the wood panels.... Get a grip, Mark told himself. She had simply shut the door behind her. He fumbled for the knob. It was locked.
       "The attics," said Jenny, digging frantically in her pocket. "There's no way out. Here, here's the key."
       Mark jammed the spindly, old-fashioned key in the lock. It didn't connect with a key on the other side. The door opened so abruptly, it crashed back against the wall, the noise reverberating through the depths of the house. Mark, Jenny, and Hilary stampeded up the stairs. Rays of sun slanted like searchlights across a long, low room, alive with dust motes. Outside of the dazzling light the rest of the room seemed pitch-dark. Mark barely avoided knocking himself silly on an exposed ceiling beam.
       In a tight, nervous knot, they searched the attic rooms and found nothing but a few decrepit boxes and trunks, tops yawning. At last they trudged back to the second story and locked the door behind them. Nothing found, nothing proved.
       And maybe, Mark told himself with a deep breath, it wasn't too smart to go chasing a mysterious figure, be it Coburg or Carpathian vampire or urban criminal, that might be armed with a bowie knife. But if Vicky had been carrying such a weapon, he couldn't see where: the worst she could have done was bop him with her tiny ruffled purse.
       Hilary and Jenny shared a glance. The first time someone makes a crack about testosterone, Mark thought irascibly, I'm going to forget I'm a gentleman. They'd been uncharacteristically docile about letting him take the lead. He'd always suspected female conspiracies, mothers lecturing daughters, "Keep his ego stroked, dear, he'll be much easier to manage."
       Jenny lingered for a moment in the study doorway, her hands clutching the frame, peering into the dusky room. If Vicky had made her appearance, why not Arthur? Yet Mark's exacerbated nerves sensed nothing but silence and the indifference of dust. Beside him Hilary asked, "If you could speak to your father, Jenny, what would you tell him?"
       In the semidarkness Jenny's face was unreadable, her eyes shadows as elusive as those thronging the house. "I'd tell him to bugger off, get out of my life, leave me be."
       Neither Mark nor Hilary had any reply to that. They walked downstairs and into the kitchen, and reclaimed banality by phoning for a pizza.
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         *Chapter Eighteen*
       Thursday morning Hilary went so far as to look up illustrations of chastity belts in the Lloyd library. She cringed -- barbaric items -- and tried more visualization therapy; Mark unlocked the vicious metal contraption, disintegrated it with a touch of his magic fingers, and swept her into a passionate embrace, free at last.
       Bemusedly she went down to the lab to continue packing the collection of beautifully crafted lies. Maybe the polyurethane nests and unbleached muslin wrappings she was preparing so carefully would in the end be used to ship the real artifacts home. But the real artifacts could be anywhere in the world now, damn it.
       At least the confrontation last night had cleared the air a bit. Of all the problems Jenny faced, the one she'd inadvertently caused between Mark and Hilary was the best defined. Hilary wasn't surprised she would charge at it, bugles blaring and banners flying. As for Mark, she knew why he had charged the ghost. He'd been haunted by Osborne all his life; to have Vicky appear just when Hilary and Jenny seemed to be closing ranks against him must've been supremely irritating. Hilary smiled -- he'd come into the kitchen looking at the women as though they were creatures from another planet, bizarre estrogen-based life forms.
       Later, the three of them had shared a large pizza and discussed whether the apparition could be, as Zapata had theorized, as fake as the artifacts.
       "It's always looked quite ghostly to me," Jenny had said, "even though it doesn't feel uncanny. And it disappeared quickly enough. Every old house has to have a ghost or two. Most of them are harmless."
       "Vicky's ghost has been here for ages," Hilary had said. "Why would someone play games for forty years or more?"
       Mark had shaken his head. "Even ghosts have motives, supposedly. I'd like to know what Vicky's is -- it's too late to avenge her death. And as for Arthur's motive...." He'd suddenly become very intent on his pizza, not looking at Jenny's somber face.
       Much later, in the driveway, Hilary and Mark had shared passionate oregano-flavored kisses that had suprised them both. Something to be said for confrontation. And if not for forgiveness -- Mark didn't deserve to be patronized by forgiveness -- at least for forgetfulness.
       Setting down the X-acto knife and putting on her gloves, Hilary tested the brooch in its polyurethane nest. Almost there.
       By quitting time she'd packed three of the items and felt some satisfaction at a job well done for its own sake. She stored everything away and hurried to her car, which, given its head, carried her to Osborne.
       She found Mark and Jenny dealing with an infestation of Coburgs; Vasarian, Kenneth, and Dolores hovered over the carriage house excavation like vultures over a corpse. Even the carpenter stood nearby, his cheek distended with chewing tobacco, saying, "I like to went crazy in that house. I swear to God someone was watching me, even when the place was plumb empty."
       Dolores snapped, "I'll find a carpenter without such a sorry attitude. You're fired."
       The carpenter looked at her, perhaps contemplating spitting on her ultrasuede skirt. But that would probably have been too much effort. Without another word he plodded toward the driveway and joined the students' exodus. Dolores turned back to Mark and Jenny, planting her Gucci pumps even more securely in the dirt, and began lecturing them about developers, Victoria Square, and supply-side economics.
       Well! Hilary thought. Marie Antoinette has shed her skin and revealed Attila the Hun. She stopped at the edge of the third trench, where Preston sat drawing several beer bottles that lay beneath the frame of a meter grid. "That's great! You've got a good eye for proportion."
       "Thanks. Now if I can just get it traced without any ink blots."
       "Mind over matter. Tell the pen to behave itself."
       Laughing, Preston rolled the paper off the drawing board. "Lucia Hernandez came by earlier and invited us all to her house Friday night. She said she'd even invited the detectives but that they were too busy."
       "No chance we'll disappoint her by not talking about the case," Hilary said. "She didn't invite the Coburgs or Vasarian or Bradshaw, did she?"
       "The suspects?" Preston asked, blithely articulating everyone's unspoken theory. "I don't think she wants an Agatha Christie-type finale in her living room. Of course, someone would have to solve the case for that."
       "Yeah," Hilary said.
       She saw Mark staring toward Osborne House, dissociating himself from the scene. Jenny faced Dolores's oration with arms crossed, chin raised, and eyes narrowed, no doubt meditating on the order of battle at Waterloo. She did not acknowledge Kenneth's supercilious gaze. _It's all your fault_, Hilary read in his dark, brooding eyes. _My father was an honorable man until you came along_. That Arthur's affair with Pamela took place during his marriage to Felicia, and that Jenny had nothing to do with her parents' choices, made no difference. Guilt and blame were hardly logical.
       Today even Vasarian was sketched more darkly than before, the silver of his hair tarnished -- either by the sulfur emanating from the Coburgs, thought Hilary, or from his own greedy heart. He eyed Jenny as if expecting her to produce the Eleanor Cross like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat.
       Dolores's voice rose. "...this area under construction by now!"
       "Here," Jenny protested. "My contract is also with the Historical Society. They hired me to do a proper excavation, even if you didn't."
       "May I suggest a compromise?" asked Vasarian. "Perhaps Dr. Galliard would work Saturdays. The student volunteers could be paid."
       Dolores's tight, bright smile was like the crack of a whip. "Tell the students I'll give them a party when the dig is over if they'll work the next two Saturdays. And I'll pay y'all a bonus."
       Neither Mark nor Jenny stepped forward to offer themselves for sale. Kenneth's eye roved across the dig to where Hilary stood. He offered her an obligatory wink, but his heart wasn't in it.
       "All right," Jenny said. "I'll quote you a bargain. A cash bonus for Mark. And for Preston -- he's been a great help. A party for the students, and no pressure to work if they don't wish to."
       "Nothing for you?" asked Dolores.
       "I couldn't charge a family member, now, could I?"
       Mark's eyes met Hilary's behind Dolores's back and glinted with a steel-edged humor. Preston's brows rose, his pleasure at Jenny's tribute struggling with bewilderment at her comment about family.
       Dolores wasn't impressed by Jenny's sarcasm. "I'm counting on you to keep things moving along. We won't be able to help -- we're starting to plan the Cattle Barons' Ball."
       "We can manage, thank you." Jenny turned back to the half-buried ceramic shards. She and Mark began exchanging arcane archaeology-speak about numerical taxonomy and scatter diagrams.
       With a calculating look at Mark's and Jenny's backs, Dolores took a pad from her handbag and made a note. Then she started toward the driveway. Her high-heeled shoes wouldn't dare slip in the debris, but even so, Kenneth rushed to her side and offered his arm. Vasarian managed to get to the Cadillac first. Hilary thought the two men would start pushing and shoving like kids playing musical chairs, the winner getting the front seat beside Dolores. But she gestured Kenneth into the back and pulled Vasarian in beside her.
       Preston and Hilary strolled across the dirt to the garage excavation. Mark's half-kneeling figure was poised on its brink like a Greek statue on a pedestal. No doubt about it, he did wonderful things for a pair of blue jeans. Clearing her throat, Hilary asked Preston, "How're your researches coming?"
       "The copies of different documents I ordered will be in tomorrow."
       "So will copies of the alibi photos from the newspaper. Lucia timed it perfectly -- we can go over everything tomorrow night at her place."
       "You heard about the invitation, then?" Jenny asked, emerging from the excavation. "Jacob Sikora rang today to say he can't find Arthur's notebook. I checked with Detective Zapata, and she doesn't have it, either. It wasn't in Nathan's car or his office. I should've read it when I had the opportunity. Now it's gone walkabout with the Ripper portfolio and Felicia's letter."
       Preston still looked faintly puzzled, but all he asked was, "So we're going to work on Saturday?"
       "You heard the lady," Jenny returned. "A command performance."
       "Yeah." Preston headed for the driveway. "See y'all tomorrow!"
       Mark stood up, his eye moving from Hilary to Jenny as warily as a lion-tamer's moving between two powerful and capricious cats. Jenny swallowed a smile that was almost indulgent. "If I'm to have tamales tomorrow, I'd best spend tonight with the computer data."
       "We'll see you then." Mark steered Hilary toward the driveway.
       Glancing over her shoulder, Hilary saw Jenny sliding back into the trench, trowel in one hand, collecting bag in the other. "Don't work too hard," she called.
       Jenny waved, already intent on the scattered shards.
       It was a beautiful evening. The landscape could have been painted by Constable, so soft was the sunlight on the grass and trees. Even the drivers along York seemed mellowed by the melting warmth, and didn't crowd each other unduly as they sped toward the freeway. "I'll go clean up," Mark said, "and pick you up and we'll go looking for wildflowers. The bluebonnets should just be starting to bloom."
       For a moment Hilary felt guilty; here they were enjoying themselves when Nathan had been cruelly prevented from ever enjoying anything again. Then she remembered Nathan's benign smile and his taste for the unexpected encounter, and smiled. "Get away for a while? Love it."
       Back at her condo, Hilary gratefully stripped off her pantyhose and wool skirt. A full cotton skirt and ruffled petticoat made her feel cool and rather flirtatious. She added a soft blouse and was slipping sandals onto her bare feet when the phone rang. She flopped down across the bed, skirt billowing, to reach it. "Hello?"
       "How's my baby?" boomed Everett's voice.
       "Oh, hi, Daddy. Are you back home?"
       "At the moment. I'm going back to the office on Monday -- when the cat's away the mice will play, you know."
       In the background Olivia's voice murmured about secretaries and executive assistants, low-fat diets and relaxation exercises.
       Ignoring her, Everett went on, "Gary just called to say he clinched a million-dollar deal. Isn't that great!"
       "Great," Hilary agreed. _And I lost several million in art_. Downstairs the doorbell rang. "Oops. Mark's here to pick me up. We're going to go looking for wildflowers."
       Everett laughed. "Back in my day we called it watching the underwater submarine races. Well, run along, baby. Tell him about that job in Research and Development."
       "Thank you, Daddy. Give my love to Mom." Hilary hung up and lay sprawled across the bed like a wet tissue. I have to be polite to them, she told herself. But I don't have to like them, let alone believe them. I'm me, not their baby. Their voices were only static behind Mark's warm baritone.
       The doorbell rang again. She hurried downstairs.
       Mark was wearing khaki slacks and the blue-green madras shirt that made his eyes look like opals. His hair was still damp. He bowed Hilary into the van and headed out of town along the interstate. Before long they were free of the city and its frayed outskirts. Tall pecan trees lined the road, and the median was a sea of brilliant blue flowers. "Bluebonnets," Mark said, and exited onto a farm-to-market road. "Those red ones are Indian paintbrushes, the pink ones wine-cups, and the purple ones are damifinos."
       "What?" Hilary got the joke. "Damn if I know's. Funny."
       Mark grinned, unrepentant. They crossed a stream, nearby willows waving coyly, and turned into a gravel parking lot beside a pasture. Horses lined the barbed-wire fence, their dark eyes incurious. A sign before a small paneled building read "Ida's Restaurant." Delectable odors from inside mingled with the earthy odors of the pasture.
       Mark and Hilary found a table in the back. The chairs were mismatched old kitchen chairs, the tablecloth a spotless red check. The prints hanging on the walls ranged from Remington's Western scenes to French impressionists. Charmed, Hilary reached for the menu propped behind the sugar container. Mark took her hand to stop her. "Don't bother. This is the place to eat either chicken-fried steak or catfish, and lemon chess pie."
       "Whatever you say, Fearless Leader."
       With a quiet laugh he lifted her hand to his lips, kissed it, and laid it back on the table. She went beyond charmed to thrilled, and hung on his eyes for a long, breathless minute that was interrupted by a teenage waitress in jeans and T-shirt.
       The iced tea was brewed, not instant. Mark gave her a bit of his steak; it was much lighter than she'd imagined, with cream gravy as good as bechamel sauce. Her catfish fillet had been fried in a cornmeal crust that dissolved airily on her tongue. Homemade yeast rolls and bowls of crisp-cooked vegetables completed the meal. By the time the waitress removed their plates, Hilary was glowing like ancient ivory. She'd been painfully aware that the frustration, irritation, and tension of the last week had sandpapered her nerves. She hadn't realized the benefits of that sensitivity.
       Just as the waitress brought slices of pie, the front door opened and another couple walked inside. "Well," whispered Mark. "Look there."
       Frank Yeager was seating Rosalind Zapata at a table in the opposite corner. Hilary had imagined them being switched off and stored in police department lockers when not at work, but there they were, dressed in chinos and casual shirts. Zapata's hair flowed down her back to below her shoulder blades, reminding Hilary of raven-tressed romantic heroines.
       Mark offered Hilary a fork. Her pie was sweet and tart at once, the texture both custardy and grainy, the crust made of cloud. Nathan would have approved. With a sigh of repletion she inhaled the last bite.
       Across the room Yeager was leaning across the table, hands open. Zapata sat back in her chair, arms crossed, avoiding the intensity of his eyes. Hilary and Mark exchanged a wary look. "Whatever it is," she said, and he finished, "It's none of our business."
       They slipped out unnoticed by the detectives. In the lowering sun the grass of the pasture was so green it was fluorescent. The horses were cross-eyed with contentment. Hilary felt the same; Indianapolis, the Lloyd, and Osborne House all seemed very far away. Surprised by joy, she leaned across the seat of the van to give Mark a kiss. He kissed her back with the leisurely deliberation that was so characteristically his.
       Oh, Hilary thought. Oh my, well, maybe.... The evening was an unanticipated grace note in an otherwise discordant melody, its perfection almost painful.
       Mark plugged in a Steeleye Span tape, and to its sprightly folk-rock they drove back to the city. Osborne House seemed insignificant against the colors of the evening. The live oak outside Mark's apartment shimmered green and gold. They walked up the stairs and across the living room toward the kitchen. A floorboard squealed beneath Hilary's sandal. Mark laughed. "One of these days I'm going to fall right through onto Gilbert's car. Not that there's any car down there now -- Lucia said something about going mall-crawling tonight. Astrid, Gil's wife, and the kids are going to visit her family over the weekend, and that means new clothes."
       "Any excuse for new clothes," Hilary told him. She found a lemon and a lime in the refrigerator and sliced them while Mark opened a bottle of red wine and cracked the ice.
       They toasted each other in glasses of sangria and strolled back downstairs into the dusk, letting themselves into Lucia's garden by a side gate. The neighbors' wind chimes rang in the cool, sweet-scented breeze. Hilary inhaled deeply. "In the seventeenth-century Culpepper herbal, red roses are said to strengthen the heart."
       "'My love is like a red, red rose'," quoted Mark.
       "_La vie en rose_," Hilary returned.
       They walked hand in hand between the rows of pink and white, red and yellow flowers. Some blooms were fully open; some were snugly furled buds, dewy with innocence. Hilary realized Mark was casting sideways glances at her, like a child with his nose pressed to the window of a candy store. She blushed as red as the flowers and squeezed his hand.
       "The first rose garden," he said, "was created by the Empress Josephine at Malmaison. That bush there is a Souvenir de la Malmaison."
       Hilary stopped and buried her face -- carefully -- in a pink blossom. Its opulence made her head swim. Or maybe that was the effect of the sangria. Or of Mark's body close beside her, exuding a masculine aura that some hormonal automatic pilot inside her own body was straining toward.
       "That's a Celine Forestier," he went on, pointing to a tall yellow-blossomed shrub climbing a trellis outside the kitchen door. "That one there, with the pink flowers, is an Old Blush. Lucia found it in a cemetery near Fredericksburg, where Astrid's family has a plot."
       The dusk thickened, a silken scrim falling across the sky. The colors of the roses dimmed, but their scent didn't fade. From the top of the garage a mourning dove called and was answered. Mark closed the garden gate and pointed into branches of the oak tree. "I bet that dove has a nest up there."
       Side by side they jockeyed around the gnarled trunk, peering upward. The dove called again. Hilary emptied her glass, savoring the last drop. Her feet and ankles, she realized, were stinging. She looked down to see tiny ants swarming over her sandals and up her legs. "What on earth?"
       "Good God, fire ants!" Mark pulled her away from the mound of earth where she stood and started brushing frantically at her ankles. "They sting like the dickens. I should've warned you."
       "Fire ants?" But he was already hauling her up the stairs and into his bathroom. Hilary barely had time to lay her glass down before he'd seated her on the edge of the tub and ripped off her sandals, grabbed the nozzle of the hand-held shower and sprayed her legs so liberally with cool water she lunged for her skirts and bundled them up around her thighs.
       Hilary's feet and ankles were breaking out in pinhead-sized clear blisters. The stinging intensified into an itching so fierce it took her breath away. "You're not allergic to insect bites, are you?" asked Mark.
       "No, thank goodness. Those things could kill me otherwise."
       "It's happened," Mark said darkly. He turned off the water, grabbed a towel from the rack and a tube of ointment from the medicine cabinet.
       Despite her precarious perch on the edge of the tub and the itching on her feet and ankles, Hilary had to admit the scene had its appeal. Mark dried her legs and toes with his patented delicate touch, then applied ointment to each blister. The odor of camphor swelled upward to join that of the roses. Hilary was lightheaded, as though her skull had been scoured clean. Her legs emerged from her gathered skirts and splayed in Mark's hands. She remembered the night after the reception, on her living room couch.
       Mark put the top back on the ointment and set it down. Still he knelt at her side, his fingertips tracing a path from ankle to knee to thigh and the ruffle of fabric and back down again. Hilary smiled at his frown of concentration; he was as stubborn in love as in anything else. If he hadn't been stubborn, he never would have survived love's pitfalls.
       Through the open window drifted the sound of the wind in the oak leaves, and the chimes next door, and the dove calling sweet nothings to its mate. Hilary wasn't sure Mark was breathing. She knew she wasn't. Something in her loins reached critical mass and started to melt down. Any desire she ever felt before had been only a hint of the real thing.
       Mark laid his forehead against her thigh and shut his eyes. Pure agony tightened his face. He was brave enough to admit pain. He was strong enough to show tenderness. To surrender to him was to admit not defeat, but victory. "Mark," Hilary whispered.
       He looked up, asking nothing, expecting nothing.
       She took his hand and laid it on the buttons of her blouse. "I love you. I've been taking birth control pills anticipating this moment. I want you. Please."
       His gravity was transformed into a dazzling grin, the elation of a pilgrim seeing the pearly gates open at last. Hilary laughed, at him and at herself, and went willingly when he urged her toward the bedroom.
       The open windows were squares of translucence, summoning a dusky glow from the brass head and footboards of the bed. Mark's lips were hot against hers, against her ears and eyes and throat, bellows brightening the fire in her belly. Every inch of her skin was supernaturally sensitive; even the dull itch of the ant bites seemed an exquisite tease. She wasn't quite sure how he managed to evaporate her blouse, or her skirt and petticoat, and she was embarrassed for a moment when she remembered she was wearing plain cotton underwear. But then that, too, was gone, and she felt the incredible rush of her bare chest pressed against his.
       She lay down on the bed, the sheets cool against the fever of her skin. Mark's slacks hit the floor with a thud, and then he was lying against her, holding her suspended in time and space.
       "I'm all right," she wheezed into his ear. Yes, the visualization therapy had worked, she'd fantasized this scene so many times that the reality wasn't a shock but a culmination. Funny though, she hadn't expected her mouth to be so dry. That must be her voice making those incoherent squeaks and murmurs.
       "Love you," Mark said into her ear, more with his lips and tongue than with his voice. "God, sweetness, I love you...."
       His hands moved swiftly and surely across her body, finding sensitive places she'd been only dimly aware she had, smoothly arranging and rearranging her limbs in relation to his own. She couldn't quite replicate his movements, and at last stopped trying, simply holding the smooth muscle of his upper arms to steady herself. Yes, she'd fantasized this, the minuet of love. And yet she had the vague feeling Mark wasn't dancing a minuet but a waltz. Well, he was experienced, he knew the routine, and she didn't....
       He spread himself over her, pressing her into the bed, his urgent breath stirring her hair. "You all right, sweetness?"
       "Yes, yes, don't stop." It was hardly fair to stop him now, she told herself. Relax, it's Mark, he won't hurt you.
       Lights flashed across the ceiling of the room as a car turned into the driveway. The ceiling lights had been on in her bedroom that night. Laughing voices echoed distantly -- Lucia's family coming home -- the television tuned to a sitcom....
       Mark hurt her. Her gasp, more of surprise and dismay than pain, mingled with his sharp inhalation of delight. _No_, something screamed in her stomach, _no, it wasn't supposed to be like this!_
       Mark was miles away; he'd waltzed onto a transport of passion and left her standing at the curb. She gritted her teeth -- no, thinking about Regensfeld didn't help.... Doors slammed outside. The lights went out. The voices died away. Ben's body crushed and stabbed her. _No, no!_
       Mark shuddered, sobbed something into her hair, and relaxed. For a few moments he was dead weight on top of her, gasping for breath. Then he raised his head and turned her face toward his. "Hilary?"
       She was trembling violently. Her hands were claws tearing at the sheets. Not only could she no longer feel Mark's body, she couldn't feel her own.
       "Hilary!" He pulled away from her and brushed her hair back from her face. "Oh God, I hurt you, didn't I?"
       A cool breeze drew goose flesh from her skin. Despite her racing breath, her lungs were empty. Her head spun. She tasted lemon and camphor in the back of her throat. It was called post-traumatic stress in the self-help manuals. It had never occurred to her to visualize this as well.
       The kernel in her stomach detonated. Hilary cramped into a ball. Her mind retched. Hot, dry sobs ripped through her chest, burst from her throat, and sent waves of pressure through her head as though it, too, would explode.
       Mark folded her in his arms.
       "My parents, they should've protected me," she gasped. "It wasn't my fault. It wasn't."
       "No." Mark's voice was scraped raw with emotion.
       "Ben had no right to touch me. He had no right to hurt me."
       "No. No one does. No one."
       Her body heaved in his arms, racked by anguished but silent screams. Tears spurted from her eyes, drenched her face, and ran hot and salty into her mouth. "It wasn't supposed to be like this!"
       "No, it wasn't...." Mark's voice broke.
       He wasn't pushing her away in disgust. He was grieving with her. She grasped for her sanity and clung desperately to its edge. Her spasms slowed and stopped. Her sobbing died away. Sensation flowed back into her body. The fire in her belly had gone out, and Mark's skin against hers was comforting, not stimulating. Odd, how it felt to lie naked in a naked man's arms. She'd needed that comfort, not only the heat of the flesh, but its peace. "I'm sorry," she said with a hiccup.
       "No, I'm sorry. I got into too big a hurry. I was afraid you'd change your mind." He dashed away the moisture in his own eyes. "You scared me. You looked like a character in a B movie expelling a demon."
       "Maybe I was."
       "Let it go, sweetness. Please."
       "I'm trying. Really I am."
       Mark kissed her and then got up. His steps padded away into the darkness. Hilary heard the snick of the lock on the front door and water running in the bathroom. When he returned, he wiped her face with a cool cloth, then moved downward across her body, cleaning it of sweat, tears, and blood, too, she realized; she'd healed a little more than she'd have liked after Ben's attack. He murmured more apologies and went on to her feet. The ant bites seemed to have been shocked out of itching.
       "I've seen monkeys grooming each other," Hilary said drowsily. "Must be some kind of primate instinct."
       "I'll take mine in back rubs," Mark told her. "Next time."
       "Next time?"
       "Yes." He climbed into the bed and drew the covers over them both. "I do love you, Hilary. That wasn't a line."
       "I love you, too..." Her words were muffled by a yawn. Every muscle in her body sagged like a rubber band stretched too far, too often. She felt as though she were being sucked into the bed. She lay back in Mark's arms and slept.
       She dreamed they were strolling through a green pasture. Rosebushes sprouted from their steps, grew and blossomed and sprayed clouds of petals over them. But the odor of the roses was oddly metallic, and when the petals fell they thunked like slamming doors. Car headlights flashed and the roses vanished beneath roaring wheels. An icy cloth struck Hilary's cheeks.
       The cloth was a band around her head, growing tighter and tighter like some kind of Inquisition torture, and she couldn't tell her torturers what they wanted to hear because they didn't ask any questions, they just kept calling her name over and over.
       With a hideous twisting heave of her stomach, Hilary woke up and saw a fiendishly distorted face looking down at her. No, that wasn't a gaping mouth, that was a broad black moustache. She knew that face.
       "Hilary!" said Gilbert Hernandez. "Hilary, wake up!" And, to someone lost in a glare of light behind him, "Open the windows wider, Astrid. Mamacita...."
       His face vanished. Lucia seized Hilary's shoulders and yanked her up against the headboard of the bed. The cold metal poles stabbed into her shoulders. The washcloth hit her face again. Her head throbbed, and her stomach flopped like a fish pulled onto a river bank. "Mark?" she tried to say, but her mouth was filled with acrid glue.
       "Mark, Mark," Gilbert's voice was saying now. "Wake up."
       "Whazzama'er?" asked Mark. He leaned heavily against Hilary. She tried to shove him aside -- people are watching us -- must be the greatest show on Earth. Her stomach was hideously distorted, and the pain in her head wavered down and up into a crescendo like an approaching siren. Surely this wasn't what usually happened after sex.
       Feet pounded up the staircase. Lucia vanished and reappeared with an old terry cloth bathrobe, which she crammed Hilary into like a rag doll. The room teemed with people, uniforms, medical instruments. "What happened?" asked a voice.
       "I stayed up late watching a movie," said Gilbert. "When I went into the kitchen to get me a bagel and cream cheese, I heard my car. I couldn't figure, so I came out to look. There was it was, engine roaring away, garage door shut. I thought of Mark up here asleep, and carbon monoxide and everything, so I ran back into the house to get the keys."
       "I never again want to hear Mark complaining about drafts in the winter," Lucia said. "If this place wasn't so well ventilated, they'd be dead."
       An oxygen mask covered Hilary's mouth and nose. Delectable, clean fresh air flowed into her throat. Beside her Mark groaned and swore.
       Hands pulled her from the bed and laid her down on something flat, like an ironing board. No, a stretcher. Her stomach slopped into her chest cavity, and her head crashed onto the pillow like an anvil, sending a wave of pain against her eyes. She made a weak sound of protest.
       "You're going to be all right," said Lucia. "Mark's going to be all right." And, aside, "Gil, call Rosalind Zapata."
       Great, Hilary thought. Everyone in town knows that Mark and I finally did it.
       Great. Someone just tried to kill us.
       She slipped again into a nightmare.
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         *Chapter Nineteen*
       The sky was gun-metal gray, muting the colors of the trees and flowers, and the wind smelled musty with distant rain. Mark told himself he should never have trusted last evening's postcard-perfect weather; trust was at a premium. He locked the door of his van and trudged past only one other car toward Osborne's kitchen door. He'd timed his arrival for the students' lunch break, but someone was still here.
       His muscles ached, and the ground swayed beneath his feet. A metallic flavor, part taste, part smell, lingered in his nose and mouth. The crunch of the oak leaves buffeted his brain. Swearing, he stopped and closed his eyes.
       He wanted to personally apply various instruments of torture to whoever it was who'd tried to kill Hilary and him. Of course, Zapata would take a dim view of that. It was Her Case. So where the hell had she been when a shadow crept up the stairway to his apartment and, finding the door locked, had turned to the garage?
       That was thunder -- great, it was going to rain.... Mark opened his eyes and looked through the trees to see a B-52 bomber drifting down the wind toward Carswell Air Force base. Okay, so it wasn't going to rain. And he didn't know whether anyone had tried the door. Not that that made him any less grateful for locking it. While his Swiss Army knife had its uses, fending off a bowie knife wasn't one of them.
       Still swearing -- by clinging to rage he might forget fear -- Mark plodded on toward the house. He was beginning to think his libido had a curse on it; the act of unzipping his pants attracted death and disaster. And poor Hilary! He'd at last played Prince Charming, fighting his way through the thorns that surrounded her and waking her with a kiss. The encounter had begun as sublimely as he'd ever imagined it would. But he'd been too overcome by the moment to pace himself. He'd awakened her, all right.
       A chunk of lava slid from one side of Mark's skull to the other, making him wince. Next time, he'd told her. I love you. Strange how his desire had been transformed into commitment. He paused on the kitchen steps, probing that concept. It actually rang true. Count on Hilary to slip into a void in his heart he hadn't recognized was there.
       From inside Jenny's voice snapped, "Come off it." Without bothering to knock, Mark flung open the door.
       Yeager and Zapata, back in pin-striped formality, sat on one side of the table. Earlier they had accosted Mark and Hilary in the hospital emergency room; Zapata had been in her "just the facts" mode, irritated that their answers were so fuzzy. When the detectives left he'd assumed they'd crawled back under their rock, but no, here they were harassing Jenny.
       She sat opposite them, her head sunk in her hands. Mark looked around for the truncheons and the rubber hoses. All he saw was Zapata's open notebook and Graymalkin crouching on the chair by the fireplace, evidently imagining herself a porcupine.
       Jenny looked up. "Mark -- how are you feeling?"
       "Like I was dragged through a barbed-wire fence backwards."
       "I told you you were in danger," Yeager said. "Someone knows you know about the fake artifacts. A killer rarely hesitates to kill again."
       Quelling a wave of nausea, Mark slammed the door and walked to the table. He grasped the back of Jenny's chair to steady himself.
       "I hope you see the connection between the attack on Mark and Hilary last night and the one on me," Jenny said to Zapata.
       Mark asked, "Attack on you?"
       "Someone was here about one this morning," Jenny explained. "Every door was locked, including the connecting one, but we already know the killer has keys. This time, though, he also had the misfortune to tread on the moggie. That's what woke me, the cat yowling and a crash. But by the time I put on the light, the bloke was gone. Lucia's sculpture was broken -- I daresay he knocked it from the mantelpiece when he fell. And this morning I found the nursery monitor gone from the staircase."
       Mark considered the shattered bones of the Day of the Dead sculpture spread out across the mantel, and Graymalkin's aggrieved expression below. The old icebox/ivy planter was now blocking the connecting door. Jenny must have been terrifed to have moved such a heavy object alone. "Well done," he said to the cat and Jenny both.
       "Mr. Hernandez found Mark and Hilary about one o'clock," Zapata stated. "Vasarian was asleep at his hotel, Dolores at her house, Kenneth at his condo, Sharon and Travis at their house -- I suppose the Wards can alibi each other." She frowned, discounting her own supposition. "Dr. Bradshaw's wife vouched for him. And Dr. Galliard...."
       "Graymalkin," said Jenny, "can't exactly provide me an alibi."
       "Jenny didn't kill Nathan," Mark asserted, and was pleased that at last that concept also rang true. "She sure as hell didn't try to kill Hilary and me. Why would she?"
       "Jealousy?" Yeager suggested with a smirk.
       Good God, the man thought Mark was some kind of Casanova, lusting after every available female. Zapata glanced skeptically at her colleague. Jenny's mouth crimped with pity for the hopelessly befuddled.
       Yeager subsided with a shrug. "It's helpful to know the killer won't tackle an alert victim, even with a bowie knife."
       "Not if you're next on his list," Mark said. "Seems to me the turkey started Gil's car and then came over here, planning to eliminate everyone who knows about the forgeries. He didn't know we'd already told you."
       "That wouldn't matter," said Zapata. "Revenge is a motive."
       "There's only one explanation. This house is like a sieve. Anyone could have been listening at the connecting door when Hilary told us about the artifacts." Jenny slumped back in her chair. Mark's hand was still on its back. They touched and jerked away from each other.
       "Hilary hinted to Bradshaw," Mark said. "And who knows how much Vasarian figured out?" He resisted looking over his shoulder toward the door. Soon he'd be seeing spies under the bed.
       Jenny nodded toward a plastic collection bag. "Then I found that in the garage this morning."
       Mark held the bag to the light. That wasn't a lump of charcoal but a charred and dirty gold ring. Protuberances on one side must be gemstones; one had been rubbed clean, and glinted translucent crimson. He swallowed, and coughed acid from his throat. "A garnet ring. Nineteenth-century style. Could it be your mother's, Jenny?"
       "It certainly looks like it," she replied.
       "The ring was Felicia's before it was Pamela's," said Zapata. "Pamela must have found out it wasn't really Arthur's to give, and returned it to him. But he never gave it back to Felicia."
       "Why was it in the garage when it burned?" Yeager asked.
       Mark saw the shimmer of a television screen and heard his parents arguing in the next room. "Felicia was killed the night the garage burned. You suppose she set it on fire herself, out of spite? I know they said it was a defective space heater, but..."
       "The investigation wasn't as thorough as it might have been. Felicia's murder had priority." Zapata's eye glinted with sardonic humor. She turned to another page in her notebook and inspected her own tight, controlled handwriting. "Arthur was working in the garage that night, he testified. He realized he was late for a Foundation meeting and hurried out, leaving the heater on, which subsequently ignited something. Fine and dandy. But when I ran the file photos past our arson squad, they said the heater was as charred inside as out. It had been packed with some flammable substance. The question is, if the fire was deliberate, why?"
       "The heater should still be out there," concluded Yeager, "bulldozed with the rest."
       Outside, a car door slammed. Through the window Mark saw Hilary walking gingerly toward the house. When they'd been discharged from the hospital a couple of hours ago, she'd been worrying about being late for work.
       "Excuse me," he said and went out to the porch. "Hey, Hilary?"
       "Since it's Friday, Bradshaw said I should stay home and rest. I didn't want to stay home." She paused at the bottom of the steps, considering the short flight as though it were the north face of Mount Everest. Slowly she pulled herself up the banister and stood coughing at the top.
       Mark put his arm around her shoulders. She was lissome as always, slender and resilient as a fine blade, but her usually blooming complexion had a grayish tinge. "Are you all right?" he asked.
       "I'm suffering more from embarrassment than from the carbon monoxide."
       "Why? Because the Hernandezes and the paramedics saw us together?"
       "And because I was such a crybaby."
       "You weren't a crybaby. I got us out of sync, that's all. Next time I'll pay better attention. Practice makes perfect."
       "Next time," she said with a laugh, "let's leave out the fire ants. And the audience. And am I always going to be this sore?"
       Mark grinned, both relieved and encouraged that she was taking it so well. Now that he'd seen her break, he had even more respect for her composure. "Heck no, we just have to get you into shape, that's all."
       Together they walked into the kitchen. Jenny glanced up, then glanced away again, her damnable feminine intuition testing the tender spot that was the couple's physical relationship. Jenny's composure, Mark thought, would be frightening if he hadn't touched the passions that lay beneath.
       Hilary and Mark collapsed at the table. Once again Zapata led them through a discussion of the night attacks, this time without suggesting Jenny was responsible, and added a quick aside on the garnet ring. Hilary agreed that the killer knew she knew about the forgeries, and that he must've been following her and Mark to have caught them together. "I'm going to order police guards for you," Zapata concluded.
       "Do you think Bradshaw told you to take the day off in order to get you out of the way?" Yeager asked.
       Hilary shook her head and winced. "The damage has been done at the museum. And he has an alibi for last night."
       "I can't see Vasarian hot-wiring Gil's car," said Mark.
       Jenny snorted. "Don't underestimate Vasarian."
       The silence elongated like rubber cement. Graymalkin stretched, yawned, and padded toward a cabinet. Footsteps bounded up the back steps and knuckles rapped on the door. Preston's voice called, "Anybody home?"
       He stepped inside carrying a cardboard box filled with manila envelopes. "Hi!" he said to everyone impartially. "I got the copies y'all asked for. Looks like the porcelain that's turning up in the dig wasn't reported destroyed in the fire, but stolen from the house."
       "You got what?" demanded Zapata.
       "Porcelain?" Yeager repeated. "That's right -- the police reports of the fire and the murder say some fancy vases were stolen. The insurance company paid for them as well as for the garage."
       Mark nodded. "The findings at Arthur's trial was that Felicia was killed by a thief. Who could've taken her ring, if she'd had it...."
       "And who then threw his booty into the fire?" Zapata, torn between reprimanding them for their initiative and opening a new lead, chose the lead.
       "May I see?" Hilary asked. Preston shuffled through his envelopes, chose a photocopy, and handed it over. "Vases, decorative pieces, and tableware. Sevres, Dresden, Meissen, Royal Worcester, Staffordshire. Did the Coburgs destroy the stuff and then claim insurance on it?"
       "I would have expected them to sell the pieces and then claim insurance," said Jenny. "Although, to be fair, we have yet to catch a Coburg in anything dishonest."
       Zapata looked vaguely disappointed. Preston pulled out another envelope and handed it to Mark. "As long as I was downtown, I went by the _Star-Telegram_."
       "Thank you." Mark poured a stack of glossy black and white pictures onto the table.
       "Photos?" Zapata asked. She seized the closest one, inspected it, and tossed it down. "Checking alibis isn't your job."
       "Not the done thing?" returned Jenny sarcastically.
       "Every question you ask makes you more of a threat to the murderer! Weren't the attacks last night enough to warn you off? I've got problems enough without pulling officers off patrol so they can guard you. I've got murders up to here already -- I don't need y'all's, too."
       Yeager looked at her admiringly -- no question whose side he was on.
       Mark felt as truculent as Graymalkin had looked. "The way to keep this nut from murdering us is to catch him!"
       "I'm not going to argue with you over that." From her purse Zapata took the photographs of Felicia's pink sweater and threw them onto the stack. "Here. Be my guest. But why you think you're going to get more out of those pictures that we could, I don't know."
       "We're more frightened than you are," Hilary said.
       Two points, Mark thought.
       "You couldn't be any more frustrated," replied Zapata.
       Game and set, thought Mark. Jenny's brows went lopsided, as if she would match her frustration against Zapata's any day.
       Hilary's downturned face was half hidden behind a wave of honey-brown hair, her mouth a straight line, her chin set. Her slender hands sifted through the pile of photos. "Great! The Coburgs' charity ball was a costume party! They're wearing masks!"
       "You'll find they were all there." Zapata's chin, too, was set. She glanced at her watch and scooted her chair back. "Check with y'all later." Yeager had to hurry to get the door open for her. From outside came the voices of the returning students.
       "Did she give us carte blanche?" Jenny asked. "Or did she tell us to sod off?"
       "I think she's given us a challenge," said Mark. "Try to survive long enough to catch the killer."
       "Thanks, folks." Rolling his eyes, Preston put down the box and headed out to corral the students.
       Jenny added the bag with the ring to the stack of ceramic shards. "Hilary, would you like to sort out these fragments? Here's the scatter diagram. Ta." She followed Preston out the door.
       Mark said to Hilary, "I'm moving in with you."
       "Good -- I can keep an eye on you." She smiled wanly and scooped the photographs back into the envelope. She didn't point out that their being together last night had made them a more tempting target. "We'll look at these later. You'd better get outside before Jenny comes after you."
       "It's not Jenny who worries me." Mark kissed Hilary's cool lips, glanced at the ice box blocking the connecting door, and went out to the dig.
       The garage and its charred and jumbled contents were emerging from the overlying dirt and rubble. A time-lapse camera would show the surface rolling back, like a landslide in reverse. Mark considered a cement angle, the base of an internal wall, that had appeared during his absence.
       "I set Amy and Hong to sorting out this room," Jenny said. "Arthur's workshop, I suppose. That glass is exploded bottles of paint. That metal pretzel used to be a set of engraving tools. There's a set of mechanics' spanners -- they're still recognizable, at the least."
       "I bet these chunks of wood were workbenches. And this metal box -- no, not the space heater. A kiln. Arthur liked to tinker with his cars? They must've been the meanest machines on the road." Mark produced his trowel and went to work, avoiding the students' curious and suggestive glances.
       A quick rain shower made the day even cooler, and a visit by a television crew tested Jenny's diplomacy to the utmost. By quitting time Mark felt as if he'd been folded, spindled, and mutilated. He and Jenny found Hilary still at the kitchen table, Graymalkin purring in her lap. Arranged in front of her were several tidy stacks of shards, some of the larger ones pieced together. "A Royal Worcester tea service," she announced. "A Dresden shepherdess. A Sevres urn. And this, so help me, was a Wedgewood Stilton cheese bell from about 1820."
       "Thank you," said Jenny, rubbing her neck and shoulders. She caught Mark's eye and quickly stopped.
       If Hilary was Sleeping Beauty, then Jenny was Cinderella, he thought, suffering a glamorous step-family. Except princes were only footnotes in her story. Smiling, Mark gathered up Preston's box. "See you at Lucia's."
       Hilary dodged the fire ant mound outside his apartment. When she found that Lucia had not only washed the sheets and made the bed, but also washed her clothing and folded it on the pillow, she blushed scarlet -- which made the gray ebb from her complexion. Mark patted her reassuringly and went to shower.
       The black-and white-tile floor of Lucia's kitchen was spotless, as were the tea towels printed with various Scottish motifs that Mark had given her. Dried red peppers hung from the window over the sink, and aloe vera plants lined the sill. Beyond the window was the rose garden, the flowers despite the overcast sky shining like Alice in Wonderland's painted posies.
       Mark inhaled deeply of the cooking smells and felt hungry for the first time that day. By the time he'd walked Hilary through the photographs lining a sideboard -- Lucia's late husband, nieces in their _quinceanara_ celebration gowns, the confirmations and weddings of an extended, and, he wistfully believed, happy family -- Preston, Leslie, and Jenny had arrived.
       Lucia seated them around her kitchen table. Mark and Preston showed Hilary and Jenny how to peel the corn shuck wrappers from the bundles of cornmeal and shredded meat that were the tamales. Black beans, guacamole salad, salsa, tortillas, and sour cream rounded out the meal. The sour cream, Gilbert explained jokingly, was a yuppification, toning down the burn of the chile peppers for gringo stomachs.
       "Iced tea, everyone?" Lucia asked, rattling ice cubes into glasses.
       Jenny didn't seem up to iced tea tonight. "Might I just have water, please?"
       Lucia brought her a glass of water, doled out the iced tea, and sat down. She let everyone have seconds before she said, "The nerve. Attacking people in their beds. How low can you get?"
       "I don't guess there's any way we can really thank y'all for saving our lives," Mark told her and Gilbert. "And not just our lives -- you can end up a vegetable from carbon monoxide poisoning." His memory blew a bubble, an image of a perfectly formed but mindless baby. His daughter's condition, though, hadn't been caused by malice; he had no one to be angry at. He mentally popped the bubble and it dissipated.
       The Hernandezes seemed surprised that Mark thought thanks were necessary. "I assume the attack on you is connected to Nathan's death," said Lucia, casting out her lure every bit as hopefully as a fisherman on the bank of a stream. "Unless it was a particularly nasty April Fool's joke."
       "April first isn't until Sunday," Gilbert corrected.
       Hilary scraped up another morsel, then laid down her fork. With a smile of uncertainty at Mark and Jenny she launched into the story of the artifact forgery -- not omitting the sidebar of Nathan's affair with Sharon.
       One by one, all the other forks went down, too. Gilbert's moustache twitched in amazement. Leslie snorted, "Switched right under my nose! Damn! So that's why they wanted the Jesus figure downtown."
       "Would you like to hear the rest of it?" Jenny asked.
       "There's more?" queried Preston.
       "Hush," Lucia told him. "Tell us the rest, Jenny."
       Jenny told them about the Allied Art Collecting Point, Pamela and Arthur, the Eleanor Cross, and the mysteriously teleporting garnet ring.
       Lucia and Gilbert shared a stunned look. Preston polished his glasses, as though that would clarify the situation.
       "Let me get this straight," said Leslie. "Nathan had the figure from the Cross in his pocket. He was holding Felicia's sweater. And a picture of Pamela was on the floor beside him? Whew -- I'd wondered why on earth Yeager and Zapata considered you a suspect, Jenny. But then," she added hastily, "it's their job to be paranoid."
       Gilbert rolled a tortilla, folded the end, and spooned salsa into the resulting pocket. "Where'd that sweater come from? Dolores got rid of everything of Felicia's."
       "Haven't a clue," Jenny answered. "I never saw it, and I turned over the house thoroughly."
       Shaking her head, Lucia started clearing the table. "Pretty shabby to reject you and Pamela and marry Dolores. But then, that was Arthur -- he treated Felicia like an item in one of his collections. Dolores let him think he was treating her like that. I should've known you were his daughter, Jenny -- your bone structure, your manner, you're just like him."
       "Thank you," said Jenny. She got up and started carrying dishes.
       Mark couldn't decide whether to grimace or grin. Lucia hadn't realized she was slapping Jenny across the face with that remark.
       "No wonder Arthur and Felicia never had children," Lucia went blithely on. "His boots were never under the bed long enough. Dolores snagged him when he was getting long in the tooth, ready to settle down. Bring the dessert plates from the sideboard, would you please, Hilary?"
       Lucia unmolded a custard on each plate, and Hilary dealt them out. Mark unlimbered his spoon. Sure enough, the flan was silky and not too sweet, complemented by the puddle of carmelized sugar in which it rested.
       Lucia plugged in the coffeepot and rejoined the others. "The detectives were asking me about the Osborne ghost. Except they seemed to think there was more than one. The only one I've seen is Vicky Coburg."
       "We've seen her ourselves," Jenny murmured. "But Arthur is there too. Not that I can see him. I just -- well -- I know he's there."
       Silence, except for the scraping of spoons. Mark skewed the subject around to the porcelain fragments found in the garage ruins. "Lucia, do you think whoever killed Felicia took the vases and things just to make it look as though a thief had been there...." He suddenly realized that evidence pointed right back at Arthur, and shot an apologetic glance at Jenny.
       "That would explain why they turned up in the garage." Leslie nodded. "Did someone set the place on fire to conceal the evidence?"
       "Pretty extravagant," said Hilary. "Or desperate. It comes down to why Felicia was even at Osborne that night."
       "You found her body, Lucia?" Preston asked.
       "Let's have an edited version," interjected Gilbert. "We're eating."
       Lucia eyed him indulgently. "You're the one who came in saying the garage was on fire. You backed out the T-Bird. The two other cars were already gone. If it hadn't been for that north wind, Osborne itself would've burned. Even so, I went inside to check on everything."
       "You had keys?" asked Jenny.
       "I was still working there then. Dolores was probably fixing to fire me anyway -- I'd been there long enough to ask for a raise. She hired the cheapest help she could get, most of the time illegal aliens who'd stay for a while, build up a nest egg, then hotfoot it back to Mexico. Both she and Arthur spoke Spanish surprisingly well." Lucia got up and started pouring coffee. "There were always people in and out, housekeepers, repairman, mechanics. Arthur was always working on those cars. He was so possessive of them he kept his workshop locked tight."
       Hilary contemplated her cup. Mark thought, if she was as bleary from what seemed like a combination of hangover and jet lag as he was, she could take the coffee intravenously and it wouldn't help. He handed her the cream pitcher and said, "There were garden tools in the garage, too. I guess even without Felicia's roses the lawns and the bushes had to be kept up."
       "Oh yes, Dolores hired gardeners, too," Lucia replied. "She's very particular about appearances. All style and no substance."
       "I found a picture of Felicia at a Rose Festival, not long before she was killed," Jenny said. "She must've started another rose garden."
       "She went back to Osborne every now and then to get cuttings from her old bushes. I think that's why Dolores let them die, just to spite her."
       Mark frowned. "When you found Felicia's body, she was holding -- er -- a rose, wasn't she?"
       "Yes, she was. Freshly picked from one of the last bushes."
       "Maybe she was there that night to get a cutting," Hilary said, picking up Mark's thought. "She sneaked in when she knew Dolores was gone."
       Lucia sat down with a thump. "Could be. That doesn't get her inside the house, though."
       "Did Felicia take the vases and things?" asked Preston.
       "She didn't need the money," Lucia answered. "Arthur paid alimony, and a right fair amount, too. Funny, he always used to be short of cash. Felicia would tell him over and over he was spending too much money on his expeditions, he might lose Osborne itself. He was so mad he could have chewed bees when Felicia sold the property around Osborne, but every time she dipped into his parents' account -- Vicky's money, mostly -- he got just as mad."
       "As if he were trying to dissociate himself from his parents," Mark mused aloud, "and yet not from Osborne."
       "When Dolores came along," Lucia continued, "she shortened his reins real good. Her family lived more on the knees of comfort than in the lap of luxury, and she knew how to pinch a penny so tight that Lincoln screamed. Money was never a problem again. Of course, he started staying home, too."
       "I always thought Arthur was rich," said Preston.
       "Most of his parents' money went into the Foundation," Lucia replied. "He lived on the income from his films, books, art collections, lectures, souvenir pith helmets -- whatever -- so he couldn't count on a regular paycheck. Even though he worked so hard it was Dolores who brought up the children."
       Hilary and Jenny shared a significant nod. "Spooky," said Leslie, "to keep on living in the house where your parents were killed."
       "He kept on working there after Felicia was killed," Lucia pointed out. "Lots of times he'd spend the night there. I'm not so sure he didn't regret marrying Dolores. They were a generation apart in age. And I'm not so sure he didn't feel guilty about treating Felicia so badly -- not to mention Pamela, I now realize."
       "You're guessing," Gilbert told Lucia.
       "No I'm not," she replied. "The wealthy think their servants are so much wallpaper. I heard quite a bit before I left, and since my friend Gisela replaced me, I kept right on hearing things." She got up and refilled the coffee cups. "Of course, when Arthur and Dolores were in public, they acted as happy as hogs in slops. And Dolores and Felicia were always ice-cold polite to each other. Until Felicia died, of course."
       The kitchen was wonderfully warm and bright. Mark leaned back in his chair. He eyed the people ranged around the table: Leslie's elegantly sculpted features and Lucia's grandmotherly ones, Jenny's commanding jaw line and Hilary's Bambi eyes, Gilbert's audacious moustache and Preston's affable smile. He thought, I can trust everyone here. They're family. The thought would have been relaxing but for the darkness that had gathered outside the window, silently, when he wasn't looking.
       "Maybe Arthur and Dolores were like Edward VIII and Wallis Simpson," said Hilary. "The Duke and Duchess of Windsor. There was so much scandal over their marriage they didn't want the even bigger scandal of divorcing."
       Preston said, "Odd you should bring that up, Hilary. If Edward Coburg was Edward VII's son, Arthur was Edward VIII's cousin."
       "I heard that rumor," said Lucia. "Jenny, you might be related to the royal family."
       Jenny's brows rose and fell in caustic comment. "I'm impressed."
       Laughing, Preston reached for the cardboard box Mark had left by the sideboard. He dug around and produced several pictures and a sheaf of photocopies. "I don't have any bombshells as big as yours," he said to Jenny and Hilary, "because this is just supposition. Call it a sparkler, maybe. Here are Vicky and Edward, Arthur's parents. Jenny's grandparents."
       Two sepia-tinted faces peered upward from the tablecloth. The pretty if somewhat petulant woman wore a typical turn-of-the-century hairdo, her tresses piled so high on her head she seemed to be balancing a hassock. The man's face was almost obscured by a moustache, beard, and sideburns; only his dark, liquid eyes peered almost furtively out. The woman didn't look like the ghost, Mark thought. But then, the ghost hadn't really had a face. "Hair was as much in fashion then as in the sixties," he commented.
       "It's hard to see much behind the facial shrubbery," said Hilary, "but Kenneth does have those eyes."
       Jenny pulled the pictures closer, her expression not so much greeting long-lost relatives as wondering why these people had decided to show up for dinner.
       "And here is Edward VII's son Albert, called Eddy. Or 'Collar and Cuffs' because of his long neck and arms." Preston set down another photo, of a young man in tweeds posed against a rock. His face was squashed between a cap and a high collar; only his large, luminous eyes showed he was alive and not a stuffed dummy. "Maybe he died in 1892," Preston went on. "Maybe he came here. Have you ever wondered why, if Eddy did become Edward Coburg, he was cut off from his inheritance and exiled?"
       Gilbert was reading one of the copies. "You've got to be kidding."
       "Nope. There's actually a theory that Eddy was Jack the Ripper."
       The lights dimmed. Mark felt his shoulders contract; he took Hilary's cold hand beneath the table. A car drove by outside, and next door the wind chimes jangled. Jenny's voice was very steady. "On what evidence?"
       "Only circumstantial," Leslie told her. "Eddy even has an alibi for the date of one murder. Of course, witnesses had all sorts of reasons, from money to patriotism to affection for old Queen Victoria, to lie."
       "Appearances being all," Jenny replied. Her eyes were as dark as those of the men -- or man -- in the photographs. They narrowed, collapsing time and space into a black hole of possibility.
       "Supposedly Eddy caught syphilis from a prostitute," said Preston. "That's why he went around cutting -- murdering them. By all accounts he was a pretty weak character, not too bright, and easily led. It's just as well he never became king. I don't know whether Edward Coburg had any diseases, but he certainly did murder his wife in the same manner as Jack the Ripper."
       "What matters," said Hilary with a concerned glance at Mark, "is whether Arthur believed his father was Jack the Ripper." She didn't add, "and whether Jenny believes he was."
       Jenny sighed. "Arthur had a portfolio of original Jack the Ripper material. He believed what was said about Edward. He didn't want his parents' money. He wouldn't allow pictures of them in the house. First he traveled to get away from the house, then he brought his collections home with him, to make Osborne his alone." She got up abruptly and walked over to the sink, staring out the window at the lights of the neighborhood filtered through the trees. That's all she needs, Mark thought. Bloodstains on her DNA.
       Preston said, "Sorry, Jenny."
       Lucia started gathering the dessert plates. "Come on, Jenny, help me do the dishes."
       With a bleak smile, Jenny picked up a dish towel.
       "Edward Coburg's identity is only marginally relevant," Leslie pointed out. "Sure, Nathan might have discovered the stories about Eddy and Jack. The question is, what did Nathan do to get himself murdered?"
       "Nothing!" Hilary replied hotly.
       Mark squeezed her hand. "Nathan was a threat to someone," he explained. "He knew something about the artifacts. He might have known something about Felicia's murder. He had something going with Sharon. There's a connection among those things -- there has to be."
       "Even though Felicia had been dead fifteen years and divorced thirty when Vasarian traced the artifacts to Arthur?" Gilbert asked.
       Everyone sat caught between doubt and disgruntlement while water splashed and dishes clinked. At last a shrug like a sine wave rippled around the table. "Vasarian sure wasn't around when Felicia was killed," said Leslie. "Sharon and Kenneth -- Travis, too, for that matter -- were just kids. Dolores was out of town. Arthur stood trial, yes, but his alibi stood up. Maybe one of them killed Nathan, but how could any of them have killed Felicia?"
       Preston picked up the box and dumped its contents onto the table. Several envelopes were labeled, "Newspapers 1975"; others were labeled "Trial transcripts". "The details are in here."
       "I think maybe I'll ask around," said Lucia.
       Mark couldn't quite focus on the newspaper articles, even though some of them he remembered seeing years ago as he followed the story from medium to medium -- jumping out of the frying pan into the fire. His head felt hollow, his stomach overstuffed. Interesting, how chile peppers cured nausea.
       Beside him Hilary yawned and spread out the photographs of the costume ball. In some of the pictures the participants' faces were revealed; in others they were masked. Leslie and Gilbert arranged the photos, matching costumes, identifying each person. At last Preston said, "Zapata's right -- they're all here. Dolores as Cleopatra, I guess, and Kenneth might be Alexander the Great."
       "Look at Sharon's Victorian outfit," said Gilbert. "You think she's imitating either her grandmother or her grandmother's ghost?"
       A breeze at the back of Mark's neck came from the flutter of Jenny's dishtowel. She stood polishing a plate, peering over his shoulder. "I would have thought Vasarian saw himself as one of the Three Musketeers, or as Cardinal Richelieu, for that matter. But he's dressed as a crusader, a Knight Templar!"
       Mark had to admit Vasarian looked good, his silver hair complementing the chain mail, the white tunic and its red cross simple and attention-getting. "He's carrying a sword. A big one. I wonder if it's real...." Even if it were, he told himself, Nathan wasn't killed with a sword.
       Hilary rubbed her eyes. "I'll take all this stuff home with me and study it over the weekend."
       Preston dumped out another envelope, revealing photo after photo of horses contorting themselves in front of recalcitrant cows. There was Travis, his usually vacant expression intent, his stocky body leaning gracefully to the side, he and his horse defying gravity in perfect accord.
       "Zapata said there was some controversy," Mark pointed out, "and that they had to go to instant replay. That means he's on videotape, too."
       "Rats," said Leslie.
       The multiple eyes of the photographs seemed to glance suspiciously from side to side. Mark blinked sand from his own eyes. Suddenly the lights were too bright and the voices too loud. Hilary was drooping visibly; the others were becoming frustrated. He could sympathize with that. "Put everything back in the box, Preston. I'll read those clippings when my brain's working again. Thanks for the delicious dinner, Lucia."
       "Get some rest," Lucia counseled.
       Everyone expressed his or her appreciation and trooped out the front door. Just outside the streetlamp's circle of light was the white blotch of a police car with one of Zapata's minions leaning against its fender.
       "No nightmares, now," Mark directed Jenny.
       "Chance would be a fine thing," she replied skeptically.
       Hilary shook her head in agreement. Yeah, Mark thought, I don't think there's any chance at all we're going to avoid nightmares. He settled the cardboard box beneath his arm, took Hilary's hand, and plunged into the rose-scented darkness.
--------
         *Chapter Twenty*
       Someone was expounding on rose cultivation -- grafting, rooting, mulching. Hilary struggled into wakefulness and realized the voice wasn't emanating from her dreams. Her clock radio was dutifully telling her it was time to get up and go to work, but instead of the usual newscast it was broadcasting the weekend lawn and garden show.
       It was Saturday. She closed her eyes, waiting for her brain to shed what was apparently a coating of molasses. "Sorry about setting your radio," said a sleepy male voice, "but I have to work today."
       Hilary's eyes flew open again. Mark had told the police officer outside Lucia's house that he would be staying with Hilary at the condo. The officer had followed them there and hovered solicitously while they checked the doors and windows. On the late news a brief mention of a drive-by shooting had featured Frank Yeager giving the play-by-play to the reporter.
       When Mark and Hilary had climbed into bed together, they'd exchanged wry smiles and gone to sleep. She decided she liked waking up with him, too. "I'll put on the coffee. English muffin? Eggs? Lark's tongues?"
       "Anything, thanks." He and his paisley pajama bottoms wove their way toward the bathroom.
       Hilary went down to the kitchen. "Hello, Minnie," she said to the tiny rodent shape whisking away at her approach. She fed Mark and sped him on his way with a kiss. "I'll drop by later on. But you'd better take this key, just in case."
       He returned her kiss, with interest. "Keep everything locked, okay?"
       "Don't worry." Hilary locked the door behind him. She carried Preston's box of papers into the living room and sat down on the couch, tugging her jeans down her thighs so that the clasp of the inseam wasn't quite so snug. The sensations she'd experienced Thursday night played themselves over and over in the back of her mind, a soundtrack accompanying her every thought. First the pleasure, then the pain, then the comfort, and at last the deadening sickness -- the scene might have been painted by Dali or Bosch. Overall, though, it had been a positive moment. Thanks to Mark.
       No thanks to the neighborhood murderer. Hilary sympathized with the Coburgs' carpenter; she seemed to feel eyes on her back, even here in her own living room. Someone had been watching her and Mark. She squirmed more in rage than embarrassment, and adjusted her jeans again. At least she wasn't facing this, too, alone. The friendly faces around Lucia's table last night had been like a new improved jumbo-sized family.
       With a grimace of determination -- by clinging to determination she might forget fear -- Hilary pulled the photos of Felicia's sweater from the box and two needles and a ball of yarn from her knitting bag. She cast on a row of stitches and began imitating the patterns in the sweater. Maybe Felicia had left a message like, "Dolores will kill me on March 22."
       She considered the initials of the pattern names. She drew imaginary lines from nobble to nobble. That series of leaf stitches was probably meant to signify a rose. Surprise, surprise.
       Hilary went to the phone and called Lucia. "I was wondering whether you found Felicia wearing a jacket or a sweater....Just a blouse, despite the cold night?...Yeah, maybe she'd had the sweater on and taken it off somewhere in the house. Maybe someone picked it up and hid it -- the crate that contained the figurine had a wisp of pink yarn caught on it....No, nothing specific, just brainstorming. Thanks."
       Pouring herself more coffee, Hilary tackled the photos of the costume ball. Nathan had been killed between nine-thirty and eleven-thirty. Unfortunately there was no way of telling when these pictures had been taken.
       Unmasked, the Coburgs were easy enough to identify. Kenneth's dark, heavy-lidded eyes and square chin were a living version of a Roman portrait bust, making his vaguely Greco-Roman outfit very appropriate. But his legs, encased in shining greaves, were rather spindly, not nearly as nice as Mark's in a kilt. Sharon was quite pretty in her flounces and piled Gibson Girl hairdo, smiling secretively at the camera as though she were wearing a leopard-skin bikini beneath her voluminous skirts. Dolores's earrings looked like chandeliers, but then, Cleopatra probably had carried half the wealth of Alexandria in her ears. The Egyptian sheath set Dolores's slender figure off to perfection, even though the black wig and heavy eye shadow made her look as pale as the ghost on Osborne's staircase. Vasarian looked very noble in his knight's garb, ready to battle any number of dragons. There were fewer photos of him; he'd been at the museum until ten, supposedly.
       Masked, the Coburgs and their henchman blended into the crowd. A second knight was wearing a long, concealing cloak. A woman in a Scarlett O'Hara outfit looked somewhat like Sharon. And there was a Roman in a toga, and some kind of gold lame enchantress with black hair....
       With a snort of impatience Hilary put the photos away. Any of the Coburgs could've ducked out long enough to murder Nathan. Vasarian could have killed him after leaving the museum. Or Travis could have -- the Coliseum and the cutting horse contest were only a couple of miles from Osborne. Hilary wondered what he and Sharon had been fighting about in their car.
       Maybe Sharon had been coming on to Nathan in order to keep an eye on him, and blew the whistle on him when he found out about the fake artifacts. Not that Hilary could see Sharon and/or Travis engineering such a scam. They could all be working together, Dolores, Kenneth, and Vasarian the brains, Sharon and Travis the brawn. Except Hilary had no proof anyone but Vasarian was dishonest. And that didn't mean he had wielded the knife.
       She rinsed out her coffee cup, returned to the couch, and compared her square of knitting to the photo. On the back of the sweater, among the ripple, zigzag, and lozenge stitches, were the squiggles she hadn't been able to identify. They looked as though they'd been drawn on top of the other stitches.... "Idiot!" she exclaimed. "They're letters!"
       Her fingertip traced a capital "A", then a small "r" and a "t". Beyond a row of garter stitches was a capital "F". Arthur and Felicia? Hilary tried the photos upside down. If she squinted just a bit, she could make out right angles, and a protuberance.... An impression of Osborne House?
       She tossed her knitting onto the couch, shoved the photos into her purse, and took off for the excavation.
       The sky wasn't as hazy as it had been yesterday. The overcast had curdled, and the sun swam amid lumps of gray and white cloud. There was no breeze, and in fact seemed to be very little air.
       The dig looked like a crossword puzzle, unexcavated angles of ground separating tidy squares of foundation or fence line or root. Most of the students had come today, but even so, they were spread thinly across the debris, working on half a dozen trenches. The burned lump of the infamous space heater sat truculently on the rim of the garage excavation.
       Mark and Jenny stood beside the toolshed gesturing at the field. Mark's tie-dyed purple shirt proclaimed, "Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most." Jenny's shirt was yellow, announcing, "Glasgow's Miles Better". Hilary felt underdressed in her pink shirt with the "Cats" logo, but she felt sure Graymalkin would approve.
       The little cat was stalking something among the crape myrtles lining the foundation of the house. As Hilary watched, two mockingbirds exploded from the underbrush. Graymalkin spun in mid air. The birds made strafing runs at her back until she disappeared shamefacedly beneath the porch.
       "...just shops, gas stations, some houses," Mark was saying. "No banks with vaults or anything like that. For years there was a brick wall between Osborne and the buildings, but that was settling pretty badly by -- well, by the mid-seventies. It's the clay soil here, it contracts and expands. Very few houses have cellars -- especially not the newer ones. You get fault lines in the foundations as it is."
       Jenny's characteristic compressed energy made her nod more expressive than someone else's hair-pulling and foot-stamping. "I just hope Arthur put the Cross in something more waterproof than a wooden crate."
       Wincing at the prospect -- as though the Cross being chewed by rats wasn't bad enough -- Hilary pulled out the pictures of the sweater. "Look -- Art-F, and a rose, and a schematic of Osborne."
       "You sure the 'F' doesn't come before the 'Art'?" Mark asked with an impish grin. "Some kind of editorial comment?"
       Hilary pushed at his chest. Jenny laughed. From the garage came Amy's supersonic giggle. "What is it?" Preston asked from his drawing board.
       "Another dried up garden hose," said Hong.
       Sighing, Mark strolled over to look.
       "Do you think Felicia was hoping to get back together with Arthur?" Hilary asked Jenny. "In spite of what he did to her?"
       "More likely she wanted her rose bushes and her ring," Jenny replied.
       Mark stepped down the two feet to the emerging garage floor. He looked. His body went rigid. "Jesus!"
       Hilary and Jenny shoved Amy and Hong unceremoniously aside. They would've shoved Preston, too, but he was too big. "What?"
       "Bones," said Mark. He fell to his knees. With just the tip of his trowel and the utmost economy of motion, he defined a brownish-black ridge in the dirt. "Whether they're human or not.... Thoracic vertebrae? Yeah, there's a rib. There's the edge of the scapula, the shoulder blade."
       Jenny pulled her trowel from her pocket. "Careful. Burned bone is very fragile. We're lucky anything is left at all. The fire brigade must've been more efficient than the forensics chaps.... Lumbar vertebrae. Wing of the pelvis. They're human bones all right. Preston, call Zapata."
       "All I wanted," Preston muttered as he loped away, "was a little dig experience to back up my documentation."
       Amy's face crumpled with tears. Awkwardly Hong patted her arm. The other students gathered along the edge of the pit like spectators at an accident. "Bummer," said someone.
       "Stop your gawping," Jenny snapped. "Amy, Hong, go work with Guy."
       The students drifted away. As soon as they fancied themselves out of earshot, they started speculating on the identity of the body, and whether they'd be interviewed on TV. Hilary picked up the drawing board, rolled down Preston's sketch of the space heater, and started drawing. Her fingers gripped the pencil so tightly her knuckles stood out whiter than the emerging bones. She tried to inhale, but her chest was locked in a vise.
       When Preston loomed up behind her she jumped. "Zapata and Yeager are on their way," he told Jenny. "They said not to touch anything."
       "What do they think I'm going to do, mess it about? I'm an archaeologist, not a navvy." Jenny's hand moved firmly and yet delicately over the pelvic arch. "Here, Preston, get the camera...."
       "I've got it. Say 'cheese'."
       Mark glanced upward, caught Hilary's eye, and grimaced. Scooping away only the soil covering the bones, without digging between them, he worked his way down the outflung arms while Jenny worked her way toward the feet. They had exposed the body from nape to knee, when with a screech of brakes and a slam of doors Yeager and Zapata sprinted toward the dig.
       The students scattered like chickens before a fox. Preston and his camera skipped aside. Hilary held her ground. "You're lucky you caught us," said Yeager. "We were fixing to check out that corpse they found in the stockyards."
       Heedless of her stockings and shoes, Zapata jumped down and crouched beside Jenny. "I asked you not to..." she began, then shook her head. "Crispy critter, huh? We're not going to lift any prints off this one."
       Daintily Jenny probed the pelvic arch, where the hip bones curved together like a butterfly folding its wings. "A man, I think," she said. "The pelvis is fairly narrow."
       The bones emerged from the soil like islands from the sea, tiny protuberances of life in an ocean of nothingness. A shaft of sun fell on Hilary's back, raising goose flesh. The warm scent emanating from the ground was only the smell of dirt, she assured herself.
       Mark exposed the end of the left arm. The finger bones were arranged as gracefully and as serenely as the Mona Lisa's painted hands. The man's right hand was beneath a black and blistered roof beam. "Healed fracture of the right ulna," said Jenny. "Broke his forearm, perhaps as a child."
       Preston brought a wooden box with mesh at the bottom. Zapata watched intently as Mark and Jenny scooped dirt into it. Preston shook the sieve, and fine dust sifted through it, gathering in a mound on the mottled cement of the garage floor. Dust to dust, Hilary thought. The man's funeral pyre had been a spectacular one. No doubt he'd found that very comforting.
       With a loud shuffling of papers, Yeager said, "Nobody was reported missing the night of the fire."
       "Either he could've been trapped in the fire, or the fire could've been set to cover the body," returned Zapata.
       "Then why didn't the murderer haul Felicia out here, too? It doesn't fit," protested Yeager.
       "Nothing fits." Several tiny round shapes bounced atop the dusty screen. Zapata reached out and picked one up. "Rivets? Oh -- the man was wearing jeans. No buttons, though."
       "Shirt buttons would be underneath him," Jenny said.
       "He might've been wearing a T-shirt. Then there wouldn't be any buttons." Preston put the rivets into a plastic bag.
       Jenny traced the lower leg bones to the feet, exposing several carbonized stripes. "Leather shoes," she stated.
       Mark dug down over the skull. When he sensed bone, he switched to a brush. Yeager and Zapata bracketed him. He said, "You're in my light." Neither of them moved. His hand slipped, sending a spray of dirt into Zapata's shoe. "Sorry." The detectives stepped back.
       Jenny forced her way between them and produced her own brush. The excavation was enclosed by a bubble of silence so profound that the soft swish of the brushes was gratingly loud. Hilary kept on drawing, copying the casual sketch of life -- or rather, she thought, a sketch of the casual anonymity of death.
       The mound of the skull appeared from the dirt. The face was turned to the side, toward the fallen beam. Carefully, one grain of dirt at a time, Mark cleared the zygomatic arch, the edge of the eye socket, and the connection of lower jaw into upper. A gold molar glinted, as though the skull were about to speak. Hilary's pencil slipped. She erased, began again. She had to breathe through her mouth to get any air at all.
       "Cause of death?" asked Zapata. "A knife might slice a bone, or your seive could find a bullet, but if he simply asphyxiated in the fire...."
       Jenny's brush pointed to the arch of the skull. "See that fracture of the parietal? That's your cause of death."
       "He was hit by that falling beam?"
       "No. That would've left a long, crushed area. This is roughly oval and deep like a puncture wound. I daresay one of those spanners over there could've turned the trick."
       Yeager and Zapata considered the rack of charred and tumbled wrenches. The largest was as big as a man's forearm, the smallest the size of a woman's little finger. "Murdered?" Yeager hazarded.
       "A right-handed bloke coshed him from behind," said Jenny. "He's lying on his stomach, that's consistent with his falling forward."
       "Have you ever done any forensic work?" Zapata asked.
       Jenny sat back on her heels. "Now and again. There was a case in Devon last year. The police were trying to match a set of child's bones with a boy who'd gone missing in 1981 -- the mum's boyfriend was suspected of doing away with him. Turned out it was the same child. But his death was an accident. He'd been clambering over a drystone wall when it collapsed on him. I was quite sorry not to shop the boyfriend -- he was a nasty piece of work."
       "Think you can identify this body?" asked Yeager.
       "The mastoid process -- behind the ear -- and the brow ridge are heavy enough to make this a man. Comparing the development of the bones in right and left arms, I'd say he was left-handed."
       "Only about seventeen per cent of the population is left-handed," Hilary interjected.
       "He was a mature man," Jenny went on. "The sutures in his skull are completely closed. I'll have to check the pelvis and the long bones, that'll give us a range. And his height can be determined by measuring the femur. Ante-mortem medical and dental records would show the healed fracture and the gold tooth, but for that we'd need to have some idea who he was."
       Mark reamed out an eye socket. Preston reached into the sieve and pulled out two coins. Zapata snatched them from him. "A nickel, dated 1974. Well, we already knew when he died. And a fifty-peso piece."
       "Maybe he was one of Arthur's illegal aliens," said Hilary.
       Both Yeager and Zapata turned to her, Zapata's frown making her feel like a schoolgirl caught throwing spitballs. Well, who had a better right to talk about a case than its potential victims? She filled them in on Lucia's roundtable last night, concluding, "Lucia said Arthur was possessive of his workshop, but so much so he'd kill someone for it?"
       Zapata nodded reflectively. "Mrs. Hernandez did say something about the Coburgs hiring illegal aliens. Which means their names wouldn't be on the tax rolls. Frank, go call her and ask if anyone was unaccounted for the night of the fire." Yeager took off across the debris, the dried leaves crunching. Preston took a picture of him.
       While she was at it, Hilary took the now creased and fingerprinted photos of Felicia's sweater from her pocket and showed Zapata the patterns. The detective's jaw tightened. "It's a shame all those great minds at work last night didn't come up with a solution."
       "Do you want this case solved or not?" Mark demanded.
       "It's my case. It's my responsibility."
       "It's not your ass on the line."
       _Mark!_ Hilary protested silently.
       The arrogant angle of Zapata's head could have been due either to her personality or the weight of her bundled hair; she looked like an Aztec priestess considering a victim's still-beating heart. Her voice was crisp. "Not physically, no."
       "Political pressure to hurry up and find a killer?" Jenny asked. "Or political pressure to hush everything up?"
       "Y'all just try to live long enough to testify at a trial -- after I find the killer."
       "Thanks," Mark and Jenny said simultaneously. Hilary bent over her drawing and corrected a crooked line.
       A patrol car pulled up in the driveway and disgorged two uniformed officers and a tall, thin man carrying an attache case. Behind it came a television van. Zapata uttered a four-letter word and called to the man, "Where's the rest of the M.E.'s team?"
       "Back in the morgue trying to get all those bodies waiting in the hallways autopsied," he replied. "This guy didn't sound like a good candidate for an autopsy, so I came alone."
       Hilary would've called the man cadaverous, but compared to the real corpse he looked like Santa Claus. He climbed down into the pit and opened his case. Zapata leaned over one shoulder, Jenny over the other. Preston went to sit beneath a tree and change the film in his camera.
       A navy-blue Lexus skimmed around the television van and boxed in the patrol car. With resigned gestures, the officers waved Kenneth and Dolores, Sharon and Vasarian, toward the dig, and continued making crowd-control motions at the reporters. Yeager emerged from the house, saw the advancing Coburgs, and set off on an intercepting course.
       Mark brushed himself off and offered Hilary a hand up. "Let's go throw our bodies in front of the juggernaut."
       "Great image, Mark."
       Vasarian's expression was, as usual, that of a gentleman out for an afternoon constitutional. Dolores flared her nostrils like a thoroughbred confronted with an inferior brand of sugar cube. Kenneth looked as though he had a little dark cloud over his head. Sharon glanced nervously right and left and flinched when Yeager stepped in front of them and held up his hand. "Would y'all mind waiting here?" he said.
       "Yes," said Dolores. "This is my property. What's going on?"
       "We found a body, a skeleton, in the ruins of the garage," Mark said.
       Vasarian arched a brow, as though finding a speck in his teacup. Kenneth and Sharon exchanged a glance more hostile than bewildered. Dolores said, "It's the person who set the garage on fire, obviously."
       "Was the garage set on fire?" Yeager asked.
       "Someone murdered Felicia and stole a very fine collection of ceramics," Dolores went on. "I'm delighted to hear he didn't escape, after all. What a shame poor innocent Arthur had to suffer through a trial." She didn't look at Yeager as she spoke but considered the three heads bent close together in the excavation. Beyond them the students made pecking motions at the ground and eyed Force Coburg over their shoulders.
       The shame, Hilary thought, is that the Coburgs made such haste in bulldozing the garage, almost as though they had something to hide. And yet covering the garage had preserved its incriminating evidence. Someone had been hoisted with his -- or her -- own petard, and it hadn't been the dead man.
       Yeager said, "There's nothing y'all can do here. We'll give you a call when we know something."
       Dolores gave him the haughty look of the chairman of the board denied admittance by a doorman. Interesting how thin her veneer had become over the last few days -- the polished figure at the Lloyd reception was starting to show the scratches and smudges of hard use. She stalked back to the car, Kenneth at her side, Sharon sulking behind, Vasarian wafting nonchalantly in the rear. "How dare he," said Hilary to Mark, "act like he has a clear conscience?"
       "He's probably had lots of experience." Mark turned to Yeager. "You realize that this is another motive for the attacks on us Thursday night -- to keep us from finding the body in the garage."
       "Them?" Yeager asked. He jerked his head toward the Lexus, its doors slamming on various microphones. "They let you excavate."
       "When the Historical Society insisted," replied Mark. "I doubt if they realized just how much a trained archaeologist could learn from the ruins. And they've been hurrying us along."
       The forensics investigator shut his attache case, shrugged, and headed back toward the police car. The television crew came to attention and presented minicams. Zapata and Jenny conferred, gestures brisk, going toe to toe on some point of procedure. At last they climbed out of the pit and joined Yeager, Mark, and Hilary.
       "The police are letting us uncover the body," Jenny said to Mark. The note of triumph in her voice reflected Zapata's slightly smug expression. Good compromise, Hilary thought. They both think they've won -- Jenny gets to dig, Zapata doesn't have to commit any of her people.
       "What did Mrs. Hernandez say?" Zapata asked Yeager.
       "Two men, Mexican nationals, disappeared after the fire. The remaining workmen said those two were afraid the fire and the murder would call Immigration's attention to them, so they lit out for home." He checked his notebook. "I've got two names to check on."
       "Good," said Zapata. "We'd better be getting on over to the stockyards. Jenny, keep us posted."
       Jenny watched, her expression every bit as inscrutable as Graymalkin's, as the two detectives made terse statements to the reporters and departed northward. Hilary and Mark exchanged a thoughtful look. Just because Jenny didn't want Arthur to be a murderer didn't mean he wasn't. The body was found in his workshop; that didn't look good. Perhaps he and Dolores had agreed on his standing trial for Felicia's murder as a smokescreen to cover the murder of the workman. But no matter whether Arthur had killed anyone, he was beyond justice now....
       Or was he? Hilary glanced at the tower of the house. It glinted in a ray of sun, as though winking at her. Supposedly guilt could bind a ghost to the living world. Guilt, dishonesty, murder -- it was all a virus, infecting everyone it touched. She shivered.
       Mark and Jenny picked up their trowels. Hilary went back to the drawing board. Another patrol car arrived with more officers. The television crew hung around long enough to get various incoherent statements from the students as they departed for lunch, then disappeared. Another crew materialized in time to question Preston as he returned with sacks of hamburgers for everyone else's lunch. Hilary's french fries tasted of dust.
       Every TV channel, radio station, and newspaper in the Metroplex came and went over the course of the afternoon, but weren't permitted any closer than the driveway. By quitting time the body was fairly well exposed, except for the hand beneath the fallen beam. They'd have to set up a block and tackle for that, Jenny announced. She and Mark sprayed the bones with fixative, then helped Preston peg a plastic sheet over them. Two police officers assumed sentry positions.
       Hilary asked Jenny to join her and Mark for dinner at the condo. Graciously she declined and strode toward Osborne without a backward look. She opened the kitchen door, bent, and stood up again holding Graymalkin across her shoulder. The cat shot a narrow look at Mark and Hilary: _Hey, we're survivors. Don't sweat it._
         * * * *
Another policeman cruised down Hilary's street, pausing as her Caprice and Mark's van parked outside the condo. They waved. He waved back.
       While Mark was showering, Hilary took a phone call from Lucia and explained to her just why Yeager had been asking about the workmen. "Good grief!" Lucia groaned. "All I have to do is call my cousin in Mexico City, the one at the Bureau of Statistics -- he'll find those men before any official inquiry can unroll its red tape."
       "We need all the help we can get," Hilary told her. "Thanks."
       Mark passed the evening sifting through the box of newspaper articles while Hilary knitted. In response to his inquisitive bedtime caress, she confessed, "I'm sorry, I'm afraid of freaking out again."
       "Yeah, well, I am too." Wistfully Mark rolled off the bed and headed toward the bathroom. "Just let me take a cold shower."
       Hilary laughed, and when a damp and very clean Mark returned, she snuggled into his embrace and slept better than she had for weeks. In fact, she was sleeping so deeply, she didn't even hear him leave the next morning, and awoke to find an empty pillow next to her.
       He and Jenny were soldiering on at Osborne, Sunday or no Sunday. Feeling disconcertingly domestic, Hilary baked chocolate chip cookies, made lemonade, and packed sandwiches, and at noon drove to the dig. The streets were deserted. She figured that everyone was at church until she turned on York Boulevard and saw that everyone was at Osborne.
       Fortunately one of the cops on guard recognized her and ran interference for her through the sightseers. She found Mark and Jenny removing the dirt matrix around the skeleton grain by grain, a slow and agonizing task made slower and more agonizing by the difficulty of keeping the fragile bones from collapsing as dirt was removed from beneath them. Gratefully they set aside their brushes and dug into Hilary's picnic basket.
       Cameras clicked from the watching crowd, the archaeologists' lunch being the most exciting thing to happen all morning. Except for the arrival and departure of the Coburgs, Mark told Hilary. "And Vasarian on his leash," added Jenny.
       "I don't suppose they skulked around acting guilty?" asked Hilary.
       "Hell, no," Mark replied. "Travis broke down the edge of the trench, Kenneth told Jenny how to excavate, and Dolores reminded us a hundred times or so that Victoria Square has to get started and that this is her property and we'd better not slow things down any further."
       "As though you buried the body on purpose."
       "Right," said Jenny. "Good biscuits. Thank you."
       The sky was streaked with blue, gray, and white clouds, looking like one of Olivia's watercolor landscapes. A fitful breeze gasped through the limbs of the trees. The tossing leaves were so dusty, they made Hilary think of August instead of April. "Happy April Fool's", she said.
       "I've had quite enough jokes played on me already," Mark told her.
       By the time Hilary finished her sketch, the afternoon had darkened, the clouds stuffing the sky with deep blue-gray billows, and the breeze was a cold, steady wind. Mark and Jenny enlisted the aid of the police officers to dig a drainage ditch. Hilary put the drawing board in the kitchen, petted Graymalkin, and watered the ivy on the old icebox which was now blocking the door into the rest of the house.
       She sped away from Osborne through the prematurely dark evening to the bright and mundane precincts of a supermarket, shopped, and raced the rain back home. To the thunk of raindrops against the windows, she dumped the groceries on the kitchen counter and hurried upstairs.
       She was going to attempt curried chicken and rice tonight -- eventually, she told herself, she had to figure out how to cook. Cooking couldn't be as confusing as sex. Again, Jenny had declined to join them -- three's a crowd, after all, and Jenny might be feeling particularly awkward now that Mark and Hilary had more or less gotten together.
       Blushing furiously, Hilary turned on the lights in her bedroom and bathroom and showered. Maybe tonight or tomorrow night they could try again. This time when she touched herself she sensed a reminiscent tingle, and her breath caught in a moan of delight that sounded ludicrous out of context.
       She remembered the romantic fancies she'd had as a young girl, and shook her head over the years she'd spent when she was sure no one would ever want her. What she had never imagined was that when she did fall in love, it would be against an international backdrop of murder and mayhem.
       Hilary got dressed to the insistent screech of a burglar alarm, coming from two blocks over, she estimated. Many times her neighborhood in Indianapolis had been awakened by alarms set off by passing trucks or squirrels on the roof. Just as she decided she ought to call the police herself, the wail stopped. Good. Someone else had taken care of it, whether it had sounded by accident or purposeful incursion.
       Through the rush of the rain, she heard a noise downstairs. Mark? No, he'd come in calling her name. Oh, for heaven's sakes, Minnie Mouse was probably nibbling at her groceries! Hilary rushed into the kitchen. The boxes and bags lay just as she'd left them. The cookies reposed in their tin. Not one rodent whisker did she see.
       Two strong arms grabbed her from behind. Every nerve ending in her body shorted out. Her breath escaped in a choked squeak and she couldn't force another one into her lungs. Hands groped across her breasts. Her legs wouldn't support her weight; she fell back against her assailant, pushing them both into the darkened living room.
       A labored breath in her ear became words. "Come on, baby. Come on, baby." The hands groped further down her body. Something cold and metallic pressed into the small of her back -- no, not a gun. Both her attacker's hands were accounted for. She tried to scream, tried to move, but her body was no longer hers to control, just a lump of meat....
       Her mind spasmed into incandescent rage. She remembered a plush toy pressing against her face and light burning her eyes. "No!" she screamed. "I'm not your baby!" She planted her feet and pushed, and she and her attacker tumbled onto the couch. His grasp loosened. She flung herself forward. Even as the huge hands seized her again, she found her knitting needles.
       "No! Leave me alone! You have no right!" Wrenching herself around, lunging toward her assailant instead of away from him, Hilary took him by surprise. She flung him against the couch and struck, again and again. All she could see was the flash of the needles, and a pair of eyes glinting, and a lumpish shape jerking beneath her.
       "Hey!" he shouted. "Hey, sugar, stop it, I didn't mean nothing!" The man threw her away from him and ran toward the door.
       The door opened. Mark's sturdy body was a silhouette against the silvery rain, unconcernedly shaking itself. The shape slammed him against the door frame and disappeared into the rain. "What? Hilary!"
       Hilary ran to him, still clasping the needles, her copy of Felicia's sweater wadded in her hand. She was surprised she didn't light up the entryway like a bolt of lightning. "He attacked me, Mark!"
       Barely were the words out of her mouth before Mark, with a vicious oath, was out the door. She ran behind him. Cold rain poured over her. The grass slipped beneath her feet. Puddles splashed onto her ankles. A dim blotch retreated around the corner of the condo. Somewhere a dog started barking hysterically.
       They turned the corner and stood, hesitating. Through the roar of the rain came the snick of wood. "Come on," Mark said, and threw open the gate of the fenced backyard next door.
       The man-shape was clambering over the far side of the fence. Mark and Hilary doubled back, colliding with each other, and raced around the building and through the hanging branches of a willow. Wet leaves slapped Hilary's face, and she sputtered and blinked.
       Faint beyond the sound of the rain came the sudden growl of an engine. Red tailights flared and retreated into the downpour. Mark and Hilary stood sodden on the sidewalk, gasping for air. "Are you all right?" he asked.
       "My hero," she said with a shaky laugh. Suddenly her knees gave way. Mark's arm around her waist buoyed her back through her doorway.
       "No," he said. "You had him on the run before I ever got here." For a long moment they stood tightly embraced, clothes squishing, dripping on the tile of the entryway. Outside the rain slackened. A breath of fresh, cold air blew in the open door. Hilary started to shiver. Odd, how the rain on her face tasted of salt. The knitting needles seemed embedded in her hands. "Who was it?" Mark asked. "Could you tell?"
       The images coalesced in her mind, the voice, the metal against her back, the big hands. "Yeah," she managed to say between her chattering teeth, "I know who it was. Travis Ward."
       "The hell it was." Mark, his arm securely around Hilary's shoulders, walked into the kitchen and dialed police headquarters.
--------
         *Chapter Twenty-One*
       Hilary's hand was small but strong, its delicacy intriguingly deceptive. Mark folded his fingers over hers and wedged their joined hands between his denim-clad thigh and her cotton skirt. The orange plastic chairs in which they sat were as uncomfortable as they were ugly, but no one expected the waiting room of a police station to look like the atrium of the Lloyd.
       "You're sure you're all right?" he asked.
       "You've asked me that twenty times since last night. I'm all right. Really." Hilary had a way of dropping her eyes and looking up through her lashes; the effect was not shyness but reserved caution, less charm than a warning to back off.
       She'd lain shivering in Mark's arms for a long time after the police had come and gone, until at last her skin had warmed against his and she'd muttered, "I showed him, didn't I?"
       "Yes, you did," Mark had returned. "No one's ever going to hurt you again, Hilary."
       She'd slept then, trustingly, in his arms. He'd lain awake for a long time, listening to the night noises of traffic and rain, watching her shadowed smile.
       No one would ever hurt her again, not if he had anything to say in the matter. He shifted in the chair, every muscle in his body clenched; he wanted to hit and smash and hurt. But Travis Ward was in police custody, safe from Mark's inchoate visions of revenge, but not, he devoutly hoped, from the slowly grinding gears of legal vengeance. He glanced at his watch. Eleven o'clock. Jenny was waiting for him to help lift the burned beam. "Hurry up, Zapata," he said under his breath. "You called us."
       Across the room an elderly woman read a _Dallas Morning News_, the front page of which featured an article on the latest developments in the Osborne murder case. Hilary said, "The reporters were sure out there fast after you found the bones."
       "Most of the media keep a stringer here at police headquarters, or else listen in to the police radio."
       "The Coburgs were out there awfully fast, too."
       "Yeah. I wouldn't be surprised if they also have a stringer. They seem to have a hook into everyone in town."
       "Maybe that's why the police missed the body in the garage in 1975 -- the Coburgs made a big donation to some police benevolent fund and had the bulldozers standing by. After all, no one was reported missing."
       "We found the space heater next to the door," Mark replied. "The body's in the back, hidden behind some workbenches -- which, ironically, protected it from the collapse of the ceiling. The Coburgs didn't bribe their way out of Felicia's murder -- Arthur did stand trial. That was the main event, after all, not the fire."
       Hilary crossed her legs and knotted her nylon-clad ankles beneath her chair. "And now? I know someone listening in the house overheard us talking about the artifacts, but we also told Yeager and Zapata...." She stopped, glancing toward a door marked "Homicide".
       Mark knew paranoia, chapter and verse. "I wondered about them, too. But the Coburgs would've had to get Yeager and Zapata onto the take pretty fast -- I can't see them keeping all the homicide detectives on their payroll, just in case. And I can't see a couple of detectives condoning murder, Nathan's or ours. Of course, I do have to wonder just what they were talking about at Ida's restaurant the other night."
       "I bet," said Hilary, "he wants a relationship, but she's afraid a relationship will hurt her career."
       "What were you doing, reading lips?"
       "No, just body language. And Zapata's hair was loose, down her back...." She laughed. "Guess I'm making a deductive leap, like Nathan used to do."
       The door opened. Frank Yeager beckoned. Mark and Hilary followed him down a hallway and into a small windowless room furnished with a coffee-stained table and several more plastic chairs. The fluorescent light flickered faintly and emitted a whine almost too high to hear. Despite a chill draft from a ceiling vent, the air stank of stale cigarette smoke and fast food. No wonder Zapata was usually in such a foul mood, Mark thought.
       The woman herself wheeled a television set and VCR into the room. "You're in luck. You don't have to identify Ward. He confessed."
       "To the murder?" Hilary asked, her eyes huge.
       Zapata chunked the plug into the wall as though whacking Travis with a nightstick. "No, more's the pity. To assaulting you last night. We're also going to charge him with trying to asphyxiate you both: we found a little carved _Dia de los Muertos_ bone in his car. Must've stuck to his shoe after he tripped over the cat and knocked the sculpture off the mantel. Unfortunately we can't charge him with simply planning to assault Jenny."
       Mark held a chair for Hilary. She sat down without looking around, her attention fixed on Zapata.
       "A neighbor of the Hernandezes," the detective went on, "saw a maroon BMW taking off in a hurry late Thursday night."
       "We got a search warrant for the Wards' house," Yeager said. "Lots of guns and knives, but not the murder weapon."
       Mark sat down beside Hilary. Zapata inserted a tape into the VCR and sat at the head of the table. She shot Mark and Hilary a look like polished jet. "We're checking Ward's alibi again. We are working on this case."
       "I realize what pressure you've been under," Mark said politely.
       Zapata jabbed at the VCR remote control. The screen lit with static, which resolved itself into a picture. Mark expected to see the cutting horse contest, the clumsy Travis transformed into a centaur. What he saw was a washed-out video of Travis at this very table, his face puffy, his unshaven jaw set in Neanderthal stubbornness. His fingers were spread on the tabletop in a gesture of appeal at odds with his pugnacious expression. Beside him, almost out of the frame, was a suit-jacketed arm, shirt cuff gleaming. "One of the Coburgs' pet lawyers showed up," Zapata explained, "before Travis had so much as given us his name."
       Yeager's voice came from the speaker. "Where did you get those scratches on your face?"
       "My wife. Bitch came at me with those damn fingernails of hers."
       "Why?"
       "I told her what I thought of her morals."
       This from a man, Mark thought, who frequented topless bars and manhandled women in their own living rooms.
       Zapata's voice asked, "And those bruises on your arms and chest?"
       "Horse bucked me off. Got all stove up."
       "How about the splinters in your hands?"
       Travis's hands contracted to fists. "Fence rail."
       "I'll spare you the picking and grinning. Here." Zapata wielded the remote wand. The picture skewed. Travis looked up and down again jerkily, gesturing like a marionette.
       The picture steadied. Zapata's voice said, with more than a little relish, "Those bruises were made by knitting needles. The splinters match the wood in the fence next door to Miss Chase's condo. She recognized your voice. And she felt this." Yeager's hand held up a plastic bag that contained a belt with a huge sculpted buckle. Mark didn't have to see it clearly to recognize it. "You attacked her," Zapata persisted. "Why?"
       "You don't have to answer that," said the lawyer's voice.
       But Travis had already deflated. "I didn't attack her. I just wanted to cuddle her a little bit. No harm in that. A man who doesn't get any loving at home has to go somewheres else, doesn't he? And Hilary was giving me the eye -- those little egghead gals really go for us outdoor types."
       "You meant to rape her?" Yeager demanded.
       Mark felt Hilary flinch. He darted the real-time Yeager's unconcerned profile a resentful glare and took Hilary's hand beneath the table.
       Travis offered Yeager a tentative just-between-us-guys grin. "You know what they say about rape -- if it's inevitable, just lie back and enjoy it."
       Zapata lunged into the video image, leaning into Travis's face. Her voice was low and harsh. "And I suppose if you were being castrated you'd lie back and enjoy it?"
       Travis stared slack-jawed at her. The lawyer leaned over and whispered something into his ear. Travis wilted even farther, his features melting like warm paraffin. "No, I was just going to scare her, so she'd leave town."
       Zapata's image retreated from the picture, guided by Yeager's restraining hand. The real-time Zapata sat stiffly at the head of the table. "I'm not so sure that wasn't entrapment, Frank. But we got it by the lawyer."
       Hilary's hand was cold in Mark's. "I wasn't leading him on."
       "Of course you weren't," Zapata assured her. "Travis was trying to hide his real reason for attacking you behind what he thought was a passable excuse. Of course, he might actually believe some of the Tarzan crap -- it's genetic...." Her voice trailed away as both Yeager and Mark glanced indignantly at her.
       "How," asked Yeager's recorded voice, "did you get into the condo?"
       "Ward and Meyer own the condo management company," Travis replied. "I got a passkey from the secretary, told her the owners wanted me to check the place while they were gone. Then all I had to do was set off an alarm two blocks over to distract the cop. Pretty smooth, huh?"
       No one applauded. "Why did you want to scare Hilary away?" Zapata's voice asked.
       "Sharon was scared to death of her. Kept saying that if only Hilary would go away, everything would be all right. I thought if I could get Hilary out of the picture, then I could get Sharon away, too, away from that mother and that brother of hers, and that foreigner -- Jeez, he really riles me, always looking at you as if he could see holes in your underwear."
       Travis had that much right, Mark thought.
       Zapata's recorded voice asked, "No one told you to scare Hilary away?"
       "Huh?" Travis returned.
       Yeager leaned across the table into the picture, holding a plastic bag containing the tiny white sculpted bone. "You may have got the scratches on your face from your wife, or you may have got them from a cat. Where were you last Thursday night?"
       "Huh?" Travis's face creased either with bewilderment or an excellent facsimile of it. "Thursday? I was home with Sharon. What's that?"
       "Your car was seen on Moss Street just about the time someone tried to asphyxiate Hilary and Mark Owen. The bone is from the kitchen at Osborne, where someone presumably was going to attack Jenny Galliard."
       "Jenny? So the old man had some English cookie on the side. What does that have to do with the price of chicken feed...." Travis's eyes crossed as the significance of the detectives' questions finally percolated through his brain. "Hey, okay, so I tried to scare Hilary. But I sure as hell didn't try to kill her and Mark! And I didn't lay a finger on Sikora!"
       The lawyer said, "Mr. Ward, Mrs. Coburg doesn't want you to say anything that could be misconstrued."
       Travis slammed his fists onto the table and stated, very plainly and very carefully, just what the lawyer could do to Mrs. Coburg. "I didn't kill Sikora," he went on. "Neither did Sharon."
       "But you're afraid she did, aren't you?" Zapata asked.
       "She was getting it on with him, and he wasn't -- he wasn't even one of us, you know. Then the day before he died he had the nerve to tell her he didn't want her any more. Tough, I told her -- there's plenty more of what she has to offer sashaying along Hemphill Street."
       "This conversation was in your car outside the Lloyd on Tuesday? That's when she scratched you?"
       "Yeah." The lawyer made a futile shushing gesture. Travis referred him back to Dolores. "The Coburgs and all their artsy-fartsy social stuff. Vasarian and his highfalutin manners. They can stuff it, all of them."
       The digitized picture gave Travis's image a hard, crisp edge it didn't have in real life. An edge of fear; the man was terrified. Yeah, Mark thought, if I'd married into Jack the Ripper's family I'd be terrified, too. He blinked, retracting his attention from the video to the room. The same room, except this one smelled. The image on the video was like a ghost.
       Hilary was biting her lip. Her fingers were icy and seemed so brittle he was afraid he'd break them if he squeezed.
       "Why did Nathan tell Sharon he wanted to end the relationship?" asked Zapata's recorded voice.
       "Strangest thing you ever heard. He was obsessed with that old German stuff. Sharon said he and Vasarian were always looking at it. So she made some joke, told Sikora the two of them looked like pirates plotting over a buried treasure. And he turned around and told her to beat it."
       Travis looked as baffled as a schoolboy facing a calculus test. Zapata froze the image on the screen. "Did you catch that implication? That Sikora and Vasarian were working together?"
       "That would explain Sikora's murder," said Yeager. "You often see criminals falling out between themselves."
       "No," stated Hilary. "You can't convince me that Nathan was working with Vasarian. He stumbled onto the scam. He was smart, he noticed things, but he wasn't dishonest."
       "We found him with the figure in his pocket," said Zapata.
       "And with Felicia's sweater. And with Pamela's photo -- as well as a lot of other ones."
       Mark remembered the darkness of the parlor, Nathan's outstretched hand, the drift of papers and photographs across the floor. He heard the slow ticking of the clock, measuring out a man's life. Or a woman's. "Hilary's right. Maybe Nathan was playing along with Vasarian, so he could stop the scam. He couldn't have been in on it."
       Zapata looked skeptically at Yeager. Yeager looked doubtfully back. The door opened, and a uniformed sergeant said, "I have Mrs. Ward in Interview Room Three. I also have two more lawyers and Mrs. Coburg chewing the carpet outside."
       "Try throwing a bucket of water on them," Yeager suggested.
       With a short, sharp laugh, Zapata said, "Be right there."
       On the screen Travis slouched like a barfly just before closing, his expression morose, lacking only an empty glass to address. "Sharon's not so bad. She can't help being a little bitch, it's her family that's got her all tore up. She kept saying that as soon as Vasarian took all that old junk away, and if Hilary would just go away, too, everything would be all right. I'd like everything to be all right."
       Zapata stopped the videotape and set it to rewind. "That's it, so far. You'll notice he admitted to the assault but not to the attempted murder. As for Nathan's murder, I don't know whether he'd throw his wife to the wolves in order to save himself. And surely even Travis isn't stupid enough to call attention to himself by attacking Hilary, if he did kill Nathan."
       "Unless he wants us to think that," said Yeager.
       "He never really said anything about the artifacts, did he? Just that Sharon wanted to get rid of them." Mark shook his head. "But then, Travis has a perfectly good motive for murdering Nathan without knowing a thing about the fakes. Maybe Sharon will admit to being scared of Hilary blowing the whistle on the scam."
       "Don't hold your breath." Zapata massaged her sinuses. Her face had aged a year for every day since the murder, Mark estimated. His own sharp tongue had goaded her too many times.
       Yeager's glance at Zapata was soft enough, edged with just enough frustration, to make Mark believe Hilary's estimate of their relationship. Some men just had to pursue risky hobbies. Zapata did have an unattainable air that, he knew only too well, could drive a man crazy.
       "I want to see the ivory Jesus before I leave," said Hilary, her voice as smooth as the velvet sheath of a sword.
       Zapata looked up, registering her suspicion with a certain cynical humor. "Sure. Frank, take them down to the evidence room."
       Mark and Hilary went out the door and turned right, following Yeager. Zapata grimaced like a bullfighter stepping into the arena and turned left, toward the penetrating tones of Dolores Coburg's voice.
       "Haven't you people ever heard of _habeas corpus_? I want to talk to the Chief!"
       The door shut, cutting off her tirade. Yeager said, "I almost feel sorry for Ward. Imagine having that for a mother-in-law."
       "Imagine having her for a mother," rejoined Hilary. "It's hard to blame Sharon for turning to Nathan for comfort. Maybe he felt sorry for her. That might not be enough to excuse adultery, but I'm not going to pass judgment on him any more than he would've passed judgment on me."
       "Sharon could have killed Nathan," Mark offered. "A woman scorned and all that."
       Yeager said, "Sharon was terrified the morning after the murder. She could've done it. She could've known who did, and why. Or she could simply have been afraid murder's catching."
       "Murder's catching, all right," Mark growled.
       They rode an elevator to the basement, went through a grille, and checked in with a police guard. In minutes Hilary was holding the wooden box Mark had last seen at Osborne, when Vasarian had unmasked Jenny.
       She pulled a silk scarf from her purse and, using it to keep her fingers from smudging the ancient ivory, turned the figure around in its bed. Her touch was gentle and inquisitive, her eyes narrowed with intelligent query. Maybe it was blasphemous to fantasize those well-trained fingers and those bright eyes touching him instead, but Mark went ahead and imagined it.
       "It's all right," Hilary pronounced.
       Yeager screwed the lid down again. "Is there any market for this kind of thing?"
       "You have to know how to find a buyer. You have to have connections. Like the ones an international art expert would have."
       Mark offered Hilary his arm and walked her soberly out of the building and into the diesel-scented air of the city. The downtown sidewalks were bustling with a lunch-hour crowd. The sun reflected harshly off the new glass buildings but warmed the bricks and stone of the old structures. Hilary and Mark grabbed a sandwich and soft drink at a cafeteria, then drove back to Osborne. They didn't talk about the murder, the artifacts, or the assaults. Energy expended hardly equaled answers found, Mark reflected bitterly.
       Hilary dropped him off at Osborne and continued down York Boulevard toward the Lloyd. A couple of workmens' vans were parked beside Osborne's veranda, Mark saw, keeping company with Kenneth's Lexus. The students were returning from lunch, and Preston and Jenny were putting the finishing touches on the block and tackle rigged over the ruins of the garage and its macabre contents. "Sorry to take so long," he called.
       "Did they get a confession out of Ward?" asked Jenny.
       "He admitted to attacking Hilary last night. Says he didn't try to kill us last week, though."
       "What did you expect him to say?" Preston asked. He checked the settings on the camera, handed it to Amy, then beckoned to a couple of the more heavily built boys. "Okay, gang, here we go."
       Two students had not returned to work this morning; one had called in with some excuse about illness in the family and the other simply hadn't shown up. The others spent a lot of time glancing over their shoulders, but gamely went on working. Now they gathered around as the two boys and Preston hauled on the rope. With a slow sucking noise the charred and blistered beam rose from the mud. Amy snapped picture after picture.
       Mark stood poised in the pit, guiding the beam away from the bones. There was the skeleton's right hand, not crushed as badly as he'd expected. Jenny ducked the swinging beam and knelt over the bones like a priest genuflecting before a bishop.
       Mark managed to get the beam over the edge of the pit and into the students' grasp before he turned to look. Beneath Jenny's dental pick two of the fractured finger bones were oddly lumpy. "What is it?" he asked.
       "He's wearing a couple of rings. On his right hand, as he would if he were left-handed. A motive for murder, do you think?"
       "Theft? But only the ceramics were reported stolen."
       For a few moments Jenny worked at the rings. Then suddenly she stretched out full length in the damp dirt, her face only inches from the skeletal hand. "Look!"
       The rings were gold and garnet, in Victorian style. They were identical to the one Jenny had already found in the excavation -- and to the one Arthur had given Pamela. "Damn!" Mark exclaimed. "Arthur must have had copies of Felicia's ring made."
       The front of Jenny's shirt and jeans was glazed with mud. She was so pale, her peaches-and-cream complexion looked more like blueberries and skim milk. "Or did he make them himself?" she whispered, with a keen glance toward the hovering students.
       Mark sat down in the dirt. His mouth, he realized, was hanging so far open that his jawbone was almost resting on his chest. Yanking it shut, he signaled to Amy. "Those are enough pictures, thanks."
       "No problem." The girl replaced the lens cap and took the camera over to the tool shed.
       "Arthur was very possessive of his workshop," Mark said quietly to Jenny. "He hired workers who conveniently couldn't speak English and who didn't live here. He had equipment you wouldn't find in an auto body shop -- those engraving tools, for example."
       "The sweater," said Jenny. "Art-F. Did that mean Arthur and Felicia? Or did it mean art fakes?"
       Synapses fired in Mark's brain, snapping together like puzzle pieces. "Good God, Jenny, that could be the connection between Felicia and the artifacts! She found out Arthur was merrily copying his collections and -- and what? Threatened to tell? Tried to blackmail him? Burned the place down herself in a fit of righteous indignation? Or was she simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, out there gathering rosebuds while murder was happening in here?"
       "And Nicholas-bloody-Vasarian has been working with them all along!" stated Jenny, eyes blazing. "They would've needed a way of getting the copies onto the market, with certification that they were genuine. No wonder the Coburgs had no more financial problems after Dolores took matters in hand."
       "Was it her idea?" Mark asked. "Sorry, Jenny, but she could hardly have been doing it behind Arthur's back."
       "Arthur likely killed this man if not Felicia as well. That's all right, Mark, I already knew my father was a proper bounder." The blaze in her eyes flickered and went out, leaving them slightly gray, as though coated with ashes. She looked away, the tendons in her jaw twitching. Mark would have patted her shoulder, but that tensile strength he so admired in her didn't invite sympathy.
       The boys rolled the beam into a patch of debris and coiled the ropes. The other students, evidently disappointed that the removal of the beam hadn't exposed any pieces of eight or crown jewels, drifted away. Preston got out his drawing board and positioned himself on the edge of the pit. "Are those rings?" he asked.
       "Yes." Jenny cleared her throat. "I don't have to tell you to record everything very carefully. The police will want copies."
       "If they want some really nice drawings," Preston replied, "ask Hilary to go over them."
       "Hilary," said Mark. Jenny looked at him. "I'll ask Hilary to wait for us at the museum tonight. She can follow Vasarian's trail. After what Travis said about him and Nathan today, I'm almost convinced he's the murderer." Quickly he summarized Travis's taped testimony.
       Jenny's grim expression wouldn't have been out of place at Scotland Yard. "Let's have a go at him, by all means. If for no other reason than to exonerate Nathan."
       Mark went into the kitchen and called Hilary, asking her to wait for Jenny and him at the Lloyd after five. "Sure," she replied. "I'll finish packing the artifacts." The forgeries, Mark corrected silently.
       Graymalkin was a furry pillow on the bed. From the front of the house came various thuds and crashes as Kenneth's workmen dismantled the place; no doubt the Coburgs also knew about the ivory bits found on the rat. Mark envisioned Kenneth himself leaning negligently against the banister as clouds of dust eddied around him. Eddy. Jack the Ripper. Arthur. Good for Jenny, moving the old icebox against the door.
       Mark loped breathlessly back out to the dig and uncovered some smashed clay molds, assorted metallurgical tools, and an array of broken chemical bottles while Jenny worked over the skeleton. He left early, cleaned up, and returned to Osborne to pick Jenny up just as the five p.m. news teams began their scrimmage with the police defensive line.
       The evening was clear and warm. The branches of the sycamores outside the Lloyd were thick with rustling green leaves. Even though the Museum offices were closed, the exhibit galleries were still open, and Mark and Jenny had to skirt a senior citizens' tour group just inside the door. She did not look at the portrait of Arthur planted forthrightly on the far side of the atrium, maintaining in death the prominence he had fought so hard to achieve in life.
       Leslie let them into the office wing and showed them the way to the conservator's lab. So this was where Hilary worked; Mark looked curiously around, noting the brushes, paints, and potions interspersed with computers and microscopes that made up a space-age wizard's chamber.
       A strained but bravely smiling Hilary rose from her worktable and offered them a tour, concluding with the tidy boxes she'd prepared for the artifacts. Jenny contemplated the dazzling array of fakes as though she were eyeing a ripe red apple, attracted by its beauty but not knowing whether its flesh was sweet or wormy.
       "Even down here, I feel as though someone's watching me," Hilary said. "It's bad enough Travis broke into my home -- but even here...." She stopped abruptly and leaned so close to the Bible cover that its gold misted with her breath. Taking a cloth, she wiped some microscopic speck from it.
       Mark didn't raise a hand to caress her; Jenny was conspicuous by her presence. Instead he offered Hilary another problem to solve, telling her about the rings on the skeleton's hand and the anomalous tools in the garage workshop.
       He could almost hear her mind ticking over. Her eyes blazed like Jenny's, burning away her nervousness. "Of course -- they're such excellent copies they must have been made directly from the originals! All a skilled craftsman needs is the proper equipment, not a lab like this."
       "But if we're to build a case against the Coburgs and Vasarian for forgery," Jenny said, "over and beyond murder, for God's sake, we need proof."
       "Could you trace Vasarian's steps over the last thirty years or so?" asked Mark. "Maybe we could find some association with Arthur."
       "What we really need," Hilary said, "is a list of the items Arthur sold from his collections, and whether Vasarian gave his expertise on any of them. Some must have been authentic, and he might have admitted some were copies. Help me put these away."
       They put the lids on the boxes, extinguishing the lure of the artifacts, and stored them away. Jenny's backward glance as they left the lab was filled with both rue and rage.
       In the library Hilary quickly cross-referenced mentions not only of Arthur Coburg's collections, but of Vasarian himself, including several of his scholarly studies. One after another the green letters scrolled down the screen -- paintings, sculptures, ceramics, and manuscripts; museums, universities, and private collectors; Sotheby's and Christie's auction houses; Rome, Paris, London, and Regensfeld. Nowhere was Vasarian specifically associated with Arthur Coburg.
       "He was working for the Louvre in Paris in 1973," Mark said, more out of weary stubborness than hope. "Assuming Arthur's workshop was going full blast then...."
       "Right." With a flourish Hilary printed out a list of artifacts that had passed through the Coburg collections. The humor in her smile was dark, but it was still humor. "Under the circumstances I think we're entitled to take some liberties, don't you?" She led them down the hall to a door imprinted "Director: Wesley Bradshaw" and slipped inside. Jenny and Mark, sharing a bemused smile, followed.
       Hilary seated herself at Bradshaw's desk and pulled his telephone across its polished, empty surface. She went through two operators before she reached one of her former instructors in Paris and launched into a voluble French apology for disturbing him so late at night.
       Mark listened, enjoying the soft slurs in her voice and the way her lips shaped the unfamiliar words. "_Merci mille fois. A demain,_" she said at last, and hung up the phone.
       Jenny's grasp of the language was considerably better than Mark's. She nodded firmly. "You gave him Osborne's number? Well done."
       "Tomorrow," Hilary told Mark, "M. LeMaire will look up the purchase records of the artifacts the Louvre bought from Arthur, to see if Vasarian ever gave an expertise -- vouched for the authenticity -- on any of them. It's a long shot -- and M. Le Maire thinks I'm _completement fou_ to even ask -- but it's something. We have to do something. I'm tired of being the proverbial sitting duck."
       "Amen," said Jenny.
       "How about dinner?" Mark asked Hilary, trying for a jocular tone. "Now that we've finally pried Jenny out of Osborne."
       Jenny's brows lofted irony across her forehead. "Do I detect plots against me?"
       "For you," Hilary said, laughing. "Come on over to my place. I was going to cook curried chicken last night and got rather distracted."
       "I'm a dab hand with chicken vindaloo," Jenny returned. "Let's go."
         * * * *
At the condo Hilary was happy to play sous-chef to Jenny, who, as usual, knew what she was doing. More than once Mark noted Hilary glancing with speculative wistfulness at Jenny's capable hands; he suspected she was drawing a parallel between cooking and sex. Remembering the manuals he and Karen had once worked through, he decided she wasn't far wrong.
       They ate the resulting delicious meal outside on the patio. While Mark and Hilary washed up, Jenny cornered Minnie with the broom and sent her flying out the door with dire warnings to avoid Osborne and Graymalkin's well-developed hunting instincts.
       Later, they sat nursing glasses of wine while Mark played his guitar. The cottonwood peeking over the fence rustled its leaves in harmony with songs dating from medieval madrigals to Billy Joel. In contrast to yesterday's dramatic evening, today's sunshine faded almost imperceptibly into cool, fresh night. At last Mark was playing by touch only, and in the darkness he could no longer differentiate between the women sitting at the table. He put his guitar away and offered to take Jenny home. Hilary said she would go along.
       Other than a tiny pinpoint of light by the excavation which was its police guard's cigarette, Osborne and its grounds were pitch black. Mark turned the van into the driveway, stopped beside the attendant patrol car, and waved to its occupant. "I didn't put on the lights, did I?" said Jenny. "Graymalkin will be right narked."
       "Look!" exclaimed Hilary. Mark spun toward the house. In the gap between the closed curtains in the windows of the dining room a light glimmered. He closed his eyes, clearing his head of wine-infused cobwebs -- no, this wasn't the night after the reception when he and Hilary had seen lights in the windows -- he wasn't a lonely little boy having nightmares. He opened his eyes. The light was gone. But they all had seen it. He reached for the flashlight in his glove compartment.
       As one, Mark, Jenny, and Hilary piled out of the car and hurried toward the house. The glowing cigarette winked out and footsteps crunched behind them. A crackle of static came from inside the patrol car.
       Jenny turned her key in the lock of the front door. It was already open. Like a soldier hearing "Charge!" she drew herself up and pushed the door open. Mark inhaled, his chest full of cottonwood fluff, and wished his flashlight would transform itself into a broadsword. Hilary laid a cold hand on his free arm.
       They stepped from the murmur of the wind in the oak trees into utter silence. The beam of light glinted on the grandfather clock's metal entrails strewn across the floor. The faintest suggestion of perfume hung on the air. At the top of the stairs something moved.... Mark jerked. The light stuttered. Graymalkin bounded down the steps, her tail like a bottle brush, her eyes glinting an eerie phosphorescence.
       Mark swallowed his heart back down into his chest. Hilary's nails were digging into his arm. In the depths of the house the piano trilled, an off-key run of notes like a derisive laugh. They turned toward the music room. Behind them someone groaned. The light ricocheted up the stairs, across the ceiling, down the walls; vases, feathers, paintings gyrated wildly in its beam. Crimson rosettes trailed across the dirty planks of the floor into the parlor. "Blood," said Hilary hoarsely.
       Jenny stepped into the parlor. "Who's there?"
       Mark's foot kicked something -- a broken flashlight -- and sent it rolling into the shadows. A human shape huddled against the fireplace. "Help me, please...." The voice was barely a breath.
       Into the light leaped the silver hair and pallid, distorted, face of Nicholas Vasarian. His shirt front and the hand that clutched it glistened red. Hilary's hands flew to her mouth, choking down a cry.
       Jenny fell to her knees, ripped off her blouse, and pressed it against Vasarian's chest. "Who did this to you?"
       The floor heaved beneath Mark's feet. He braced himself against the door frame. Vasarian? But he was the murderer!
       Another trill sounded from the piano. The harsh rasp of Vasarian's breath was louder. Footsteps clunked up the veranda. "Hey, y'all all right in there?"
       Hilary released Mark's hand, peeled off her sweater, and draped it over Jenny's naked shoulders. Mark turned toward the door, his voice grating. "Call an ambulance."
       "A woman," gasped Vasarian. "It was a woman...." His head lolled against the marble of the fireplace.
       Hilary looked at Mark, her eyes damp and deep. He tried to hold the flashlight steady. He tried to look back at her with some measure of confidence. He could do neither.
--------
         *Chapter Twenty-two*
       Stop the world, Hilary thought. I want to get off. The orange chairs in the police waiting room were bobbing up and down like horses on a carousel, carrying her round and round, sweeping her past the same staring faces over and over again.... Closing her eyes, she forced her mind to steady.
       She opened her eyes. Beside her Mark's jaw and chin were honed so keenly they could cut stone. She laced her fingers with his, and his scowl moderated. He'd been scared last night. That was nothing to be ashamed of. Neither was it something he wanted her to mention to him.
       Mark, Hilary, and Jenny had followed a squad of police officers through Osborne house as through a carnival tunnel of horrors, expecting something awful to jump out at them. Nothing had. Despite the contemptuous laugh of the piano when they'd first stepped into the house, by the time they searched the place no one was there. And they'd found no knives, only Jenny's nursery monitor smashed to bits in the turret room. Hilary was ready to believe the ghosts of Arthur and Vicky were conspiring to kill half the people involved with the artifacts and drive the other half crazy.
       Later, in bed, she'd tucked the covers back around Mark every time his hallucinatory mutters and gestures had thrust them away. She'd thought of waking him and making love to him; maybe that would calm him. But she couldn't offer him a harmony she had yet to find herself.
       Mark shifted uncomfortably in his plastic chair. "Do you think you still have a job?"
       "All Bradshaw said was to come back 'after everything is settled', that since I'd packed the artifacts there wasn't anything else for me to do. Which is baloney -- Nathan had a list of things as long as your arm he needed me to do. Leslie said she'd throw her body across the fakes, if necessary. I'd rather she threw the killer across the room."
       "Bradshaw's upset about the publicity," Mark assured her. "Of course, he hasn't seen anything yet -- wait until the word gets out about the fakes."
       The door marked "Homicide" opened. Today it was Zapata who beckoned them inside. "How many reporters were at Osborne this morning?" she asked.
       "About twice as many as were outside the condo and the Lloyd," Mark answered.
       "We'll never get a fair trial here," lamented Zapata. "We'll have to change the venue to Beijing and learn Chinese."
       Hilary expected Mark to make some caustic comment about needing a defendant first, but his face simply creased into its scowl.
       Yeager was waiting in the same interview room as yesterday, video at the ready. "The hospital says we can visit Vasarian in about an hour," he informed Zapata. "That should give us just enough time to run over Sharon's interview."
       "I take it both Travis and Sharon have an alibi for last night?" Hilary asked. "You didn't have them here, by any chance?"
       "No, unfortunately," replied Zapata. She waved Mark and Hilary into chairs and settled herself at the head of the table. "All we can charge Travis with is assault. And the lawyer's arguing he's the one with bruises on him, not Hilary, so we shouldn't charge him with anything."
       "That's a load of bull," said Mark.
       Hilary folded her hands in her lap. "Yeah," she said. "I go out of my way looking for men to attack."
       Zapata made a dismissive gesture with the video remote. "Travis's alibi for Nathan's murder is airtight; several hundred people saw him arguing with the judges at the cutting horse contest. And we have him on instant replay. What we don't have is enough evidence to charge him with trying to gas y'all, and since nobody actually attacked Jenny at all...." Zapata's scowl was almost as fierce as Mark's. "Dolores bailed him out yesterday afternoon, and we had no reason to hold Sharon. Supposedly they and Kenneth were all watching a movie in Dolores's media room last night."
       "We're not quite sure what to make of your theories about the workshop," Yeager concluded, "but after you showed us those rings last night.... Yeah, well, why not a thirty-year-old art scam? I'd believe anything by now. Let us know what you hear from France."
       Zapata aimed the remote. The TV screen flickered. "At least Vasarian is out of action. Maybe he murdered Nathan and now one of the Coburgs has gone for him."
       "Murder's catching," said Hilary.
       "Chain reaction," Mark said.
       Sharon Coburg appeared on the video screen. The colors on this tape weren't washed out; they were garish, like a colorized movie. Sharon was so thin, her red hair so frizzy, and her eyes so blank with make-up, that she bore a distinct resemblance to Little Orphan Annie. She sat with her hands tangled in her lap, shoulders hunched, face averted from the camera so that her expression was slightly skewed. The same solicitous jacket sleeve and white cuff as yesterday filled the edge of the screen.
       "No," said Sharon's recorded voice. "Travis didn't try to kill Mark and Hilary. He can't help being a jerk. Most men are jerks -- look at my brother, he's just like our dad. Travis wouldn't try to kill anyone. He gets along too well with horses to be a murderer."
       Hilary smiled; Sharon's reasoning was oddly charming. But judging by the angle of Mark's brows, he thought her ridiculously naive.
       "Would Travis kill to protect you?" Zapata's voice asked.
       Sharon crouched even more defensively. "I didn't kill Nathan."
       "He ended your affair the day before he was killed."
       "Yeah. He told me his conscience was bothering him."
       "Go on," Yeager prodded from off camera.
       Sharon's expression was that of an armadillo caught in a sudden glare of headlights. "That's all. There isn't any more."
       "There isn't?" Into the picture rolled a TV screen. It lit with a blurred version of the interview Mark and Hilary had seen yesterday.
       Carousels within carousels. Hilary listened to Travis's filtered voice without looking at the picture disappearing into itself like an M.C. Escher drawing. Mark groaned.
       Sharon started to cry, very quietly, as though she were melting. Mascara streaked her cheeks. The white-cuffed hand offered her a handkerchief. She mopped, smearing the dark stripes into a mask. "Poor Travis, he's always imagining plots and conspiracies. Poor Hilary -- she doesn't know he's just a teddy bear inside."
       Not a good metaphor, Hilary thought bitterly.
       "But why on earth would I be scared of a bookworm like her? Or of a nice refined gentleman like Vasarian? Maybe Nathan didn't like me teasing him about the artifacts, but that's not why he broke up with me. That's too petty. He wasn't petty. He was nice to me."
       Still she leaked tears. Hilary told herself that Sharon, too, had been raised to be ashamed of emotion. Beneath her protective coating of hostility, she was bloated with tears.
       "Yes," Sharon said, "I'd like to get away for a while, maybe go to a spa somewhere -- my nerves are shot. I wish everything was over with. Don't you?" She sniffed into the handkerchief.
       "Oh yes," Zapata told her, "I'd like everything to be over with."
       Yeager's voice said, "So you and Travis were both at home last Thursday night? With your car?"
       "We can't have the only maroon BMW in the city."
       "No, but you have the only one with a _Dia de los Muertos_ bone in it."
       "You don't have to answer," the lawyer said to Sharon. "Remember, your mother's waiting outside."
       Sharon cried even harder, huddled so tensely that just looking at her made Hilary ache.
       Zapata turned off the TV. "She sat here and cried for an hour. The lawyer was muttering about dehydration, and Dolores had stomped a path in the linoleum outside. I had to let her go. Is there anything y'all would like to add to what she said, especially after you found Vasarian last night?"
       Mark and Hilary shared a blank look. "Sharon never admitted to knowing about the fakes?" asked Mark.
       "Hell no," Yeager answered. "I'm beginning to believe the artifacts mutated all by themselves."
       "Poor Sharon," Hilary said. "She's scared to death. She doesn't know whom to trust...." _It was a woman_, Vasarian had told them. If Sharon was full of grief, she was also full of rage. Hilary remembered knitting needles flashing in her own hand, saw a knife glinting in the darkness of Osborne's parlor, and shivered.
       Zapata scooted back her chair. "Sorry, but I don't have much sympathy for Sharon. She knows a lot more than she's letting on. If she'd talked, maybe we could have prevented the attack on Vasarian last night. Unless he fell on his own sword, Roman style."
       "There wasn't any weapon at the scene," said Yeager.
       "How is he?" Mark asked.
       "Let's go see. Frank, call Jenny, tell her we're on our way to the hospital. I'll meet you at the Taco Take-out homicide as soon as I can."
       Yeager's eyes met hers, wrestled a moment, and dropped. Zapata swept on down the hall. Hilary glanced bemusedly at Mark. He shrugged.
       Zapata's unmarked car took off from the parking garage ahead of Mark's van. By the time he lost her on Summit Avenue, she was weaving in and out of traffic with the maniacal skill of Luke Skywalker navigating the Death Star. They arrived at Harris Hospital to find her tapping her foot impatiently.
       "You have friends in the Traffic Division, I take it?" Mark asked as he and Hilary hurried in the door behind her.
       "Surgical floor," Zapata announced, whisking them upstairs. "Vasarian has a deep stab wound in his chest and a couple of minor nicks. Punctured a lung, but if he's as tough a bird as I think he is, he'll live."
       A uniformed police officer was trying unsuccessfully to blend in with the nurses at their central station. Vasarian lay in a cold room scented with disinfectant. He was surrounded by blinking lights, beeping noises, and oscillating lines that looked the way Hilary's spine felt. She approached the bed and said politely, "Mr. Vasarian? How are you feeling?"
       His face was as still and pale as a death mask. But his life force had concentrated itself in his eyes; they were alert and devastatingly intelligent. "The doctors assure me," he said in a somewhat thin but still cultured voice, "that I shall survive to fight again."
       "It was a fight, then?" asked Zapata.
       "Good morning, Detective. No, I'm forced to admit I didn't put up much of a fight at all. I turned around, there she was, and before I could express my surprise, she struck. I dimly remember voices from outside -- I presume that it was your approach, Hilary and Mark, and Jenny too -- that saved me from sharing poor Nathan's fate."
       Mark looked skeptical, and yet he could hardly dispute Vasarian, who was his own best Exhibit A.
       "You didn't see her face?" Zapata asked.
       "No, just a shape shining a flashlight in my eyes. Her strength was quite impressive."
       "A bowie knife can be quite impressive," said Zapata.
       The door opened with a thunk, and Jenny stepped into the room. Vasarian's monitors quickened their beeps. She crossed the room and looked down at him, her hands clamped on her hips. "Here, what the bloody hell have you been on about all this time?"
       Vasarian laughed. A strained laugh, considering the wound in his chest, but a laugh nonetheless.
       Travis wasn't the only one always seeing plots; it took Hilary's mind perhaps two seconds to turn all her previous theories inside out and visualize conspiracies complex enough to make Agatha Christie tear her hair out. Mark was staring at Jenny, his features compacted to granite. "Dr. Galliard...." Zapata began.
       Jenny spun around. "Hilary's instructor from Paris rang not half an hour ago. In 1973, again in 1974, and yet again in 1976, Vasarian advised the Louvre not to buy art objects offered by Arthur Coburg because they were forgeries. He did give his expertise on a reliquary in 1970, but has since then changed his mind."
       "That was the one that got my attention," said Vasarian. "A beautiful piece, expertly made. Since Coburg was a well-known collector, I thought I should keep an eye on him. I hate to tell you how many museums and collectors around the world have Coburg forgeries in their inventories." He nodded his head, a suggestion of a polite bow. "Detective Zapata, allow me introduce myself. Nicholas Vasarian, Fraud Squad, Interpol."
       It would take a stronger constitution than hers, Hilary thought giddily, to sneak up on Zapata like that; the woman looked like someone had just driven a nail into her forehead. Mark's expression went from puzzlement to rage to hysteria, and he whooped with laughter. Jenny snarled, "You sod! Why didn't you put me in the picture?"
       "At the risk of stating the obvious, Dr. Galliard, because you are Arthur Coburg's daughter. Because your mother had the figure from the Eleanor Cross. Because I thought you yourself had the body of the Cross."
       Hilary felt laughter bubbling up inside her, like spring water percolating through layers of fear and uncertainty. Mark stepped back and leaned against the door.
       "The Cross is buried somewhere on the grounds," said Jenny. "Gnawed by rats, perhaps rotting away...."
       "Not necessarily," Vasarian told her. "It's somewhere it can easily be retrieved. I've seen a letter from Arthur dated a month before his death, offering the cross for sale through one of his usual shady dealers. That's how I traced the Regensfeld artifacts. I went backwards to the Allied Art Commission and to you."
       So that's it, Hilary told herself. Now that, at last, works.
       "You sod," Jenny repeated, but this time with her own whisky-dry humor. "That's why you were at Osborne last night. You never believed me when I said I didn't have the Cross. But then -- why should you have trusted me any more than I trusted you?"
       Vasarian grimaced apologetically. Wiping his eyes, Mark peeled himself away from the door. Zapata's eyes uncrossed and she gulped down something about the size of a carp. She shouldered her way forward, trying to regain control of the situation. "Good God, you could at least have come to the police!"
       "My dear woman, I am the police. Until Nathan was killed, it was a matter of art forgery, not homicide. After his death I felt that my work was better conducted undercover."
       "And just what have you discovered undercover?"
       "Yes, well, there's the rub." Vasarian either sighed or gasped for breath. "I've decided that the robber who broke into my hotel room when I first arrived was less interested in the trifling amount of money he stole than in the contents of my attache case. Inside were the papers pertaining to the Eleanor Cross, the Allied Art Commission, and Pamela Galliard." Jenny stepped back cautiously. "Yes, I'm afraid someone, I presume the killer, has known since your arrival who you are. Of course, at the time I wasn't sure it mattered -- for all I knew Dolores and Pamela had been corresponding for years."
       "I bet that same someone hoped Jenny would be arrested for Nathan's death," Mark said. "The killer had no way of knowing I was there with Jenny that night, that she had an alibi."
       He stated that as flatly as he'd state name, rank, and serial number, Hilary noted. Well, why not -- that wound had bled itself dry.
       "It's quite possible," Zapata said. "That could well be why the killer either put the Jesus figure in Nathan's pocket or didn't bother to remove it. You didn't have your Interpol warrant in your attache case?"
       "No, fortunately. Whichever Coburg is a closet psychopath seems to have had enough doubts about my motivations to let me go until last night -- whilst taking the precaution of not divulging anything significant in my presence. Perhaps the attack on me was your fault, Detective. You should be relieved to know you're pressing the culprit so closely."
       Zapata's brows telegraphed skepticism.
       "Nathan knew about you, didn't he?" Hilary asked Vasarian.
       "Yes, he did. You'll understand I could hardly confide in Bradshaw -- he is dear Dolly's creature. But Nathan had a rare facility for seeing the substance beyond the style. I warned him there might be a substitution. When there was, he told me straightaway. He was killed that very night. How the Coburgs found out he knew, I've never decided -- it might have something to do with his -- his indiscretion with Sharon." Vasarian closed his eyes, summoning his strength, then looked up again, His audience was hanging on every word. "Nathan said he was going to Osborne that night to look for the Cross. I went to the museum, confirmed that the artifacts had indeed been switched, and continued on to the costume ball. I needed not only to prove the Coburgs were forgers, mind you, but now to find the real artifacts."
       "You had us believing you were not only the forger but the murderer," said Mark.
       "I assure you that murder was not in my plans. Once Nathan was dead, however, I felt at fault and deemed it imperative to continue my masquerade so as to uncover his killer."
       "Thanks," said Hilary in a slightly choked voice.
       "I do apologize, Miss Chase. I wasn't sure whether you had recognized the forgeries as such, and I didn't dare take any one else into my confidence."
       Hilary waved away his apologies. "No problem." She saw again the photos from the costume ball. Vasarian's crusader costume suddenly made perfect sense.
       "Your mask is off now," Zapata stated. "The killer was waiting for you at Osborne last night."
       "I think," replied Vasarian, "the killer spends a lot of time at Osborne. I merely had the misfortune to blunder into the spider's web."
       Hilary visualized Mark, Jenny, and herself sitting around the kitchen table sharing tea and sympathy while a malignant shape listened outside the door. She bit her lip -- too late now to retract admissions both personal and professional. Perhaps Travis, overhearing her history, had known altogether too well how his attack would frighten her.
       "Do you know anything about the attempt on Mark's and Hilary's lives?" Zapata asked Vasarian.
       "No, I don't. I had just about decided that Hilary had, indeed, recognized the fakes, when Jenny found the skeleton in the excavation. That, I thought, explained the murder attempt, so I said nothing." Vasarian's face was growing gray and his monitors were inching toward overload. Hilary figured that Zapata would rip out her own heart and hand it over if it would get Vasarian's story out any more quickly.
       "Speaking out about the skeleton," said Jenny, and went on to tell about the equipment in the ruins of the garage, and the rings on the bony hand.
       "We haven't identified the man, yet," added Zapata, "but we're working on it."
       "Very good," Vasarian murmured. "We're closing in on our quarry."
       "As he -- she -- closes in on you," said Mark.
       Vasarian sank into his pillow, closing those dark eyes burned by perception. "I met Arthur once, at a reception in Firenze. Florence. He seemed to me then to be a man pursued by demons. After living with his house, his relics, and his family for several weeks, I realize just how many and varied were the demons after him. Whatever crimes he committed, I pity him."
       Jenny turned away, pretending great interest in an oscilloscope. Hilary looked down at her feet, Mark up at the ceiling. Zapata inhaled, presumably to ask more questions, when a nurse bustled into the room. "All right, you need to leave him alone now."
       Deftly she moved them down the hall to a waiting room. Zapata dived toward a public phone, threw her quarter into it, and dialed. "Maria? Rosalind. I need an identity check. Vasarian, Nicholas. Yes, another one. This time call Interpol, see if he works for them. Yeah, I'll hold." She tucked the receiver between her head and her shoulder and folded her arms. "It was either Dolores or Sharon who stabbed him."
       "I doubt if it was Sharon," said Hilary. "Vasarian's right -- Nathan could see the substance beyond the style. I can't see him having an affair with a psychopath."
       "Maybe he had some idea of reforming her," Mark offered.
       "So it's the bitch-goddess herself?" Jenny asked. "Unless you want to postulate Sharon as a teenage psychopath, it would have to be Dolores who killed Felicia and the workman."
       "Unless it was Arthur," said Mark quietly.
       Jenny's features contracted, but she didn't turn away. "Unless it was Arthur. He was right-handed, I believe."
       "They're all right-handed." Zapata shifted the telephone receiver from one side to the other. "Surely it's occurred to you that we could be dealing with several killers. Arthur or Dolores in 1975. Dolores, Sharon, or Kenneth for Nathan. Any one of them making the attempts on you and Vasarian."
       Hilary felt slightly sick. She walked over to the window and looked out toward the glittering skyscrapers of the city, reflecting the blue of the sky. The April sun seemed too fresh and clean to shine on demons. But then, demons lurked in the dark fortresses of the heart.
       "Come on, come on," said Zapata under her breath. "We got phones. We got faxes. We got teletypes...." She straightened abruptly. "Yeah, Maria. He is? Fraud Squad? Okay. _Muchas gracias_."
       She hung up the receiver and offered the others as sheepish a grin as Hilary had ever seen on her face. "He's who he says he is, all right. I blew that one, didn't I?"
       "Like you said," Hilary assured her, "you don't know what's evidence and what isn't."
       Not especially mollified, Zapata led the way downstairs. Outside, the air was rent by the wail of a siren, and an ambulance skidded toward the Emergency Room. Its escorting police car stopped at the curb, and the driver leaned out the window. "Hey, Rosalind! Convenience store robbery. Two down -- the perp had a Magnum, the store owner a shotgun. Come on over, cut out the middleman."
       With a weary shrug, Zapata climbed into the patrol car.
       Jenny's shoulders seemed too tense to shrug. "See you back at Osborne," she said, and trudged toward the parking lot.
       At Osborne Mark and Hilary found a convention of newspeople watching Preston and several students gingerly remove the bones and the burned equipment and pile it into boxes. One particularly enterprising reporter approached Jenny when she drove up, calling, "Eh, luv, I'm from the London _Sunburn_, you don't want to aid and abet these Yanks, do you?"
       Ignoring him just as efficiently as the others, Jenny drove on up the driveway but couldn't get her Blazer into the garage; it was blocked by a BMW, a Lexus, a Cadillac, and three work vans. A carpenter, Hilary noted, a bricklayer, and a plumber. No partridges in pear trees. "A gathering of Coburgs," she muttered as she and Mark walked toward the dig. "A pride of Coburgs. A gaggle of Coburgs."
       "A counterfeit of Coburgs?" suggested Mark.
       Preston looked up, and with the parallel arm-wavings of an airport traffic controller, turned them toward the back porch, where Lucia Hernandez sat dangling a string for Graymalkin. "I have news for you," she called.
       Jenny came around the corner of the house in time to join them on the porch. Graymalkin looked expectantly for the string, saw that Lucia wasn't playing any more, and stalked off, disgruntled.
       "My cousin in Mexico City's found a name for your skeleton," Lucia announced. "One of the men who left Osborne the night of the fire is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in Guanajuato. The other, Juan Esparza, vanished."
       "Did Esparza have any identifying marks?" Jenny asked. "That would show up on his bones, of course."
       Lucia reached into her purse and produced an old envelope with a list scrawled on the back. "All right. He was left-handed."
       "So far so good," said Mark.
       "He had a gold filling in his upper left molar."
       "I drew that in," Hilary said.
       "And he broke his right forearm as a child."
       "Check," concluded Jenny. "You can see the healed fracture."
       Beaming, Lucia tucked her list away. "He was a metalworker from Taxco, one of the best. His wife says he came here to Fort Worth three different times, each time with fake immigration papers made out by his _patron_. Who Juan always called Don Arturo."
       "That ties it up." Jenny sighed and looked accusingly up at the house.
       "Oh, that's not all." Lucia rocked back on her heels, enjoying her audience every bit as much as Vasarian had enjoyed his. "I tracked down the housekeeper of the family in Highland Park, in Dallas, where Dolores and the children spent the night of the fire in 1975. The night Felicia died."
       "Yes?" said Mark and Hilary at once.
       "Early that evening Dolores left the children and went shopping. She was gone most of the evening, came home well after the stores had closed saying she'd met a friend and gone out for a drink. The interesting thing is, she got a phone call right before she left."
       "It's not quite an hour's drive back over here. She could've killed both Esparza and Felicia, then gone back," said Mark.
       "But that would argue premeditation," Jenny pointed out. "It's possible Arthur and Dolores lured Felicia here, but why?"
       Hilary felt like a typist whose fingers had started on the wrong row on her keyboard, typing busily away at what she thought were coherent sentences but producing only gibberish. "If we could figure out all the interlocking motives, then maybe we could name the murderer."
       "I love it when a plan comes together," Mark said sarcastically.
       Jenny exclaimed, "Look!" The drapes twitched inside the window of the music room. "All the suspects are here. Who was watching us?"
       "I think I'll go home now." Lucia tucked her handbag beneath her arm like a football and hurried toward the driveway. Jenny spun on her heel and started toward the veranda and the front door.
       Mark looked at Hilary. His eyes were like searchlights, she thought, so bright they could cut through the darkest shadows. "Let's go," she said.
       Jenny was just bounding up the steps when a surge of people came out the front door. For one confused moment Hilary visualized the running of the bulls at Pamplona, small human figures scurrying frantically before the lumbering shapes of the animals. Jenny flattened herself against the veranda railing. Mark pulled Hilary off the sidewalk and onto the grass.
       There were only four workmen, she realized, attired in grubby overalls, jeans, and T-shirts, and clutching boxes of tools. Hammers, chisels, and saws jangled accompaniment to the scuffle of boots and the starting of engines. The vans dodged around the reporters and their shepherding police and disappeared down York Boulevard.
       Dolores stood in the doorway, her expression that of a Hatfield welcoming a McCoy. "What do you want?"
       "I work here," Jenny replied.
       From inside the house, Sharon's voice whined, "Mother, he had them tear up the clock!"
       "It doesn't matter," said Dolores over her shoulder. "It wasn't mine."
       "That's just the point," Kenneth's voice said. "That clock's been here for years and years." He appeared beside Dolores and draped an arm around her shoulders. "Dr. Galliard. What can we do for you? Polish your trowels? Butter your crumpets?"
       Jenny gave him a smile in which her eyeteeth were the most prominent feature.
       Sharon's pale face appeared behind Kenneth. Dolores laughed. "We have the Foundation banquet tonight. I suggest we control our animosities for the occasion."
       Kenneth smiled and adjusted his tie. Sharon pouted. Dolores settled her sweater over her shoulders, hoisted her handbag, and walked across the veranda and down the steps like a movie star crossing a soundstage. Travis, the last out, shut and pointedly locked the door. He avoided Hilary's offended look, not to mention Mark's hostile glare. As the procession swept down the walk, Jenny offered their backs a two-finger salute, the British translation of the well-known American gesture. Hilary choked. Mark grinned.
       Dolores said to Kenneth, "Let me call the workmen next time, dear. There's no need to vandalize the place."
       "But, but...." Kenneth darted a glance over his shoulder. Jenny dropped her hand to her side and looked blandly back.
       "We can wait," Dolores told him. She climbed into her car, sent Jenny, Mark, and Hilary a pleasant wave, and almost mowed down several people with mini-cams.
       Kenneth slammed his car door and followed. Travis and Sharon sat for a moment in close consultation, shooting more than one searching look at the trio by the front steps, then moved off in only a slightly less aggressive manner.
       "Mr. Vasarian is doing very nicely, thank you," Hilary called after them.
       "That purse of hers is just about big enough for a bowie knife," Mark muttered.
       "So they're just going to sit back and let us find the Cross," said Jenny. She took the veranda steps in two leaps and, pulling out her own set of keys, opened the front door. Hilary wasn't sure just how she and Mark got up the steps, but when Jenny stepped inside the house, they were right behind her, shoulder to shoulder, hands joined.
       The stampede of police and paramedics last night had kicked the parts of the clock into a corner. The parlor fireplace was full of sooty brick. Boards had been pried from the stairwell. "Kenneth," Jenny said with a disapproving sigh.
       "About as subtle as a skunk beneath the porch," Mark said.
       In the mingled sunlight and shadow at the top of the stairs, something moved. It wasn't quite a noise, wasn't quite a shape; it was suggestion, striking deeper into the mind than the simple input of ear or eye.
       Jenny walked up three steps, her upturned face intent. Mark and Hilary shrank together at the foot of the stairs. She had no doubt he was feeling what she was feeling. Someone was standing in the upper hallway, looking down. And yet she could see nothing.
       Arthur. The old man had been haunted, Vasarian had said. Now he was haunting. This was what Jenny meant when she said she sensed him. This was what was missing from the older, less immediate ghost of Vicky.
       The presence shifted. It was like heat waves rising from a pavement. It was like the shimmer on the surface of a pool. It was a faint breeze on Hilary's skin, drawing each individual hair erect. The air in the stairwell grew achingly cold, as though the apparition were drawing on the warmth of their bodies in its effort to materialize. Mark was trembling, Hilary realized. So was she.
       A distant voice murmured, scratchy, like an ancient record. "Guinevere." Yes, that was Jenny's real name. "Guinevere...."
       "I'm here," Jenny said and took one more step.
       The presence vanished. Not with a thunderclap or poof of smoke. The presence was simply there one minute and gone the next. Jenny sagged against the bannister, swearing under her breath. He wants to talk to her, Hilary thought, but he can't quite bring himself to confront her. Which is just about the way she feels about him.
       "Hey," Mark said, his voice stretched very thin, his hand crushing Hilary's. "Jenny, don't you think we should go see what kind of a mess the students are making of the dig?"
       "Right." Jenny drew herself up and led the way out of the house into the sunshine. Hilary's backward glance showed her nothing but dust and devastation behind the closing door.
--------
         *Chapter Twenty-three*
       It was almost noon, and the sun was warm. But Mark didn't mind. Once again Osborne House had left him so chilled he could've personally iced down a tub of beer. He hoped Hilary hadn't noticed that chill. If she had, she had enough class not to drip sympathy all over him. Her tucking him in during the night had been all right, but he'd had to keep himself from fully waking up, because then he'd have wanted to make love to her.
       Mark had been rather surprised this morning to wake up an adult, not an eleven-year-old boy; his life hadn't collapsed back on itself like the Escher video. He turned his back on the psychic black hole that posed as a house and went doggedly from each test trench to the next, checking on the students. The only dramatic conculsions were those in the garage ruins.
       Preston mopped his face. "How's Vasarian?"
       "He'll be okay. And believe it or not, he's a cop, working for Interpol, the European FBI."
       "Okay, fine," said Preston dubiously and, while Mark filled him in, went on placing Juan Esparza's ribs into their foam-lined box.
       Jenny inspected the boxes of carving, molding, and general all-purpose faking equipment, her features sharpened by contained emotion. Hilary touched up Preston's sketches, her face compressed with calm and composure. Mark felt as though he were about to explode. He put the rings into a jeweler's box; one of these two, or the one Jenny had already found, must've been the one Pamela had returned.
       Before long his chill had ebbed and his T-shirt was sticking to his back. The sky was a muted blue, the horizon blotted with smog. The breeze was fitful, scented with something spoiled, as though Osborne and its grounds were downwind from a landfill. But instead of gulls squawking over the garbage, the carrion crows of old nightmares circled Osborne, coming home to roost. Mark looked suspiciously up at the resident grackles. They grated back, unconcerned.
       "Let me do that," Jenny said to Preston. "Bones are friable, especially after having been partially cremated, but a skull will collapse of its own weight."
       Preston backed away. The students gathered around, their expressions ranging from morbid curiosity to queasiness. Jenny worked her hands under the skull, one below the vault, the other below the upper jaw, and lifted.
       "Alas, poor Juan," said Mark. Hilary shot him an indignant look, but didn't reprove his gallows humor.
       Jenny laid the skull in the box. "At least he can finally go home." She stood, dusted her hands, and sent a level look at the house as though defying its definition of home.
       Intent on food, the students formed a phalanx and broke through the encircling reporters. Mark armed Amy and Hong with enough money to bring back sandwiches and drinks; it didn't seem right to walk away and leave Esparza, now that he had an identity and was no longer a study in physical anthropology.
       Mark, Jenny, and Preston kept on collecting bits of bone and buttons from the soil. Hilary said over the drawing board, "I feel kind of sorry for Vasarian. He intended to blow the case open, but instead he became its latest victim. He sure is brave, hanging out with a bunch of murderers."
       "I don't doubt his courage," said Mark. "But he should've told the truth right up front. We don't need any wild cards in this game."
       "Is he telling the truth now?" Jenny asked. "He might have winkled out something about the Cross, or Dolores, and be keeping it to himself. He might know where the real artifacts are."
       Preston dumped another rivet into a plastic bag. "Lot of good they'll do him now, when he's laid up in the hospital."
       "He kept them from being looted," said Hilary. "And if he doesn't have much to testify against the Coburgs, neither is he going to alibi them."
       "He got Nathan killed," Jenny said, shaking her head. "Well, no, you could say just as well that I got Nathan killed."
       "We can drive ourselves crazy looking for someone to blame," Mark pointed out. "What we need to do is...." He couldn't find an end to his sentence. That irritated him.
       He sat back on his heels and considered Osborne House, aloof behind its veil of trees like an old woman hiding her sour disposition behind clothing and cosmetics. Its dormers and windows and the funny little tower made it a three-dimensional optical illusion. An illusion in time and space, with its resident ghosts. Most old houses had ghost stories, if not real ghosts. Even remodeling didn't get rid of lingering spirits; Mark had read more than one account of ghostly figures trudging along knee-deep in a floor, walking on the surface they'd grown accustomed to in life.
       Not that Osborne had been remodeled. The room used as Sharon's and Kenneth's nursery had been papered and painted, but Arthur had allowed only the kitchen to be changed substantially....
       "Earth to Mark!" Hilary's hand was on his shoulder. Jenny was watching Zapata advance across the debris. She was coming from the side away from York Boulevard.
       As soon as she was in earshot, she explained, "Anyone could leave a car on one of those residential streets behind the house and cut through someone's back yard to get here. I've got Frank going from door to door, asking if anyone spotted a Cadillac parked there last night."
       "I would imagine there are paths up to the back of the house," said Jenny, "that look like the M1 Motorway."
       "How are you coming with the bones?" Zapata went on.
       "We have a name for them." Jenny told her about Lucia's report and averted the aggravated roll of Zapata's eyes by pointing out the gold tooth, the fractured arm, and the well-developed left arm and hand.
       Mark turned back toward the house, tapping his trowel against his leg. An idea coalesced in his mind like a planet from interstellar dust. He laid down his trowel, scrounged among the supplies in the toolshed, and found the tape measure.
       By this time Preston and the three women were watching him quizzically. He offered them a sickly grin. "I'm going to measure the rooms in the house, see if there're any -- well, secret rooms or passages or whatever. Remember how Arthur wouldn't let the place be remodeled?"
       Jenny groaned. "I never thought of that!"
       "I know it's a long shot," Mark informed her. "But there's no reason not to try it. We're desperate. May I have the keys?"
       She pitched the keys to him. "Good luck."
       Mark started toward the house. After the first few steps he realized he was going in there alone. But he could hardly turn around now and ask for company....
       Footsteps hurried up beside him. "Can I help?" Hilary asked.
       Her brave smile might have been just a bit stiff, but he was glad to see it. "Sure. Come on."
       "Good luck," called Zapata and Preston simultaneously.
       Mark and Hilary let themselves in the front door. Nothing had changed since they'd been there an hour ago; the atmosphere of the house was dense with decay and despair. Mark turned left into the shadows of the music room, took out the tape measure, and flipped one end to Hilary. She held her end against the baseboard. The lid of the piano was closed. Neither of them opened it.
       They worked their way from music room to drawing room, from dining room to conservatory, and rushed their survey of the parlor. By now, Mark reflected, the floorboards should have one of those supernatural bloodstains that couldn't be scrubbed away. But the dusty air was scented with bleach rather than with blood.
       They measured the entry and then sat on the staircase to add up the numbers Hilary had recorded on a scrap of drawing paper. "Fireplaces," Mark muttered. "Closets. Stairs. Okay, we've got a number for this floor."
       "Excelsior," said Hilary, gesticulating upward.
       He kissed her nose and they walked up to Arthur's study. The smudged glass of the cabinet doors distorted their moving shapes. Only a hint of sunshine and warmth penetrated the dim chill of the room. Hilary stood at the base of the turret stairs and looked up. Mark could almost see the hair standing erect on the back of her neck. "Let's go," she said.
       He didn't ask whether she'd sensed Arthur occupying his easy chair in the turret room. They went from room to room on the second floor, allowed space for plumbing, and added all their figures together. Their sum matched the measurements of the first floor.
       Yeah, Mark thought, this is working out just swell. He and Hilary plodded up to the attic. Here, at least, it was stuffy but warm, and the dirty windows radiated daylight. The floor creaked gently beneath their feet. The workmen poking holes in the walls hadn't gotten here yet. Mark and Hilary went through each of the forlorn little servants' rooms and added in the dormers. The sum Mark wrote on the paper was six feet less than the numbers for the first and second floor.
       Hilary said, "You were right. There's another room up here. Didn't Jenny say this was where she found the Ripper portfolio?"
       Mark wiped his forehead -- no, he wasn't yet sweating blood. He walked to one end of the attic and started rapping on the walls, wondering what he would do if anything rapped back. The secret room must be closed with a substantial enough door not to sound hollow, or Jenny would have found it.
       A hideous scraping made him jump out of his skin. "Sorry," Hilary said, and propped one of the windows open with a stick. "I thought it would be nice if we had some air to breathe."
       "Thanks." The dust clogging Mark's throat was swiftly hardening to concrete. He wasn't sure he would be able to breathe even if he had air. His heart was thrumming so loudly in his ears that he didn't hear Jenny and Zapata climbing the stairs until they were standing beside him.
       "We saw Hilary open the window," Zapata explained. Jenny simply regarded him with her usual severe intelligence.
       I'm going to look like a complete idiot, Mark told himself. The thought of the house showing him up was worse than that of failing in front of Jenny, Hilary, and Zapata. "Must be at the other end," he managed to say, and led the commendably quiet women to the farthest of the small rooms.
       In a corner was a closet, its protruding right angle taking up some of the already minimal floor space. Mark opened the door. The dark, musty, interior was festooned with cobwebs. The planks of the floor were smudged, but then, footprints covered all the attic floor. Mark scowled. _Come on, give me a break_.... He pulled out his Swiss Army knife, and with more frustration than science started slicing through the filthy wallpaper on the closet wall.
       When his knife snagged on metal it took him a moment to react. Squinting in the darkness, he peeled back the wallpaper and revealed a long rusty hinge. "All right!" said Hilary in his ear.
       Immediately the closet was crammed with people. Eight different hands moved up and down the wall. Which one found the catch concealed behind the baseboard, Mark couldn't tell. "Open Sesame," he proclaimed giddily.
       The door swung open. It was about four feet tall and two wide, a massive affair of brick on a wood frame. Mark wedged it open with Hilary's scrap of paper. Jenny led them through the opening.
       An elusive scent of perfume tickled Mark's nostrils. For a moment his vision went dark, and he remembered hearing the trill of the piano. "I smelled this perfume last night when we found Vasarian."
       "You're right," said Hilary. "It's Chanel No. 5. You had the Chanel dress at the reception, Jenny, but Dolores was wearing the perfume."
       "She was, wasn't she?" affirmed Jenny. "And she's worn it since."
       "Are you sure that's what it is?" Zapata asked.
       "Yes," said Hilary. "My brother always gives my mother a bottle for Christmas, even though she prefers a Guerlain eau de toilette."
       "It's not that stuff that Sharon wears, that smells like a wet dog," Mark concluded.
       They clumped together inside the tiny room nestled beneath the eaves, the odor of perfume overwhelmed by that of mildew. Sunlight striped the walls, entering between the battens, and a loose shingle admitted a spill of light just as it had no doubt admitted rain -- the floor was covered with worn, water-stained linoleum. Three plastic garbage sacks squatted along the wall.
       "Allow me." Zapata reached into her shoulder bag for a pair of latex gloves, put them on, and opened the twist-tie on the first sack. She pulled out a complete Victorian costume, right down to the bonnet, pantaloons, and miniature ruffled purse containing a lace hankie. Everything was white, including the stockings -- all three of them. "So much for your ghost. The third stocking was over her face, I bet. That would look pretty weird in a dim light."
       Mark, Jenny, and Hilary sagged together, exchanging a look of mingled anger and embarrassment. "Dolores," Jenny stated. "She's been having us on."
       "Not Dolores," said Hilary. "Not if Vicky's ghost has been here since the forties. She was just a little kid then."
       "If we can have more than one killer, we can have more than one ghost." Zapata opened the next sack. "Well, well -- the Ripper portfolio." She held it up. Inside the shiny cover, Mark saw the same letters and photographs Jenny had displayed in Osborne's kitchen.
       "And a notebook...."
       Jenny snatched it from Zapata's hand. "Arthur's memoirs. I didn't read them when I had the chance. Now I shall."
       Zapata looked up, her mouth open as though to remonstrate. Jenny's eyes looked like burning coals. "We'll make copies for you," the detective compromised. "There're some more papers and books in here."
       Mark and Hilary looked at the books and photocopied pages as Zapata held them up. The names of the authors were all too familiar; Preston had cited them in his stack of material. "Thomas Stowell," said Mark, "the guy who first came up with the theory that Prince Eddy was Jack the Ripper. Michael Harrison, Stephen Knight, Joseph Sickert -- they all expanded on the idea."
       "That's a novel on the same subject, Frank Spiering's _Prince Jack_," said Hilary. "Preston says it's pretty racy, in a sick kind of way."
       Zapata shut the book, thrust it back, and opened the third sack. The thick musky odor she released from it made her gasp, and the others step back. Holding her breath, she scrounged quickly and gingerly through its contents. "Black shirt, black pants. Stiff with what I'm willing to bet is Nathan's blood. You couldn't carve someone up like that without getting blood on you. And look. Nathan's key to the front door."
       Her voice was swallowed by the hush of the house. Mark visualized Dolores -- or any one of the others, for that matter -- brooding alone in this little room, above the earth but far from heaven. Into his mind came a line from an old Simon and Garfunkel song: "Silence like a cancer grows."
       Jenny, her mouth crimped to a slit, walked out of the room without relinquishing the notebook. Briskly Zapata reclosed the bags. After a quick survey of the rest of the room and an experimental dig or two at the linoleum, she ushered the others out and shut the door.
       "This is where 'Vicky' vanished the night we chased her," snarled Mark. "She was standing inside laughing at us."
       "She's spent altogether too much time with her ear to the kitchen door, laughing at us," said Jenny darkly.
       "No Eleanor Cross," Hilary went on. "But it would be sacrilege to keep it in that room."
       "Hey! Rosalind!" Frank Yeager thundered into the attic. "Nobody saw any Cadillacs last night. You having any better luck?"
       Zapata told him all about it, her precise voice overriding any editorial comments the others offered.
       "Great!" Yeager replied. "I'll order a forensics team. Good work!"
       If Zapata heard him, she didn't react; she looked over her shoulder toward the room, eyes slitted.
       "It was Mark's idea," said Hilary, flourishing the tape measure.
       "Wasn't much." Mark had no trouble looking modest -- the achievement seemed pretty thin, considering how stupid he felt for letting the "ghost" fool him. The entire house seemed like an elaborate fake. He wouldn't be surprised if the walls dropped away like theatre scrims. He wished they would. Then everyone could simply get up and leave the auditorium, show over.
       They trekked down to the entry hall. Hilary shut and locked the front door behind them. As they walked around the side of the house they heard the phone ringing inside the kitchen. Still clutching the notebook, Jenny went to answer it. She looked out again a moment later. "It's Lucia Hernandez. She's quite upset, wants to speak to you, Detective."
       Zapata headed inside. Graymalkin emerged with Jenny, wrinkled her nose, and whisked under the porch. Now what? Mark asked himself. Hilary contracted, drawing herself protectively inward.
       When Zapata came back her frown had metamorphosed into a ferocious glare. "Lucia's son Gilbert is in the hospital. His brakes went out on Camp Bowie Boulevard. He'll be all right, only caused a fender bender. The patrol officer says the brake line was cut clean as a whistle. It was no accident. Thank God his kids weren't in the car with him."
       Yeager swore. Jenny's jaw went even tighter and whiter. Mark felt as though someone had punched him in the stomach. A good thing he hadn't allowed himself to feel too much triumph over finding the secret room. "Just because the Hernandezes helped us, right? Rosalind, you have to put a guard on Lucia and Gilbert's family. And on Preston...." He spun toward the dig. Sandwich in hand, Preston was shooing the returning students back to their stations. He saw the group by the back steps looking at him, and saluted them with his can of Dr. Pepper.
       "No," said Zapata. "No. This is snowballing beyond belief. Soon I'll be guarding the entire town. We're spread too thin as it is."
       "Have you any recommendations?" Jenny asked.
       "We've been sitting around like the proverbial ducks all this time," added Hilary, "and things keep getting worse."
       Zapata smiled. Mark had seen that smile carved on ancient Mayan stelae, on the faces of goddesses wielding ritual bloodletting tools. "So you continue to play ducks. Only this time, we'll be waiting."
       Mark, Jenny, and Hilary shared a dubious glance. Yeager's brows went up. "Set a trap? Rosalind, you don't have any authorization...."
       "Okay, okay, so I'm working without a net. But hell's bells, Arthur was acquitted of killing Felicia because they had only circumstantial evidence against him. We have only circumstantial evidence this time, and I'll be damned if I'll let Dolores get off as well."
       "Vasarian saw her," Hilary hazarded.
       "He saw a woman. Fort Worth is full of women. It could've been you or Jenny, or me, for that matter."
       No one disputed her. No one argued against forcing the issue to a head. There was no other option. Mark filled his lungs. "Okay," he said, not quite recognizing his own voice. "I'll play decoy for you. But how can I provoke her to attack me again? Have a picnic in the parlor?"
       "Mark," Hilary chided, and bit her lip.
       He sent her a contrite but stubborn glance. She knew there was no point in trying to talk him out of it. He'd won one small confrontation with the house. Now he was being offered a larger one -- the chance to beat his nightmares once and for all. If he refused, he'd never respect himself again.
       Hilary released her lip. Her eyes hardened. "I'll be there, too."
       "It's my responsibility to play decoy," Jenny told them. "If you wish to join me, you're very welcome. Detective, I presume you have some plan how to alert the hunter that the goats are waiting?"
       "Oh yes," said Zapata. "Give me the rest of today to set things up -- we need to mend the wallpaper outside that room, Frank. My social spies tell me the Coburgs are scheduled for a dinner tonight, but even so, Jenny, you spend the night some place else. Tomorrow, call Wesley Bradshaw and tell him you found the Cross. If he doesn't pass that tidbit on to Dolores, I'll eat my badge. And she'll come here."
       "Brilliant," Jenny returned. "Dead brilliant."
       "You can leave out the dead part," directed Hilary.
       "We have to make sure she doesn't get into the house ahead of us," Zapata went on. "Having found her hidey-hole helps. But you and I, Frank, are going to spend the day as archaeology students."
       "I'll send the real ones home," said Jenny. "Can you fill in with some of your own people?"
       "Definitely."
       "What if you get another case?" Mark asked. He couldn't believe they were standing here calmly discussing committing -- well, no, not suicide. No matter how frenzied Dolores was, she couldn't kill all of them. This time she wouldn't have surprise on her side.
       "I don't care if the mayor is assassinated and the entire city council held hostage," Zapata returned. "We'll be here."
       Do you care how many people you sacrifice to your ambition? Mark wanted to ask. But Zapata's ambition served them all. He said simply, "Okay."
       "Let's go for it," said Hilary, her words strained between her teeth. _"L'audace, toujours l'audace!"_.
       "Right." Jenny offered Zapata the notebook she held. "I'd best get back to work. You'll bring me a copy of this by this evening -- then you can replace it in the room, if you wish."
       Mark expected Zapata to leap to attention and deliver a sarcastic, "Yes, ma'am." Instead she nodded. "Sure."
       The detectives trudged off toward the driveway, shoulders bumping but faces turned away from each other. Then Jenny stood at attention, grim and determined. "Perhaps you would be kind enough to allow the cat and me to spend the night in your flat, Mark? I am making the assumption you won't be there."
       "Be my guest." For one brief moment he allowed himself the vision of Jenny in his brass bed. Then he released his thought, like a child letting go of a balloon, and turned toward Hilary.
       Her luminous eyes were fixed on the windows of the study. Mark followed her gaze. The movement that wasn't quite a movement shaded the glass. The curtains shivered as though to a puff of wind. Sorry Arthur, he silently told the ghost. Not everything in the house is a fake.
       Jenny strode back to the dig. Mark took Hilary's hand, squeezing it so hard she yelped. "Sorry," he said. She squeezed his hand back. They didn't speak. Words simply weren't adequate to the occasion.
       Preston had thoughtfully left their sandwiches and drinks in the shade of the toolshed. The last thing Mark wanted now was food, but he forced down a shred or two of lettuce. "Well," he said in answer to Preston's curious look, "I have good news and bad news. We found some great evidence, but the killer's still on the loose."
       He walked Preston through the events of the last couple of hours. The man's face grew longer and longer, and the whites of his eyes glinted. "Man," he said at last, "I'm going to invite myself to spend the night at Leslie's place. And she can forget the negligee -- I want her in her black belt!"
       Hilary laughed around her own sandwich. Heartened, Mark managed to eat most of his before he went back to work in the garage ruins.
       The sun beat down. The leaves of the oaks hung flaccid, stirred only by the occasional hot, humid puff from the south. Frank Yeager reappeared and gave Jenny a thick envelope of photocopies so fresh they reeked of developer. "Very kind of you," she told him.
       "With Rosalind's compliments." Smiling wryly, he carried a paper bag of wallpaper paste into the house. By the time he emerged, a forensics team had descended on the dig, collected the cases containing the skeleton and the burned equipment, and carried them away. Yeager gave Jenny back the keys, offered everyone a quick thumbs-up, and followed.
       For a time Jenny expounded on the virtues of post holes and rusty nails, until at last it was late enough for her to dismiss the students and tell them to take Wednesday off. Mark handed over the key to his apartment with a plea to look in on Lucia. "Very kind of you," Jenny said again. Her stern expression, Mark thought, belonged alongside the white cliffs of Dover, an eternal, unchanging verity.
       Dover Beach. _Love, let us be true to one another._
       Preston checked over his car and drove hurriedly away. Jenny corralled Graymalkin for the short drive to Moss Street. Hilary rolled up her drawing and stowed the board in the toolshed. Mark scavenged his brain for something profound to say to her, but found nothing better than, "What would you like for supper?"
       "There's some leftover chicken. We can have it over pasta."
       He cared considerably less about chicken and pasta than he did about Hilary herself, but he said, "Sounds good."
       As soon as they arrived back at the condo they made a ritual check of the doors and windows. No broken glass, no intruder. They shared quick remarks like the tips of icebergs, and avoided each other's eyes.
       Mark went upstairs to shower. In the bathroom mirror he saw that his own face was slightly sunburned, although not so much so as the back of his neck. Hilary's birth-control pills lay just where they had been -- had it been three weeks ago? Although this packet, he realized after a quick peek, must be a new one.
       While Hilary took over the bathroom Mark called Lucia. She was much calmer now, telling him that Gilbert was banged up, but not so badly that he couldn't be released from the hospital tomorrow. The nicest policemen were sitting on her front porch consuming gorditas, the children were playing with Graymalkin, and Jenny was sitting on the bench beneath the oak studying some papers. Everything was fine. Mark didn't ruin Lucia's illusions by telling her about tomorrow's trap.
       After supper Mark took the box of evidence into the living room and stared moodily at it. Hilary sat down on the couch beside him. "Why did Arthur get off for Felicia's murder, anyway?"
       "The timetable, basically. He showed up at that Foundation meeting too soon after she had to have been killed. There was no way he'd had enough time to mutilate her and then clean up -- even though it is tempting to imagine him throwing his bloody clothes into the burning garage."
       Hilary considered that. "We have more than one ghost. We have more than one killer. How about this: Arthur kills Esparza -- either the man is stealing the rings, or Arthur thinks he is. Felicia, sneaking in to collect some rose cuttings, sees the murder. Arthur, panicked, kills her. In even more of a panic, he calls Dolores in Dallas. Then, hoping to establish an alibi, rushes off to his meeting. Dolores gives her hosts some excuse about shopping, hurries back to Osborne, and adds the embellishments to poor Felicia's body -- meaning to confuse the issue, I suppose, but I wouldn't discount a sadistic streak. Then she tidies up, starts the fire, tosses in her own ceramics for effect, and goes back to Dallas."
       Hilary, too, was slightly sunburned, the flush of color the traditional roses in her cheeks. How inspiring, Mark thought, that the gray matter between her ears was just as exquisite as the rosy flesh on her bones.... Don't think about it, he ordered himself, unsure whether he was shying away from tomorrow's trap or tonight's temptations. "I bet you're right," he said.
       "Poor Arthur," said Hilary. "Probably Dolores was more or less blackmailing him the rest of his life. That would account for Lucia's impression that they were barely tolerating each other."
       She'd feel sympathy for Jack the Ripper himself. Mark liked her for that. He raised his hand, lowered it, raised it again and traced the back of her neck with his forefinger. Their eyes met like magnets clicking together.
       "It's a shame," she said softly, "that reality never quite lives up to fantasy."
       "I'd say the definition of reality is that which dashes your expectations." Her hair tickled his palm and her cheek lay against his fingertips. He couldn't help but think about her beauty and how short a time he might have to appreciate it. "Hilary, what kind of sexual fantasies do you have?"
       "The kind most women have, I guess -- moonlight and roses. I never had the chance to come up with anything kinky. Why?"
       Mark visualized the covers on the romance novels his stepmother read. Most of them tended toward exotic settings and fancy costumes. He'd wear a kilt for Hilary, if he had one, and he certainly wouldn't mind unfastening a bodice or a wimple.... Flowers, he thought. "I could run over to Lucia's and bring back a bushel of rose petals to bathe you in."
       "You mean play to my fantasies?"
       "Exactly. You won't freak out again if you feel in control of the situation."
       Hilary considered that, too, her brows arched delicately, her lips primly shut. Mark held his breath. "There're some votive candles in the kitchen," she said at last. "And we could take the radio upstairs. The classical station might be a safe bet -- I sure don't want any of that heavy metal stuff -- it sounds like a migraine headache feels."
       "Just as long as they don't play 'The 1812 Overture'." Mark grinned -- _all right!_ -- kissed her cheek, and went to find the candles. But he didn't actually trek over to Lucia's; any roses he and Hilary gathered tonight would be metaphorical.
       They set two candles in saucers on the dresser, well away from anything flammable, and the radio on the floor next to the bed. The ardent strings of Vivaldi gushed from the speakers. Talk about working without a net, Mark said to himself as Hilary turned back the bed. But if he'd learned anything from his adolescent pratfall, it was state-of-the-art skill in making love to a woman. He wouldn't lose it this time. He knew the value of second chances. "I love you," Hilary said against his shoulder. "It's never been that I don't love you."
       "I understand," he replied. "I love you, too."
       He limbered up his fingertips, his lips, and his tongue and went delightfully to work undressing her. She blushed, glowing in the candlelight, and hesitantly undressed him. Her very artlessness was intoxicating. But Mark forced himself to wait until she lay down on the bed before he made any move toward the horizontal. When he stretched out beside her, he inhaled the heady scent of roses, roses no less sweet for bearing thorns.
       Hilary touched him, curious and naive at once, and more than once giggled softly, pulled away, and then returned. Mark reminded himself that nothing about his anatomy was intrinsically funny. He shut his eyes, distracting himself, keeping his all-too-eager body in check.
       From the radio swelled "Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis", one of the last pieces he would've expected to fit the occasion -- it was based on a sixteenth-century hymn. But the way a solo violin answered the joined strings, tentative at first, then abandoning itself to a soaring melody, perfectly echoed that harmony of mind and body that Mark had wanted for so long. That Hilary had wanted for so long, he told himself. The sensual purity of the music wrapped around them, safe from anger, safe from fear.
       Hilary kissed his eyes open again. Her expression was dreamy, as though she really were living a fantasy. Good, Mark thought. More than good. Great. Laughing, he began again, exploring every inch of her succulent skin until it tasted of salty sweat as well as roses.
       She was panting gently, her fingernails sunk deeply in his back. He tucked her body beneath his, listening with every nerve ending rather than with just his ears.... She tensed. That's what he'd missed last time. All right then -- on to Plan B.
       He rolled them both over, propped his upper body on the pillows, and folded Hilary's legs beneath her. She looked down at him, puzzled. "Like this," he said. "Now you're in control."
       "Oh. I see." Slowly, warily she settled herself. "Oh!" she said again, and capped her exclamation with an experimental wriggle that had Mark saying the alphabet backwards. When he'd quelled any untimely responses and was able to look at her again, she was grinning. "So this is how it's supposed to feel. Now what?"
       "Move," he wheezed.
       "Like this?"
       Between his lashes Mark saw Hilary's face upturned, abstracted, like a phoenix rising from the ashes.... He didn't think any more, but caught and magnified the rhythm of her body, until at last she stared at him with amazement and gratitude shining in the depths of her eyes, and his entire being sang the Hallelujah chorus.
       The classical station was playing the "William Tell Overture". "Hi ho, Silver?" Hilary ventured, and they collapsed with laughter into a damp tangle of limbs.
       The slowly turning arms of the ceiling fan blessed them with a cool breeze. The flickering candles sent warm, dappled shadow over the bed. Mark waited for the ceiling to fall in, or for the room to be invaded by rogue elephants, or for the Keystone Cops to leap into the bed and search them for contraband. But nothing happened; the moment's peace was untarnished. He swallowed to moisten his mouth. "You look like a Boccaccio angel."
       "You mean Botticelli? 'Venus Rising from the Waves' and 'The Three Graces'?"
       "Yeah." Mark smiled, knowing he was half-drunk, and loving it. "Would you consider Hilary Owen? Or would you rather stay Hilary Chase?"
       "What?"
       "I think I just asked you to marry me."
       "Mark, don't let me catch you with your hormones down."
       He stroked her tangled hair back from her face. "Okay. I'll ask you again tomorrow." He asked himself, Am I out of my mind?
       "I love you," Hilary said drowsily.
       _No_, he answered. _I'm not of my mind_.
       A radio announcer was muttering tomorrow's weather forecast -- cold front, instabilities, thunderstorms. Great, Mark thought. Special effects for the final countdown.... That was tomorrow. _Carpe diem_, he told himself, reached over the edge of the bed, and turned the radio off.
       Silence seeped into the room, a silence filled with Hilary's soft breathing. The candles guttered and went out, but the darkness was a shield, not a threat. Hiding in each other, Mark thought, we're both safe. He drew the covers up, clasped Hilary tightly, and slept.
--------
         *Chapter Twenty-four*
       Hilary became aware of a cacophony of birdsong and a faint odor of candlewax blended with a teasingly subtle masculine scent. She was snugged against Mark in a cocoon of bedclothes and peace. They'd done amazing and wonderful things last night. All was right with the world, everything was shipshape, the spheres moved in harmony.
       Her eyes flew open, registering the sunlight peeking through the curtains and gilding the blades of the ceiling fan. No. Not yet. First Mark had to face down his nightmares. She understood that; she loved his stubborn pride just as much as its flip side of sensitivity. And while Osborne held very specific terrors for him, for her it had become a symbol of fear and anger, lies and darkness. She would be in the shadows with him, waiting for the sudden, sharp bite of a knife.... _Don't think about it!_
       Hilary slipped from the bed, tugged the covers over Mark, and walked as though on broken glass into the bathroom. No aerobics class she'd ever taken had left her thigh muscles so sore -- and that was only a partial inventory of tenderized tissue. But Mark said it was a simple matter of conditioning.
       She showered, dressed gingerly in jeans and a T-shirt reading "Departement des peintures au Louvre", and emerged from the bathroom to find Mark sitting on the edge of the bed. She forced herself not to blush. "Hi!"
       "Will you marry me?" he replied.
       "Mark, really -- I don't -- I can't...."
       His brows drew down, cancelling his wry smile. "You're right. Now is hardly the time to discuss the future. I'll save it."
       Hilary fled downstairs, wondering if she'd hurt his feelings, wondering why she wasn't delighted with his offer. By the time he appeared in his own uniform, shirt emblazoned with the red dragon of Wales, she knew. She poured coffee, buttered toast, and asked, "Can we elope?"
       Mark swallowed half a cup of coffee without taking his eyes off her. She went on, "I don't want to argue with my mother about not being entitled to wear a white dress. I don't want her to rush out to Marshall Field's to register a bunch of china and silver I'll never use. I don't want her to send hundreds of engraved invitations to people I don't know. I don't want my sister-in-law to throw me a shower -- her idea of the perfect wedding present is a sterling silver artichoke peeler. I don't want my father to walk me down the aisle as though I were one of the awards he gives out to well-behaved employees." She turned back to the stove and stirred the scrambled eggs so vigorously that yellow bits flew onto the burner and sizzled.
       "Hilary," Mark said, "you're talking wedding. I'm talking marriage."
       He was right. He usually was. She laid a plate of singed eggs before him and scooped up some for herself. "I don't want to marry you just to get away from my family. I don't want you to marry me just to do me a favor."
       "I've been married. I'm no favor."
       "Not all the time, no. But then, neither am I." Hilary ruffled the short ends of his hair, sat down, and dumped jelly onto her toast. "I'd like to get married. I'd like to be Mrs. Owen. I just want to make sure we do it for the right reasons."
       "Oh God, yes, let's make sure we do it for the right reasons."
       His gray eyes were polished windows. She could see the dearly won certainty inside him, and she could see her own dearly won trust reflected. "Maybe a small ceremony in Lucia's garden," she hazarded.
       Mark captured her hand among the jelly jars, kissed it, and looked down at his plate with a choked comment about second chances.
       Hilary bit her tongue to keep it from wagging on and on about how she could wear the rose-pink dress she'd worn to the wedding last summer, and how much of the year did Mark have to spend in Austin, and how she had a trust fund that would mature when she was twenty-five, about which she had ambiguous feelings. As far as Mark was concerned, the subject was settled, and the day's work was at hand. That this day's work might obviate the subject entirely was not something either of them would acknowledge.
       Quickly, as though haste could force a conclusion, they ate and tidied up and discovered the morning lying heavily on Osborne House. Strands of high cloud streaked a bleary sky, and the air seemed to ooze like oil. The usual human figures orbited the house -- first the thin belt of reporters sipping from paper cups of coffee, then the ring of police, then the satellites of students, Preston, and Jenny. Graymalkin lay on the back porch, eyes slitted, on the alert for mockingbird dive-bombers.
       But today the students had different faces. They were all young and dressed casually, but their alert and wary poses hardly resembled the nonchalance of the real kids. Jenny was panting from trench to trench, trying to find them something to do which would look good but that wouldn't damage anything. Faint ripples of static emanated from two boom boxes that Hilary assumed were plainclothes police radios.
       Leslie Underwood was among the students. "I asked for the day off," she explained. "Since I let the artifacts get away from me at the Lloyd, I thought maybe I could make up for it here."
       "They got away from me too," Hilary told her.
       Preston's partly sympathetic, partly exasperated expression indicated that he'd already tried to convince Leslie her guilt trip was unwarranted.
       Zapata's hair was woven into a thick, smooth plait that fell from the crown of her head to her shoulders. If worst came to worst, Hilary reflected, she could use it as a bullwhip. The detective was wearing a tattered pair of jeans probably dating back to her college days. That they were just a bit snug was not going unnoticed by the male members of the crew. Her T-shirt sported the logo of the Hard Rock Cafe.
       Yeager's shirt bore a Greenpeace exhortation. "Attic room looks untouched," he murmured to Mark and Hilary under the guise of showing them a handful of pebbles. "Fortunately it's pretty dark in that closet -- you can't see where I mended the wallpaper."
       They pretended the pebbles were fascinating. "And if no one shows up tonight?" Mark asked.
       "Then we haul those bags down to the lab and break out the microscopes. We can get fingerprints off almost anything."
       The sweat was already dripping down Hilary's back. "But it's more conclusive to draw the killer out, right?"
       "More dramatic, too," Yeager said with a meaningful glance at Zapata.
       Setting his jaw, Mark stepped down into the garage pit. Jenny arrived at the opposite side, her spine set in full Wellington at Waterloo rigidity, the Union Jack on her T-shirt rippling as she breathed. If she smiled, she'd have broken her face. She didn't smile. "Good morning. I trust you passed a pleasant night."
       "Ah -- very nice, thank you," Mark said, suppressing a smile.
       Jenny, Hilary thought, was operating on automatic pilot. Without noticing her gaffe, the archaeologist pulled out a trowel and started scraping at an otherwise undistinguished patch of ground.
       Preston handed Hilary the drawing board. Her pencil moved by itself, producing a sketch of Osborne, its horizontal lines too heavy for the vertical, dangerously imbalanced. She rolled down that paper, tore it off, wadded it up, and began sketching the Regensfeld artifacts: a church doorway constructed itself beneath her pencil, the disciples of Christ gathered for a last meal, an obscure saint donated a body part to a silver-gilt reliquary.
       The police team blandly sifted dirt. The reporters took pictures of each other. If any silver Cadillacs cruised by, no one noticed.
       Just before noon, Jenny and Zapata retired to the house. They emerged looking sober. "The deed is done," said Jenny. "I told Bradshaw I found the Cross in Arthur's study. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll make a recce at Harris Hospital." She strode off toward the garage.
       "She's going to see Vasarian?" Mark asked Zapata.
       "Said something had occurred to her but wouldn't say what," the disgruntled detective replied. "Y'all take a break too."
       One of the play-acting students went out for food. The rest wandered oh-so-casually around the house. Mark and Hilary drove to a nearby Chinese restaurant, ate a meal more out of habit than hunger, and managed to drag out their break by browsing in a bookstore. It was almost two when they returned to Osborne. "The wind's backing around," Mark commented as they climbed out of the van.
       The upper leaves of the oak trees rippled, stilled, and rippled again. The northwest was darkening with cloud. Hilary felt a breath or two of cooler air stir the sticky atmosphere, but still she was hot. She wasn't sure whether she heard distant thunder or distant aircraft.
       "Is Jenny back?" Mark asked Zapata.
       With the toe of her sneaker, Zapata erased the tic-tac-toe game she and Yeager had scratched in the dirt at the bottom of the garage pit. "Yes. About twenty minutes ago. Didn't say a word, just went inside."
       Mark charged off toward the house, Hilary at his heels. No one could've gotten in there in broad daylight, she wanted to protest, but didn't. For all she knew Dolores had supernatural abilities. If she could picture Zapata as an Aztec priestess, she could imagine Dolores as the Irish warrior-goddess Morrigan, garlanded with the heads of her enemies.
       Graymalkin, scratching at the back door, looked up with a piteous meow. Mark knocked. No answer. "Jenny?" Still no answer. He opened the door and walked inside, Graymalkin dodging between his legs and into the bedroom. The kitchen was empty. The icebox barrier had been moved. "Jenny!" Mark bellowed, then ran toward the door that stood open to the front of the house.
       Hilary's cheeks were burning, her heart thumping so hard she was surprised it didn't come through her ribs. MSG reaction, no doubt.
       They almost trampled Jenny as she emerged from the cellar stairs. Her face was stark white, her hair almost standing on end, but her words were measured and icy calm. "Do you know the story of Saint Elizabeth of Hungary?"
       "What?" Mark asked.
       Jenny wasn't looking at them but through them, her eyes dark tidal pools in which strange creatures swam. "Elizabeth's husband threatened to turf her out if he caught her taking food to the poor. But she loaded her apron with bread anyway. He caught her. He asked, 'What's in your apron?' She answered, 'Roses.' He demanded that she show him. When she opened her apron, nothing was there but roses." Jenny turned back to the stairs. "I really have found the Cross."
       "What?" Hilary lunged forward. All three of them came close to cartwheeling down the steps.
       The stone floor of the cellar was impacted with dirt, the stone walls were seamed by ribbons of concrete, and the air was so cold and dank that Hilary broke into goose flesh. High barred windows would have opened beneath the veranda if they hadn't been glued shut by dirt. One room held cobwebbed wine racks, another an ancient furnace and water heater that would've been at home in Frankenstein's lab. A third was empty except for a stained wooden workbench, a vise clutching one end and a vacant tool rack the other. The center of the workshop was lit by a bare hanging bulb, but the corners were dark. Hilary hoped nothing lurked there but the odd spider.
       Jenny moved toward the darkest corner. "You said the other day that the clay soil in this area makes any foundation a dicey proposition at best. Arthur's memoirs went on and on about Osborne being built on a foundation of shifting sand. In his letter to Vasarian offering to sell the Cross, Arthur said Jesus told Peter to build His church upon gravel."
       "Not upon a rock, like it says in the Bible?" Hilary asked.
       "No. And then Arthur said he hoped to 'cement a relationship' between himself and the collector to whom he was offering the Cross."
       "Sand, gravel, and cement," said Mark, "make concrete."
       Concrete chips lay in the corner, freshly gouged from a foot-wide fissure that extended from a window down to the floor. A rusty reinforcing rod, a handy probe, extended from the hole. Jenny jerked it away and threw it down with a crash. "I looked in this room when I first arrived. I searched the worktable and tapped on the walls and the floor. But then, that hidden door in the attic was buggered about so it wouldn't sound hollow." With her trowel she levered out another shower of chips. Gray dust swirled. Mark and Hilary bumped heads trying to look. "Vasarian was right. Arthur couldn't have hidden the Cross forty years ago in the excavation area if he was offering it for sale in 1988."
       Inside the hole was a rounded cavity that Hilary suspected was an extension of Graymalkin's drain pipe. Inside that was a wooden box, the twin of the one that held the ivory Jesus. "When Arthur gave my mother the figure," Jenny explained, "it was already in its box, wrapped in muslin. All I did was substitute polyurethane. I wouldn't be surprised if Arthur made the boxes either in this workshop or the other. He was quite a craftsman, along with everything else." The acid in her voice could've dissolved stone. Mere concrete crumbled at her touch.
       An odor of damp earth emanated from the cavity. "The rat," said Hilary, "was a field rat, but it was foraging beneath the veranda."
       "Sod the rat." With a heave and a scrape, Jenny pulled the box from the hole. Mark leaped forward to help her steady it.
       Sure enough, a couple of the wooden slats were loose, spilling bits of cloth and what Hilary knew even in the dim corner to be ivory crumbs. She would have been glad to tear off the lid with her bare hands, but Jenny pried it off with the trowel. Hilary scooped aside the muslin shreds and was glad to see several pouches of moisture-absorbing silica gel.
       The ancient ivory seemed to glow, driving back Osborne's accumulated shadows. Carved figures moved in procession up the Cross, along its arms, and down again, acting out the life of Christ. From a tiny angel proclaiming divine purpose to a kneeling Mary, to the peremptory gesture of an armored Pilate, it was all there, even the almost microscopic "SPQR" carved on Pilate's breastplate that Hilary could see only by squinting fiercely.
       "This is it. This is really it." She wrapped her fingers with a bit of the cloth and inspected the edges of the sculpture. There, on the square base, were the marks of rodent teeth. A bit of inscription might be gone -- the light was too poor for her to see -- but the damage was minimal. The rounded peaks and rims of the carved ivory kissed her fingertips. "It's all right," she announced with a triumphant grin. "The Word made flesh. Made concrete, if you will. You solve a mean puzzle, Jenny."
       Mark, too, was grinning. Another point to us, he was no doubt thinking. Another debit for the house.
       Jenny reattached the lid, using the handle of her trowel as a hammer, and turned toward the stairway so abruptly that Hilary suspected she was hiding a genuine facial expression.
       From upstairs Zapata's voice called, "Where are you?" When they pounded up the stairs and displayed their prize, she exclaimed "I'll be damned!" and herded them into the kitchen. Jenny laid the box on the table while Zapata shouted out the back door.
       "How is Vasarian?" Hilary at last thought to ask.
       "Recovering very quickly," Jenny replied. "Quite his usual self. Whatever role he plays -- courtier, spy, crusader -- he plays it well. I wonder if he knows who he really is."
       Mark quirked a brow. "Do any of us?"
       Zapata, unconcerned with philosophical questions, demanded to know how Jenny had found the Cross.
       "From Arthur's notes," she explained, her hand resting protectively on the wooden box. "And from the letter that Vasarian saw -- he remembered the exact words, fortunately. I had another question for him...."
       Yeager opened the back door and ushered Leslie inside. Zapata organized them into an expedition to take the Cross to join the figure downtown -- just because she was using it as bait didn't mean she actually wanted it on the premises. Hilary reassured herself that both artifacts would return to the museum soon enough. Her palms itched, wanting to re-unite them.
       Jenny grudgingly reopened the wooden crate. Mark found a sturdy corrugated cardboard box in a cabinet and dumped out a cockroach. Hilary transferred the Cross and its wrappings, although not before Yeager and Zapata took long looks. Leslie picked up the cardboard box somewhat more cautiously than she would nitroglycerin. "Okay," she said to Yeager. "Let's go." The door shut, leaving the room as silent and empty as the wooden box.
       Jenny sighed. "I had another question for Vasarian. How did he know that he was attacked by a woman when he had torchlight in his eyes?"
       "From her shape?" guessed Zapata.
       "Yes and no. What he saw was the shape of the garments. The person who attacked him was wearing the costume from the attic."
       "Sharon was wearing a similar outfit at the charity ball the night Nathan was killed," offered Hilary. "Not in white though, but a sort of pink-and-cream flowered pattern."
       "What's your point?" Zapata asked Jenny.
       Jenny leaned back against the counter and crossed her arms, her pose that of a flying buttress supporting a heavy wall. "His notes indicate that Arthur was, as we've guessed, rather too interested in Jack the Ripper. He believed he was the Ripper's son."
       "He had his father's murder of his mother for evidence," said Mark, with a grimace toward the front of the house.
       "Exactly. Not that his ramblings on the subject are that precise, but one passage did strike me. The possibility that Jack was never caught because he either dressed in woman's clothing or was a woman himself."
       "You mean Arthur himself might have been playing the female ghost?" The chilled sweat on Hilary's back became beads of ice.
       Zapata's brows were almost shaking hands. "He might not have intended it to be the ghost of his mother. Perhaps he was simply portraying a generic Ripper victim."
       "But Arthur's playing his own ghost now," Mark pointed out.
       "So is it Sharon?" asked Hilary. "Dolores? If Arthur could climb into long skirts, why not Kenneth? I can't see Travis doing it, but then, he's only related by marriage. So is Dolores, if you want to be technical. But she's related through her children."
       "Dolores's children," Jenny went on. "Do you remember Vasarian saying someone had searched his room? How someone has known all along who I am? Last night I had a perfectly appalling thought. If Kenneth was the burglar, he was trying to seduce me whilst knowing full well I'm his sister."
       Hilary looked at her dirty sneakers, turned slightly pigeon-toed. She saw Kenneth's amiable if vacuous grin, at such odds with his dark and distant eyes. Her mind hiccupped. "Not only that. I bet Kenneth's costume was meant to be Roman. One of two specific Romans. Julius Caesar and Marc Antony were both lovers of Cleopatra -- who Dolores was playing at the ball."
       "Oh yes," Jenny said slowly. "We've all seen how Kenneth competes with both Sharon and Vasarian for Dolores's attention."
       "There's no love lost between Kenneth and Travis," Mark added. "Kenneth could've tried to frame Travis by begging, borrowing, or stealing his car, driving over to Moss Street and hotwiring Gilbert's car -- not to mention later on cutting its brake line. He might even have left the bone on purpose. Arthur worked on cars. Why not Kenneth?"
       "Tidy," Zapata murmured. "Very tidy. Kenneth might have killed Nathan to help Dolores with the artifact scam. We already knew we had someone very clever on our hands."
       "Kenneth was here yesterday tearing up the house looking for the Cross," Mark went on. "The bait should work on him, too."
       Hilary shook her head. "Here's another appalling thought for you. Vasarian never overheard the Coburgs say anything significant about the case. Maybe that was because they suspected him. Maybe it was because they haven't been working together at all."
       "Hell!" said Zapata. "Bradshaw tells Dolores, but Kenneth doesn't get the word, and we're back to sifting fingerprints to find the murderer."
       "I think we shall simply have to sit by the water hole and see who comes to drink." Jenny slapped the cabinet so hard, Hilary was suprised it didn't crumble beneath her hand. "I have to accomplish something this afternoon. Mark, come help me record the post holes in the last trench."
       "Right." Mark's smile died stillborn. Zapata slammed out the door, muttering something beneath her breath that Hilary felt sure was an incantation conjuring a psychopath red-handedly waving a knife. The Cross was only part of the bait. She, Mark, and Jenny were the rest.
       Outside the hot, humid breeze had died, leaving the air suffocatingly still except for an occasional burst of cool air. Thunderheads packed the horizon; by the time Yeager and Leslie returned, the gray and white billows filled half the sky, and a cool wind was blowing steadily from the northwest.
       Whether Jenny accomplished anything that afternoon Hilary couldn't say; she and Mark might as well have been doing brain surgery, so serious were their faces. Mark glanced around at Hilary every now and then, as though to reassure himself she was still there. She smiled at him and played her memories of last night over and over again until they became a soothing drone beneath the shrill piping of her nerves.
       A ray of sun glanced out, bronzed the brooding facade of the house, and vanished. Hilary's pencil produced an appropriately Gothic picture of Osborne and thunderheads, a streak of lightning pointing to it like an accusing finger. She finally abandoned the sketch as the sky grew darker and darker, the clouds compacting themselves into a solid, inky ceiling, and a rain-scented wind made the paper flap on its board.
       At five o'clock the "students" went away. Not too far, though; Zapata directed them to lurk in the adjoining yards and keep their radios on. Preston and Leslie promised to stay close by, offered helpful admonitions, and generally acted both reluctant and eager to leave.
       Cold raindrops were hitting the ground like shrapnel as Mark, Hilary, Jenny, Yeager, and Zapata hurried into the kitchen. The room seemed stuffy and warm after the chill wind. The house creaked gently, but was otherwise cloaked in its usual silence.
       Zapata picked up the wooden box and settled her shoulder bag at her side. "We'll go on up to the study. Some tea would be nice, if you don't mind. We might have a long wait." Yeager looked as though he were seriously considering a new career as an accountant, perhaps. Their footsteps died away in the front of the house. Outside the wind moaned and sobbed.
       Without a word Jenny put on the teakettle. Mark fed the cat, who ate and retreated to the kitchen cabinet. Hilary laid out the cups and wiped off a tray. It was too late to back out now. Maybe Dolores, with or without Kenneth, wouldn't come in this storm. Maybe they'd see the storm as cover.
       A crash from outside made Hilary jump. Mark peered out the streaming glass of the window. "Limb blew off a tree."
       Hilary spared a thought for her leased Caprice sitting outside her condo. Jenny poured boiling water into the teapot and picked up the tray. Her hands were perfectly steady; not one bit of crockery rattled. Leaving the lights on and closing the connecting door, so that all would appear normal, they plunged into the darkness of the main house. The beam of Mark's flashlight picked a path among the furniture.
       The study windows and the glass-fronted cabinets reflected the glare of the flashlight. Yeager and Zapata's eyes shone like badgers surprised in their dens. They had left the box enticingly in the middle of the floor. In the shadow of Arthur's now empty desk were several metallic gleams that Hilary felt sure were not all flashlights and radios.
       Jenny set down the tray. Zapata stared at the cups and made an "uh-oh" face -- a true Texan, she'd asked for tea without bothering to add "iced". She sipped politely at her cup; Yeager gulped down the steaming brew as though it were a medicinal tonic. Hilary took one drink, which turned to feathers in her throat. Her heart was no longer beating fast. It lurched unexpectedly every few moments, like shoes thrown on the floor by upstairs neighbors.
       Mark turned off his flashlight and sat down in a corner beside Hilary. It was so dark, she couldn't see her own hand holding the teacup, let alone him beside her. But she could feel him, trembling slightly, making odd movements.... Oh. He was fingering an air guitar. She tried another sip of the tea. It was cold. She didn't dare put it down in the dark because she'd probably spill it.
       The house creaked. Strange thuds echoed from outside. The rain stopped, but the wind's fury increased. The windows rattled. Hilary strained her ears, trying to filter out the noises of the storm, trying to hear the front door opening and footsteps on the stairs. She went over plots and counterplots until her mind throbbed. At last she retreated to a day in Provence when the sunlight had been as intoxicating as sparkling wine, and the sky had been vast and blue. She and a girlfriend had sat beneath a Roman aqueduct and sung of church bells, _Orleans, Beaugency, Notre Dame de Clery, Vendome_. If only Mark had been there with her.
       Either her eyes were adjusting or the room had lightened. Maybe the night was over, it was dawn, and no one had come.
       The luminous hands of her watch pointed to seven o'clock. Mark's hands moved in the shadows, playing something intricate. _Orleans, Beaugency_ ... The wind was dying down ... _Notre Dame de Clery, Vendome_....
       A slender shape stood in the study door. Hilary's mind convulsed. Arthur. But no, this was a real person, wearing not white but black, almost invisible against the shadows of the hallway beyond. "Jenny?" called a voice barely above a breath. "Come out, come out wherever you are."
       Mark's body spasmed and then froze. From the desk came a quick metallic snap -- a tape recorder, Hilary realized. She pressed her hand across her mouth, keeping her terror from spilling into a scream. The rich scent of Chanel No. 5 mingled with the musty reek of the house.
       "I know you're here, Jenny. Bring me the Cross." The voice was gentle, insistent. But it was not Dolores's voice.
       The light in the room was taking on an odd greenish tint. The westering sun shining through the green curtains, Hilary thought. But the curtains were pulled back. The eerie light emanated from the seething cauldron of cloud that was the sky.
       Lightning flared. No, it was a flashlight, so bright and sudden Hilary flinched. But the light was focused on the wooden box. The black shape moved, and the light moved, and on the far side of the room, by the turret stairs, something else moved and then evaporated into the chill air.
       Jenny stood by the wooden box, chin up, shoulders back, like a tigress guarding a cub. "You want it, Kenneth? You come and get it."
       "Don't make me hurt you, too." His words were calm, cold, scoured of human emotion.
       "You killed Nathan, didn't you? You tried to kill Mark and Hilary. You attacked Vasarian."
       "They threatened my family," Kenneth explained. "They tried to hurt us. Blood is thicker than water, isn't it?"
       "Not really, no."
       "What would you know about it, bastard? It's all your fault."
       Something else gleamed beside the flashlight. Hilary had never seen a knife so big and so shiny. She knew it was razor-sharp. It had to be razor-sharp. A knife like that would repel dullness.
       Zapata spat a four-letter word that was both reverent and triumphant. The beam of light jumped toward her. Yeager countered with his own flashlight. The rays crossed like sword blades, illuminating Kenneth's pale face. He was wearing Dolores's Cleopatra wig.
       "Hold it." Yeager's flashlight was not the only thing he was aiming; his gun was small but no doubt efficient.
       In the harsh mixture of light and shadow, the human figures jerked like actors in an old horror movie. Kenneth threw down his flashlight, lunged across the box, and grabbed Jenny's arm. Zapata swore again, this time with infinite annoyance.
       The knife hung in mid-air, its point at Jenny's throat. The flashlight smashed and went out. Hilary hauled herself up the back of a chair, the cup of tea sloshing cold onto her hand. Mark leaped up, his eyes bright and feverish. "All these years," he hissed.
       Jenny grimaced. Her hands clenched in the air before her, but she didn't move. Yeager circled to the left, Zapata to the right. Kenneth's dark eyes glittered beneath the fringe of the wig.
       Mark stepped forward. "All these years I've been afraid of you, but you don't scare me now. You've always sneaked up on your victims. You don't have the guts to face someone in a fair fight. Coward."
       "Wouldn't you like to see the Cross?" Jenny asked quietly. "It's in the box. I'll open it."
       Mark took another step. Hilary envisioned his body sliced open like a rib roast. "No!" she shouted, but the word tangled in her larynx. She bounded forward, throwing the cup like an athlete a javelin. The cold tea splashed Jenny and her captor as well.
       The cup splintered against the wall. Jenny wrenched free. Mark grasped Kenneth's black-shirted arm, the knife gleaming inches from his equally gleaming eyes. Yeager and Zapata danced back and forth, guns waving, shouting, "Get out of the goddam way!"
       Something exploded. The wallpaper above Arthur's desk punctured and bled plaster. Hilary's brain ricocheted inside her skull. Every instinct ordered her to curl into a ball and hide, but her body refused to move.
       Yeager's flashlight went out. The detectives dived for cover. Jenny yanked Mark by his T-shirt away from the flashing knife. The uncanny light of the storm swirled and steadied and revealed someone else standing in the doorway. She was elegant and slender, ash-blond hair gleaming, red lips parted in exultation. The gun Dolores held was a miniature cannon. She'd shot for effect, Hilary realized. If she'd meant to kill, she would have.
       Her voice was as cool and sweet as rock candy. "Kenneth, you poor sorry child, I knew you were on the extension when Bradshaw called. Couldn't you see it was a trap?"
       Kenneth was goggling at Dolores just like everyone else, the knife dangling at his side. "Mother, how did you know it was me?"
       "I have ESP, darling. It's part of my maternal job description. I've known about Arthur's pathetic little room since before you were born. I've known you killed Nathan since the night you did it. Admirable sentiments, dearest, but not very well planned."
       Kenneth's lip quivered petulantly. "But Mother, the Cross really is here. Look."
       Dolores looked but registered only mild interest.
       "You bitch," Jenny spat. Mark set a warning hand on her arm.
       "Dolores," said Zapata, "you're in it too far already. Both of you are. Put down the gun and call one of your fancy lawyers."
       Dolores's beautiful lips suggested to Zapata just where she could put the gun. Kenneth handed his flashlight to Dolores and picked up the crate. He turned to scan the room, the knife erect again, probing before him. His face was stark, features molded out of madness.
       Outside, a sudden gust of wind wailed like a banshee. The house trembled in the blast. Thuds echoed from downstairs. Dolores glanced over her shoulder. "Come on, darling. The car's outside. Everything's packed."
       With one last flourish of his knife, Kenneth turned. His voice was soft, wheedling, "Mother...." Hilary's mind stammered the rest of the sentence, _Can't I kill just one of them?_
       Dolores seized his arm and pulled him away. Both Yeager and Zapata fired, the two shots zinging harmlessly through the door. Light flickered in the hall and went out. Static crackled from a radio as Zapata tried frantically to call her troops. Yeager and Jenny collided in the doorway, but a random shot up the stairway made them duck back into the room. Mark and Hilary clutched at each other. "Are you all right?" they gabbled at once.
       "I daresay," said Jenny, her voice grated across her teeth, "that Kenneth was considerably more surprised to see Dolores than we were."
       Her words were swallowed by a wind so loud that Osborne House might well have been square on the track of an approaching express train. Mark blanched and spun toward the window. The clouds were swirling. Tree limbs, shingles, and bits of debris corkscrewed upward. Darkness twisted downward, consuming the debris, searching for more. "Jesus Christ," he shouted, "get into the basement, quick!"
       Zapata was clutching both her tape recorder and her radio. "Can't raise anyone, static's too bad...." Yeager dragged her across the floor.
       "What is it?" asked Jenny.
       Mark took Hilary's hand and Jenny's as well, and pulled them bodily toward the door. "Tornado! Get the hell downstairs!"
       The windows shattered, spraying the room with glass. In a knot they stumbled down the stairwell. The pressure of the wind crushed the breath from Hilary's chest. Through the front door a surreal and hellish scene played out, an entire oak tree tumbling end over end, boards and battens writhing in mid air, the sky itself sucking greedily at the earth.
       Still Hilary couldn't breathe, the air was so thick with dust. The wind batted at her like Graymalkin at a rat. _Graymalkin_! she thought. Too late. A tremendous grinding noise was only a mutter against the roar of the funnel cloud. The house jerked with one shock, then another.
       Yeager kicked open the door to the cellar. Zapata grasped Jenny's free hand. Whether they ran or fell down the stairs Hilary couldn't tell; she found herself lying beneath Arthur's workbench, grit digging into her cheek and breasts, Mark lying half on top of her. Another body sprawled next to her -- whose, she couldn't tell. She didn't care. Her lungs were burning, her heart thudding as loud as the storm in her ears. With a crescendo of rending and shattering, the very stones of the floor quivered.
       Minutes passed. Days passed. That rending crack, Hilary thought, was the crack of doom. Next they'd hear the trumpets of Judgment Day.
       The thunderous roar of the wind dropped off. The gloom of the cellar was streaked with murky light. At last Hilary forced her eyes open and peered upward. Past the edge of the workbench she saw a fallen beam and the blackish-green sky. She thought, _Osborne really has fallen down_.
       In the distance a siren wailed. "Great," said Zapata's choked voice. "_Now_ they sound the warning."
       "It's almost over," Mark croaked into Hilary's ear.
       She lay limply between him and the floor and waited for the end.
--------
         *Chapter Twenty-five*
       Five bodies were tangled like pick-up sticks below the workbench. Slowly Mark subtracted his own limbs, rolled clear of the sheltering wood, and sat up. The first and second floors of Osborne House were gone. Between two fallen beams he could see the sky clotted with black cloud. The greenish tint to the light faded to gray. Sirens wailed in the distance. A sudden shower of rain fell, drenching Mark's upturned face as though poured from a bucket.
       Sputtering, he turned back to the workbench and took a hand he recognized as Hilary's. "You all right?"
       She was dirty and disheveled, and her face seemed too small for her eyes, emotionally exfoliated. Her voice cracked. "I think so."
       The other bodies sorted themselves out. Jenny stood, bracing herself against the bench. "Steady on," she said to no one in particular.
       "I let them get away," mourned Zapata, still clinging to her tape recorder.
       Yeager looked around. "Jesus."
       The ferocious winds of the tornado had scooped the house off the cellar rather than collapsing it into it. The stone walls, buried in the earth, still stood. Pieces of board pasted with wallpaper, mangled bits of furniture, bricks, and torn tree limbs littered the floor. The staircase upward sagged drunkenly.
       "Look!" exclaimed Jenny.
       The kitchen wing of the house was virtually untouched. It was knocked askew and bled splintered beams into the cellar below, but the kitchen table still sat below a lamp swinging in the wind, and the teakettle reposed on the stove, splendidly unconcerned. Through a gaping cabinet door stepped Graymalkin. Picking her way through the leaves and dirt, she walked to the edge of the floor, looked down into the cellar, and meowed indignantly.
       "Oh my, Toto," Hilary translated, "we're not in Kansas any more."
       Everyone's laughter verged on hysteria. Mark wasn't sure whether his eyes were wet from laughing, from terror, from dirt, or from rain. He snugged his arm around Hilary's shoulders. "It's too much to hope, I guess, that this house landed on the wicked witch like Dorothy's did."
       "Dolores and Kenneth are miles from here," said Zapata. "I let them get away, dammit. I don't even have my radio to put out an APB."
       The rain slackened. Shouts drifted down the wind. Two "students", Leslie, and Preston appeared at the edge of the cellar pit. They managed to ease first Hilary and Jenny, then Mark, Zapata, and Yeager, up the rickety steps to ground level. Not that the ground was especially firm. Mark felt as though he'd been poured out of a Jell-O mold. He wanted to find a bed and pull the covers over his head and Hilary's as well.
       "Y'all look like characters from 'Night of the Living Dead'," Leslie told them.
       "The tornado just added insult to injury," returned Jenny.
       Zapata's smudged face and red eyes gave her a diabolical air; Yeager was so pale it looked as though his features had been partially erased. She detailed what had happened in the study. He sent the officers running to send out a bulletin on the Coburgs. Preston and Leslie exchanged a look part astonishment, part I-told-you-so.
       To Mark and Jenny, Zapata said, "Don't you ever confront a killer like that again."
       "I have no intention of ever confronting a killer again," Mark told her. "That was either the bravest or the stupidest thing I've ever done, and I don't ever want to cap it."
       "Right," said Jenny. She picked up Graymalkin and walked through the kitchen into her apparently intact bedroom. Hilary snugged her arm around Mark's waist. Rain ran in rivulets from the torn edge of the roof. Every now and then a brick from the destroyed chimney thudded to the ground.
       Through the curtain of rain Mark considered the devastation. Of the live oak trees surrounding Osborne, only two still stood, and they looked like rejects from a matchstick factory. The concrete-block garage, though battered, was intact. His van was still sitting beside it. The grounds around the house and the excavation resembled the debris-covered earth beyond, bits of fabric waving in the wind like exotic plants. Hilary emitted an "Oh!" of amazement and pointed. The grandfather clock stood upright on the lawn.
       An ambulance and a fire truck, lights flashing, sped past on York Boulevard. The clouds changed from dark to light gray, and a ray of sun glanced through, flickered, and retreated. A police car came up the driveway.
       "How bad is it?" Zapata shouted to the emerging officers.
       "The twister only touched down here, along the river, and among some warehouses on Seventh Street," one of them replied. "Tree limbs and power lines down, a roof or two torn off. Traffic snafus, and a bad accident over on I-35."
       "No word on the Coburgs?"
       "Not yet. It's a little hard to get mobilized, you know, when not all the streets are passable."
       Zapata snorted, not accepting excuses, and zigzagged from the kitchen to the patrol car. Yeager stopped to open a garbage bag plastered against a tree. "Hey," he called, "are these the books from the attic?"
       The Ripper books and pictures were the last thing Mark wanted to consider now. He wasn't sure he could even read any more. Spelling his name would be an amazing feat. "Would you go get them?" he asked Preston.
       "Sure." Preston and Leslie went out the door.
       From the bedroom ran Graymalkin, fur on end, eyes yellow globes of terror. Behind her Jenny said, "You're too late."
       A voice answered. Mark had heard that voice before, in the now-vanished stairwell, not uttering words but scratching his mind. "I know. I lost the others a long time ago. But I never had you to lose. All my life I ran. I thought I was running to but I was running away. From this house, from this family, from myself. Guinevere, I regret so much."
       "I'm an adult. The house is gone. Nothing can be changed."
       "Guinevere, my daughter, forgive me, please, and set me free."
       Hilary's arm was as taut as a rubber band. Mark's spine crawled. Either the violence of his family or the violence of the storm had given Arthur's uneasy shade the energy to materialize. It had given Jenny her chance to tell him off at last. But the emotion reverberating in her voice wasn't hatred but pity. "I forgive you. Rest in peace."
       Raindrops frolicked down the wind. Another ray of sun found its way through a chink in the clouds. Static sizzled from the patrol car. Zapata and Yeager leaped inside. It skidded around and took off, narrowly missing a car turning into the driveway.
       Together Mark and Hilary tiptoed to the bedroom. Jenny stood over her open suitcase, tears sliding down her face. No one else was there, not the least hint of a shape or a sound. She had forgiven him, but she had never called him "Father".
       Hilary drew Mark out of the room. "She'll be all right. She's tough."
       "Just like you," Mark returned.
       That long ago night, he thought, Jenny had come back to bed with her skin so cold he felt goose flesh just remembering. Later he'd felt someone watching them as they slept. Perhaps Arthur had fled in horror from his son who had just committed murder and had gone searching for his unknown quantity of a daughter. Perhaps Jenny had sensed his presence and had gone to search for him. But it was all over now.
       Lucia climbed out of her car, looked after the departing police car, and greeted Leslie and Preston. "Are you all right?" she shouted through the amputated end of the kitchen.
       "More or less," replied Mark.
       "I like to have had a conniption fit when the radio said the tornado hit over here. High time the cussed place came down, but I'm sure glad you didn't go with it."
       Hilary sighed. "A shame about all the carved paneling and stuff."
       Jenny emerged, suitcase in hand, her face looking as though she'd been through a flood, but otherwise composed. Although, Mark reflected, none of them was exactly suitable for framing.
       "Come over to my house," Lucia called. "You must be hungry."
       "Ravenous," said Jenny. "Would you collect the moggie?"
       Graymalkin's aggrieved face was peering out of the cabinet. She allowed Hilary to pick her up and cuddle her. Mark and Preston gathered up the computer and the archaeological records and artifacts. Without a backward look, Jenny started her Blazer and Mark his slightly dented but otherwise undamaged van. They followed Lucia, and Preston and Leslie followed them, through the leaf-and-branch littered streets.
       His apartment, Mark saw, hadn't suffered so much as a cracked window. Lucia's yard was littered with multicolored petals, and the wind was scented with damp and roses. They paused on the front porch to admire a spectacular sunset, billow upon billow of cloud edged with gold like an illuminated manuscript. The sky was apologizing for its temper tantrum.
       Inside the house Gilbert was lighting candles. "Electricity's off," he explained. Lucia served soft drinks and sandwiches. Mark, Hilary, and Jenny gulped down the pastrami and cheese and explained the happenings of the last hours. Graymalkin finished off a can of tuna and then played vacuum cleaner beneath the table.
       "I'm sorry," Mark concluded, "to have gotten y'all mixed up in this."
       "I've been mixed up in it all along," Lucia told him.
       Gilbert shrugged as well as he could with his arm in a sling. "All's well that ends well."
       "Not necessarily," said Jenny. "The Coburgs got away."
       Hilary peered into her glass of Coke as though into a crystal ball. The doorbell rang, supplemented by a fusillade of knocks. Zapata's voice called, "Anybody home?"
       Lucia ushered the detective and her partner into the kitchen and offered them food. They refused. Zapata's hair had come loose from its braid and straggled wildly around her face, shading her grim expression. "I have news. I don't know whether it's bad or good. Dolores and Kenneth are dead."
       The faces around the table exchanged quick, sharp looks of horror and pity. Mark gulped. "The tornado?"
       "No. The car hit a support wall in the mixmaster downtown. Witnesses said Dolores was going at least ninety. She drove straight into the wall. Not one skid mark." Zapata took Hilary's empty can of Coke, threw it onto the floor, and crushed it beneath her shoe. "Like that, God help me. The Cadillac looked just like that."
       "She killed herself and Kenneth, too," Jenny whispered. "That's what she intended to do when she left Osborne."
       Yeager stared at the family pictures on Lucia's sideboard. "The bowie knife was in the back seat, but I guess that's all academic now. In the trunk were some wooden boxes holding what looks like the Regensfeld things. We'll need you, Hilary, to identify them for us."
       Hilary shrank, her breath expelled in a low moan.
       "They're not smashed up," Yeager added. "I mean, the car hit head on; it was compressed from the front, and the fire department got there before everything...." His voice caught in his throat, and he looked at his dirty hands. "Rosalind, I'm going to go home and take a bath."
       "Sounds good to me." Zapata drew herself up. "Hilary, Leslie, would you meet me at the Lloyd about eleven o'clock tomorrow morning?"
       "Sure," said Leslie and Hilary simultaneously.
       Gilbert went to let the detectives out. Lucia started collecting dishes. Jenny's eyes didn't quite focus. "Mark, if I might intrude upon your hospitality once again...."
       "Of course."
       She tucked the cat beneath her arm, accepted a candle, and paused at the back door. "Thank you," she said, ostensibly to Lucia. But Mark knew she was speaking to everyone in her temporary family.
       "Good night," they all chorused.
       Preston and Leslie disappeared into the dusk. Mark took Hilary's hand. It was cold but warmed in his grasp. "Let's go..." he began, and stopped before he could say "home". Soon his apartment would be home for them both, he assured himself. It would always hold a subtle hint of English forest below the scent of roses.
       Hilary smiled. "Home is where we're together."
       She was right. She usually was.
       With the power outage, the night was so dark the headlights of the van seemed like welding arcs. The Caprice was safe under a cover of wet leaves. Once inside, Hilary and Mark stood on no ceremony whatsoever but plunged together into the shower.
       Mark stood comatose beneath the hot water. The rush of adrenalin that had goosed his courage and his strength was only a fever dream. His mind strobed with images -- the glittering knife, the unearthly light, the cloying scent of perfume, voices shouting.... Hilary, he realized, was soaping him down, her touch so delicate his skin tingled. Well, he could always summon a little more adrenalin, for her.
       They made love with a tenderness that through some emotional alchemy gave purpose to everything. Even after Hilary dozed off, Mark continued stroking her sweet satin skin. It would take a while before she could make love without qualms ranging from embarrassment to repugnance. But every time she withdrew she returned, eager to discover the subtleties of rhythm and response. He anticipated the nights to come, when he could help her learn what she liked and how to ask for it. Smiling, he fell asleep with his hand tucked securely into the curve of Hilary's waist, and did not dream of mad eyes and crushed Cadillacs.
       Neither had Hilary had nightmares, she divulged with relief when they awoke to a clear, bright morning. Only the most fragile lamblike puffs of cloud dotted an azure sky. If it hadn't been for the streets still cluttered with vegetation, and the newspaper headlines shouting murder and forgery, Mark would have had trouble believing he'd at last defeated his evil dreams.
       Hilary maneuvered her car around another tree limb. "How many ministers are going to base this Sunday's sermon on the text, It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God?"
       "The wages of sin?" Mark pointed out the window.
       The hill that had once been crowned by Osborne House now resembled one of Shakespeare's blasted heaths. "No need to sow salt in the ruins," Hilary said soberly. Human figures rather than crows picked through the debris -- insurance adjustors, Mark assumed, distressed preservationists, reporters, and souvenir-hunters. In time Victoria Square would bloom over Osborne's grave, but for now Mark and Hilary averted their eyes and passed by.
       Reporters milled outside the Lloyd. Mark and Leslie had to buoy Hilary through their ranks while they shouted questions about the artifacts. From the atrium the photograph of Arthur was mercifully indistinct.
       "Whew," Hilary sighed once they'd reached the lab. "I never knew a curator's job could be so hazardous."
       "I'm glad you're all right," said June, looking up from her painting. "My kids used to think my job was too dull for words. Now they want me to tell their classmates about my hairsbreadth escapes. Like the time I spilled a bottle of varnish on a Delacroix, I guess."
       "I hope my future adventures are no worse than that," Hilary replied.
       Into the cool, slightly antiseptic lab came Bradshaw and Zapata wheeling a cart. On it were three wooden boxes that looked like they'd been kicked from Texas to Germany and back. Hilary didn't wait to be formally reinstated in her job; she reached for a screwdriver. Just as the first screw popped out, Jenny arrived with Preston. "We couldn't stand it," he announced. "We had to see, too."
       "There's sod-all we can do at the dig," Jenny said. "It's time for the bulldozers to have a go at it. Fortunately the people from the Historical Society say we did a good job and deserve good references." Her face, Mark noted, looked ten years younger, as though she'd excavated several strata of resolve and pain during the night. She'd found in the dig just what she'd wanted to find. And he had, too, for that matter. He winked at her, earning a quick, wry grin, and gave Preston a surreptitious high-five.
       Hilary drew on her gloves. Taking a deep breath, she dug down through crumbled polyurethane and lifted out the boxwood misericord. To Mark it looked the same as the one he'd already seen, a congregation gathered before a church door just as this congregation gathered before the artifacts. But Hilary saw more. Lips parted, tasting some indefinable essence, she bent over the piece. After a long two minutes she announced, "This woman and child here on the end are fractured but not completely broken. I could inject some resin, but I think it'd be better to pack it and let the Regensfelders decide."
       No one, least of all Bradshaw, argued with her. She rooted around in the box and produced the brooch. "Enamel's fractured in this one branch. I could dig it out and put in a plastic restoration, but the cure might be worse than the disease." Hilary's gloved fingertips traced the swirls of the pattern just as her naked fingertips had drawn similar patterns on Mark's body. The brooch was for the sacramant of marriage, after all, and what was a good marriage but a state of grace -- the whole greater than the sum of its parts.... As if hearing Mark's thought, Hilary glanced up, met his eye, and smiled.
       "Are they the real artifacts?" Zapata asked.
       "Oh my, yes! They certainly are. They're beautiful." Hilary held out the brooch, grinning broadly.
       Jenny murmured, "Just like Dolores to pack them well, even though she knew she'd never see them again. Almost as though she were asking...."
       Forgiveness? Mark asked silently, when Jenny didn't finish.
       "I can't help but remember that discussion about just why these things are valuable." Hilary opened another box. She drew out the reliquary, frowned, and chose a dental pick with which to probe a slightly crushed area of silver-gilt filigree.
       Zapata shifted restlessly. Perhaps she'd expected the boxes to produce a sound-and-light display like the Lost Ark. Bradshaw fluttered back and forth behind the ranks of shoulders, trying to get a better view. Anyone else, Mark reflected, would've simply pushed forward. Envisioning Nathan's ghost hovering like a patron saint over the artifacts -- although he didn't think Judaism had saints -- Mark gave up his place to Bradshaw and asked Zapata, "Have you closed the books on Nathan's murder?"
       "Almost. I'll need for you, Hilary, and Jenny to come downtown and give us interviews about the confrontation yesterday -- you can't hear much on my tape, there was too much background noise. But the interview we had with Sharon Ward early this morning was very helpful."
       "Sharon finally came clean?"
       "She and Travis were clinging to each other and chattering like kids, more glad to be out of it than upset about Dolores and Kenneth."
       "Did they know Kenneth had killed Nathan?"
       "They suspected everyone, including each other, which is what led Travis to his clumsy attempt to intimidate Hilary. The bowie knife was his. He knew someone had stolen it, but he wasn't sure who." Zapata shook her head. "Sharon has very vivid memories of Felicia's murder. She was only eleven then, and it terrified her."
       Mark had never thought he'd identify with Sharon.
       Hilary glanced up. "I hope Sharon and Travis keep on clinging to each other. She's really just an innocent ingenue beneath the clothes, you know, and he has a certain neanderthal charm. You can drop those assault charges, by the way."
       "If you say so," said Zapata. "But I'm not running a lonelyhearts club. Where they go from here is their problem."
       Jenny asked, "Who killed Felicia?"
       Bradshaw reached forward as though to help, and Hilary shoved his hand away. Leslie and Preston exchanged a dubious glance. June swabbed a patch of painting. Mark studied the angle of Hilary's head, the light of her extension lamp making her hair a halo.

       "The way I see it," Zapata said, "it all started with the art scam. I don't know whether it was going on when Felicia was still married to Arthur or not, but she almost certainly had grown suspicious by 1975. I bet that's why Dolores let the rose bushes die, to keep Felicia away."
       "Arthur," said Jenny, "was always searching for his place in the world, trying everything, touching nothing."
       "I doubt Felicia saw him that way, although she did knit that ambiguous message into her sweater. Which she wore to Osborne the night she died. I think she went there when Dolores was gone, not to get cuttings from the last rosebushes or even to snoop around, but to talk to Arthur."
       "And she saw Arthur kill Juan Esparza," said Leslie.
       "That seems to be it," Zapata returned. "Judging from Felicia's autopsy record, she was hit on the head in exactly the same way. But the medical examiner estimated she lived for two more hours and died from a cut throat. Ironically enough, that bit of evidence was what kept Arthur from being convicted -- he had an alibi for those two hours."
       "He called Dolores," Mark said, grasping the truth at last. "She came rushing back from Dallas and took it upon herself to kill Felicia."
       "Not to mention ornamenting her body," said Jenny dryly. "The rose in Felicia's hand was quite the macabre touch."
       "Then Dolores burned the garage," Preston put in, "to make it appear a thief had done it all."
       Zapata nodded. "Arthur must have taken Felicia's sweater before Dolores got there. It was probably up in that attic room."
       "Arthur stood trial for Felicia's murder," said Mark, "knowing he was really guilty of Esparza's. Knowing that Dolores had done it -- without consulting with him first, I bet. She wanted to protect his reputation, her social position, their children.... I don't know what her motives were."
       "In the end," Jenny stated, "no one escaped judgment."
       June flicked a brush around a jar of cleaner, the jangling noise shockingly loud. Hilary held up the Giotto panel painting and inspected it. Judas sat among the apostles, the shadow of his suicidal noose on the wall behind him. "Travis attacked me to protect Sharon," she said. "Nathan broke up with Sharon to protect her. No wonder she was frightened."
       "Kenneth wanted to protect Dolores and Arthur both," Zapata went on, "from any new evidence about Felicia's murder, and from anyone finding out about the artifact scam. Dolores killed Kenneth to protect him from the consequences of his actions.... What a brangle."
       Hilary wiped off the painting, laid it face down on a cloth, and chose a bottle from the rack above her. Wetting a brush, she dabbed at the fissure on the back of the panel. The pungent odor of adhesive rose into the air and was swept away by the air conditioning system.
       "It didn't bother Dolores that Kenneth killed Nathan and tried to kill us. It bothered her that we almost -- sort of -- caught him." Mark saw Kenneth's crazed eyes and felt the hideous strength in his arm. The blade had radiated chill. He'd been possessed, he told himself, to jump a madman.
       Zapata shot Mark a jaundiced glance -- _someone always wants to play hero_. "Nathan got a hint of the workshop scam from Arthur's notebook. It must've given him quite a turn when Vasarian warned him the scam was still going on."
       "He was very upset the morning I left," Hilary said. "It'd be just like him to go searching for the missing artifacts two days later, feeling they were his responsibility."
       "Jenny," asked Zapata, "do you think it was Kenneth who moved the crate with the Jesus figurine from your closet to the study, trying to incriminate you? He could have found out Nathan was going to be in the house that night -- Sharon was a databank of information."
       Jenny didn't quite smile; one corner of her mouth tightened. "At first I thought it was Arthur who'd moved the crate, as a way of confessing his crimes. But yes, I suppose it was Kenneth. I saw him earlier that evening, performing his ghost masquerade. It had to have been Arthur, though, who brought the sweater from the attic."
       "There were several photographs on the floor showing Arthur with Felicia in her sweater," admitted Zapata.
       Mark hid his smile. That was as far as she was willing to go; there was no police procedure for the admission of supernatural evidence. But if the violent atmosphere of yesterday had stirred Arthur to speak, perhaps the violence of that March Friday had stirred him to physical strength.
       "I imagine," Leslie said, "that not only did Nathan recognize the figure and try to rescue it, but he recognized the sweater from the pictures. He remembered Felicia's murder and Arthur's trial."
       "Doesn't everyone remember Felicia's murder?" Mark asked.
       Zapata laughed. "I don't. I was in high school in San Antonio then, living from track meet to track meet. I wasn't interested in anything that didn't have running shoes." Everyone uttered a much-needed laugh at her half-bragging, half-apologetic expression.
       Hilary pulled the Bible cover from another box. Its gold was an alloy, Mark knew, or it would bend in her hands. A couple of the spinels had been jarred from their settings. Hilary wiped the gems off and reset them, using a miniature pair of pliers with padded tips and her own exquisite touch.
       Jenny, thought Mark, was an unlikely alloy of Coburg and self-reliance. She said, "I almost have to admire Dolores, keeping her composure whilst all her schemes crashed at her feet. No one confided in anyone else. She deduced the truth about Kenneth on her own. And what a truth it was."
       "Kenneth burglarized Vasarian's room, out of simple jealousy, I bet. Hoping to find something he could use to drive a wedge between Vasarian and Dolores." Mark hoped Jenny wouldn't take the opportunity to expound on the deplorable masculine tendency to equate sex and power.
       All she said was, "Kenneth told me everything was my fault. I suppose he saw Arthur's infidelity as a symptom of his other dishonesties. Although Arthur was married to Felicia when I was conceived, not Dolores."
       "When it came to his parents," said Preston, "Kenneth was definitely perpendicular to reality."
       "Kenneth was thirteen when Felicia was killed," Zapata said with a sigh. "I wonder if it was before or after that he found the room in the attic. Can you imagine a kid sitting there and studying that stuff, convincing himself that his father and his grandfather were murderers?"
       Jenny shivered, as though someone walked over her grave. "I can imagine it. I can see him wanting to think they were innocent, and yet not quite being able to do so. I don't know whether he hated Arthur or wanted to be him, wanted to protect the house and his mother or wanted to destroy them both. I don't want to know."
       Mark remembered hearing his parents talking in the next room, their words distorted, meanings too subtle for him to catch. He imagined Kenneth overhearing his parents talk about garages and artifacts and roses. "I wonder if Felicia knew about the Cross? I wonder if Nathan knew who Jenny is?"
       "Unless you plan on conducting a seance," Zapata told him, "you're going to have to keep on wondering."
       Bradshaw was glancing furtively left and right, perhaps trying to think of some snide remark he could make before they remembered he'd played Igor to Dolores's Frankenstein. Mark sidled up to him. "You know, the fake artifacts would be quite a draw, with all the publicity."
       "Put the fakes in Arthur's gallery beside the Van Meegeren, and you could charge admission." Hilary's eyes glinted with suppressed laughter. She rescued the ivory bishop and placed it on the mat before her.
       Bradshaw looked from Mark to Hilary, his tiny features puckered. Behind him June bent blandly over her easel. Leslie nudged Preston, and they both looked innocent. Zapata grinned. "I'll be first in line."
       "Well, now," said Bradshaw, "I think perhaps I'll check with -- that is, I'll see if I can find a catalogue...." Mumbling, he walked out of the room, leaving the door swinging back and forth.
       On its inward swing it flew open. Yeager maneuvered a wheelchair through the opening, while Vasarian smiled regally at the surprised expressions that greeted him. His dark suit, pastel shirt, and paisley tie gleamed like a photo layout in _Gentleman's Quarterly_. Some people, Mark thought, just can't appreciate a good T-shirt.
       "He insisted," Yeager rationalized to Zapata's raised brows.
       "I give my word of honor to return to hospital straightaway," added Vasarian. "I simply must reassure myself the artifacts have survived their misadventures -- for which I, in a way, feel responsible."
       Jenny nodded, as though thinking, What's a punctured lung compared to a good stiff upper lip?
       "Come and look." Hilary scooted her chair aside. Yeager pushed Vasarian to the worktable. "The bishop here is the only piece that doesn't have some minor scrapes and bruises."
       "Ah." The art expert gazed raptly at the row of artifacts. His silver hair and pale face gave him an uncanny resemblance to the ivory chess piece. He wasn't the bishop, Mark told himself, but the knight, jumping diagonally while everyone else plodded along their straight lines.
       "Valuable pieces, eh?" Jenny prodded.
       "Anything for which men die is valuable," returned Vasarian. "Miss Underwood, Detective Sergeant Yeager was kind enough to bring the Eleanor Cross from police headquarters. It's in Mr. Bradshaw's office."
       "I'll go get it!" exclaimed Leslie. She and Preston hurried out.
       "Jacob Sikora called," Yeager said to Jenny. "He wanted to talk to you but didn't know where you were. I said I'd pass on the message."
       "Arthur's will, I presume?" Jenny responded.
       "What?" demanded Zapata.
       "The letter that Hilary saw on Nathan's desk," Jenny explained. "The one in which Felicia asked Jacob to help get her ring back. It was in the back of the notebook and fell out when I went into the kitchen to answer the telephone."
       "Why didn't you tell me?"
       "When I picked it up, I saw my mother's name." Jenny offered Zapata a soothing gesture. Grudgingly Zapata accepted. "Whilst Felicia seems to have been unaware that Arthur was busily copying her ring," Jenny went on, "she was not at all unaware where it had been. The purpose of her letter was to ask Jacob to convince Arthur to acknowledge me. I've wondered whether it was to talk about me that Felicia approached Arthur the night she died."
       Mark and Hilary looked doubtfully at each other. Vasarian turned around, his scorched eyes expressionless.
       "It wasn't. Arthur had already acknowledged you -- more or less." Yeager, getting everyone's undivided attention, continued, "Jacob said that Dolores called late yesterday afternoon asking him to set her affairs in order. He didn't know why, of course, until he turned on the news last night. When he pulled out her will, he also pulled out Arthur's -- which was made a few months before Felicia's death. Arthur provided a sizeable trust fund to be shared among all his children. The word 'all' had Jacob buffaloed for years, until he heard about you, Jenny."
       "Oh, I see." Jenny's face seemed to be tugged two different ways, between the positive of the dollar and the negative of a knife in the dark. "I'll ring Mr. Sikora and sort something out. Perhaps the Lloyd would like a contribution toward that new wing for Arthur's collections."
       Vasarian's eyes sparked. "Well done," he said, as though Jenny were a matador who had just evaded a pair of sharp horns. She glanced down at him, with a half smile Mark could only interpret as cynical. The two Europeans might have more than a few things to say to each other, he thought, if the opportunity ever arose.
       "Having to share his inheritance gave Kenneth another motive to frame you," Zapata commented. "This is one report that will be very interesting to write up."
       "Yeah," Yeager said brightly, no doubt anticipating several days of glorious deskwork.
       Preston and Leslie slipped through the door, one carrying a wooden crate, the other a cardboard box. With ceremonial bows they set them down. June pushed back from her easel. Vasarian scooted closer to the table. Hilary looked as though a mouse were running up her pants leg. Mark gave her a thumbs-up and an encouraging nod.
       "Mr. Vasarian," she began, "if you'd prefer to do this yourself...."
       "No, no, my dear. You've amply proved your competence."
       "Yes, I suppose I have." Pulling her gloves more snugly over her hands, Hilary laid the two pieces of ivory onto the mat. The smooth highlights of the carving were creamy white, its hollows a deep amber. The tiny figures on the Cross signaled their emotions and recited their lines in the great passion play. The Christ was larger than them all, the quiet center of all the activity, calm not in death but in eternal life.
       Hilary picked up the figurine and inspected its back. With her dental pick she cleaned the three pegs at wrists and crossed ankles. Then she reamed out the three corresponding holes hidden in the tracery of the Cross. Her touch was so light that even in the silence of multiple bated breaths Mark heard not one scrape.
       She laid the figure onto the Cross and with an almost subliminal click locked the two halves together. Small figures and large curved in one intricate pattern, their play complete.
       Applause erupted from the watching group, leaving Hilary flustered and blushing. Grasping the restored crucifix, she offered it to Vasarian's avuncular nod, then to Jenny's gratified smile. "Queen Eleanor," Jenny said, "would be quite pleased to know her Cross is in such good hands."
       From the corner of his eye Mark saw Yeager take advantage of the general euphoria and, with the studied nonchalance of a teenager snaking his arm along the back of a theatre seat, hug Zapata's shoulders. She looked at him quizzically, then with a rueful smile hugged him back. Yeager dropped his arm, grinning like a man who'd just won the Kentucky Derby.
       Not that his glow was anywhere near as bright as Hilary's. She laid the Cross in its box, telling Vasarian, "I'll pack this for you this afternoon. And I'll put the real artifacts in the boxes I fixed for the fakes."
       "Don't get them mixed up!" Preston exclaimed.
       "Don't worry," she assured him. "I won't."
       And she wouldn't, Mark told himself. He caught her smile and magnified it. "It's past noon. I don't think I've appreciated a meal in days. I hear the buffet here is pretty good."
       "I hear they have great hot fudge sundaes," replied Hilary, already peeling off her gloves. "I never let myself have one before, but today I plan to indulge."
       Vasarian said, "So shall I, if my guardians don't insist on rushing me back to hospital."
       "I'll defend you," Jenny told him, and pushed him toward the door. Leslie and Preston held it open. A bemused Zapata exited beside Yeager, and pushed the button for the elevator.
       "I had a fantasy about ice cream once," Hilary murmured to Mark as they took the stairs.
       "Yes?"
       "But I'd rather eat it than roll around in it. It could get awfully sticky."
       Laughing, Mark opened the door into the office wing. At the end of the corridor sunlight streamed into the atrium. "We have to ask Lucia if we can borrow her garden."
       "Yes. We do." Hilary reached out and took his hand.
       He tightened his fingers around hers, determined never to let her go again. Hand in hand they walked toward the light.

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