her neck on a simple chain. It was an upside-down five-pointed star.
Neither of us said a word, and I found myself staring at the dangling medallion. “Go, and catch a falling star …” The opening line of the Donne poem echoed through my mind, accompanied by an image of Dr. Albert Fowler’s hands. For an instant, I saw the golden ring on his drumming fingers. A five-pointed star was engraved on the ring that Dr. Albert Fowler was no longer wearing when I found his body locked in the upstairs bedroom. Here was tike missing piece in the puzzle.
The revelation hit me like an ice-water enema. A cold chill ascended my spine and raised the hackles along the back of my neck. What happened to the doctor’s ring? It might have been in his pocket; I didn’t go through his clothes; but why would he take it off before blowing his brains out? And if he didn’t remove it, who did?
I felt the woman’s fox-fire eyes focused on me. “You must be Miss Krusemark,” I said to break the silence.
“I am,” she answered without smiling.
“I saw your name on the door but didn’t recognize the symbol.”
“My sign,” she said, closing and relocking the door. “I’m a Scorpio.” She stared at me for a long moment, as if my eyes were peepholes revealing some interior scene. “And you?”
“Me?”
“What’s your sign?”
“I don’t really know,” I said. “Astrology’s not one of my strong points.”
“When were you born?”
“June 2, 1920.” I gave her Johnny Favorite’s birth date just to try her out, and for a split second I thought I caught a faraway flicker in her intense, emotionless stare.
“Gemini,” she said. “The twins. Curious, I once knew a boy born the very same day.”
“Really? Who was that?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “It was a long, long time ago. How rude of me to keep you standing here in the hall. Please come in and have a seat.”
I followed her out of the murky hall into a spacious, high-ceilinged studio living room. The furniture was a nondescript collection of early Salvation Army brightened by paisley-print spreads and quantities of embroidered throw pillows. The bold geometry of several fine Turkestan rugs offset the thrift shop decor. There were ferns of all descriptions and palms towering to the ceiling. Greenery dangled from hanging planters. Miniature rain forests steamed within enclosed glass terrariums.
“Beautiful room,” I said, as she took my overcoat and folded it over the back of a couch.
“Yes, it’s wonderful, isn’t it? I’ve been very happy here.” She was interrupted by a sharp whistling in the distance. “Would you like some tea?” she asked. “I just put the kettle on when you arrived.”
“Only if it’s no trouble.”
“No trouble at all. The water’s already boiling. Which would you prefer, Darjeeling, jasmine or oolong?”
“You decide. I’m not a connoisseur of tea.”
She gave me a wan half-smile and hurried off to deal with the insistent whistling. I took a closer look around.
Exotic knick-knacks crowded every available surface. Things like temple-flutes and prayer-wheels, Hopi fetishes and papier-mâché avatars of Vishnu ascending out of the mouths of fishes and turtles. An obsidian Aztec dagger carved in the shape of a bird glittered on a bookshelf. I scanned the haphazard volumes and spotted the I Ching a copy of Oaspe , and several of the Evan-Wentz Tibetan series.
When M. Krusemark returned carrying a silver tray and tea set, I was standing by a window thinking about Dr. Fowler’s missing ring. She placed the service on a low table by the couch and joined me. Across Seventh Avenue on the uptown corner of 57th Street, a Federal-style mansion with white Doric columns improbably crowned the roof of the Osborn Apartments like a hidden treasure. “Somebody buy the Jefferson place and have it moved?” I quipped.
“Earl Blackwell’s. He gives wonderful parties. Fun to watch anyway.”
I followed her back to
Neither of us said a word, and I found myself staring at the dangling medallion. “Go, and catch a falling star …” The opening line of the Donne poem echoed through my mind, accompanied by an image of Dr. Albert Fowler’s hands. For an instant, I saw the golden ring on his drumming fingers. A five-pointed star was engraved on the ring that Dr. Albert Fowler was no longer wearing when I found his body locked in the upstairs bedroom. Here was tike missing piece in the puzzle.
The revelation hit me like an ice-water enema. A cold chill ascended my spine and raised the hackles along the back of my neck. What happened to the doctor’s ring? It might have been in his pocket; I didn’t go through his clothes; but why would he take it off before blowing his brains out? And if he didn’t remove it, who did?
I felt the woman’s fox-fire eyes focused on me. “You must be Miss Krusemark,” I said to break the silence.
“I am,” she answered without smiling.
“I saw your name on the door but didn’t recognize the symbol.”
“My sign,” she said, closing and relocking the door. “I’m a Scorpio.” She stared at me for a long moment, as if my eyes were peepholes revealing some interior scene. “And you?”
“Me?”
“What’s your sign?”
“I don’t really know,” I said. “Astrology’s not one of my strong points.”
“When were you born?”
“June 2, 1920.” I gave her Johnny Favorite’s birth date just to try her out, and for a split second I thought I caught a faraway flicker in her intense, emotionless stare.
“Gemini,” she said. “The twins. Curious, I once knew a boy born the very same day.”
“Really? Who was that?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “It was a long, long time ago. How rude of me to keep you standing here in the hall. Please come in and have a seat.”
I followed her out of the murky hall into a spacious, high-ceilinged studio living room. The furniture was a nondescript collection of early Salvation Army brightened by paisley-print spreads and quantities of embroidered throw pillows. The bold geometry of several fine Turkestan rugs offset the thrift shop decor. There were ferns of all descriptions and palms towering to the ceiling. Greenery dangled from hanging planters. Miniature rain forests steamed within enclosed glass terrariums.
“Beautiful room,” I said, as she took my overcoat and folded it over the back of a couch.
“Yes, it’s wonderful, isn’t it? I’ve been very happy here.” She was interrupted by a sharp whistling in the distance. “Would you like some tea?” she asked. “I just put the kettle on when you arrived.”
“Only if it’s no trouble.”
“No trouble at all. The water’s already boiling. Which would you prefer, Darjeeling, jasmine or oolong?”
“You decide. I’m not a connoisseur of tea.”
She gave me a wan half-smile and hurried off to deal with the insistent whistling. I took a closer look around.
Exotic knick-knacks crowded every available surface. Things like temple-flutes and prayer-wheels, Hopi fetishes and papier-mâché avatars of Vishnu ascending out of the mouths of fishes and turtles. An obsidian Aztec dagger carved in the shape of a bird glittered on a bookshelf. I scanned the haphazard volumes and spotted the I Ching a copy of Oaspe , and several of the Evan-Wentz Tibetan series.
When M. Krusemark returned carrying a silver tray and tea set, I was standing by a window thinking about Dr. Fowler’s missing ring. She placed the service on a low table by the couch and joined me. Across Seventh Avenue on the uptown corner of 57th Street, a Federal-style mansion with white Doric columns improbably crowned the roof of the Osborn Apartments like a hidden treasure. “Somebody buy the Jefferson place and have it moved?” I quipped.
“Earl Blackwell’s. He gives wonderful parties. Fun to watch anyway.”
I followed her back to
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