Horoscope: The Astrology Murders

by Georgia Frontiere

  After a while, she turned away from the window. He was standing two yards from her with the folded umbrella in his hands, waiting for an answer.

  “I haven’t been out with anyone for a long time. And I don’t think I’m ready.”

  “Why not see?” he asked her simply.

  She looked at him and wondered if he might be right. He was about her age, maybe a year or two younger. He was smart. There was no doubt that he was good-looking. His eyes continued to meet hers, unfazed by her evasions and protests. He worked for the same magazine that she did. That meant that its editor, Wendy Storr, whom Kelly had known for five years and liked enormously, thought he was responsible.

  “Why don’t we have dinner here?” she said finally. “Say seven thirty.”

  He smiled. “I’m glad I broke down your resistance. Seven thirty it is.”

  Seventeen

  GIORDANO WAS SITTING AT his computer, completing his search of rape and murder cases reported in the past five years. He’d started out looking in the metropolitan area, then broadened his search to include the entire Northeast and, eventually, the South, Midwest, and West, including Hawaii. So far he hadn’t found a single rape/murder or rape or murder case in which the method matched that of Jennifer McGraw’s killer. Many victims had been strangled, but none with the singular, thin cord—not rope or wire—that her killer had used. More important, none of them had been marked with a sign of the zodiac—in Jennifer McGraw’s case not, in fact, just a sign of the zodiac, but her sign. As Giordano had found out from Jennifer’s parents, she was born on November 28, which made her a Sagittarius, and the man who had raped and murdered her had gouged that sign into her flesh.

  Giordano looked through the last of the rape and murder cases in the database. It had occurred last night in Honolulu, a young woman walking alone on the beach just after midnight. She’d been raped and stabbed, and the drunken tourist who had done it had already been caught.

  The accumulation of details of brutality and violence that he’d taken in as he’d read about the crimes made Giordano sick to his stomach. He picked up his coffee and threw it back like a shot of bourbon, hoping to wash the disgust from his mouth and gut and mind, but the coffee was old and stale, and it only made him feel worse. He was just about to get up and pour himself a new cup when the phone rang. It was the ME.

  “Glad you’re still there,” Rayburn said from the morgue in the bowels of the building. “I thought you’d be home by now.”

  “I can outlast you, old man, any day,” Giordano growled.

  Rayburn, as usual, remained unperturbed. “Not much luck on the McGraw case, I guess.”

  Giordano was the only one in the office. He took advantage of the situation to light up a cigarette. “Did you just call to make me more depressed, or do you have something to tell me?”

  “You’re smoking, aren’t you?” Rayburn asked.

  “Don’t drive me crazy, Ray. Do you have something to tell me or not?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do have something to tell you,” Rayburn said with self-satisfaction in his voice. “It’s about what the victim was strangled with.”

  Giordano continued to smoke as he listened.

  “I found microscopic bits of leather in the strangulation marks. It was a leather cord. Maybe something used in handicrafts. Like a piece of rawhide. Sturdy enough that it wouldn’t break when force was applied to it.”

  Giordano felt slightly less despondent. But only slightly. “At least that gives us something to go on.”

  “You’ve been hitting a wall until now, Frank?”

  Giordano took a drag on the cigarette. “Four of them.”

  “Sorry,” Rayburn told him. “But put out that damned cigarette before somebody sees you. They’re going to be pissed off anyway when they smell you’ve been smoking.”

  Giordano stubbed the cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe and put the stub in his pocket. “I’ll deny it was me.”

  “Start looking at leather cords.”

  “Thanks, old man.”

  Giordano hung up the phone and walked over to the coffee machine. He’d just begun swigging down a hot mug of the vile stuff when Hernandez walked in. Giordano knew that Hernandez and Kim had been talking to the clients Jennifer McGraw had worked for as a freelance artist. He didn’t know they’d also stopped at Jennifer McGraw’s house and what they’d found there.

  Hernandez sniffed the air and made a face. “It smells like an ashtray in here, Giordano. You been smoking again?”

  Giordano stared his partner straight in the eye and lied. “Not me.”

  Hernandez didn’t pursue it.

  “You got anything from your interviews?” Giordano asked.

  “She did good work. Turned it in on time. None of her employers knew anything about her personal life. They hired her because they were impressed with her portfolio. They got a sense that she was lonely. Maybe that was why the killer chose her.”

  Giordano nodded, disappointed. He’d been hoping for more. Before he could say anything, Hernandez was talking again. “But look what Kim found.” He smiled and showed Giordano the copy of You and Your Sign that Kim had discovered in her den. “Some of the corners on the pages are turned down and sentences are underlined. It looks like the victim spent a lot of time reading it.”

  Giordano stared at the magazine. His dismal feeling about the case began to lift. He decided it wasn’t impossible that they would find the man who had raped and strangled Jennifer McGraw.

  Eighteen

  THERE WERE SEVERAL TYPES of occasions for which Sarah always got dressed up: when she was giving a concert, when she was attending a concert or opera, and when Kevin was in town and they were going out to dinner someplace special. Tonight she was wearing a new green sheath dress. It was more sophisticated than the suits and dresses with A-line skirts that she usually wore. She’d bought it because it showed off her trim figure and because green had become her favorite color. Wearing green, she felt that her shoulder-length black hair seemed to shine, and it brought out glints of green in her hazel eyes.

  Tonight she and Kevin were definitely having dinner someplace special. He had brought her to the Four Seasons Restaurant, and their table was next to the pool, which was the focal point of the elegant, high-ceilinged room. Four paintings in somber colors and coarse textures hung on the similarly colored brown and black walls of the Pool Room. There were also beautiful live trees. It was like being in a midcentury modern palace.

  After turning to look at the paintings, Sarah turned to Kevin again.

  “What a lovely place,” she said. “I’ve never been here before.”

  “Neither have I,” he told her. “That’s why I thought it was time we tried it.” He broke off a piece of the bread on his bread plate. Then he looked around the room. “It really is lovely, isn’t it?”

  The way Kevin was acting made Sarah feel he had something on his mind. He was often like this: He didn’t like to just come out and say things; he liked to build up to them.

  He smiled at her. “I’m glad you liked my Faust.”

  “I have to admit, it was a bit frightening. Seeing you condemned to hell.”

  He laughed. “Don’t worry. It’s only an opera.”

  “Your aria, ‘Salut, demeure chaste et pure.’ It was gorgeous.”

  “It means a lot to me that you liked it. Now tell me about your quartet.”

  It was her turn to smile. “We’re performing at Merkin Hall at the end of next month.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “I hope you’ll be able to come.”

  “If I’ve got the night off, I wouldn’t miss it. You know that.”

  “I know.”

  He reached across the table for her hand and took it in his. “I have something to tell you, Sarah.”

  So she was right; he did have something on his mind. She felt the warmth of his hand holding hers and smiled at him again. “Tell me.”

  “This is even harder f
or me than I thought it would be—”

  Sarah had never seen him look so worried. “What is it?”

  It took him a long time to speak. “When you turned down my proposal,” he said finally, “I thought I’d never find anybody else …”

  Sarah felt herself tense up, but she didn’t say anything. She just kept looking at Kevin and trying to act as if she didn’t feel the earth was about to give way right under her.

  “But I have found someone. Lisa Golden, the soprano who’s singing Marguerite.”

  Sarah willed herself to keep letting Kevin hold her hand. “I’m happy for you, Kevin.”

  “I know it’s a bit of a shock. There’s never really been anyone that either of us has been close to except each other. I don’t know how wise it was that we kept sleeping together after, well, you know …”

  “We never made each other any promises,” she said, trying to continue looking into his eyes, knowing that this would be the last time they would ever have a dinner alone together, or at least the last time that she could ever dream on the way to dinner that they would always be having dinners together alone. “I’m happy for you,” she repeated.

  “Thank you, Sarah.”

  She waited as long as she could and then withdrew her hand from his. “Excuse me. I have to go to the ladies’ room.”

  As she got to her feet, Kevin rose from his chair, too. “Are you all right?”

  She laughed. “Of course I’m all right. I’ll be right back.”

  She smiled just long enough to turn away from him. As she took her first step toward the restrooms, she was already silently crying.

  Kelly, an apron over a white silk blouse and jeans, her long hair fastened into a ponytail with a barrette, stood at the kitchen counter, cutting fresh basil for her favorite tomato sauce. It was a recipe she’d concocted when Jeff and Julie were little. Fortunately, she had all the ingredients in the house. Her eyes were still wet from peeling onions, and she dried them with a tissue before picking up another piece of basil.

  Emma hovered over her shoulder. “I wish you’d let me do that for you before I go. No need to tire yourself out doing all this for the photographer.”

  “His name is Chris, and I’m not tiring myself out, and you’re going to be late for the movie.”

  Emma sighed. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Kelly turned to her and looked into her kind gray eyes. “Yes, I’m sure.”

  Emma’s face was still filled with concern.

  Kelly couldn’t pretend she didn’t know why Emma was worried. She smiled and put her hands affectionately on the older woman’s shoulders. “Thank you for going after King. And thank you for being so loving to me.”

  “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, Kelly. I just—I just want to make sure you’re all right.”

  Kelly continued to meet her gaze. “I am all right. I promise.”

  Emma sighed again. “Well, I can’t say I’m not glad you’ve met a man that you’re interested in. And from what I saw when he was photographing you, he is cute.”

  Kelly laughed and took her hands off Emma’s shoulders. “Please, Emma, go. You’re going to keep Donald waiting.”

  The doorbell rang, and Emma looked toward the hallway as if she was going to answer it.

  “I mean it,” Kelly said. “Go!”

  “I’m going. I’m going,” Emma assured her. She picked up her coat and scarf from the back of a chair, putting them on as she followed Kelly out of the kitchen and toward the front door.

  By the time they reached the hall, King, who had been napping in the living room, joined them and started howling. Kelly grabbed his collar as she opened the front door. The bleak day had turned into a cool, damp night, and Chris Palmer, wearing a black turtleneck under a leather jacket, was standing on the stoop, carrying a bottle of wine.

  “Don’t mind King,” Kelly told him, pulling the dog with her as she stepped back into the foyer. “He’ll calm down in a minute.”

  As Chris walked into the brownstone, King continued howling.

  “I think you should tell him that,” Chris suggested.

  Kelly gave the dog a reassuring look. “It’s okay, King. He’s a friend.”

  Emma thrust herself between Chris and Kelly. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced. I’m Emma O’Brian, Kelly’s housekeeper and cook. But she’s making the dinner tonight herself.”

  “I’m Chris Palmer.” His dark eyes shone at Emma as he extended his hand to shake hers. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Emma responded. She gave Kelly an approving nod before heading out the door and telling them to have a good time.

  Once Emma was gone, Kelly let go of King’s collar. He kept howling as she walked to the guest closet under the stairs and opened it for Chris. “Let him smell you while you hang your jacket up. Then he’ll stop. If he gets to be too much, I’ll put him upstairs. I’ve just got a few things to do for dinner.”

  As Kelly started toward the kitchen, Chris was hanging up his leather jacket and King was sniffing him and still howling.

  “I really am a friend,” he was telling the dog. “So you don’t have to protect her. You can just hang out and have a good time. All right?”

  Kelly liked the way Chris talked to King. She was glad she’d invited him to dinner. She only wished King would stop howling.

  Sarah and Kevin exited through the imposing doors of the Four Seasons onto East 52nd Street. The temperature had dropped since they’d entered the restaurant, and Sarah buttoned her coat all the way up. Kevin was next to her, wearing only his blazer and a scarf. She was avoiding his eyes, as she had for most of the evening, ever since he’d told her about his engagement.

  “I didn’t ask about Kelly,” he said as they emerged onto the sidewalk. “How is she?”

  “She’s fine,” Sarah responded. Even under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have allowed herself to discuss the problem she believed Kelly was having, but these circumstances were anything but normal.

  She suddenly felt his hand gently take hold of her arm.

  “I’ll walk you home,” he said.

  “I think I’ll take a cab.”

  She could feel him looking at her, feel him thinking how strange it was that she didn’t want to walk. She loved walking; she usually walked the thirty blocks from her apartment near Carnegie Hall to Kelly’s brownstone every morning and sometimes walked back again at night. Her apartment was only a fifteen-minute walk from the restaurant; of course she could walk. But tonight she was going to take a cab. She could feel Kevin about to protest and then decide not to. She could feel everything about him, and she knew he could feel everything about her. And that was why she wanted to escape from him as quickly as she could. He must’ve known that, too.

  “I’ll hail one for you,” he told her, moving toward the street.

  She watched him as he looked west on 52nd toward Park Avenue. “I don’t see any,” he said after a few moments. “You wait here. I’ll go to Park and catch one coming north.”

  He ran toward Park. When he got to the corner, she saw him looking south, waving his hand in the air for a cab.

  She didn’t know how she got through the last few moments when Kevin put her into the cab. She knew she must’ve said something, but she had no idea what it was. She didn’t even remember giving the cabbie her address. She remained in a fog as the taxi took her to 57th Street and 8th Avenue. She didn’t know if the trip was fast or slow; time had become meaningless. She got out at the entrance of the apartment building, unlocked the door, somehow got into the elevator and pressed the button for her floor. When the doors opened, she drifted across the hall, fumbled with her keys, and finally managed to open the door to her small apartment. All she could think about was that this was probably the last time that she would ever see Kevin.

  Ultimately, Kelly had had to take King upstairs and leave him in her bedroom with the door to the third floor closed so that she and Chris could have
dinner in peace. They ate at the dining table in her living room, looking out on the moonlit garden behind the brownstone. She’d set the table with her grandmother’s red damask tablecloth, matching napkins, flowers from the greenhouse in a crystal vase, and four candles in cranberry glass candleholders. The Dennisons had shared dinner with her at the same table, but tonight was very different. Michelle and Mark were her closest friends, like family, really, and having them over was so comfortable for her that it required no effort. With Chris, she was aware of the way his brown eyes looked at her, not with the interest of a photographer, but with the interest of a man looking at a woman he was attracted to. When he’d asked her out, she’d told him it had been a while since she’d dated; she hadn’t realized then how unused she’d gotten to being looked at as a date. She also hadn’t realized how much she would enjoy it again.

  “I guess you could call me a sweetaholic,” Chris observed, savoring his second butter cookie. “You really made this?”

  “Pastry is my specialty,” Kelly told him. She was on her second cookie, too. Once again she felt grateful for being tall. She didn’t have to watch what she ate like Sarah or Michelle, who were more petite and never ate more than one portion of anything.

  Chris sat back in his chair and kept his eyes on her. “I thought astrology was your specialty.”

  Kelly was looking at him, too. She liked the fair skin on his handsome face and the dark beard that had begun to show on his cheeks and along his jaw since that afternoon when he’d come clean shaven to photograph her. And of course she liked his brown eyes.