“So long, Sheba,” T. S. Woodhouse said. “It’s been good knowing you.”

Henry was asleep, curled toward the wall. Theta slipped in behind him, matching the arch of him. She draped her arm across his side. He stirred, lacing his fingers in hers. Theta began to cry, and Henry turned to her.

“Theta? What’s the matter?”

“I was at the theater. I-I heard noises. Somebody was there, Hen!”

Henry fought off his sleepiness and tried to make sense of what Theta was saying. “Who was there? What are you talking about, darlin’?”

“I went back and Wally was there with the cops. He looked like he’d been punched. I pretended like I was out on the town and just walking by, and I asked him what happened.”

Theta buried her face against Henry’s side. Henry could feel her trembling.

“It was Daisy,” she finally managed. “The Pentacle Killer got Daisy. She must’ve come back for her earrings and… It could’ve been me, Henry.”

Theta started to cry again. Henry pulled her close. The thought of losing Theta terrified him. “Are you hurt?”

“No. Oh, Hen, I heard this awful whistling coming from everywhere. I was running, but I couldn’t get the doors open, and…” Her voice softened to nearly a whisper. “It started to happen again, Hen. Just like Kansas.”

Henry knew about what had happened in Kansas. He also knew it hadn’t happened since.

“Well, you’re safe now. I got you.”

“What’s happening, Hen?”

“I don’t know, cher.”

Henry put his arms around Theta; she rested her seal-black head against his chest, and they stayed that way till dawn.

THE WILD MAN OF BORNEO

The morning’s papers had a field day with the murder of Daisy Goodwin. FINAL BOW! MURDER AT THE FOLLIES! PENTACLE PERFORMANCE! Evie was reading the Daily News’s front-page story when Sam ran in waving a piece of official-looking paper overhead. “I’ve got news!” He trundled quickly up the spiral iron staircase to where Evie stood in the library’s tall stacks and preened like a cat who knows there’s a dish of cream waiting.

“Okay. I’ll bite. What the devil are you so smug about?”

“I found the tax records for Knowles’ End.” He swung his legs over the railing, hopped onto the rolling ladder, and pushed off.

“When did you become wise in the ways of research?”

“Well, I did rely on my charms,” Sam admitted. “You’d be surprised how helpful the girl in the records office can be.”

Evie took the stairs two at a time to the first floor and trotted alongside Sam as he rode the library ladder. “Well? Did you find anything interesting?”

Sam gave the ladder another push.

“And how. For the past thirty years, the taxes have been paid by a Mrs. Eleanor Joan Ambrosio.” He paused dramatically.

Evie rolled her eyes. “And?”

“That name didn’t mean anything to me. So I did a little digging. Ambrosio is a married name. Blodgett is her maiden name. Ring any bells?”

“No.” Evie reached for the ladder and Sam pushed off again, leaving her grasping at the air. He was really enjoying this, she could tell.

“Mary White married a fella named Blodgett. Eleanor was their daughter.”

Evie kept pace with the ladder. “So her daughter kept up the taxes on Knowles’ End? Why?”

“That’s exactly what I said. See? We think alike.”

“Will you come down from there, please? You’re making me dizzy.” Evie stopped the ladder abruptly and Sam leaped down.

“Aw, doll. You say the sweetest things.”

“Sam, I’m warning you. You might be the next victim.”

Sam settled into a chair and placed his boots up on the table. He laced his fingers behind his neck, and his bent elbows stuck out on either side of his head like wings. “It was pretty ingenious of me to think of going after the tax records, if I do say so myself.”

“When you’ve finished congratulating yourself, could you explain?”

“Seemed odd to me. If the daughter inherited the old place, why keep it? Why not just sell it off and make some dough? Why hold on to an old eyesore?” He paused again.

“Will you keep me in suspense all night?”

Sam grinned. “All night?”

“Just get on with it.”

Sam tipped the chair onto its back legs, rocking it just slightly. “I did a little more digging and found a record of an offer from Milton and Sons Real Estate to buy the place. Apparently they thought the spot might be perfect for some fancy housing, and they were willing to pay some cabbage for it, too. But the offer was refused, signed by the rightful owner, Mrs. Mary White Blodgett.” He popped a grape into his mouth and let that land.