Cemetery Dance

As they were heading back into the city, D'Agosta shifted in his seat and scowled. "What a self — righteous prig. I'll bet he sinks his teeth into a bloody steak when no one's around."

Pendergast had been gazing out the window, absorbed in some private rumination. At this he turned. "Why, Vincent, I do believe that is one of the most insightful comments I've heard you make today." He pulled a thin Styrofoam tray from his suit pocket, removed the cover, and handed it to D'Agosta. Inside was a bloody absorbent pad, folded twice, along with a label affixed to a torn piece of plastic wrap. It smelled of rancid meat.

D'Agosta recoiled and handed it back quickly. "What the hell's that?"

"I found it in the trash in the barn. According to this label, it once contained a crown roast of lamb, at twelve ninety — nine the pound."

"No shit."

"Excellent price for that cut. I was tempted to ask Mr. Esteban who his butcher was." And Pendergast covered the tray, placed it on the leather seat between them, leaned back, and resumed his perusal of the passing scenery.

Chapter 32

Nora Kelly turned the corner of Fifth Avenue and headed down West 53rd Street with a feeling of dread. Ahead of her, brown and yellow leaves swirled past the entrance to the Museum of Modern Art. It was dusk, and in the sharpness of the air there was a portent of the coming winter. She had taken a circuitous route from the museum — first a crosstown bus through the park, then the subway — perversely hoping for a breakdown, a traffic jam, anything that would give her an excuse to avoid what lay ahead. But public transportation had been depressingly efficient.

And now here she was, mere steps from her destination.

Of their own accord, her feet slowed, then stopped. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out the cream — colored envelope, hand — addressed to WILLIAM SMITHBACK, JR., AND GUEST. Plucking out the card inside, she read it for perhaps the hundredth time.

You are cordially invited to the

One Hundred and Twenty Seventh A

Press Awards Ceremony

Gotham Press Club

25 West 53rd Street, New York City

October 15, 7:00 PM

She'd attended her share of these events — typical Manhattan affairs with lots of drinking, gossip, and the usual journalistic oneupmanship. She'd never learned to like them. And this one would be worse than normal: infinitely worse. The pressed hands, the whispered condolences, the looks of sympathy… she felt herself becoming queasy at the mere thought. She'd done all she could to avoid precisely such things at the museum.

And yet she had to do it. Bill was getting— would have been getting — an honorable mention for one of the awards. And he loved these elbow — rubbing drink — fests. It seemed a dishonor to his memory to skip it. Taking a deep breath, she stuffed the invitation back into her bag and strode on. She was still shaken up by their visit to the Ville the night before last: the terrible cries of the goat, the thing that had chased them. Had it been Fearing? Nora, unsure, hadn't mentioned it to D'Agosta. But the memory haunted her, made her jumpy. Maybe this is what she needed: to get out, mingle, put it behind her.

The Gotham Press Club was a narrow building vexed by a façade of extravagantly rococo marble. Nora ascended the stairs and passed through the cast — bronze doors, surrendering her coat at the check stand and receiving a ticket in return. Ahead, from the direction of the Horace Greeley Banquet Hall, she could hear music, laughter, and the tinkling of glasses. The feeling of dread increased. Adjusting the strap of her shoulder bag, she climbed the plush red carpet and passed into the oak — paneled hall.

The event had started an hour before, and the vast space was packed. The noise was deafening, everyone talking over one another to ensure no bon mot went unappreciated. At least half a dozen bars were arrayed along the walls: journalistic events like this were notorious bacchanals. Along the right wall, a temporary stage had been erected, supporting a podium festooned with microphones. She threaded her way through the crowds, moving away from the door toward the back of the hall. If she could park herself in an out — of — the — way corner, maybe she could watch the proceedings in peace without having to endure a lot of…

As if on cue, a nearby man made a point with a broad gesture, sending his elbow into her ribs. He turned, glaring at her briefly before his face broke into recognition. It was Fenton Davies, Bill's boss at theTimes. Standing in a half circle around him were a group of Bill's co — workers.

"Nora!" he exclaimed. "How good of you to come. We're all so terribly, terribly sorry for your loss. Bill was one of the best — a fine reporter and a stellar human being."

A chorus of agreement came from the circle of reporters.

Nora looked from face to sympathetic face. It was all she could do not to bolt. She forced herself to smile. "Thank you. That means a lot."

"I've been trying to get in touch with you. Have you gotten my calls?"

"I have, sorry. There've been so many details to clear up—"

"Of course, of course! I understand. No rush. It's just—" Here Davies lowered his voice, put his lips to her ear. " — we've been approached by the police. They seem to think it might have had something to do with his work. If that's the case, then we at theTimes must know."

"I'll make it a point to call you when… when I'm a little better able to cope." Davies straightened up, resumed his normal voice. "Also, we've been talking about organizing a memorial in Bill's name. The William Smithback award for excellence, or something along those lines. We'd like to talk to you about that, too, when you have a chance."

"Certainly."

"We're getting the word out, soliciting contributions. Maybe it could even become a part of this a

"That's really great. Bill would have appreciated it."

Davies touched a hand to his bald pate and nodded, pleased.

"I'm just going to grab a drink," Nora said. "I'll catch up with you all later."

"Would you like me to—" several voices began.

"That's all right, thanks. I'll be back." And with one more smile Nora slipped away into the crowd.

She managed to gain the back of the room without encountering anyone else. She stood near the bar, trying to get her breathing under control. She never should have come. She was about to order a drink when she felt somebody touch her arm. With a sinking feeling she looked around only to see Caitlyn Kidd.

"Wasn't sure you'd be here," the reporter said.

"You've recovered from the excitement?"

"Sure." Caitlyn didn't exactly look recovered, though — her face was pale and a little drawn.

"I'm presenting the first award on behalf of the West Sider," said Caitlyn, "so I've got to go up now. Let's try to hook up before you leave. I have an idea for our next move."

Nora nodded, and with a smile and a little wave the reporter disappeared into the milling crowd.

Turning back to the bartender, Nora ordered a drink, then retreated to a nearby spot against the bookcases lining the rear wall. There, standing between a bust of Washington Irving and an inscribed photograph of Ring Lardner, she watched the raucous gathering, quietly sipping her cocktail.

She glanced over at the stage. It was interesting that the West Sider was sponsoring one of the awards. No doubt the scrappy tabloid was trying to buy itself some respectability. Interesting, too, that Caitlyn was presenting…