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exclusive pieces of real estate. No ghostly pigs would ever snuffle around those stately homes.

    Instant her circling wand the Goddess waves,
    To hogs transforms ’em, and the Sty receives.
    No more was seen the human form divine,
    Head, face and members bristle into swine …
    Homer, The Odyssey

Chapter 10

    She reached a slimy place where large fat sea-snails were crawling about; and … a house built of the bones of human beings.…
    Hans Christian Andersen, “The Little Mermaid”

    O nly one of the supermarket scandal sheets was published in Boston, The Candid Courier. On the cover in enormous black type were the words SHARON SHUCKS SHEIK. The typeface on the inside pages was the same as that on the scrap of newsprint Mary had found on Annie’s table, the fragment about Pearl Small, who had disappeared.
    Mary flipped the pages and found a tiny masthead on the back of page one, which confessed to an office on Washington Street.
    That was easy. If she left within the hour she could park at Alewife, take the T to Park Street, walk a block or two, talk to the crummy people, and be back home by lunchtime.

    Washington was a street in transition. The department stores had moved out of town to the suburban malls, to be replaced by high-rise office buildings, little boutiques, and junky souvenir shops. Farther along the street, to the south, the old red-light district had insinuated itself back again after being cleaned up yet one more time.
    The office of the Courier was halfway between north and south, on the second floor, above a joke-goods store, in an old brick building. Mary paused on the sidewalk to look in the window at hilarious items like plastic dog turds and artificial vomit, and rubber masks of skulls and the living dead. One was especially villainous, a ghastly monster with its left eye hanging down its cheek.
    Upstairs the sign on the door was discreet and businesslike, as though the Courier were a respectable suburban weekly, reporting on church suppers and high-school sporting events. Mary was not fooled. Inside she would find a receptionist who looked like a whore and a bunch of sleazy thugs with three-day growths of beard.
    To her surprise there was only one occupant of the small room, a pink wholesome-looking young man in a trench coat that was a miracle of grommets, buckles, straps and flaps, leaning back in an old-fashioned office armchair. There were no girlie calendars on the wall, only a map of the world studded with pins in bright colors.
    â€œGood morning,” said the young man, springing to his feet, looking at her eagerly. “Can I help you in any way?”
    Mary held up her copy of the Courier. “There was a piece in your paper recently about a woman who disappeared, Pearl Small. She was a friend of mine. I’m trying to find out more about it.”
    The young man sank back into his chair. “Oh, God, I thought you were from the Globe. I’m expecting a response from The Boston Globe.” He gestured with a languid thumb at a file cabinet beside the window. “I don’t know any Pearl Small. Big stars, that’s all we keep on file.”
    â€œWell, have you got a collection of back issues? If I could go through them, I’ll bet I could find it.”
    He gestured at a heap on the corner of his desk, and picked up the phone.
    â€œThanks.” Mary began leafing through the pile, while the editor of The Candid Courier dialed a number and began talking quickly. His voice was soft, but she couldn’t help overhearing. “Personnel Department? Oh, good morning. My name’s Jackson, George Jackson. I think you’ve recently received an application from me? I’m an experienced investigative reporter, but I’d like to add to my application that I’d be willing to accept a position as stringer in London or Paris, or, say, Barcelona. Of course I’m very busy, but I could take time off for an interview, if