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bride and groom might have stood hand in hand, stood a glass-walled belvedere crowned by a gilded onion dome, and surrounded by yet another balustraded balcony. The walls were made of stucco on which columns of ivy had firmly established themselves, and the entrance was via a columned portico facing a circular gravel driveway. Huge old black locust trees, their branches still bare, surrounded the house.
    “The Octagon House,” said Jerry as they passed through the gates. “It was built by a follower of a man named Orson Fowler, who launched a fad for octagon houses in the mid-nineteenth century. He maintained that the octagon was the truest building form because it enclosed the most amount of space in the least amount of wall. No space was wasted in the corners.”
    “A nineteenth-century version of Buckminster Fuller and the geodesic dome,” Charlotte commented, as she craned her neck to get a better view.
    “Yeah,” said Jerry. “I guess he was. Fowler lived in Fish-kill, which is just up the river, so we have quite a few octagon houses still surviving in this area. But I understand this is the best example.”
    “The name sounds familiar. I must have read about him somewhere.”
    “Probably in connection with phrenology. In addition to starting the octagon fad, he also started the fad for phrenology, which was the science of determining character from the shape and position of the bumps on the head.”
    Charlotte nodded. She had seen plaster phrenological busts in antique shops, with sections of the skull marked off for such attributes as friendship, sympathy, and self-esteem.
    “Got very rich on it too, from what I understand,” Jerry continued. “But Lister can tell you more about it. He has a little museum inside. I’m sure he’ll be happy to show it to you. He bought the house lock, stock, and barrel from the heirs of Fowler’s follower, and it was crammed with stuff.”
    They had come to the circular driveway at the front of the house, where they were greeted by a sign which read: “Omega Studios: Sculpture and Ecclesiastical Monuments in Marble and Granite.” Above the words was the horseshoe-shaped symbol for the last letter in the Greek alphabet.
    “Lister has a business making gravestones and the like,” Jerry explained. “It’s called Omega Studios, for ‘the alpha and the omega.’”
    “Very cute,” said Charlotte.
    As they got out of the car, the proprietor of the studios emerged from the house, and stood waiting for them under the portico.
    “I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Graham,” Lister said, once they had joined him at the front door. “I’ve always been a great fan of yours. Still am, for that matter. I watched a videotape of The Scarlet Lady just last night.”
    “I’ve been meaning to watch that one myself,” she said. Even the most obscure of her old movies were slowly being transferred to videotape, and the opportunity to see them again gave her great pleasure.
    Lister, as Jerry referred to him, was a short, lithe man of about fifty whose jutting jaw; long, sharply ridged nose; and deep-set gray eyes overset with flaring eyebrows gave his face a devilish aspect, which was heightened by the fact that his scalp was clean-shaven, giving him a strong resemblance to Vladimir Lenin. In fact, had the original owner of his house been present, he would not have needed to feel the bumps on Lister’s head to determine his character: a glance alone would have been sufficient, so prominent were the various protuberances on his shiny skull.
    With the introductions complete, Lister’s sharp-eyed glance fell on the bubble-wrapped bundle that Jerry carried in a shopping bag. “I hear you have another specimen for me,” he said eagerly.
    “Another Jane Doe,” Jerry said. “At least, I think she’s a Jane Doe. Leonore hasn’t had a chance to look at her yet. But I wonder if you’d show Miss Graham around first. I think she’d be interested in seeing your