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think?” he called to her. “Can we find something for this young fella to do?”
    She was still “Doyle,” at least. Her mood mellowed. Maybe this boy could lighten her load and she would have more time
to work on important things—like this new case. She could attend to his language later. “Oh, well,” she shrugged.
    â€œFine. When can you start?” Fenimore asked.
    â€œTomorrowrightafterschool.” It came out as one word.
    â€œFive dollars an hour. If you do well, we may up it to six.”
    A flicker of a grin.
    â€œAnd, Horatio?”
    Mrs. Doyle blinked at the name.
    â€œIf Mrs. Doyle doesn’t have work for you one day, would you be willing to do odd jobs? Clean the cellar or the backyard?”
    His nod was quick.
    â€œOkay. It’s a deal. See you tomorrow. You can let yourself out.”
    Fenimore came back to the outer office and settled into his favorite battered armchair. To avoid his nurse’s eye, he fussed with his pipe.
    â€œSince when do we need help around here? I’ve always thought I managed this office perfectly well. Your father never had any complaints.”
    â€œOf course you do, Doyle. I wanted to give the kid a break.”
    â€œIs he honest?”
    â€œI haven’t the faintest idea. I met him only yesterday. But he passed Sal’s inspection.” He cast a fond look at his cat, who had settled herself on the windowsill. “Did you see how she wrapped herself around him?”
    Unimpressed by Sal’s preferences, she said, “Well, the first time I notice anything missing …”
    â€œThat goes without saying.” Fenimore finally had his pipe going and eased back in his chair. “Let me tell you how I ran into him,” he began, and out came the story of the burial of the cat, the discovery of the body, and his recent encounter with Ned Hardwick. He passed lightly over his own injury.
    Mrs. Doyle listened attentively. When he had finished, she was silent.
    â€œNo comment?”

    â€œI’m speechless.”
    â€œA nice little Halloween story, eh?”
    The phone.
    Fenimore grabbed it ahead of his nurse. As he listened to the caller, a look of incredulity spread over his face. “That’s bizarre.” He hung up.
    â€œWhat’s bizarre?”
    â€œThat was Rafferty. A small canvas bag was found buried near the woman’s body. Would you care to guess what was inside?”
    â€œA pair of smelly jogging shoes?”
    â€œA Walkman, a wooden weaver’s shuttle, and a jar of peanut butter.” He recited a verse he had learned in school:

    â€œThe Indian, when from life released,
Again is seated with his friends,
And shares again the joyous feast …”

    â€œOf peanut butter?” she made a face.
    â€œTastes differ, Doyle.” He leaned forward. “Native Americans believe that life goes on after death.”
    â€œSo do we.” Mrs. Doyle was a good Catholic; Fenimore, a bad Anglican. He went to church only twice a year—Christmas Eve and Easter Sunday.
    â€œBut not in the same way. We believe we leave our earthly desires and satisfactions behind—eating, drinking, lovemaking. The Native Americans don’t. They believe they carry them along, all intact. They are still able to eat, drink, make love—or war—after death. That’s why some of their most treasured possessions are often buried with them.”
    â€œShould we envy or pity them?”
    He took a long drag on his pipe and stared morosely at the brick wall outside his window. When he spoke, his tone was sober. “Pity the young man who may have lost his Indian maiden.”

    The rest of the afternoon passed routinely for Fenimore. He ate a bologna sandwich on rye and saw three patients—a stomachache, a sore throat, and a head cold. Most cardiologists would consider it beneath them to treat such minor ailments. Not Fenimore. He liked his patients and