Horoscope: The Astrology Murders by Georgia Frontiere

he’d walked by her house twice. He’d figured out a plan for how he would get in, and he was pretty sure it would work. One way or another, he
would
get in. That was a given.
    This last time he’d passed her house, he’d seen her in thedoorway, waving to a couple who were getting into a cab. Some people would’ve said she was beautiful. He didn’t see her that way. The only thing he saw when he looked at her was that she deserved to die.

Fourteen
    I T WAS SUNDAY. KELLY had opened her eyes briefly at nine thirty a.m.—just long enough to check the clock—and gone back to sleep until one fifteen. Keeping her eyes open this time, she noticed that Meow and King were no longer in the room.
    She roused herself from her bed. The house was colder than it had been. Glancing out the window, she saw that the day was gray and sunless. Since it was her day off, she threw on her favorite jeans, a T-shirt, and an old cable-knit sweater she’d bought on a vacation with the kids in Cape Cod. She gathered her hair into a ponytail and fastened it with a rubber band. There was no point in wearing makeup, because there was no one to see her, except possibly Emma. As she walked down the stairs, she wondered if Emma was going somewhere with Donald today or if she was staying home in her apartment. Sometimes Emma liked to spend Sundays in front of the television, watching old movies.
    Kelly was walking down the staircase from the second floor to the first when she heard the familiar two-note chime of the doorbell. She wasn’t expecting any clients; there was no mail delivery on Sundays, and if Donald had come to see Emma, he would go to Emma’s front door, not hers. She had no idea who would’ve come unexpectedly. Could it be Julie or Jeff paying her a surprise visit? It seemed unlikely; they had too much work to do for school. The doorbell chimed again, and she felt her bodytense. Could it be the man who had made that phone call?
    Her body remained tense as she slowly approached the front door. She was grateful that it had a peephole and two locks. Just as she reached the door, King bounded in from the kitchen and jumped up on her to announce that he was there. She rubbed his nose, reassured by his presence. He stayed close to her as she peered into the peephole and, through its distorting lens, saw a dark-haired man looking at the door, waiting. He was about her height, five foot ten, and he was wearing a leather jacket and jeans and carrying some kind of bulky equipment. She’d never seen him before in her life.
    “Who is it?” she asked, making the effort to sound firm.
    He glanced down to the peephole. She knew he couldn’t see in, but the subtle movement of his head and eyes seemed intimate somehow, and feeling his presence so close to her increased her anxiety.
    “Chris Palmer,” he said from the other side of the door. “We have an appointment at two thirty to take new photos of you for your column. I’m a little early. If you want me to come back—”
    That was why he was carrying equipment. He was a photographer. And it was true. She had made the appointment for the photo shoot. She’d scheduled it for her day off so that it wouldn’t interfere with seeing clients. “No, that’s okay,” she told him. “Come in.”
    Kelly unlocked the bottom lock, then the top lock, and opened the door. She stepped back into the entry hall, a foot from the threshold, so that she wouldn’t become scared and have to control her anxiety in front of the photographer.
    He came in and deposited a large metal box and a tripod in the hall; then he turned around and headed out again. “I’ll be back soon. I’ve got more in my truck.”
    As Kelly closed the front door, she heard Emma open the door near the kitchen that led up from her apartment.
    When Emma saw Kelly, she said, “So you finally got up, Sleeping Beauty!”
    Kelly laughed. “I guess it’s about time.”
    Emma glanced at the metal box and the tripod, which King was