The Skeleton's Knee by Archer Mayor Page A

to the garage at the back. Here, the mood was more hopeful. There were cars parked all over, toys scattered about, a basketball hoop bolted to the wall, and a sense that the building had merely turned its back on its troubles.
    The rear door obviously now served as the main entrance. I crossed the threshold and into a large room with a desk facing the door. A few chairs and magazine tables lined the walls, and the floor was again littered with toys. I was reminded of a pediatrician’s office.
    A teenage girl was sitting at the desk. “May I help you?”
    I could hear a baby crying somewhere down a hall and the sound of laughter from somewhere else. “Yes. I’m here to see Billie Lucas.”
    “And your name?”
    “Gunther.”
    She was very poised, despite her torn blue jeans, her acne, and her youth. She rose and disappeared through a far door.
    I looked around, aware of more sounds emanating from all corners of the building—typewriters, phones ringing, people talking. The place was obviously bustling. The walls of the reception area were covered with announcements and posters addressing everything from VermontGreen’s latest targets to La Leche League workshops.
    The young girl reappeared and requested me to follow her. She led me up two flights of stairs; we passed a large room, filled with potter’s wheels and an electric kiln, in which a class was in full session. Gail’s admiration of Billie Lucas’s many interests came back to mind.
    I was ushered into a large room with a cathedral ceiling, obviously a converted attic. The beams had been left exposed, and bookshelves along the walls picked up the natural wood tone, as did the old but burnished oak flooring. Color was supplied not by the muted and tasteful prints and furniture but by exotic flowers by the dozens, sprouting from pottery vases all around the room. The smell, however, was neither intoxicating nor suffocating, but surprisingly light and seductive, reminding me of Gail’s office. Except where Gail’s place was old, blemished, familiar, and embracing, this was clean, sunlit, beautiful, but curiously aseptic.
    “Mr. Gunther,” my guide announced and withdrew, closing the door behind her.
    The woman seated at the computer rose and came around the desk to greet me. She was tall and slim, dressed in worn jeans and a loose white cotton shirt. Her hair, long, blond, and thick, was piled loosely on top of her head, with strands breaking for freedom in an attractive revolt. She wore a pair of very shiny, round gold-rimmed glasses. The total effect was extraordinarily appealing.
    She held her hand out. “Lieutenant Gunther, I’m Billie Lucas. I was just putting the finishing touches on our project.” She tilted her head toward the glowing computer. Her hand was cool, smooth, and firm.
    “I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice. Looks like you run quite an operation here.”
    She smiled and returned to the computer, punching a few keys to start the printer. She indicated one of two armchairs placed by a large, sunny window. “Have a seat. Would you like a cup of coffee or tea?”
    I moved to the window and sat, comforted by both the overstuffed chair and Lucas’s quiet, professional manner. “Coffee’d be fine—milk and sugar if you’ve got it.”
    I appreciated her approach, and the lack of paraphernalia I’d assumed an astrologer would be surrounded with. The discomfort I’d felt anticipating this conversation—imagining myself having to smile and nod politely at some off-the-wall, wild-eyed stargazer—began to dissipate.
    Lucas poured two cups and crossed over to me with one of them. “Here you go. It sounds like the printer’s finished, too.” She retired to collect the paperwork and her own cup before settling cross-legged opposite me, both the printout and the copy of the chart I’d left for her the previous evening spread out on her lap.
    She adjusted her glasses and looked at me seriously. “Well, I’ve done what I