and vines spilled from its mouth, wrapping and twisting around its hoary head. It also had obviously been hand painted, in bold greens and blues—probably by the same person who had painted the handmade pottery in the cupboards. Lee looked around the kitchen for evidence of painting equipment, but saw none.
“Is that one ‘a them Green Men?” Butts asked, coming up behind him.
“Yeah.”
Butts leaned forward, studying it, his small eyes nearly disappearing under his heavy overhanging brows. “You think she made it?”
“Could be—especially if she made the mugs,” Lee said. “Let’s see if we can find a kiln somewhere on the property.”
“Why? You think it’s important?”
“Well, it’s interesting that both she and Dr. Perkins have the same Celtic symbol in their homes. It’s not all that common.”
“Yeah,” Butts said, trotting after him as they went back through the living room. “Maybe she made his and gave it to him as a present.”
“That’s one possibility.”
They found the kiln in the basement, surrounded by pots and mugs and plates in various states of completion. The entire room had been turned into a pottery studio—there was a wheel and raw clay and a shelf of textbooks and instruction manuals on the craft of pottery and ceramics. Clearly Ana had dived into this recent passion with an energy and commitment Lee found touching. He imagined the comfort and satisfaction it must have given her, and pictured her sitting at the wheel, her thin hands wrapped around the spinning clay, a wisp of blond hair dangling from her forehead, as she turned raw materials from the earth into the graceful and useful household items he had seen upstairs.
He and Butts wandered slowly around the room for a while, but there was no sign of any more Green Men. There was, however, a mother and child figurine, the only one of its kind, on the table of white, as-yet-unfired pottery. Nestled among the mugs and plates, it was all curves, an impressionistic sculpture with a womblike roundness to the design. The mother’s arms encased the child, as she cradled its head on her bosom, while staring down at its sleeping figure.
The symbolic significance to Ana’s life struck Lee at once: she was playing the role of both mother and child, seeking her own “rebirth” in therapy. Perhaps that accounted for her susceptibility to someone like Perkins, whose past-lives theories were probably very attractive to someone who was never very comfortable in this life.
Butts picked up the figurine and examined it. “Looks like she was really into this stuff. Wonder if she sold any of it?”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Lee mused. “And if so, who did she sell it to?”
“Here’s somethin',” Butts said, plucking a piece of paper from the top bookshelf. Lee studied it over his shoulder. It looked like a ledger of some kind, with a list of about a dozen names and prices next to them, as well as a brief description of the item sold.
“Looks like she did sell some of her work,” Lee said. “Good job finding that.”
“Some interesting names on here,” Butts remarked. “Here’s a funny one—Caleb. Like one ‘a those old-fashioned New England names out of Hawthorne or somethin'.” Butts scratched his head. “But what are the chances that one of her customers killed her?”
“I believe when we first met you pointed out to me that most murders are between people who know each other.”
“Yeah,” Butts said, “but we both know that the guy we’re lookin’ for is a whole different kettle of fish, right?”
“You’re right,” Lee said. “Serial offenders don’t often kill people they know—but the suicide notes indicate that he may have had at least some contact with his victims.”
“Right—so I’ll hold on to this, for the time being,” Butts said, dropping it carefully it into a blue evidence bag. “You never know.”
The house yielded few more clues, only the sad feeling that here was a young woman working hard to put her life together, a life that was abruptly and cruelly cut short. The sun was low in the sky by the time they finished and bade Trooper Anderson good-bye. He seemed sorry to see them leave and stood watching as they walked down the long, sloping driveway back to their car. They drove in silence through the dusky summer evening, the smell of freshly mown hay mixing with the dark odor of cow manure as they drove past miles of pastures and farmland.
Just outside Somerville, the sky darkened, and big, fat drops of rain