Death in the 12th House

by Mitchell Scott Lewis

  She was sitting quite still with her elbows resting on the table. She had not moved as Lowell talked. Finally she slowly shook her head.

  “Nobody knows that I had a twin who died at birth. Nobody. Only my family. My parents were divorced, but you could learn that anywhere. My father spent several stints in rehab, but again, common knowledge. I have also been diagnosed with a recurring pulmonary disease as a result of an infection and fever I had as a child, presently in remission. But none of this information made the papers, my press agent made sure of that. How could you know? I have been losing my desire to be in the public eye for some time now, and have considered trying my hand at directing. But I’ve spoken to no one about this.”

  He nodded.

  “How,” she stopped, and then began again. “How do you think I’ll do?”

  “Quite well. You should be very successful in your second career, although the public will not let you go easily. You project something optimistic and airy that the collective needs. You will occasionally come out of retirement as a performer throughout the years.”

  There was something about this man that made her feel calmer, more secure. His knowledge was comforting. He certainly wasn’t her type. He was too short and much too old. Still, she felt safe in his presence.

  “So how did you become…”

  “An astrologer?”

  “Actually I was going to say a detective. I assume the astrology came at a young impressionable age when you were looking for answers.”

  “That’s quite accurate.”

  “And as you realized its capabilities you must have been drawn into it from curiosity as well as a desire for self-awareness. How’m I doin’?”

  He smiled. “Not bad.”

  “So how about it? What made you become an astrological detective instead of just staying a professional astrologer?”

  “I’ve been doing astrology for more than thirty years, and during that time I have had to help many people make the most important decisions of their lives. Financial ones, health ones. I’ve diagnosed cancer and thyroid problems, kidney stones, heart murmurs, and infections hidden from view in clients, some of whom were thousands of miles away. People needed to know what day to have an operation or when to start a business. I felt that I could never be wrong, and no matter how hard I worked there was never enough time to see the number of clients required to make a good living. Well, after a while the stress was becoming too much, but by then I had a family and I needed the money. So I shifted my focus.”

  He poured more tea into his cup.

  “I’m giving a lecture at the Ivy League Club next week on political and financial astrology. If you’re still in town why don’t you come?”

  “I’d love to.”

  “My audience is usually a good mixture of Wall Street executives, artists, and occasionally a politician or two. I usually discuss the financial and political future of America and the world. And yes,” he said, answering her unasked question, “they do believe in astrology, even the skeptics, after having seen what it can do for many years. Although I wonder how many would admit it in public.

  “Anyway, in the early nineties I went to the New York Mercantile Exchange and began studying the financial markets, using astrology to trade. It worked so well that I built a reputation as an astro-economist, working for several large firms and making predictions in commodities, stocks, and bonds. I managed to build up enough capital to take advantage of Pluto, the ruler of oil, entering Sagittarius, the most expansive of signs. I convinced a wealthy client to buy oil options and futures when it was trading about $30 a barrel and rode the market as the price went to $140, making a very nice profit.”

  That, of course, was part of the answer. And it was true, as far as it went. After decades of private practice he had started to become overwhelmed, and had been seriously considering a change of professions, though never of avocation. The only obstacle was finances. But the oil trade took care of that problem. So sure was he that oil prices were about to explode that he had invested everything he had, plus what he could borrow, to invest. It had made him a very wealthy man.

  But this wasn’t something he readily shared with others. People responded strangely to huge amounts of money, even rich or famous people, sometimes in a destructive or uncomfortable way.

  She stared at him with fascination. She had always thought of astrology as a party gimmick or a carnival game. “But you still haven’t told me why you became a detective.”

  “No, I haven’t. Something…happened several years ago that required that I pay attention to the criminal element in our culture, and I guess it became a habit.” His hands, which had been helping him narrate his tale, dropped to the table.

  She didn’t press it.

  When they were finished he called his driver and took her back to her hotel. In the past she had always stayed at the Plaza, but the icon had been mostly turned into another palace of condos and corporate apartments. Now she stayed at the Carlyle on upper Madison Avenue.

  She reached for the car door handle but stopped and turned back toward him. She put her hand on his. She left it there for a while.

  “Please, find out who did this.”

  He nodded. She planted a fast kiss on his cheek and slid out of the car. He sat there for a moment, unconsciously touching his face with his fingertips.

  ***

  The rest of the afternoon was spent doing errands. Lowell had dinner alone. It was after nine when the detective returned to his office. He entered the dark reception area and turned on the lamp on Sarah’s desk. He then went into his private office, flipped on the overhead lights, adjusted the dimmer until the room had a soft yellowy glow, and closed the door. He went into the bathroom and started to run a bath. Next he took the pillows off the sofa and opened the bed. At the bar, he opened a small refrigerator and took out a bottle of Lowenbrau and a chilled pilsner glass, opened the beer, and slowly poured the contents into the glass.

  He printed out a half dozen charts and took them and the beer into the bathroom with him. After he’d settled into the oversized tub he flipped a hinge to release a dropdown that swung across the tub. He placed the beer and the charts on top and carefully scrutinized the papers.

  He made a few notations on each chart and put them down. He was tired. He moved the beer and the charts to a small table next to the tub and secured the bath-table back onto the wall. Then he sank down into the tub and lay there for fifteen minutes, recalling Vivian’s touch.

  When his body felt relaxed enough for sleep, he exited the tub, dried off, and went to sleep on the pull-out couch.

  Chapter Four

  When his phone rang at eight, the detective was already on his second cup of coffee and working diligently at his computer.

  “It’s Roland,” said the weary voice on the other end. “A few interested parties are coming to see you this afternoon. I was wondering how two o’clock looks.”

  “I don’t have to…”

  “Oh yes you do,” interrupted the policeman. “I’m afraid there’s more involved than you can imagine. You can expect to receive three visitors today.”

  “Who am I, Ebenezer Scrooge?”

  “Whatever. Just please be there at two.”

  ***

  Sarah came in at nine, replaced the flowers on her desk with a new bouquet and knocked on the detective’s door. Sticking her head in she said, “Morning.”

  Lowell was still in his pajamas, bathrobe, and slippers. Unsurprised, Sarah awaited instructions.

  “Sarah, I’m going to need Mort on this case. Would you please call him and see when he can come back from Florida?”

  “Sure boss. Can I get you anything for breakfast?”

  “Where are you ordering from?”

  “I thought Louie’s on the corner of 33rd. They make nice pancakes.”

  Louie’s was his favorite restaurant, run by an old hippie from Vermont, who had inherited the building and decided to move his restaurant to Manhattan
. He used only organic produce and had a large vegetarian section on his menu.

  “Good idea, make mine blueberry. And get me some Stripple.”

  “How can you eat that phony bacon?” She made a face.

  “Because I choose not to eat animals. I thought you and Rudy were going away for the weekend?”

  “He can’t get off until tomorrow afternoon, so you’re stuck with me until then. I’ll call in the order.”

  “I’m going to shower and dress. Buzz me when the food arrives.”

  She closed the door.

  Soon he and Sarah sat on the couch and ate.

  “How are things with Rudy?”

  “Oh, you know. He’s a little, uh, tough to handle sometimes.”

  Lowell nodded and said nothing.

  “I don’t know, there are times when I think I’d be better off without him, but I really don’t like to be alone.”

  Sarah was pretty, maybe more than pretty, but she didn’t know it. She had a cherub face, round-cheeked and fresh. Her bright red hair was striking. As a secretary she was top notch. Her files were always in order and up to date, Lowell’s calendar current, and most of the clients liked her. Her sharp sense of humor was a further plus, and a strong ego. And she was smart.

  “Would you like me to look at your charts?”

  She perked up. “Oh, would you? But I hate to bother you, especially when you’re in the middle of a case.”

  He waved his hand. “And what good are you to me when you’re upset?”

  He went back to his desk and pulled up the Solar Fire software. “Here you are, March 26th 1983, at 11:53 a.m., New York City.” He printed out the charts. “We’ve discussed some of this before, of course, but you must be aware of who you are in order to make the most of your opportunities. Relationships can be difficult for you. Your Cancer rising sign makes you very sensitive. With Capricorn ruling your 7th house of relationships, you get very attached to the past, and can find it difficult to get out of a relationship, even if it isn’t serving you any longer.”

  She nodded.

  “Over the next few weeks, transiting Jupiter will conjunct your Venus in Taurus, ruler of your 3rd house of communication and your 8th house of sexuality. You can expect some good changes in your social life very soon.”

  The reading made her feel better, as they always did. She cleaned up, and then returned to her desk and the job of shielding her boss from the outside world. The rest of the day was taken up with phone calls and paperwork.

  ***

  Sarah was on the phone with her sister when the door to the office opened and three middle-aged men entered.

  “So what did he say then?” She gave a fleeting look at the men. “Uh huh, yeah, and then what?” She glanced up again. There was something familiar about them. What was it? Her sister was rambling on about her boyfriend.

  “I’ve got to call you back. There are some people in the office.”

  She hung up the phone and smiled her best smile. “How can I help you?”

  “We’d like to see Mr. Lowell,” said the shortest of the three.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Yes. Lieutenant Roland spoke with him.”

  “Okay. Whom shall I say is here?’

  “Just tell him Mr. Simpson and friends.”

  She was about to pick up the phone when recognition hit her. “Oh my god, do you know who you are? I mean, of course you do. And he’s…”

  The three laughed.

  “Oh,” Sarah was certain she was blushing. “I’m sure that’s alright. Just let me tell him that you’re here.” She pushed the intercom button and picked up the phone.

  “Mr. Lowell, there are some men here to see you…If I’m not completely hallucinating, Pete Simpson, Bobby James, and Barron Dickens…Okay, I’ll send them in.”

  They went through the door into the inner office. Lowell was behind his desk staring at the computer. “Gentlemen, have a seat, please.”

  They sat in a semi-circle around the desk.

  Diminutive Pete Simpson, one-half of Simpson and Goodberry, the most popular duo since the Everly Bothers. Keyboardist and songwriter Bobby James, grown a bit rotund in middle age.

  And Barron Dickens. Dressed in black, with his cowboy hat and goatee, he finally fit the role of American poet laureate. He seemed too young when he wrote his early masterpieces. Back then he looked like a kid pretending to be angry at a life he hadn’t lived long enough to develop such rage. Now he actually looked better, more in character.

  Lowell led off. “Lieutenant Roland told me to expect you. So what brings you here? I have three murders to solve and it’s been a busy day.”

  “Well,” said Bobby, “that’s why we’re here. Since all the murders have happened here and we’re all New York musicians, we figured we’d lend a hand.”

  The detective frowned. “You do realize that since you are most likely all targets, it hardly makes my job easier to have you around.”

  Pete Simpson chimed in. “Actually, we haven’t seen each other in years but we thought it would be better to have us all in the same place for a while. That way you wouldn’t have to wonder where we are.”

  Lowell put his fingers to his chin. “I don’t want to have to, um…”

  “Look,” said Bobby, “if you think you have to baby sit us, let me tell you, there’s nothing anyone can throw at us that’s tougher than living on the road with a rock band.”

  Pete’s turn. “Besides, it’s our asses on the line. We all cleared our schedules for today to see if we could help out. You don’t think we’re going to hide away with our tails between our legs, do you?”

  Barron quietly watched his two musical associates.

  “Well,” said Lowell, “I doubt that any of you would listen to my advice anyway. At least let me look over your charts to see if there are any violent or dangerous aspects.”

  Barron cleared his throat. “You know, we talked about seeing you, and frankly, we’re a bit scared that one of us may be next. Your reputation precedes you. We can’t argue with success.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. Give me a moment.”

  Because of their renown, all three charts were already in the detective’s computer files. Many famous people’s birth information was included in the Solar Fire computer software programs. He pulled up the chart for each of his distinguished guests, after first double checking the information with each, and printed them on a bi-wheel with the day’s transits on the outside. This gave him an opportunity to see the activity affecting each.

  As he perused the charts and made some notes on each, the three became restless and wandered about the office. Dickens was particularly fascinated by Buster and Keaton, who in turn seemed interested in him as well. They remained on the rock for the longest time playing peek-a-boo with his fingers. Maybe they knew these hands had written some of the best poetry of a generation. Or maybe he just smelled like food. Who knows with turtles?

  “What are your turtles’ names?”

  “Buster and Keaton.”

  The poet grinned. “Which is Buster?”

  “The one with the red stripe across the face.”

  “And which one is the boy?”

  “Keaton.”

  “How can you tell?” Dickens lifted Keaton and scrutinized his anatomy.

  “The boys have longer nails on the front feet than the girls. It helps them hold on during sex when the female decides she’s had enough.”

  “Ain’t much difference between the species, is there? So why turtles?”

  “I got tired of burying my dogs.”

  Dickens nodded.

  Pete Simpson was looking at the bookcase. It was divided into two sections. The left side was exclusively astrology books. There must have been several hundred. The right side was a combination of fiction, history, and other assorted tomes as varied as the culture. He thought it was funny that sitting next to each other were The Invisible Man by H. G. Wells and The Invisible
Man by Ralph Ellison. The two books were so different and yet so similar. He looked for other pairings Lowell had made on the shelves.

  “To the best of your knowledge, did any of the victims have financial difficulties?”

  “You’d have to ask their business managers,” said Bobby, “but I assume they were very well off. In fact, I know Gene and Freddie each took out a Bowie bond a few years ago for millions each. I don’t know about Wally.”

  “What’s a Bowie bond?” Lowell hadn’t heard of them.

  Bobby grinned. “It started with David Bowie back in the nineties, that’s how it got its name. These big shot bankers created a bond for Bowie, and they raised money against the future royalties of his catalogue. Then a lot of other acts got into it, including Gene and Freddie. They were very popular for a while. So, no, I think they were all very well set.”

  “Future royalties? You mean people put up millions of dollars against what their records might be worth?”

  “Yeah, crazy isn’t it?”

  “Did any of you take a bond out?”

  “Me?” said Bobby, “Nah, I don’t run around with an entourage like these other guys do, or did. You know how much money some rock stars spend in a month? It would make you sick. But Gene tried to talk me into it once, that’s how I know he and Freddie did it.”

  “How about you two?” He turned toward Dickens and Simpson.

  “None of us has the flare for attention Gene, Wally, and Freddie had,” replied Pete. “Besides, we three are very wealthy from the publishing, and that’s where the money is, you know, in the publishing. Or at least it used to be.”

  Lowell held up several pieces of paper. “I find nothing in any of your charts to indicate that you will be killed in the next few days, so I suppose you can hang around while I look into things.”

  “Well,” Dickens grinned, “that’s a relief.”

  “How accurate are you?” asked Bobby.

  “Accurate enough.”

  “Okay,” said Simpson, “what’s first?”

  “I want to interview several people, beginning with the bartender who served Freddie his last drink.”