A pair of blue leather books. Fine morocco, a size and style I recognized.

No labeling. Marge opened one, began turning pages. Photographs encased in stiff plastic jackets, held in place by black, adhesive corner pockets.

Green grass, gray rock, brown dirt, blue sky. Pages of Pierce Schwinn’s fantasy of an inanimate world.

Milo and I made admiring noises. The second book held more of the same. He ran a finger down its spine. “Nice leather.”

“I bought them for him.”

“Where?” said Milo. “Love to have one for myself.”

“O’Neill & Chapin, right down the road—over by the Celestial Café. They cater to artists, carry quality things. These are originally from England, but they’re discontinued. I bought the last three.”

“Where’s the third?”

“Pierce never got to it—you know, why don’t I give it to you? I have no need for it and just thinking about Pierce’s unfinished business makes me want to cry. And Pierce would’ve liked that—your having it. He thought a lot of you.”

“Really, ma’am—”

“No, I insist,” said Marge. Crossing the room and stepping into a walk-in closet, she emerged a moment later, empty-handed. “I could swear I saw it up here, but that was a while back. Maybe it’s somewhere else . . . maybe Pierce took it over to the darkroom, let’s check.”

The converted bathroom was at the end of the hall, five-by-five, windowless, acrid with chemicals, a narrow, wooden file cabinet next to the sink. Marge slid open drawers, revealed boxes of photographic paper, assorted bottles, but no blue leather album. No slides or proofs, either.

I said, “Looks like Pierce mounted everything he had.”

“I guess,” she said. “But that third book—so expensive, it’s a shame to let it go to waste . . . it’s got to be here, somewhere. Tell you what, if it shows up, I’ll send it to you. What’s your address?”

Milo handed her a card.

“Homicide,” she said. “That word just jumps out at you. I never thought much about Pierce’s life before me. Didn’t want to picture him spending so much time with the dead—no offense.”

“It’s not a job for everyone, ma’am.”

“Pierce—he was outwardly strong, but inside, he was sensitive. Had a need for beauty.”

“Looks like he found it,” said Milo. “Looks like he found real happiness.”

Marge’s eyes moistened. “You’re nice to say so. Well, it’s been good meeting you. Coupla good listeners.” She smiled. “Must be a cop thing.”

We followed her to the front door, where Milo said, “Did Pierce ever have any visitors?”