“Perhaps,” Chance agreed, thinking of the pathologist’s reports. “But they didn’t have proof yet.”

Exasperation edged the Trickster’s reply. “Nor do we, since you insist on doing this the hard way. Come. Let’s try another trail.”

Invisible to any mortal eye, black ink and indigo dye bled swiftly through the labyrinthine whorls of time’s tapestry, leaving the professor and the pathologist to their lunch.

CHAPTER FIVE

“What more can the pathologist tell us about the boy?” mused the Trickster.

“I’ve already read all his reports,” Chance said.

“No, I mean, maybe he’s encountered someone else connected to the death.”

Wordlessly Chance invited him to lead the way. The Trickster moved back to an earlier time, taking as his guide the professor’s comments about the Club. After a bit of meandering, he managed to land them somewhere meaningful, some type of holiday celebration at the shelter, where Club members mingled with shelter staff, denizens, and visitors in an excess of magnanimous hospitality concentrated on that one day of the year. The regulars were bemused and reticent, the newcomers were overly cheerful, and everyone compensated for the awkwardness by showering attention on the children.

Dr. Boadu stood between a bored-looking young woman in a staff tunic who was holding a tray of assorted sweet biscuits and a rotund man dressed in a sloppy, casual fashion that suggested he had neither boss nor spouse to advise him on his wardrobe choices. He was holding forth like a stage performer while Dr. Boadu slowly made his choices from the tray with fussy precision.

“What is it to be a starving artist? It is to have a small stomach and a big heart, to say ‘Fuck you’ to your patron and write for yourself, then eat satisfaction because that’s the only meal you can afford. It’s to live shamelessly for the time and space to write, and then one day, one day, a single, ridiculous, half-baked idea takes off and captures the attention of a crazy world, and you ride that star and eat and grow fat and write with nostalgia about the starving days that are no more.”

“Well, Julian, that explains where the small stomach went,” said Dr. Boadu, eyeing the man’s paunch. “But what happened to the big heart and writing for yourself?”

“Oh!” Julian went silent after that small syllable, but his smile was sly.

There was more of the cynical than the sly in Dr. Boadu’s smile. “So it is true. You write under a pseudonym as well?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps my pseudonymous self is the figure you see here, portrayed by an actor whose only writing skill is the signing of autographs. Perhaps the real author is somewhere in his own broad land, feeding both his stomach and his heart. You’ll never know, will you.”