Mourn not your Dead

suspected owed more to art than nature. He looked everywhere except at her face until he had his own under control, for Madeleine Wade had an enormous hooked beak of a nose, resembling nothing so much as a caricature of a fairy-tale witch.
    She smiled at them as if aware of their discomfort. “Come in, please,” she said as she motioned them into the sitting room. Her voice was deep, almost masculine in timbre, but pleasant. “Sit down and I’ll fix you something to drink. I’m afraid I don’t use any caffeinated products, so you’ll have to settle for herbal tea,” she continued as she moved to the small kitchen adjacent to the sitting room. Although he couldn’t see her face, Kincaid fancied he heard a trace of amusement in her voice.
    He and Deveney chorused, “Fine,” then Deveney gave a quick grimace of disgust.
    Under his breath, Kincaid said wickedly, “Broaden your horizons, man. It’ll do you good,” then looked around the room with interest. He became aware of music playing faintly but was unable to localize the source. At least he supposed you would call it music, for it consisted of tinkling sounds repeated in rhythmic patterns, like wind chimes moving to mathematical variations.
    The flat had a comfortable and rather whimsical charm, with only the massage table on the far side of the sitting room indicating Madeleine Wade’s use of the room for her business. A brightly patterned sheet draped the table, softening its clinical aspect, and the pine bureau on the far wall displayed a collection of plush animals as well as an assortment of oils, lotions, and a pile of fluffy towels.
    Kincaid moved to the end of the room, where two deep window embrasures overlooked the shop front. He smiled as he looked at the curtains, made of the same fabric that covered the sofa and massage table. Primitively drawn farmyard animals cavorted across a cheerful white-and-red polka-dotted background, and he found the combination both odd and intriguing. A closer inspection revealed that the red dots were irregular in shape, as if they’d been fin-ger-painted on, and the dogs and sheep in particular looked almost like the animals he’d seen in reproductions of cave paintings.
    The left windowsill held a multishaped and -sized variety of corked glass bottles, filled with liquids in hues ranging from the palest green-gold to rich amber. Springs of herbs floated in some, and all sported rakish raffia ties.
    The other sill held a red geranium in a terra-cotta pot and a marmalade cat curled on a cushion in the sun. When Kincaid gently rubbed a geranium leaf between his fingers, releasing the pungent, spicy scent, the cat stirred but didn’t open its eyes. “Is your cat always so oblivious?” Kincaid asked as a rattle of crockery told him that Madeleine Wade had returned.
    “I don’t think the apocalypse would faze Ginger, good-for-nothing beastie that he is. I keep him because the sight of him relaxes the clients.” Placing a tray bearing mugs and an earthenware pot on a low table before the sofa, she sat down and unhurriedly began to pour.
    Kincaid watched from near the window as she concentrated on her task. All her movements were graceful and economic, and he found the contrast between her face and her self-assured poise oddly disconcerting. “And the music?” he asked. “Does that serve the same purpose?”
    She sat back with her mug. “Do you like it? It’s structured to encourage the brain to emit alpha waves—at least that’s the theory, but it’s called angel music, and I think I prefer the more imaginative description.”
    Having taken his seat in one of the simple farmhouse chairs beside the sofa, Deveney lifted his cup, sniffed, and sipped tentatively. “What is this?” he asked, looking pleasantly surprised.
    Madeleine Wade chuckled. “Apple cinnamon. I find it a good choice for the uninitiated—familiar and nonthreatening.” She turned to Kincaid, who had sat down opposite Deveney. “And now what can I help you with, Superintendent? I’m assuming you’re here about Alastair Gilbert’s death?”
    Kincaid took his mug from the tray and breathed the steam rising from its surface. “We understand you reported a burglary some weeks ago, Miss Wade. Could you tell us about the circumstances?”
    “Ah, the burglar-as-murderer theory, is it?” She smiled, showing teeth that were not well shaped but looked as though they had been cared for expensively. “That’s been the most popular