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“Dr. Kyser?”
“Yes. That’s right.” Kyser looked from Boxner to Jason. He was tall—very tall—and rawboned. Despite the warmth of the day he wore jeans and a sweater, but maybe the sweater was due to an air conditioner working overtime. Frigid air wafted out of the house as though a secret door to Antarctica had just popped open.
“I’m Officer Boxner with Kingsfield PD. This is Special Agent West with the FBI. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“FBI?” Kyser stared at Jason.
Jason held up his ID, staring back. Kyser was not a handsome guy. If anything, he seemed to be rocking the mad-scientist look. His salt-and-pepper hair frizzed out around a long, gaunt face dominated by heavy-lidded eyes with dark circles.
“May we come in, Dr. Kyser?” Jason asked.
After a moment, Kyser stepped back. Boxner and Jason entered the house and, still not speaking, Kyser led them down a dark hallway to a large living room.
“Do you live here on your own, sir?” Jason asked.
“Yes. I live alone. I work from home.”
At first glance the room was ordinary enough. A long rectangle lined with walnut bookcases and crowded with antique furniture. The bookcases were crammed with old books. Red and orange objets d’art packed the tops of the shelves like an overstocked grocery store.
“Why would the FBI have questions for me?” Kyser asked. He frowned, cracked his knuckles.
Jason kept an eye on those large, bony hands. “We w—”
“Happy Halloween!” Boxner interrupted. He was staring up at the shelves, and following his astonished gaze, Jason realized the spherical autumn-colored objects filling every conceivable inch of flat space were carved jack-o’-lanterns. Not real ones. Wooden ones in all shapes and sizes.
Kyser said stiffly, “I’m not interested in Halloween. I’m interested in jack-o’-lanterns.”
That was putting it mildly. This was closer to compulsion than interest. Besides which…
These jack-o’-lanterns were not the typical smiling or scary Halloween fare. Their expressions were tortured, menacing, sinister, agonized—and all too lifelike. Jason liked to think he was capable of evaluating art without interpreting it through the subjective lens of his own background and biases, but the word that formed in his mind was…troubling.
He said, “You mean you’re interested in jack-o’-lanterns as an art form? Or their significance in folktales and mythology?”
Kyser’s black eyes refocused on Jason’s face. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“I’m Special Agent West. This is Officer Boxner with the Kingsfield Police Department. Dr. Kyser, we wanted to ask you about some netsuke-style carvings you did several years ago for the Or
t & Rossington Primitive Art Gallery in New York.”
Kyser’s gaze seemed to sharpen. “You’re familiar with the art of netsuke?”
“I wouldn’t say familiar. I know maybe the rudiments.”
Kyser’s eyes finally moved from Jason’s. He glanced at the towering army of wooden jack-o’-lanterns. “I’ve moved on from miniature sculptures, as you can see.”
“Can you tell us about those early sculptures?” Jason asked. “The mermaids?”
“What is there to tell? I no longer work with the Ort & Rossington.”
Jason said, “You sold several of those miniature sculptures to the owner of a Worcester County gift shop as well. Can you tell us about your relationship with George Simpson?”
“Who?” Kyser looked confused.
“The owner of the gift shop.”
“No. I don’t know any Simpson. I sold those miniatures to several gift stores. Only one shop was in Worcester County, and that was owned by a woman. I forget her name. It wasn’t Simpson. I suppose I could look it up if it really matters.”
“That would be helpful.”
