I was puzzled. “But I thought there were walls and security gates?”

Rachel nodded. “There were. But nothing a novice couldn’t get past. Fence wasn’t electrified or anything like that. It was just a big brick wall.”

“How high?”

She shuffled through the photos. “Maybe seven or eight feet.” She handed a photo to me. “You can see it here in this shot of the front drive. I’m not exactly sure why they took this photo. Richmond didn’t make any notes about it. Maybe just showing the security arrangements.”

I looked at it for a moment, then pointed at a marking on the gate-post and said, “What’s this, the symbol for the farm? A brand or something?”

She looked at it and shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Travis took the photo from her, studied it and said, “Do you have a magnifying glass?”

“Yes, in the desk in your room.”

“My room?” he laughed.

I went into the guest room, which doubles as a study, and got the magnifying glass out of the desk. I brought it to him. After a brief look at the photograph, he said, “It’s a hobo sign.”

“Hobo sign?” I asked.

“You know, one of the signs hoboes leave for one another. Some people call them Gypsy signs, some people say they go back to old medieval ritual signs. Wherever they came from, drifters depended on them. They could tell a man where to catch a train or find a camp or a handout. If he knew where to look for them, the signs could tell him a lot about a house-to beware of a vicious dog, or that the owners will care for a man who’s sick, or that a man with a gun lives there. A drawing of a cat, for example, means ‘A kind woman lives here.” If there are three triangles by the cat, it means ’Tell her a sob story.“”

“What does this one mean?”

He looked up at me. “It means ‘Run like hell.”“

He handed the photo and the magnifier back to me. I could now see that the mark was drawn in pencil, and looked like an “h” that slanted to the right; it wasn’t hard to imagine a stylized runner.

“There’s another way to draw that one,” he said, as I handed the photo and glass to Rachel.

He borrowed Rachel’s pencil and awkwardly used his bandaged hand to draw a circle on one of the manila envelopes. Then, across the circle, he drew two parallel arrows. The arrows pointed right.

“If you saw that, you knew you should hit the road, and quick!” he said.

“How do you know about these signs?” Rachel asked.

“My dad could understand symbols and pictures, even numbers-he just had trouble with letters and words. His family taught him hobo signs from when he was very young; he taught them to me. If you weren’t on the road, of course, they were only good for so many situations. My dad and his brother had other little signs they used if they had to leave notes for one another. My mother and I used them with him, too. That was a big thrill, of course, when I was younger. We pretended to be spies, or to have our own secret language. Took me awhile to realize it wasn’t a game.”

“Wait!” Rachel said suddenly, and searched through her papers. She handed a photo over to Travis. “I took that at the back of your mother’s apartment. Someone tried to break into a window. This was drawn on the window frame, between the bars.”

His expression was grim as he said, “It means ‘This is the place.”“

Rachel went back to the murder file photos, looking through other shots, sorting out photos of the exterior of the house. “There aren’t any others,” she said.

“There probably are others,” Travis said, “but you have to know where to look for them. Maybe I should say, there probably were others-the whole area where the farm was is now an industrial park. My father had the place torn down years ago.”

“Getting rid of memories?” I asked.

“I guess,” he said, but I’m not sure he really heard the question. He had taken the stack of glossies from Rachel and was studying them intently, through the glass. He held one out to her, a photo of the front door. “There’s another hobo sign in this shot,” he said. “Look here-at the little pencil marks on the facing of the front door.”

“I still don’t see it. What are you looking at?” she said.

“Here,” he said, moving to look over her shoulder. “These three slanting lines. They mean ‘This is not a safe place.”“

Rachel handed it over to me, and Travis had to point out the lines to me as well. “What do you make of it?” Rachel asked.

“Assuming they were left on the night of the murder, and left by the murderer, then the killer was warning someone else,” I said. “Those two assumptions are big assumptions. But if the killer left them, then the question is, who was he warning?”

“The DeMonts may have known these symbols?” she asked.

“Yes,” Travis said. “If my uncle didn’t lie about Horace living on the road, then Horace would have certainly known them. And Robert. I don’t know if he taught them to his other kids or not. I don’t know if the others traveled with him.”

Rachel had another set of pictures. “These were taken of your dad’s apartment,” she said. “Do you know about these?”

He nodded, looking through the pictures. “My dad rented this apartment when he separated from my mom. He was going to buy another house, but he said he wanted a place where I could visit him in the meantime. At first, I had thought he would just go back to Gwendolyn, but he didn’t. I think he also wanted a place that was just his, a place to sort things out.

“When Richmond found out about the apartment, he got a search warrant. One for our house, too. He never found anything.”

I was looking over his shoulder at a shot of Arthur’s bedroom. Everything was neat and tidy-the bed made, the closet orderly. “Look,” I said. “Your mom had a night-light just like that one.”

“The Virgin Mary night-light?” he smiled. “No, it’s the same one. He gave her that one. She said he told her it might make her feel protected. My mother used to laugh and say she thought it was his way of saying he wanted her to be as pure as the Virgin Mary-that he didn’t want her to have any other men in her life.”

“Was she afraid of him?”

“No,” he said. “Not at all.”

“But she didn’t let him back into her life-I mean, not until recently.”

“No, like I said, she felt tremendous guilt over everything that had happened before the murder. She didn’t want to profit from Gwendolyn’s death. Once the crisis was over and she felt sure my father wouldn’t be charged with Gwendolyn’s murder, she felt guilty about lying on his behalf. She decided that no matter how much she loved him, he wasn’t good for her or for me. She couldn’t trust him again.”

“And he went along with this?”

“Think of the threat she could hold over him,” he said. “I’m not saying she ever did threaten him, but we both knew that my dad was dependent upon our silence.”

So my aunt had exercised her own form of blackmail over those years. Stay away from me and your son, or I’ll blow your alibi.

“Once she got an idea in her head,” Travis was saying, “it was harder than hell to get her to let go of it. A couple of years ago, she read a passage in one of her Georgette Heyer novels to me, about a shy woman. Heyer had made the observation that shy women often have strong prejudices. She asked me if I thought that was true.”

“What did you say?”

“I said the fact that she hadn’t spoken to my father in a decade ought to prove that Ms. Heyer severely understated the case.”

“This was near the time you had the fight with her over your dad?”

“Yes. I had reached a point in my life when I needed to get to know him. If he was a liar, a cheat, a killer-whatever-I needed to get to know him. The pity was, I had lost ten years during which he was perfectly healthy.”

The phone rang.

“Reed tells me I’m not supposed to yell at you,” the voice said. “Can I just say I’m worried?”