Myron's car, the business's Ford Taurus, had been confiscated by the police, so he rented a maroon Mercury Cougar. He hoped the women would be able to resist. When he started the car, the radio was tuned to Lite FM 106.7. Patti LaBelle and Michael McDonald were crooning a sad lite staple entitled “On My Own.” This once blissfully happy couple were breaking up. Tragic. So tragic that, as Michael McDonald put it, “Now we're up to talking divorce… and we weren't even married.”

Myron shook his head. For this Michael McDonald left the Doobie Brothers?

In college Billy Lee Palms had been the quintessential party boy. He had sneaky good looks, jet black hair, and a magnetic, albeit oily, combination of charisma and machismo, the kind of thing that played well with young coeds away from home for the first time. At Duke the frat brothers had dubbed him Otter, the pseudosuave character in the movie Animal House, It fitted. Billy Lee was also a great baseball player, a catcher who managed to reach the major leagues for a half season, riding the bench for the Baltimore Orioles the year they won the World Series.

But that was years ago.

Myron knocked on the door. Seconds later the door swung open fast and wide. No warning, nothing. Strange. In this day and age people looked through peepholes or cracks in chain-held doors or at the very least asked who it was.

A woman he vaguely recognized as Mrs. Palms said, “Yes?” She was small with a squirrel mouth and eyes that bulged like something behind them was pushing to get out. Her hair was tied back, but several strands escaped and drooped in front of her face. She pushed them back with splayed fingers.

“Are you Mrs. Palms?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“My name is Myron Bolitar. I went to Duke with Billy Lee.”

Her voice dropped an octave or two. “Do you know where he is?”

“No, ma'am. Is he missing?”

She frowned and stepped back. “Come in, please.”

Myron moved into the foyer. Mrs. Palms was already heading down a corridor. She pointed to her right without turning around or breaking stride. “Just go into Sarah's wedding room. I'll be there in a second.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Sarah's wedding room?

He followed where she had pointed. When he turned the corner, he heard himself give a little gasp. Sarah's wedding room. The decor was run-of-the-mill living room, something out of a furniture store circular. An off-white couch and matching love seat formed a broken L, probably the monthly special, $695 for both, the couch might fold out into a Serta sleeper, something like that. The coffee table was a semi oak square, a short stack of attractive, unread magazines on one end, silk flowers in the middle, a couple of coffee books on the other end. The wall-to-wall carpeting was light beige, and there were two torchere lamps a la the Pottery Barn.

But the walls were anything but ordinary.

Myron had seen plenty of houses with photographs on the walls. They were hardly uncommon. He had even been in a house or two where the photographs dominated rather than complemented the surroundings. That too would hardly give him reason to pause. But this was beyond surreal. Sarah's Wedding Room-heck, it should be capitalized-was a re-creation of that event. Literally. Color wedding photographs had been blown up to life size and pasted on as a wallpaper substitute. The bride and groom smiled at him invitingly from the right. On the left, Billy Lee in a tux, probably the best man or maybe just an usher, smiled at him. Mrs. Palms, dressed in a summer gown, danced with her husband. In front of him were the wedding tables, lots of them. Guests looked up and smiled at him-all life size. It was as though a panoramic wedding photo had been blown up to the size of Rembrandt's Night Watch. People slow-danced. A band played. There was a minister of sorts and floral arrangements and a wedding cake and fine china and white linen-again, all life size.

“Please sit down.”

Myron turned to Mrs. Palms. Was it the real Mrs. Palms or one of the reproductions? No, she was casually dressed. The real McCoy. He almost reached out and touched her to make sure. “Thank you,” he said.

“This is our daughter Sarah's wedding. She was married four years ago.”

“I see.”

“It was a very special day for us.”

“I'm sure.”

“We had it at the Manor in West Orange. You know it?”

“I was bar mitzvahed there,” Myron said.

“Really? Your parents must have very fond memories of the day.”

“Yes.” But now he wondered. I mean, Mom and Dad kept most of the photos in an album.

Mrs. Palms smiled at him. “It's odd, I know, but… oh, I've explained this a thousand times. What's one more?” She sighed, signaled to a couch. Myron sat. She did likewise.

Mrs. Palms folded her hands and looked at him with the blank stare of a woman who sat too close to life's big screen. “People take pictures of their most special times,” she began too earnestly. “They want to capture the important moments. They want to enjoy them and savor them and relive them. But that's not what they do. They take the picture, they look at it once, and then they stick it in a box and forget about it. Not me. I remember the good times. I wallow in them-re-create them, if I can. After all, we live for those moments, don't we, Myron?”

He nodded.

“So when I sit in this room, it warms me. I'm surrounded by one of the happiest moments in my life. I've created the most positive aura imaginable.”

He nodded again.

“I'm not a big art fan,” she continued. “I don't relish the idea of hanging impersonal lithographs on the walls. What's the point of looking at images of people and places I don't know? I don't care that much about interior design. And I don't like antiques or phony-baloney Martha Stewart stuff. But do you know what I do find beautiful?” She stopped and looked at him expectantly.

Myron picked up his cue. “What?”

“My family,” she replied. “My family is beautiful to me. My family is art. Does that make sense to you, Myron?”

“Yes.” Oddly enough, it did.

“So I call this Sarah's Wedding Room. I know that's silly. Naming rooms. Blowing up old photographs and using them as wallpaper. But all the rooms are like this. Billy Lee's bedroom upstairs I call the Catcher's Mitt. It's where he still stays when he's here. I think it comforts him.” She raised her eyebrows. “Would you like to see it?”

“Sure.”

She practically leaped off the couch. The stairwell was plastered with giant, seemingly old black and whites. A stern-faced couple in wedding gear. A soldier in full uniform. “This is the Generational Wall. That's my great-grandparents over there. And Hank's. My husband. He died three years ago.” I m sorry.

She shrugged. “This stairwell goes back three generations. I think it's a nice way of remembering our ancestors.”

Myron didn't argue. He looked at the photograph of the young couple, just starting out their life together, probably a little scared. Now they were dead.

Deep Thoughts by Myron Bolitar.

“I know what you're thinking,” she said. “But is it any stranger than hanging oils of dead relatives? Just more lifelike.”

Hard to argue.

The walls in the upstairs corridor featured some sort of costume party from the seventies. Lots of leisure suits and bell-bottoms. Myron didn't ask, and Mrs. Palms didn't explain. Just as well. She turned left and Myron trailed her into the Catcher's Mitt. It lived up to its billing. Billy Lee's baseball life was laid out like a Hall of Fame display room. It started with Billy Lee in Little League, squatting in his catcher's stance, his smile huge and strangely confident for so young a child. The years flashed by. Little League to Babe Ruth League to high school to Duke, ending with his one glorious year with the Orioles, Billy Lee proudly showing off his'World Series ring. Myron studied the Duke photographs. One had been taken out in front of Psi U, their frat house. A uniformed Billy Lee had his arm around Clu, plenty of frat brothers in the background, including, he saw now, him and Win. Myron remembered when the picture had been taken. The baseball team had just beaten Florida State to win the national championship. The party had lasted three days.