by John Saul
“Well, Riley here has just been telling us some old Indian legends.”
Whalen studied the old man and seemed to consider his words carefully. “What were you telling them about?” he asked.
“The night waves,” Riley replied. “And how dangerous they are.”
Harney Whalen fell silent and appeared to be thinking. Then he smiled at Corey and Ledbetter.
“I know about the night waves,” he said. “And you can relax. The night waves are only dangerous to strangers. And we’re not strangers, are we?”
13
Chip Connor was up early the next morning after a night of fitful sleep disturbed by dreams in which he saw the faces of the Shellings staring at him, their dead eyes accusing him. The dreams made no sense. Each time they woke him he had lain in bed breathing hard, watching the shadows play on the ceiling until he drifted off into another nightmare. Finally, as the sun came up he had left his bed and put on a pot of coffee, then sat by the window sipping his coffee and trying to figure out what his dreams had meant. But he came to no answers—they were simply dreams.
At nine, he decided it was time to start the day. He dressed slowly, almost reluctantly. He put on his uniform, knotting the necktie carefully, and surveyed himself in the mirror. He grinned self-consciously as he realized that his dark, almost brooding good looks combined perfectly with the uniform to make him look almost a caricature of a recruitment-poster cop.
He drove more slowly than usual as he made his way toward the village, but it wasn’t until he neared the Harbor Road turnoff and saw the Palmers’ gallery that he realized why he had been feeling strange all morning. He pulled off the highway and sat in his car for a few minutes thinking.
He had been relieved yesterday afternoon when he found the gallery locked and Glen Palmer apparently gone for the day. He had considered driving out to Sod Beach but had quickly dismissed the idea, telling himself that he had tried to follow Whalen’s orders but had been unable to locate Palmer. He had known, of course, the real reason he hadn’t driven on out to the beach. He wasn’t looking forward to questioning Palmer. In fact, he was dreading it. But now, seeing the door to the gallery standing open and an array of paintings propped neatly against the front of the building, he knew he could not put it off. Harn would be on him first thing this morning, wanting to know what Glen Palmer had had to say, and Chip wasn’t about to report that he had been unable to locate Palmer.
He got out of the car, slammed the door moodily, and started toward the gallery. Suddenly a picture caught his eye and he paused to look at it. It was an oil painting of the old Baron house out on Sod Beach, and at first Chip was unable to figure out exactly what it was that had caught his attention. Then he realized it was something about the house itself. A shadow behind one of the windows, a shadow that came from within the house, as if someone were standing just out of sight but the artist had somehow captured the essence of his presence. For a second Chip was almost sure that he could make out the figure, and felt a shudder of recognition, but when he looked more closely, it was just a shadow.
He examined the rest of the paintings. They were good. Unconsciously he loosened his tie as he went into the gallery.
Glen Palmer glanced up from the display case he was staining and felt a wave of hostility pass through him as he recognized Chip Connor. He stood up and tried to smile.
“Don’t tell me I’ve broken the law now,” he said.
“Not as far as I know,” Chip replied. “I was just looking at the pictures. Are they yours?”
“Every single one of them, unless you’d like to buy one. In that case it would be yours.”
“I meant did you paint them?” Chip said self-consciously.
“Yes, I did.”
“That one of the old Baron house …” Chip began. He wasn’t sure how to put his question, so he let it drop.
“It’s two hundred dollars,” Glen said. “Including the frame.”
“Too much for me,” Chip said ruefully. “But there’s something about it. This might sound dumb, but who’s in the house?”
Glen suddenly smiled and felt some of his initial hostility drain away. “You noticed that? You’ve got a sharp eye.”
Chip ignored the compliment and repeated the question. “When I first glanced at the picture I thought I recognized the person in it, but when I looked more closely, there isn’t anybody. Only a shadow. I was just wondering who you had in mind when you put the shadow in.”
Glen looked appraisingly at Chip and wondered what had prompted the question. He remembered painting the picture several weeks earlier, remembered thinking it was almost finished when suddenly he had, almost without thinking, put the shadow in the window. After he’d done it he’d realized that it belonged there. He still wasn’t sure why.
“What makes you ask?” he countered.
Chip shrugged uncomfortably. He was making a fool of himself. “I don’t know. It’s just that I thought—well, for a second I thought it was Harn. Harney Whalen.”
Glen frowned slightly, then his expression cleared. “Well, that seems natural enough. It’s his house, isn’t it? But I didn’t have anyone in mind. I guess it’s whoever you want it to be.”
Chip shifted his weight and wondered how to come to the point of his visit—the point that Harney Whalen had ordered. He decided to stall for a while.
“Are you selling much?”
“Nothing so far. But this is the first day I’ve displayed anything and it’s still early. I should think hordes of customers will be stampeding in any minute now.”
“Not much traffic this time of year,” Chip commented. “And most people don’t stop here anyway.”
“It should pick up next month. I just thought I’d put some things out in case someone drove by. And it worked,” he said, brightening. “You stopped.”
Chip nodded and again shifted his weight. Glen was suddenly very sure that Chip had not stopped because of the pictures—there was something else. He decided to wait it out and let Chip make the first move.
“Well, if there’s nothing else I can do for you I’ll get back to work.” He turned his back on the deputy and picked up his brush, acutely aware that Chip didn’t move.
“Mr. Palmer,” Chip said, “I have to ask you some questions.”
Glen put his brush down again. “About what?”
“You were at the service for the Shellings yesterday,” Chip said.
“So?”
“I didn’t know you were that close to than.”
“I don’t think that makes any difference. Is it against the law to go to a funeral?”
“No, of course not,” Chip said hastily. “I just … Oh, shit!”
Glen Palmer’s eyes narrowed, and Chip could feel the hostility coming from them almost as if it were a physical force. “Look, Mr. Palmer, I’m only following orders. Harn asked me to come over here and talk to you, so here I am. But I’m not even sure what I should be asking you.”
“Maybe you should tell Whalen that if he wants to talk to me he should do it himself.”
“Now wait a minute,” Connor said. “If Harney Whalen wants some questions answered, it doesn’t matter if he asks them or if I ask them.” Suddenly he was angry at Palmer. “So why don’t you just tell me why you and your family were at that funeral, and we can get this over with.”
Glen felt his own anger swell. “Because there’s no reason on earth why I should,” he said. “As long as my family and I obey the law, what we do and where we go is none of your affair, none of Harney Whalen’s affair, none of Clark’s Harbor’s affair, understand?”
“I understand, Mr. Palmer,” Chip said levelly, controlling his rage. “But there are a few things you should understand. You moved here. We didn’t come to you. You don’t fit in here, and I think everyone in town, you included, knows it. Now if you want to cooperate with us, I’m sure we’ll cooperate with you. But it seems like you’ve got a bad attitude. All I did was come in to ask a few questions and you’re actin
g like you’re on trial or something!”
“How do I know I’m not?” Glen shot back. “You want to know how I feel? I feel like ever since my family and I got here we’ve been on trial for something. No, that’s wrong. We’ve been found guilty and there hasn’t even been any trial. I didn’t come here with a chip on my shoulder, Connor, but I’m sure getting one. I don’t appreciate having my wife accused of breaking up the merchandise down at Blake’s, or having my son ganged up on at school. I don’t appreciate the fact that every time I order something at the lumberyard it takes weeks to get it, and when I do get it it’s usually damaged. And I sure don’t appreciate having the police come to see me simply because I attended a memorial service for a woman who killed herself on my property! Now maybe if this town had been taking a different attitude toward me over the last few months, I might feel a little different. But frankly, Connor, unless you can give me a damned good reason why I should answer your questions, you can take your damn questions and shove them up Harney Whalen’s ass.”
Chip Connor turned a deep scarlet. His hand began clenching into a fist. Glen thought for a moment that the deputy was going to hit him, and he prepared himself to fight back. But then Connor’s hand relaxed and the blood began draining from his face. He was breathing hard, though his moment of fury had passed.
“I’m only trying to do my job,” he said softly. “If Harn asks me to do something, I do it.”
“Did he ask you to talk to everybody who was at the Shellings’ funeral?”
“No, of course not,” Chip said. “Only you.”
“Why? What am I suspected of? My God, Connor, he died in a fishing accident and she killed herself! I just can’t see why Whalen’s so interested in my motives.”
“It’s just Harney,” Connor said patiently. “You have to understand. He takes everything that happens in this town very personally. He wants to know why things happen, and the only way he can know that is by blowing everybody.”
“Then he should come and talk to me himself,” Glen insisted.
Chip Connor shook his head and wondered why Glen Palmer couldn’t seem to grasp what he was saying. He decided to try one more time. “Look, Harney doesn’t like strangers—he doesn’t like to talk to them, he doesn’t like to deal with them, he doesn’t even want to be around them. So he sent me. All he wants to know is why you were at the Shellings’ funeral. Is it really so much to ask?” He held up his hand against Glen’s imminent protest and kept talking. “And don’t start in about what right I have to ask you the questions. I’m sure I don’t have a legal leg to stand on. But please, try to remember where you are and who I am. I’m just the deputy in a small town, and I really don’t want to make any trouble for you or anybody else. Is it such a big secret, anyway?”
Glen Palmer was quiet for a minute. Finally, he decided that Chip Connor was right. He didn’t have anything to hide, and he was beginning to sound paranoid. He grinned sheepishly.
“Well, if you really want to know, it wasn’t even my idea. It was my wife’s—Rebecca’s. Ever since she saw Mrs. Shelling—you know—”
“I know,” Chip said. “I took her home, remember?”
“Yes, of course.” Glen threw him a small smile, then went on. “Well, anyway, Rebecca was very upset. She couldn’t seem to get it out of her mind. And she thought if we went to the funeral it might put an end to the whole thing for her, if you know what I mean.”
“I think so,” Chip said, nodding. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” Glen said. He chuckled softly. “I sure kicked up a hell of a fuss over nothing, didn’t I?”
“Seems like it,” Chip agreed. The two men remained silent for a while, then Chip spoke again. “Mind if I ask a question?”
“Do I have to answer it?”
“Not if you don’t want to.”
“Shoot.”
“Would you mind telling me why you kicked up such a fuss? Why don’t you try giving us a chance?”
“It seems to me the town could give us a chance too.”
“I think we are,” Connor said. “We aren’t the friendliest people in the world, but we’re not so bad either. It’s sort of a trade-off. We get used to you and you get used to us.” He turned to go. “I’d better get on down and report to Harn. But he’s never going to believe that I spent nearly an hour here and all I have to report is that you went to the service because your wife wanted to.”
“Tell him you beat the information out of me with a rubber hose,” Glen said. “Or wouldn’t he believe that either?”
“Not a chance. He always says that when they passed out the meanness in the family I was standing behind the door.”
“The family?” Glen asked. “Are you and Whalen related?”
“Sure. He’s sort of an uncle. His mother was my grandmother’s sister on my father’s side. That’s where we get our Indian blood. The sisters were half-breeds. Of course nobody would call them that now, but that’s what they were always called around here.”
“They must have had it rough,” Glen commented.
“I imagine they did,” Chip mused. “For that matter, I guess it wasn’t always easy for Harney, either. You see? You and your family aren’t the only ones who have it rough around here.”
They walked to the front of the gallery together. Outside, Chip paused once more to look at the painting.
“I like the picture, but I sure wouldn’t want to live in that house,” he said.
“Don’t tell me it’s haunted,” Glen laughed.
“No, it’s broken-down,” Chip replied. “Are those people really going to live out there?”
“The Randalls? They sure are. He’s going to write a book, and we’re looking forward to having some neighbors. We won’t be the only strangers in town for a change.”
Chip got into his car, slammed the door, and rolled the window down. He stack his hand out the open window.
“Well, good luck. Frankly, I don’t think you’re ever going to make a nickel on your gallery, but I hope I’m wrong. I think you made a big mistake in choosing Clark’s Harbor to try something like this.”
“Well, we didn’t really have much choice in the matter,” Glen said, taking Chip’s hand and shaking it firmly. “Sorry I gave you such a rough time.”
“If it’s the worst time we ever have we’re both in good shape,” Chip replied. Then he started the engine and a moment later pulled onto the highway, made a neat U-turn, and headed for town. Glen watched until he’d disappeared, then went back into the gallery.
As he continued staining the display case he’d been working on, he thought over the conversation with Connor and decided that maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe he was paranoid and the town wasn’t really out to get him. But then Miriam Shelling’s words came back to him, ringing in his ears.
“They’re going to get you! Just like they got Pete.… They’ll get you too!”
14
The folder on the deaths of Pete and Miriam Shelling lay open on the desk in front of him, but Harney Whalen wasn’t reading. By now he knew the contents of the folder—could repeat them verbatim, if necessary. Still, none of it made sense. Despite Miriam’s insistence to the contrary, Whalen was still sure Pete’s death had been an accident. But Miriam Shelling’s was something else.
Somebody strangled her.
The words crawled up from the depths of Whalen’s mind, tormenting his sense of order. Suicide fit for Miriam Shelling; murder didn’t. Even so, those three words kept coming to him. Somebody strangled her. But Whalen could find no reasonable motive for someone to want to kill Miriam Shelling. So he went back once more, as he had periodically over the last several days, to considering unreasonable motives. And, as always, the name Glen Palmer popped into his head.
He glanced at the clock, then at his watch, annoyed that Chip Connor had not yet come in this morning. He was about to phone him when Chip suddenly appeared in the doorway.
“You keep banking hours?” Harney growled.
/>
“Sorry,” Chip said quickly. Something was eating at Whalen this morning. “Talking to Palmer took longer than I expected.”
Whalen’s brows rose skeptically. “I thought you were going to take care of that yesterday.”
“I tried,” Chip explained. “But the gallery was closed, and when I drove out to the Palmers’ nobody was home.” Chip excused himself for the small lie: after all, there was a good possibility the Palmers hadn’t been home the previous afternoon. Whalen seemed satisfied. He looked at Chip expectantly.
“You want to tell me what you found out?”
“Not much of anything. His wife wanted to go to the funeral, so they went. That’s all there was to it.”
Whalen stared at Chip. “How long did you talk to him?”
“An hour, maybe a little longer,” Chip said uncomfortably.
“And all you found out was that his wife wanted to go to the funeral, so they went?” Whalen’s voice dripped sarcasm and Chip winced.
“I found out some other things, too, but they don’t have anything to do with the funeral.” He decided to try to shift the conversation a little. “Frankly, Harn, I don’t see what’s so important about that funeral. Why are you so concerned about who was there?”
“Because I don’t think Miriam Shelling committed suicide,” Whalen said flatly. Chip gaped at him, and Whalen grinned, pleased that he had disturbed his deputy’s normal calm.
“I don’t understand—” Chip began, then fell silent as Whalen made an impatient gesture.
“There’s nothing to understand,” the chief snapped. “It’s nothing but a hunch. But over the years I’ve learned to pay attention to my hunches, and right now my hunch tells me that there’s more to Miriam Shelling’s death than a simple suicide.”
“And you think Glen Palmer had something to do with it?”
Whalen leaned back in his chair and swiveled it around to gaze out the window as he talked. “When you live in a town all your life you get so you know the people. You know what they’ll do and what they won’t do. As far as I know, nobody in town would kill Miriam Shelling. So it has to be a stranger. Palmer’s a stranger.”