As she got into the station wagon, Alix realized her headache was gone. It had been more from tension than from anything else-a tension that probably stemmed from too much worry and introspection. Inconsequential chatter-and even gossip-over coffee had proved good for her, and she resolved to call Cassie soon and reemphasize her invitation to visit the lighthouse.
Alix
She lifted her sopping laundry from the washing machine and dropped it into the wire cart, then pushed it toward the dryer and began unloading. The Hilliard Launderette was completely deserted. Two of the other dryers were in operation, wisking a bright assortment of clothing round and round, but the owner of that laundry was mercifully absent. Alix was grateful for the solitude, glad there were no villagers to cast curious glances at her, the stranger from California.
She set the dryer in motion and sat down with the paperback novel she’d brought along. It was one of those thick imperiled-children sagas that were so much in vogue, and had begun to bore her after the first chapter. Now she set it aside and merely sat, watching the clothes whirl hypnotically, still feeling warmed by her visit with Cassie Lang.
The visit had brought a sense of normalcy into her day; it was much the same sort of thing she would have done at home. There she often met with other free-lancers for morning coffee; at noon there were luncheons with clients; and in late afternoon it was not uncommon for someone to stop by for a glass of wine. Perhaps a friendship with Cassie would provide a needed balance to her life here in Hilliard…
The door opened, letting in a gust of cold air, and Alix glanced up. Della Barnett came in and walked to one of the still-turning machines. The woman wore the same soiled quilted coat she’d had on in the store the week before, and her hair, if possible, looked even more greasy and stringy. An auburn-haired teenaged girl in a bold-figured blue-and-white poncho and jeans followed behind her, Alix recognized her as the one she’d seen smoking grass on the road to the lighthouse that first morning they’d driven into Hilliard. Della’s daughter? The girl was attractive; when she shed the last of her baby fat, she might even be pretty. Hard to believe Della and Hod Barnett could have produced her.
The girl saw Alix and her blue eyes registered recognition. She glanced at Della, then looked back at Alix. Fear molded her expression briefly; then it modulated into a look of defiance and challenge that seemed to say, “I don’t care if you know I was smoking dope that day. Go ahead and tell my mother if you want to. I’ll just call you a liar.”
Della had opened the dryer door, she felt the laundry inside, then shut the door again and went to sit on one of the chairs at the end of the row. The girl wandered around the room, being very casual and aloof and humming a rock tune under her breath. Every now and then she would glance slyly at Alix. Della sat staring straight ahead, puffing on a filter-tipped cigarette; Alix might not have been there, as far as she was concerned.
After a minute or so Della said in an irritated Southern twang, “Mandy, for heaven’s sake sit down. You’re making me nervous.”
The girl sighed elaborately but went to sit beside her mother. “Isn’t it time for that stuff to be dry?”
“Soon.”
“Why does the damn dryer always have to take so long?”
“Don’t swear. You know I don’t like that.”
“Oh, all right.” Mandy sat fidgeting for half a minute; then she was on her feet again. “I’m going to the store for a Coke.”
“No you’re not,” Della said. “We can’t afford for you to be buying Cokes all the time.”
“Oh, Mom… ”
“No Coke.”
Mandy stamped her foot in a little-girl gesture. Her Indian headband had a cluster of bead-tipped leather thongs at the back and they clicked together with the movement. When her mother merely looked at her, unperturbed by her little tantrum, she glared back and then began pacing as before. And casting the same sly looks at Alix as before.
Alix managed to absorb herself in part of a chapter. Then she realized Mandy had come over near where she was sitting; she looked up, saw the girl watching her.
“You’re the lady from the lighthouse,” Mandy said.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“You going to live out there long?”
“For the next year.”
“That long? I sure don’t envy you.”
“No? Why not?”
Della had got up and was at her dryer again. “Mandy,” she said, “stop bothering the lady and get over here and help me. Laundry’s dry now.”
The girl went reluctantly, began stuffing clothing into pillow cases her mother held open. When they were finished, Della started away with the two heavy cases; Mandy stopped her and relieved her of both, saying, “No, Mom, let me take them. You’ll hurt your back again.”
Not a bad kid underneath it all, Alix thought. At least she looks out for her mother.
Della went out. Mandy followed, but paused in the open doorway and said over her shoulder to Alix, “I don’t envy you for a lot of reasons. I wouldn’t want to be married to a dog murderer.”
“A what? ”
“A dog murderer. After last night, you people aren’t going to be-”
“Mandy!” Della called from outside.
The girl shrugged and was gone without another word.
Alix sat openmouthed. By the time she had recovered from her surprise and hurried outside, they were pulling away in an old Nash Rambler, Della at the wheel. Neither mother nor daughter looked back.
Feeling a little stunned, Alix went back inside the launderette. Dog murderer. What did that mean? It hadn’t sounded like a joke or some sly teenager’s game; Mandy had been serious. Something must have happened last night, something involving Jan and a dog… Mitch Novotny’s dog?
Oh God, she thought.
She caught up her pea jacket from where it lay on one of the chairs, shrugged into it, grabbed her purse. Ignoring her laundry, she hurried out again into the wind-chilled street. The Hilliard General Store was opposite the launderette on a slight diagonal; according to Cassie, if anyone would know exactly what had happened last night, it would be Lillian Hilliard.
Alix barely noticed the rush of warm air and homey smells that greeted her when she stepped inside. Mrs. Hilliard was in her accustomed place behind the grocery counter; opposite her stood a tall, thin man in a brown overcoat and a short, wiry man in workclothes. They had been talking, but they all stopped when they saw her. Both men gave her their full attention-more attention than anyone in the village except Cassie Lang and Mandy had displayed thus far.
Alix stopped a few feet away, near the post-office cubicle. For a time none of them moved; the silence that followed the tinkling of the entrance bell struck her as heavy and a little tense. The short man was the first to move and speak; he swung around to face Lillian Hilliard again and said, “So what should I do about the shelves?”
“Well, Adam, if you can’t fit six in, I’ll have to settle for five.”
Adam was holding a hammer in his right hand; now he began to slap it against the opposite palm, shifting his weight as he did so from his left foot to his right, his right foot to his left. He had longish blond hair and a wispy mustache, and was wearing a toolbelt around his waist. “I didn’t say I couldn’t fit six. I just meant I’ll have to do ’em closer together.”
“Won’t do. They have to hold tall packages.”
“Okay, then. Five it is.” He started toward the back of the store in a peculiar hopping gait. When he reached the end of the canned-food aisle he turned, gave Alix another long speculative look.
The tall man pulled a knitted cap from the pocket of his overcoat and put it on over his pale thinning hair. Still
