worn spots on the black-and-white linoleum floor were sharply visible. Each potato in the big bushel basket near the door seemed to have a uniquely individuated shape. It was only when she moved her eyes to the staring faces of two elderly women at the counter, and then to the impassive countenance of Lillian Hilliard, that she noticed the silence.
It hung heavy, tangible, like that following a sudden explosion. The three women’s immobility complemented it; they stood frozen, their shabby monochromatic clothing and faded hair reminding Alix of an old photograph. For a moment she froze too, her hand still on the door. Then she let go and it closed with a bang that shattered the stillness and prodded the women into jerky motion. Lillian Hilliard pushed a button on the cash register and counted change into the outstretched palm of the heaviest of the elderly women. The thinner one gathered up two grocery bags, glancing furtively at Alix as she did so. When her companion had placed a handful of dollar bills inside her purse, she picked up the third sack. Then, with another sly glance, their seamed mouths slightly agape, they bustled from the store.
Alix watched with a curious detachment, one that also permitted her to see herself as she stood there: a slender young woman in a pea jacket, knit cap pulled down over her hair, body held straight and steady, face as blank and calm as that of the storekeeper. She nodded at Mrs. Hilliard, felt a grim pleasure when the older woman’s gaze shifted toward the window.
She took a basket and started down one of the aisles. The entire time she was filling it she was aware of an undercurrent of activity in front. Lillian Hilliard moving on her stool, casting quick glances Alix’s way. The bell over the door jangling, customers coming in, greeting the storekeeper. Mrs. Hilliard answering in low tones and the voices of the customers lowering to match it. None of those who came in stayed more than a minute, as if they couldn’t bring themselves to do their shopping in the presence of the outsider.
At last her basket was full. She took it to the counter, set it down, and watched Lillian Hilliard reach for it with motions that were brusque, uncourteous. Alix thought she detected a glint of malice in the woman’s previously bland eyes, felt a strong stirring of dislike. And out of some perverse desire to annoy the storekeeper, she said, “How are you today, Mrs. Hilliard?”
Without looking up Lillian Hilliard said, “As well as I deserve to be,” and went on ringing up the groceries as if there had been no interruption.
Alix watched the woman’s stubby fingers as they moved over the cash register keys, mentally calculating along with the machine. Coffee, $4.55-higher than at home. Chicken breasts, $1.79 a pound-about the same. Soup mix, 89?. The lettuce didn’t look very good, not at 59? a head. And the cheese… hadn’t Jan said there was a good cheese factory in Bandon?
Mrs. Hilliard finished and silently handed Alix the register receipt. While she put the groceries in bags, Alix studied the column of figures. The coffee was the third item, after the laundry soap and box of kitchen matches-she was sure she had remembered the order correctly-but the price was $5.55, a dollar higher than the one stamped on the can. The price of the soup mix had been entered as $1.89. At least half of the other items were higher, too. All in all, the bill had been padded by more than twenty percent.
“Something wrong?” Mrs. Hilliard. asked. She had bagged the last of the groceries and was watching Alix with a faint smile tugging at the edges of her mouth.
Alix didn’t answer immediately; she was afraid the anger building in her might make her voice shake or crack. She drew a deep breath before she said, “Yes, something’s wrong.”
“Well?”
“These prices… they’re too high.”
Lillian Hilliard shrugged. “This is a small store, a small town. Prices are bound to be high. We can’t give you the kind of deals your big-city California stores do.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.” Alix held out the receipt. “I’m not stupid, Mrs. Hilliard-I know what your prices are and I remember the order you rang things up in. ”
“You don’t like what I charge, you can shop someplace else.”
“I don’t like being cheated-”
“Lord knows I don’t want your kind in here anyway.”
“I said I don’t like being cheated. Do you pad all your customers’ bills, or only those of outsiders like my husband and me?”
“Now hold on a minute-”
“No, you hold on a minute! I didn’t say anything before when you were unfriendly to us. Or later, when you made accusations against my husband without bothering to listen to his side of the story. But when it comes to outright dishonesty-”
“What I do ain’t nothing compared to murder.”
“Murder?” Alix stared at her. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you know?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Lots of murderers down in California,” Lillian Hilliard said. “All kinds of crazies running around loose. Pick up the paper and read about it every day. One could be living right next door to you and you’d never know it until he gets caught. One could even be living in your house, maybe.”
The full implication of the woman’s words registered. Alix’s first reaction was shock. Then her anger flared, turned to rage coupled with a fierce defensiveness. Her fingers bit into her palms as she struggled to calm herself.
“Are you trying to say my husband had something to do with that girl’s murder the other night?”
“If I am, I’m not the only one.”
“Damn you, I-”
“Don’t you curse me in my own store.”
Alix could no longer control her rising fury. She said, “You’re a disgusting woman, Lillian Hilliard. Your mind is small and your morals even smaller. I wouldn’t have anything you’ve touched in my house!” And she grabbed the nearest bag of groceries, shoved it violently across the counter.
The storekeeper almost fell backward off her stool as she clutched at the bag. It slipped through her hands, crashed to the floor. Alix shoved the other two bags after it and then turned toward the door. Lillian Hilliard shouted after her, angry words that she didn’t listen to and that she cut off by slamming the door.
She was at the car, fumbling in her purse for her keys, when she became aware of a man coming toward her. It was the wiry little workman who had been installing shelves in the store several days before-Adam something. This morning he was wearing a red headband to hold back his longish blond hair, and there was a smile on his sharp-featured face that did not reach his eyes.
“Morning, Mrs. Ryerson.”
I don’t know you, she thought. I don’t want to know you. She gave him a vague smile and continued to rummage in her purse for her keys.
The man was not put off by her silence. He maneuvered between her and the door of the station wagon, directly in her path. His grin was broader now, showing yellowed teeth, a chipped incisor.
Alix faced him in annoyance. “Is there something I can do for you?” she asked.
“Why, I’m just being neighborly, Mrs. Ryerson. My name’s Adam Reese.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Reese, but I really have to be going.” She tried to edge around him, but he bounced over to block her again.
“This is a real neighborly town,” he said, still smiling. “Just thought I’d stop and ask how everything’s going out there on the cape.”
“Everything is fine.”
“Sure about that?”
“Just what is it you want, Mr. Reese?”
Reese kept smiling, but it was a smile that meant nothing-a mere reflexive stretching of mouth and facial skin. “Now, Mrs. Ryerson, like I said, I was just being neighborly-”
“Is that what you call it?”
“Sure thing. It’s just that out there at the light, you’re pretty isolated. Things can happen to people who live in lonely places like that.”
She could feel her rage rekindling. “Things such as somebody shooting at our car in the middle of the
