hanging barely within their vision.
“Mr. Whalen?” Brad said softly. There was no response from the police chief. “Mr. Whalen?” Brad repeated, louder this time. Whalen swung slowly around to look at them, his hands clenched into fists, the knuckles white with apparent strain.
“Are you all right?” Elaine asked. Whalen nodded curtly.
“We want the house,” Brad said.
“No, you don’t And it doesn’t matter anyhow, ‘cause I won’t sell it.”
There was an intensity in his voice that Elaine found disturbing. But Brad ignored it. “We want to lease it,” he said.
Whalen seemed to turn the matter over in his mind, then slowly unclenched his fist and put a hand inside his jacket.
“This is the lease. Take it or leave it.”
Brad glanced at the lease, noting the rent — two hundred dollars a month — and ignoring most of the body of the agreement. It was a standard form, already filled out. Elaine handed him a pen and he quickly signed both copies, returning one to Whalen, keeping the other. Whalen took the signed lease disinterestedly, replaced it in his inner pocket, then suddenly pointed north. “See that cabin up there? Almost hidden in the trees? Those are your nearest neighbors. The Palmers.” He stared at the distant cabin for a long time, then turned back to the Randalls. “The Palmers are strangers here too,” he said darkly. Then he stalked off toward the woods.
Brad and Elaine watched him go, then started back south toward the Harbor and the inn.
“You know something?” Brad said after a long silence. “I’m not sure he even knows we leased the place. It was like he was in some kind of a trance.”
Elaine nodded thoughtfully. “That was the impression I got too. Well, it’s too late now. He signed it The place is ours.”
She turned back for a final look at the old house. For an instant she thought she saw something at the window — a face, but not really a face. More like a shadow.
She decided she was imagining things.
9
The dining room of the Harbor Inn was quiet that evening; Brad and Elaine Randall dined in isolation. The same small card sat on their table that had been there the previous evening, but there seemed to be no reason for its presence — only one other table was filled. The rest, set and waiting, remained deserted. A few people sat at the bar, but their conversation was minimal, and what there was, was whispered in low tones impossible to overhear.
“If you stretch your ear any further, you’ll fall off your chair,” Elaine finally said. Neither of them had spoken for minutes. It was as though the Randalls had almost unconsciously matched the silence that shrouded the room. Now her words seemed to bounce off the walls, and Elaine glanced around to see if anyone had overheard her. Apparently no one had — the other table of diners appeared to be engrossed in their steamed crab, the drinkers continued to stare morosely into their glasses.
“I can’t figure it out,” Brad said as he surveyed the quiet room. “I’d have expected the place to be full tonight, alive with people gossiping about — what was her name?”
“Miriam Shelling,” Elaine supplied.
“Mrs. Shelling, yes. But from what little I’ve been able to hear, no one seems the least bit interested in her or what happened to her.”
Just then Merle Glind bustled up to them, recommending the blueberry pie for dessert. Brad declined, but while Elaine struggled with herself, torn between her weight and her desires, he decided to pump the little hotel proprietor.
“Kind of quiet in here tonight, isn’t it?”
Glind’s head moved spasmodically and he took a quick inventory of the room, his expression testifying to a sudden fear that something must have gone wrong. When nothing looked amiss he turned back to Brad.
“About the same as usual,” he said nervously. “About the same as usual.”
“I’d have thought you’d have a good crowd tonight, all things considered,” Brad ventured carefully.
“All things considered?” the little man repeated. “All what things?”
“Well, it just seems to me that people would be wanting to talk tonight.”
“What about?” Glind asked blankly.
“Mrs. Shelling?” Brad suggested. “I mean, isn’t it a little unusual to have a woman commit suicide here?”
“Why, I don’t know,” Glind said vaguely, appearing to turn the matter over in his mind. “But now that you mention it, I suppose it is.” There was a long pause, then Glind spoke again. “Not that it’s any of our concern, of course.”
Elaine frowned slightly and gazed at the strange man. “I should think it would be everyone’s concern,” she said softly. “I always thought that in towns like this everyone looked after everyone else.”
“We do,” Glind replied. “But the Shellings weren’t really part of the town.”
“I thought they lived here.” Brad’s voice was flat, as if he were merely prompting a statement he knew was inevitable.
“Oh, they lived here, but they were newcomers. They didn’t really belong.”
“Newcomers? How long had they lived here?”
Glind shrugged as if it was of no consequence. “Fifteen, twenty years. Not long.” The Randalls gazed at each other across the table, silently exchanging a thought.
“What about that pie? I guarantee it myself!”
Elaine jumped a little, as if she had been lost somewhere, and without thinking she accepted Glind’s offer. He scurried away. When they were alone Brad and Elaine smiled weakly at each other.
“Fifteen or twenty years,” Elaine said wryly. “Somehow I’d been thinking in terms of a couple of lonely months and then the Welcome Wagon suddenly appearing.”
“Look at it this way: what would you have in common with most of these people anyway? We’ve always been pretty self-sufficient—”
“Pretty self-sufficient is one thing,” Elaine interrupted. “Being pariahs is absolutely another.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” Brad reassured her as the pie arrived. “Somewhere in Clark’s Harbor there’s got to be someone who’ll welcome us. It’s just a matter of finding them.”
Elaine bit into the pie and was pleased to find that it met her expectations. Then a thought hit her. “The Palmers!” she exclaimed.
Brad understood at once. “Of course,” he said, smiling. Then he dropped his voice a little in a surprisingly good imitation of Harney Whalen’s morbid bass tones. “They’re strangers here, you know!”
Elaine laughed and eagerly finished her pie.
“It doesn’t concern us!” Glen Palmer said for the fourth time. He tried to smile, but the hollow, sunken look in his wife’s eyes frightened him.
“How can you say that?” Rebecca shot back. “She was found on our land, Glen.” When he didn’t respond she pressed harder. “That clearing
“Yes, I suppose it is,” Glen admitted reluctantly. “But it still doesn’t concern us.”
“What about the children? Suppose they’d been the ones to find her, Glen. Just suppose that on their way to school Robby and Missy had decided to cut through the woods and found her?”
She could see that her point was being lost on her husband and she searched desperately for a way to make him understand.
“You can’t imagine what it was like,” she went on limply. “You just can’t imagine it.” She was about to describe the grisly scene for him once more when she heard the children coming in.
