“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
“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?”
