19
“How much farther?” Elaine asked.
“Five miles? Ten? Something like that,” Brad answered. “Please note that it isn’t raining.”
“Noted,” Elaine said. By rights they should have run into the storm that had battered Clark’s Harbor the night before, and Elaine had made a bet with Brad that they would make the entire drive out to Clark’s Harbor in a downpour. But as they swung around Olympia and started west, they encountered nothing but clear skies, and for the last two hours they had been enjoying the warmth of a spring sun. A ground layer of mist lay in the valleys, intertwined with the ferns and salal that blanketed the area in a spectrum of greens, broken by the brown trunks of the giant cedars and the silvery whiteness of budding aspens. Here and there a rhododendron was bursting with color, the sunlight flashing in the raindrops caught in its petals.
“You want to pay off now or wait till we get there?”
“I’ll wait,” Elaine said complacently. “You never know when it might cloud up. If there’s even a drop of rain while we’re unloading, I win.”
Brad glanced up at the clear blue sky, and grinned. “I can’t lose.” He glanced in the rearview mirror, as he had every few minutes for the last three and a half hours, checking to make sure the truck was still following behind them. “I can’t believe how much stuff they jam in those trucks,” he commented.
“I can’t believe how much stuff we’re dragging with us,” Elaine replied archly. “The house out here
Brad shrugged indifferently but couldn’t keep himself from flushing slightly. As the movers had begun loading Brad had begun adding things to the load. His desk and chair had been first, followed by an ancient leather- upholstered club chair that Elaine had claimed would fit in perfectly since it was nearly as dilapidated as the furniture already in the house on Sod Beach.
When he had started to add the television and stereo console, Elaine had drawn the line, reminding him that there was no electricity in their new home.
Finally they had been ready to go; the truck was almost full and the storage room in the basement almost empty. But, as Brad kept insisting, at least they were getting their money’s worth out of the truck.
They swung around a bend in the road. They were almost in Clark’s Harbor. Ahead of them they could see the intersection with Harbor Road and, just beyond, Glen Palmer’s gallery.
“Are we stopping at the gallery?” Elaine asked as Brad began slowing the car.
“I thought I’d stop off at the police station first and pick up the key,” Brad replied. “Then you can ride on out to the house in the truck and supervise the unloading while I talk to Glen.”
“The hell you will,” Elaine protested. “If you think I’m going to try to get all that junk into the house by myself, you’re crazy! Besides, I want to see Glen too!”
“All right, all right,” Brad said. He completed the turn and they started down the gentle incline into the village. “Well, whatever’s going on, it certainly looks peaceful enough.”
Elaine couldn’t disagree; Clark’s Harbor, basking in the sunlight, lay clustered peacefully around the harbor, its brightly painted buildings sparkling against the backdrop of blue sky and water. Once again Elaine was reminded of a New England fishing village, an image enhanced by the small fleet that was neatly moored at the wharf.
They pulled up in front of the police station and Brad told the truck driver to find someplace to park the truck for a few minutes without blocking traffic. Then he and Elaine went inside.
They found Harney Whalen in his office talking on the telephone. He looked up, stared at them in apparent surprise, then returned to his telephone call. Elaine lit a cigarette and occupied herself by peering uncomfortably out the window. But Brad made no attempt to conceal the fact that he was listening to Whalen’s end of the conversation.
“I’m telling you,” Whalen was saying, “there isn’t any point in your coming up here. It was an accident, nothing more. There’s nothing to investigate. Not even a trace of wreckage has washed up. Only the body.”
He listened then, his eyes on the ceiling, almost closed, as if whatever he was hearing was hardly worth listening to.
“Listen,” he said finally, apparently interrupting whoever was on the other end of the line. “I looked the body over, and Doc Phelps looked the body over. Now, I’m no expert, but Phelps is. And we both agree the guy drowned. Looks like the guy went overboard when the boat cracked up. Hell, nobody can last long in the water this time of year.”
He seemed about to say more but fell silent again, and Brad assumed that whoever he was talking to was objecting to something Whalen had said.
“Well, anyway, I’m gonna ship the body up to Port Angeles tomorrow. The guy’s brother’s hanging around getting on everyone’s nerves, and I’ve just about had it with the whole thing. So if you want to do anything — look at the body or something — you’d better do it today.”
Just then the door to the police station opened and a young man Brad didn’t recognize came in. Whoever he was, he was not a native of Clark’s Harbor. He seemed very upset — his face was flushed and his eyes flashed with anger. He glanced at Brad and Elaine, then turned his attention to the police chief, who was still on the phone. As he listened, Harney Whalen watched the young man pace the small room impatiently. In his mind Brad put it all together and decided this was the brother of the dead man, and that he had stumbled into the “something horrible” Glen Palmer had been talking about on the phone that morning.
“All right, all right,” Whalen said at last. “I’ll wait till you get here.” He slammed the receiver down and stared balefully at the young man.
“What is it now, Horton?” he said levelly.
Jeff Horton stopped pacing and stood squarely in front of Whalen’s desk, glaring at the police chief.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” he demanded.
“I think I’m the police chief here,” Whalen said easily, enjoying the young man’s discomfiture. “What of it?”
“That gives you the right to decide what’s to be done with my brother’s body?”
“You heard?”
“I heard. And I’d like to know why you didn’t tell me you were releasing it. I can get it home myself.”
“Fine,” Whalen replied, getting to his feet. “I just thought I’d save you the trouble.”
“Save me the trouble!” Jeff exclaimed. His face turned scarlet and his fists began working spasmodically. “I don’t need anybody to save me any trouble. I need someone to help me find out what happened to Max.” Then, as suddenly as his face had turned scarlet, it drained of color and became an ashen gray. Brad stood up and moved to the young man’s side.
“Sit down,” he said gently but firmly. When Jeff started to resist, Brad took his arm. “If you don’t sit down, you’re going to pass out,” he said. He pushed Jeff into the chair he had just vacated and made him put his head between his knees. “If you start feeling like you’re going to be sick, lie down on the floor. You’ll feel foolish but it’s better than throwing up. Now breathe deeply.”
Brad turned his attention to Whalen. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“It’s between him and me,” Whalen declared. “It doesn’t have anything to do with you.”
“I’m a doctor and this fellow’s not in the best shape. I’m just wondering why.”
“And I’m telling you it’s none of your concern,” Whalen snapped.
“Whose concern should it be?” Jeff said, sitting up again. He looked at Brad. “Who are you?”
“Brad Randall,” Brad said, extending his right hand. “I’m a doctor from Seattle. I take it it’s your brother who died?”
Jeff nodded. “This guy keeps claiming it was an accident but I don’t believe it. And now he’s made plans to ship Max home and he didn’t even tell me about it.”
“Max, I assume, is your brother. Mind telling me your name?”
“Jeff. Jeff Horton.”
“Fine, Jeff. Now, what happened?”
But before Jeff could tell him, Harney Whalen interrupted. “This your office all of a sudden, Dr. Randall?” he said unpleasantly. “ ’Cause you’re sure acting like it is.”
