think they're gonna blame? Gildersleeve? Griffing? The killer? No. It's me they're gonna blame.' Hallock picked up the second half of his egg-salad sandwich and took a bite, mayonnaise streaking his lips.
Fran handed him a napkin. 'You got a plan?'
'Nope, no plan. Only thing I know now is I got to spend more time on the job.'
These were not the words Fran longed to hear. As it was, she hardly ever saw him. Even Sundays were messed up when something big was going on. Still, this was no time to nag him about staying home with her and the kids more. Anyway, she knew he would if he could. Waldo Hallock loved his family. 'You've got to do what you think's best.'
'Don't wanna lose my job,' he said solemnly.
She tented her hands beneath her chin. 'Carl can't do much without the Board, Waldo. And I can't believe anybody'd criticize you for not nailing this thing down right off. People know you've been a good police chief, and honest as the day is long.'
'My honesty isn't at stake here, Fran.'
'Well, you know what I mean. People love you in this town.'
'People might love me, but if they're afraid for their lives they're gonna view me differently.'
'How can Carl, or anyone else, expect you to solve a murder in a minute when you don't have experience with that kind of thing?' she said angrily.
'Ah, Fran, you just don't get it.' He wiped his mouth and crushed the napkin into a ball, dropped it on the table.
'Sorry about that,' she said sharply.
Hallock saw that her eyes were the color of cobalt: she was hurt. He walked around the table and knelt in front of her. 'Listen, Fran, I don't mean to be impatient, but I don't think you're understanding the situation here. Nobody gives a rat's ass whether I got experience or not. All anybody wants is for their chief of police to keep them safe. And they got a right to expect that.'
'I know. You're right. I just get like a mother bear with her cub when you get attacked.'
'Some cub.'
She laughed. He stood, pulled her up with him.
'I wish I could help,' she said.
He wanted to tell her the best way she could help now was to not do anything conspicuous, anything that might reflect on him.
'You're thinking about Shoreham, aren't you?'
'Kind of. How'd you know?'
She shook her head. 'Waldo, after all these years how can you ask me that? Don't you think I know you?'
'I guess.'
'You guess! You know it. Well, what about Shoreham?'
'I wasn't really thinking about that. Just…'
'Just that you hope I'll behave myself and not go marching or writing letters or anything else right now.'
He nodded.
'Well, don't worry, hon'. The only thing I've got scheduled for the next two weeks is collecting clothes for the poor and a very quiet NOW meeting.'
'Good. I have to be getting back.' He put a big hand on either shoulder. 'I'll probably be late tonight. You and the kids better eat without me.'
She walked him to the door. 'I'm just making meatloaf. You can have a sandwich when you get home.'
He loved meatloaf sandwiches with plenty of ketchup. 'Sounds good.' Hallock kissed her forehead, then her lips. It started out friendly, then developed into something more.
'Wish you didn't have to go back,' she said, smiling.
'Me, too.'
'It's been a long time since we had a matinee.'
He laughed. 'A matinee? Where'd you get that?'
'I don't know. Read it, I guess.'
'A matinee,' he said again, shaking his head. 'How about a late show?'
'Okay with me.'
He kissed her again, then hurried down the front steps.
She called, 'Was that a real invitation?'
''Course it was.'
'Okay, then.'
He opened the door to the cruiser. 'Okay, what?'
She looked up and down the street, thinking of the neighbors, then stepped back into the doorway, gave a little bump and grind, and shut the door.
Hallock sat in the car laughing. He was pleased Fran wasn't going to be doing anything public or all-consuming for awhile. He needed her. And when she got deeply involved in one of her causes, she vanished emotionally. And that was especially hard on him because it reminded him of his mother. Marion Hallock had always been distant, like a governess, not a mother.
Well, hell, he didn't want to start thinking about his mother now. He started the car and backed out of the driveway. He couldn't think about his mother or Fran. He had to get his mind on this case. First thing he had to do was see Mark Griffing and make him understand that he had to downplay the murders. Fat chance.
LOOKING BACK-50 YEARS AGO
A certain young local businessman hates to get up in the morning and go down to his store. How he does love his sleep. His friends claim he sleeps better in the morning after the sun comes up. One morning this week it was about 10 o'clock when he reached his store. Hanging on the door was a large wreath made of yellow crepe paper, seaweed, and onion tops, with the words: 'Not dead but sleeping.' He tore the wreath off the door and threw it in the gutter, then saw a number of his friends laughing heartily across the street. In a moment he joined in the merriment, saying: 'Well, the joke's on me.'
TWELVE
Colin had decided to wait until after lunch to tackle the story. Now it was after lunch. The story was no closer to being written than it was before lunch. He lit a cigarette. It was his second pack of the day. Mark had told him he wanted the story by three. The clock said ten after one. There was plenty of time. Plenty of time, if he could write it at all.
For the third time that day he considered telling Mark he couldn't write stories about murder-they made him sick. But would he understand? Or would that get Mark thinking, wondering if there was more to it than just a man losing his wife and children through murder, wondering if maybe Colin had done it after all. And why not? He was sure even his mother had had a moment. The year that he'd spent with her, he'd caught her looking at him a number of times, a strange expression on her face. He'd interpreted that look to mean that she was wondering had he or hadn't he? She'd never asked of course. Not Betsy Maguire. No, she'd most likely go to confession and tell the priest she'd had unkind thoughts about her youngest son, then say a bunch of Hail Marys and maybe the Act of Contrition. One time when he'd caught her looking at him that way he asked what she'd been thinking.
Disconcerted, she said, 'Just how much you look like your father.'
He knew it was a lie but he'd let it ride.
Christ. This wasn't getting him anywhere. Either he was going to write the goddamn story or he was going to tell Mark he couldn't do it. But if he begged off, it might make Mark think he had something to do with the murders here. No, Mark would never think that. Colin knew what he had to do was detach himself, the way he'd been taught,
