Bill Pronzini - The Lighthouse

Della had opened the dryer door, she felt the laundry inside, then shut the door again and went to sit on one of the chairs at the end of the row. The girl wandered around the room, being very casual and aloof and humming a rock tune under her breath. Every now and then she would glance slyly at Alix. Della sat staring straight ahead, puffing on a filter-tipped cigarette; Alix might not have been there, as far as she was concerned.

After a minute or so Della said in an irritated Southern twang, “Mandy, for heaven’s sake sit down. You’re making me nervous.”

The girl sighed elaborately but went to sit beside her mother. “Isn’t it time for that stuff to be dry?”

“Soon.”

“Why does the damn dryer always have to take so long?”

“Don’t swear. You know I don’t like that.”

“Oh, all right.” Mandy sat fidgeting for half a minute; then she was on her feet again. “I’m going to the store for a Coke.”

“No you’re not,” Della said. “We can’t afford for you to be buying Cokes all the time.”

“Oh, Mom…”

“No Coke.”

Mandy stamped her foot in a little-girl gesture. Her Indian headband had a cluster of bead-tipped leather thongs at the back and they clicked together with the movement. When her mother merely looked at her, unperturbed by her little tantrum, she glared back and then began pacing as before. And casting the same sly looks at Alix as before.

Alix managed to absorb herself in part of a chapter. Then she realized Mandy had come over near where she was sitting; she looked up, saw the girl watching her.

“You’re the lady from the lighthouse,” Mandy said.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“You going to live out there long?”

“For the next year.”

“That long? I sure don’t envy you.”

“No? Why not?”

Della had got up and was at her dryer again. “Mandy,” she said, “stop bothering the lady and get over here and help me. Laundry’s dry now.”

The girl went reluctantly, began stuffing clothing into pillow cases her mother held open. When they were finished, Della started away with the two heavy cases; Mandy stopped her and relieved her of both, saying, “No, Mom, let me take them. You’ll hurt your back again.”

Not a bad kid underneath it all, Alix thought. At least she looks out for her mother.

Della went out. Mandy followed, but paused in the open doorway and said over her shoulder to Alix, “I don’t envy you for a lot of reasons. I wouldn’t want to be married to a dog murderer.”

“A what? ”

“A dog murderer. After last night, you people aren’t going to be—”

“Mandy!” Della called from outside.

The girl shrugged and was gone without another word.

Alix sat openmouthed. By the time she had recovered from her surprise and hurried outside, they were pulling away in an old Nash Rambler, Della at the wheel. Neither mother nor daughter looked back.

Feeling a little stunned, Alix went back inside the launderette. Dog murderer. What did that mean? It hadn’t sounded like a joke or some sly teenager’s game; Mandy had been serious. Something must have happened last night, something involving Jan and a dog… Mitch Novotny’s dog?

Oh God, she thought.

She caught up her pea jacket from where it lay on one of the chairs, shrugged into it, grabbed her purse. Ignoring her laundry, she hurried out again into the wind-chilled street. The Hilliard General Store was opposite the launderette on a slight diagonal; according to Cassie, if anyone would know exactly what had happened last night, it would be Lillian Hilliard.

Alix barely noticed the rush of warm air and homey smells that greeted her when she stepped inside. Mrs. Hilliard was in her accustomed place behind the grocery counter; opposite her stood a tall, thin man in a brown overcoat and a short, wiry man in workclothes. They had been talking, but they all stopped when they saw her. Both men gave her their full attention-more attention than anyone in the village except Cassie Lang and Mandy had displayed thus far.

Alix stopped a few feet away, near the post-office cubicle. For a time none of them moved; the silence that followed the tinkling of the entrance bell struck her as heavy and a little tense. The short man was the first to move and speak; he swung around to face Lillian Hilliard again and said, “So what should I do about the shelves?”

“Well, Adam, if you can’t fit six in, I’ll have to settle for five.”

Adam was holding a hammer in his right hand; now he began to slap it against the opposite palm, shifting his weight as he did so from his left foot to his right, his right foot to his left. He had longish blond hair and a wispy mustache, and was wearing a toolbelt around his waist. “I didn’t say I couldn’t fit six. I just meant I’ll have to do ’em closer together.”

“Won’t do. They have to hold tall packages.”

“Okay, then. Five it is.” He started toward the back of the store in a peculiar hopping gait. When he reached the end of the canned-food aisle he turned, gave Alix another long speculative look.

The tall man pulled a knitted cap from the pocket of his overcoat and put it on over his pale thinning hair. Still peering at Alix through his wire-rimmed glasses, he said, “You must be Mrs. Ryerson, our new neighbor out at the light.”

Such a direct overture from anyone in the village was surprising. “Yes, I am.”

The man extended a slender, well-manicured hand. “I’m Harvey Olsen, minister of the Community Church. Welcome to Hilliard.”

“Thank you, Reverend… it is Reverend?”

“Yes. The ministry is Methodist, but we like to think of ourselves as nondenominational. So we can better serve the community, we encourage parishioners of all faiths to participate. But please call me Harvey-everyone does.”

“Well, thank you… Harvey.”

He continued to peer at her; behind his glasses, his eyes were as pale as his hair. “I hope we’ll be seeing you and your husband at services soon,” he said.

This was absurd. She had come in here to find out if there was any truth to Mandy’s claim that Jan was a dog murderer, and here she was being urged to attend Sunday church services. For a moment she was at a loss for words. Neither she nor Jan was particularly religious, although she had been raised Episcopalian, he Lutheran. Still, she didn’t want to offend the one person aside from Cassie Lang who had tried to make her feel welcome in Hilliard.

She finally managed to say, “I hope so too.”

Harvey Olsen nodded, smiled, and then picked up a sack of groceries and a copy of the Portland Oregonian that was lying on the counter. To Lillian Hilliard he said, “You’ll be chairing the ladies’ organizing committee for the fall bazaar tonight?”

“I will. Someone’s got to keep those hens in line so it doesn’t turn into one big coffee klatch.”

The minister smiled again, vaguely this time, lifted a hand to Alix, and went out.

Now that she was alone with Alix, Mrs. Hilliard assumed an odd, guarded expression. “Help you with something?”

“Yes.” But she didn’t know where to start.

The storekeeper plucked a wilted celery leaf off the counter, then reached underneath for a rag and began wiping the worn wooden surface. From the back of the store came the staccato sound of hammering.

“Well?”

“Mrs. Hilliard… did something happen in the village last night? Something involving my husband and a dog?”

“Mean you don’t know about that?”

“No. I wouldn’t ask you if I knew, would I? All I know is what Mandy Barnett said at the launderette.”

“What was that?”

She didn’t want to repeat it. “Mrs. Hilliard, will you please tell me—”