Reunion at Red Paint Bay - By George Harrar Page 0,62

a saint to drink listening to her. Red says it’s my penance.”

“Your penance?”

“We all need to take on our fair share of suffering, and if it doesn’t come to you, you need to seek it out.”

“That’s an interesting philosophy,” Simon said, and it surprised him, coming from Red’s wife. He wondered what he may have missed over the years only half-listening to her over lunch.

“It’s not a philosophy,” she said, “it’s religion. I wouldn’t do it if it were just philosophy.” She reached down the counter for a water pitcher and filled his glass. “I better stop chatting before Red chews my head off. Know what you want?”

What did he want? To reclaim his life from a month ago when he was just a small-town editor of a weekly newspaper in a corner of the country most people had never visited and didn’t care to. When he had a trusting wife who was smarter than he was, nicer than he was, and more honest, too. They had a high-energy boy who taxed their patience at every turn but whom they wouldn’t trade for a more compliant sort. A time when no one could think of him as a rapist or killer. Unfortunately, turning back the clock was not on the vast menu at Red’s Diner.

“The chowder’s just made,” Red’s wife said, trying to prod him along. “You always like the chowder, Simon.”

He didn’t feel like the milky peppery soup today. He didn’t really have the stomach for eating at all. But he knew it would be a mistake to start missing meals. He needed fuel to keep his mind sharp. He closed his eyes as he turned the page and when he opened them the first thing he saw was Mandarin Orange Salad. He closed the menu.

“Number twelve.”

“The mandarin salad it is,” she said, “but we’re substituting apples today. The oranges spoiled. Nobody eats them.”

“Fine, I’ll have the mandarin apple salad then.”

She retreated through the kitchen door, and Simon’s gaze drifted toward the side window as a car pulled in, a cruiser. He turned back to the counter and cradled his water glass. He wished he had something else to do with his hands, breadsticks to eat, rolls to butter. He felt like he was in some old movie, a man on the run caught in a diner, the cops circling the place, guns drawn. It was a frightening feeling, being pursued, even if it was just a figment of his imagination. The door opened, jangling the bells, and he felt a brief rush of air sweep down the diner. His face flushed, the blood rushing to his brain, preparing him to be on guard.

“Simon, how’s it going?”

He looked up into the big smiling face of Tom Garrity, Red Paint’s longtime police chief. Tom always smiled, so a smile meant nothing. His blue uniform seemed crumpled, as if he routinely slept in it. The badge on his chest was abnormally shiny, like a child’s toy.

“Hey, Tom, grab a seat.”

Garrity slid his bulky leg over the adjoining stool and shifted until he was steady, his weight evenly distributed.

“I didn’t know you dined at Red’s,” Simon said, a little joke. Nobody dined at Red’s.

“I stop in everywhere, you know. Can’t play favorites.” He waved at Red’s wife and made a pouring motion.

She came down the aisle grabbing a pot of coffee and cup. “Can I get you some pie with this, Tommy?” Red’s wife was familiar with everyone. “Blueberry today.”

“No thanks,” he said, patting his belly, “Peg’s got me on a diet.”

He adjusted the gun on his hip, a purposeful move, Simon thought, but for what—to assert authority? He was probably just stopping in for coffee. Cops did that all the time. “So,” Garrity said, “how’s the news game?”

“Actually it’s been pretty slow this summer, Tom. We could use a hot story.”

“Maybe I have one for you. You know we’re looking for a man from over at the inn who seems to be missing.”

“Yeah, I sent Joe Armin over to cover it. We’ll play the story up on page one if that helps, let people know to keep a lookout for him.”

The chief sipped his coffee. “The man’s name is Paul Chambers. Know him by any chance?”

“Chambers? I don’t recognize the name.”

“No?”

Simon didn’t like the pointed follow-up, as if the chief was offering him a second chance at telling the truth. What was he supposed to say, You know, there was a guy I knocked into the water at the dock—I wonder