Cry for the Strangers Page 0,20

gallery open and close, then a voice called out tentatively.

“Hello?”

Rebecca and Glen exchanged a look as they moved to the front room. Visitors to the gallery were rare. This one was totally unexpected.

Miriam Shelling stood just inside the front door, her hands behind her, clutching at the knob. Her hair hung limply around her face and there was a wildness in her eyes that almost frightened Rebecca.

“Mrs. Shelling,” she said quickly. “How nice to see you. I’m so sorry about—”

Before she could complete the sentence, Miriam Shelling interrupted her.

“I came to warn you,” she said harshly. “They’re going to get you, just like they got Pete. It may take them awhile, but in the end they’ll get you. You mark my words!” She glanced rapidly from Rebecca to Glen and back again. Then she lifted one arm and pointed a finger at them.

“Mark my words!” she repeated. A moment later she was gone.

“Jesus,” Glen breathed. “What was that all about?”

Rebecca’s eyes were still on the doorway where the distraught woman had stood. It was a few seconds before she answered.

“And we think we have it bad,” she said at last. “We should count our blessings, Glen. We don’t have any electricity and we feel a bit lonely, but we have each other. Mrs. Shelling doesn’t have anything now.”

“She looked a little crazy,” Glen said.

“Why wouldn’t she?” Rebecca flared. “What’s the poor woman going to do with her husband gone?”

Glen chose not to answer the question. “What do you suppose she meant—‘they got him’? Does she think someone killed Pete? And they’ll get us too? She must be crazy.”

“She’s probably just upset,” Rebecca said with compassion. “People say funny things when something like that happens to them. And it must have been horrible for her, being right there on the wharf when they brought him in.”

“But why would she come here?” Glen wondered. “Why would she come and tell us something like that?”

“Who knows?” Rebecca shrugged. But she wished she did know.

Miriam Shelling walked purposefully along the sidewalk, muttering to herself, seeing nothing. The few people who saw her coming stepped aside, but it would have been difficult to tell if it was out of fear or respect for her grief. She didn’t pause until she reached the tiny town hall that housed the police department. She marched up the steps and into the building, coming to a halt only when she was in front of Harney Whalen’s desk.

“What are you going to do?” she demanded.

Harney Whalen stood up and stepped around the desk, holding out a hand to Miriam. She ignored it and stood rooted to the floor.

“Miriam,” Whalen said. He saw the wildness in her eyes. He glanced quickly around, but he was alone with the upset woman. “Let me get you a chair,” he offered.

She seemed not to hear him. “What are you going to do?” she demanded once more.

Whalen decided the best course was to act as if everything was all right. He retreated behind his desk again and sat down. Then he looked up at Miriam Shelling. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he said quietly.

“Pete. I mean Pete. What are you going to do about finding the people who killed him?”

A memory stirred in Harney Whalen and a tiny shiver crept up his spine, settling in the back of his neck. There had been another woman, long ago, who had said these same words. Who killed him? Then, a few days later … He forced the memory away.

“No one killed Pete, Miriam,” he said firmly. “It was an accident. He fell overboard and got caught in his nets.”

“He was killed.”

Harney shook his head sorrowfully, partly for the woman in front of him, and partly for the difficulty she was going to cause him. “There isn’t any evidence of that, Miriam. I went over his boat myself yesterday afternoon. Chip Connor and I spent almost two hours on the Sea Spray. If there had been anything there we would have found it.”

“What about the man who brought him in?”

“He’s a lawyer from Aberdeen. Last night, when Pete drowned, he was home in bed. Believe me, we checked that out first thing.”

When Miriam showed no signs of moving, Harney decided to try to explain what must have happened to her husband.

“Miriam, you’ve lived here for fifteen years,” he began. “You know what it’s like out there. Fishermen drown all the time. We’ve been damned lucky more of ours haven’t been lost, but our boys tend to be