always, the hair that ringed his bald head stuck out as if he’d had slight contact with an electrical socket. His clothes were baggy and wrinkled, his shoes worn and paint spattered. There was no way around it—Barry Walker was a slob, and in his later years had given up any pretense otherwise.
“Is Fran here?” She usually worked alongside her husband, running the retail side of the business while he cut the frames.
“Nope. Too slow in the winter to keep two of us busy. Last couple winters, she’s worked over at the Cranberry Convalescent Home.”
So once again, my informants at the Sit’n’Knit had been right. I looked around the store. It had always been charmingly disheveled, like its proprietor, but now it seemed dusty and dingy, missing Fran’s touch. The big plate glass windows needed washing and filtered the weak December afternoon light through a haze of dirt. I thought of the store as successful. Artists were the first tourists ever to come to Maine, drawn by the dramatic vistas and bright, flat light. In the summer, it was normal for me to come out of my mom’s and practically stumble over someone sitting on the sidewalk, painting a picture of the house. In fact, if a few days went by and no one set up an easel out front, we began to feel a little neglected. Barry cheerfully met the artists’ needs. In the summer, the store was crowded, but there’d always been enough business for him to stay open all winter. Artists who’d moved permanently to Maine and retirees like Phil Bennett kept it busy. I wondered why things had changed.
Barry’s own paintings lined the back wall. They were abstract, dramatic. Thick applications of acrylic piled on wood in slashes of color. I’d loved his work since I was a child. The paintings never made me think, but they always made me feel. For the first time, as an adult, I wondered about them. They weren’t the kind of art that would be bought by vacationing tourists. Did Barry make his life harder by persisting in this form? If he’d painted lighthouses and waves crashing on rocks, surely he would have sold more.
“I hear Quinn’s home,” I said.
Barry nodded his shaggy head. “She is indeed. Husband trouble, I’m afraid. Still, it’s great to have her and the grandchildren in the house.”
“I want to ask a few questions about the other night,” I said, getting down to business.
“The police were here yesterday. I told them all I could.” Barry sat on a stool beside his workbench and gestured for me to take another. “But fire away.”
“When you went out with Chris and Phil Bennett to look at the wreck, did you happen to see the stranger then?”
“Nope.” Barry told the same story about their little adventure that Chris and Phil Bennett had, though he left out the part about sliding down the hill on his backside. “It was slippery out as the dickens,” was all he said about it.
I asked another question, even though I knew the probable answer. “You paid that night with a gift certificate. Where did you get it?”
“No idea. The Mrs. had it. I can ask her if you want me to.”
“No, that’s okay.” I’d have to make a point to talk to Fran later. “Can you think of some reason or some person who would want to gather you and Fran, the Caswells, the Bennetts, and the Smiths at the restaurant on the same evening?”
Barry answered easily, without a sign of worry or stress. “Why would someone do that? I don’t really know any of those people. Phil Bennett’s been in the store buying canvases a couple of times recently, but other than that . . .” His voice trailed off. “Julia, what’s this about? When Fran and I talked to the police yesterday, they didn’t seem particularly interested in what we had to say. I had the impression they were checking us off a list of obligatory interviews.”
I didn’t want to tell Barry I thought someone had lured him and his wife to the restaurant on the same night there’d been a murder
“Is Fran here?” She usually worked alongside her husband, running the retail side of the business while he cut the frames.
“Nope. Too slow in the winter to keep two of us busy. Last couple winters, she’s worked over at the Cranberry Convalescent Home.”
So once again, my informants at the Sit’n’Knit had been right. I looked around the store. It had always been charmingly disheveled, like its proprietor, but now it seemed dusty and dingy, missing Fran’s touch. The big plate glass windows needed washing and filtered the weak December afternoon light through a haze of dirt. I thought of the store as successful. Artists were the first tourists ever to come to Maine, drawn by the dramatic vistas and bright, flat light. In the summer, it was normal for me to come out of my mom’s and practically stumble over someone sitting on the sidewalk, painting a picture of the house. In fact, if a few days went by and no one set up an easel out front, we began to feel a little neglected. Barry cheerfully met the artists’ needs. In the summer, the store was crowded, but there’d always been enough business for him to stay open all winter. Artists who’d moved permanently to Maine and retirees like Phil Bennett kept it busy. I wondered why things had changed.
Barry’s own paintings lined the back wall. They were abstract, dramatic. Thick applications of acrylic piled on wood in slashes of color. I’d loved his work since I was a child. The paintings never made me think, but they always made me feel. For the first time, as an adult, I wondered about them. They weren’t the kind of art that would be bought by vacationing tourists. Did Barry make his life harder by persisting in this form? If he’d painted lighthouses and waves crashing on rocks, surely he would have sold more.
“I hear Quinn’s home,” I said.
Barry nodded his shaggy head. “She is indeed. Husband trouble, I’m afraid. Still, it’s great to have her and the grandchildren in the house.”
“I want to ask a few questions about the other night,” I said, getting down to business.
“The police were here yesterday. I told them all I could.” Barry sat on a stool beside his workbench and gestured for me to take another. “But fire away.”
“When you went out with Chris and Phil Bennett to look at the wreck, did you happen to see the stranger then?”
“Nope.” Barry told the same story about their little adventure that Chris and Phil Bennett had, though he left out the part about sliding down the hill on his backside. “It was slippery out as the dickens,” was all he said about it.
I asked another question, even though I knew the probable answer. “You paid that night with a gift certificate. Where did you get it?”
“No idea. The Mrs. had it. I can ask her if you want me to.”
“No, that’s okay.” I’d have to make a point to talk to Fran later. “Can you think of some reason or some person who would want to gather you and Fran, the Caswells, the Bennetts, and the Smiths at the restaurant on the same evening?”
Barry answered easily, without a sign of worry or stress. “Why would someone do that? I don’t really know any of those people. Phil Bennett’s been in the store buying canvases a couple of times recently, but other than that . . .” His voice trailed off. “Julia, what’s this about? When Fran and I talked to the police yesterday, they didn’t seem particularly interested in what we had to say. I had the impression they were checking us off a list of obligatory interviews.”
I didn’t want to tell Barry I thought someone had lured him and his wife to the restaurant on the same night there’d been a murder
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