The Lighthouse: A Novel of Terror by Marcia Muller Bill Pronzini

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—”
    “Lord knows I didn’t like that dog,” the storekeeper said. “Mitch was always bringing him in here and he was always upsetting something. But Mitch was fond of Red, treated him like one of his kids—better, some might say.”
    “It’s dead? Mitch Novotny’s dog?”
    “Run down in the road right out front of the Novotny house. Run down on purpose, according to what Mitch says.”
    Alix suddenly felt sick to her stomach.
    “Didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down,” Lillian Hilliard said. “Pretty cold-hearted, you ask me.”
    “I don’t believe it.”
    “Well, Mitch wouldn’t lie. I’ll say that for him.”
    “Then he must have made a mistake. How could he be sure it was my husband?”
    “Wasn’t any mistake. That big new car of yours is the only one like it around here. And Mitch says he saw it happen.”
    Alix stood still, her hands clenched, fingernails biting into her palms. It just wasn’t possible. Jan was a gentle man, he had often spoken out against blood sports and other cruelties to animals. . . .
    Mrs. Hilliard said, “Seems to me if it was just an accident, he’d have stopped afterward. And told you about it after he got home. Now wouldn’t you say?”
    She didn’t know what to say. She just shook her head. Not a word to her last night; and this morning, he’d gotten up before she had and locked himself in his study and started working as if nothing had happened. Working hard: she’d heard the steady beat of the typewriter keys and hadn’t wanted to disturb him; had left him a note saying she was going into the village to do the laundry.
    The storekeeper bunched up her rag and tossed it back under the counter. “Maybe you better go back to the lighthouse and ask him about it,” she said almost gently. Her expression now was one of pity. “Maybe he’s got an explanation that’ll satisfy everybody.”
    “Yes. Yes, I’m sure he does.”
    Numbly, she turned her back on the other woman’s pity and left the store. The station wagon was parked nose-in to one side of the launderette; she crossed the street and walked around to the front of the car. She hadn’t looked at it up close this morning, hadn’t had any reason to. Now she did.
    The bumper was dented, scratched. And there was a thin smear of something on it that might have been blood.

Alix.
     
    Jan was at his worktable, aligning the stack of manuscript pages next to his typewriter, when she came into the study. His fingers moved quickly— tap , tap, tap —bringing the papers into neat order. When he heard her he looked around. His color wasn’t good, his face pale and pinched, but he seemed in reasonably good spirits.
    “There you are,” he said. “I’ve just finished the introductory chapter on lighthouse history and I want you to—”
    “Jan, we have to talk. Right now.”
    He frowned. “What’s wrong?”
    On the drive back to the lighthouse she had decided on an indirect approach, one that wouldn’t be too accusing or threatening.