Shallow Graves

at Meg. “Who’re they playing?”
    The high school team’s standing and upcoming opponents were pretty much common knowledge in Cleary. Meg said, “No game this weekend, remember? It’s the festival. If you’re taking time off we can all go.”
    “Yeah!” said Sam, his voice breaking.
    “Sounds good.”
    Meg said, “Maybe I should enter my apple butter.”
    Keith said slowly, “Well, sure. You could.”
    He and Sam looked at each other.
    She said, “It wasn’t that bad.”
    “It like tasted good, Mom. It really did.”
    “Maybe,” Keith said delicately, “next time, just some food color.”
    “Critics.” Meg turned to the Times classified real estate section and added up the commissions she would have made last year if she were selling houses in Scarsdale or Greenwich instead of Cleary.
    At seven-thirty: the bus arrived and Meg pitched Sam his pro-wresting lunch box. He hugged her then disappeared out the front door.
    Keith said, “That guy ever call the insurance company?”
    Meg asked, “What guy?”
    “Your accident? That guy with the movie company.”
    Bzzzzt.
    “Oh, him. I’d forgotten about him. I don’t know. I’ll call Jim. Find out.”
    Keith looked at his watch, muttered, “Damn,” and walked quickly up the stairs. He returned ten minutes later; he’d added spit-shined shoes and a navy blazer to his uniform of the day.
    They brushed cheeks and he walked out the screen door. She called, “Bye, honey.”
    Keith said something to her and lifted his hand but she missed his words. They were obscured by a sound that started running through her head again, the whir of the Polaroid, which this time, try though she might, she could not force out of her thoughts.

Chapter 6
    “ MR. PELLAM. ”
    Pellam smiled and shook the man’s hand, glancing around him.
    The scene was something out of a really bad movie—one that Alan Lefkowitz wouldn’t have come close to. He was in a little, close-smelling town-government office. A lumber yard calendar on the wall, a dead plant in a drought-struck flowerpot, a few yellowing files, a map dated 1964. The smell of bitter old coffee, papers, musty cardboard.
    And at the desk: a local pol—looking just like Oral Roberts—with a tight grin he no way in the world meant.
    “You’re the mayor, that correct?”
    “Hank Moorhouse.” Silver hair, baby-blue suit, shiny pale green shirt and striped brown and yellow tie. Jowls and chicken skin. His eyes were bloodshot. “Mayor and town magistrate. First, let me say how sorry we are about what happened to your friend. Is there anything I can do?”
    Pellam discreetly studied Moorhouse’s Sunday-go-to-meeting outfit. “I’d like to see the coroner’s report on my friend’s death. The deputy—”
    And damn if the man wasn’t nodding and looking over his desk. He pulled a file out from underneath a stack of papers. “Sure thing, sir. Here you go.”
    Pellam opened it. On top of the report were pictures of Marty’s body—taken at the scene of the fire and during the autopsy. It was like a jolt of electricity seeing those photos. He closed his eyes for a moment then glanced at Moorhouse’s impassive face and shuffled the glossy pictures to the back. He read the short, badly typed report.
    The cause of death was shock and loss of blood due to massive burns. There was evidence of some alcohol in the bloodstream but no drugs.
    “How do you figure he was killed doing drugs if the coroner didn’t find any in his system?”
    Moorhouse sniffed a cautious laugh. “Oh, well, that’s easy. Pretty clear he was killed before he had a chance to smoke anything.”
    Pellam handed the file back. “I’d like to see the police report, if it’s possible.”
    “Sorry. That’s not public—”
    “—record material.”
    Moorhouse said, “Nosir. That’s correct.”
    “Did you consider the possibility he was murdered?”
    “That’s not my job, sir. The sheriff and the coroner make that determination. Tom—he’s the sheriff—he’s out of town for a day or so. And as for the coroner, well, what does that tell you?” Moorhouse tapped the file. “County doc seemed to think it was pretty straightforward.”
    The door opened. An attractive brunette in her late thirties entered.
    “Honey?”
    Moorhouse’s wife, Pellam noted, from the desk photos.
    “I’ll be ten minutes. Like I said.”
    Her mouth tightened. With a glance at Pellam she left.
    Pellam asked, “What about the permits?”
    Moorhouse