Shallow Graves

you’re nuts is what I think.”
    “. . . consider a possibility.”

Chapter 22
    SHE WAS WONDERING where Pellam was. What he was up to.
    Taking the whiskey, disappearing mysteriously like that.
    Meg Torrens felt a brief splinter of jealousy, wondering if he’d gone off to see Janine. Then she forced that thought away. Said to herself: You got yourself a pretty full plate at the moment, babe.
    Still . . .
    That damn sound again. From the day they’d met in Pellam’s hospital room. The Polaroid. Bzzzt.
    For your information I’ve lived here five years . . .
    She thought about him kissing her, about how she wanted to kiss him back.
    Enough . . .
    She tucked Sam into bed and went down to the kitchen, poured herself another glass of wine and was returning to the living room, turning the lights down. She’d had them up high while Pellam was here, despite her hatred of bright lights. Didn’t know why she’d done that . . . Okay, yes, she did. Less romantic. Less of a message. She—
    A knock on the door.
    She hoped it was Pellam but was afraid Ambler had returned. She recalled that he must have seen Pellam leave and wondered if Ambler had parked up the road and been spying on them, waiting for him to leave. To return and try his proposal yet again. How could such a strong man be so desperate?
    I’m just not in the mood for this . . .
    But when she opened the door she found the sheriff standing on the front porch.
    “Tom.”
    “Evening, Meg.”
    She felt a jolt. “Is Keith okay?”
    “Oh, I’m not here about him.”
    “Pellam?”
    “Not him either. Mind if I come in?”
    He was grave but then he was always grave. She nodded him in, setting the wine on a nearby breakfront. He walked inside, pulling off his hat the instant his boot touched the threshold.
    “Coffee or anything?”
    He shook his head. Sat down on the couch.
    “What is it?”
    “Just wanted to ask you a thing’r two about Sam. You know he left Sunday school for a while this morning.”
    What was this?
    “I didn’t know that was a crime,” she said stiffly.
    “Did you know about Sam? Would you tell me please?”
    She opted for the truth but it was a close election. “Yes. Keith told me. They tried to call me here but I was out. They called him at the factory. Sam came back after a few minutes.”
    “After forty-five minutes.”
    “What is this all about, Tom?”
    “And you talked to Sam about it?”
    “Of course.” The sheriff said nothing more and Meg felt compelled to continue. “He’d won a football at the festival and lost it when he . . . got sick. He went looking for it.” She was rambling and stopped. “I want to know what you’re asking.”
    Tom nodded. “Meg, not long after he left the church Ned Harper was killed. It was a mile away—that’s a bit of a hike but he could’ve made it in the time he was gone.”
    “Ned? What does Sam have to do with Ned?”
    “We think Ned was the one gave him those pills. And we think Sam might’ve killed him.”
    “No,” she said firmly.
    “We don’t know for sure. But it’d make sense for Ned to’ve threatened the boy. You saw how scared he was. And it’d make sense for Sam to want to get even.”
    “Sam wouldn’t hurt anybody.”
    “Ned was killed with a small-caliber. Might be a .22. We haven’t got the slugs yet. Randy Gottschalk, my deputy, he was telling me that Keith got Sam a .22 last Christmas.”
    Her eyes strayed to the den—where the small Winchester usually resided. Her heart jumped when she noticed it was gone. But then she remembered that Sam and Pellam had been shooting that afternoon. Had they been using the .22? Or the little shotgun? Maybe they were on the back porch, awaiting cleaning. Or the basement. The only gun in the cabinet was the antique breech-loading Springfield—theonly surviving bequest from her parents, other than the intense dislike of bright lights.
    “Tom, you’ve known Sam since he was born. You think he’s capable of killing somebody?”
    “I don’t, no. But I’m not the only one going to be asking. We’ve already had more’n our share of trouble in Cleary—those deaths last year, a couple of other overdoses. The state police’re going to be handling this one. And they’re going to want to talk to Sam and check out his gun. Run some ballistics.”
    “What that’ll prove is that he’s not the one.” But even as she said these words a terrible doubt was forming. No, her son was incapable of