The long day wore on him as he drove across Barnard Road toward the farm house. The emotional effect of talking to Karin, of hearing she’d chased Arthur, confused the hell out of him. She talked as if she wanted to reconcile, but her actions spoke more of a desire to be independent, to exercise some image of herself as a free woman, free of him and free of the marriage. He felt as if he were boxing with one of those inflatable weighted clown dolls, the ones that kept bouncing back at you no matter how many times you hit them.
Not to mention the way his meeting with Eloise Fitch had depressed him, how quickly she’d turned the whole thing into her personal tragedy. And the encounter with Lynette Armitrage disturbed him too—there seemed to be a subtext to her interest he wasn’t reading.
He also mistrusted his belief there was anything to find out. He’d gotten nothing new from talking to Arthur or to Eloise, and though Karin kept pushing him off track, he doubted that her being at the IGA on the day of the fire meant anything important. His frustration was piling up—what he wanted tonight was a cold beer and a quiet dinner.
He parked the Pilot on the dirt next to the garage and climbed the outside staircase to the mother in law apartment. When they lived in Weston, Karin had fantasized about owning a small farm, some land, space for a garden, a dog, fruit trees, and herbs. But Mack had lived a farmer’s life all through high school and he never wanted to mow grass, dig holes, or bale hay again. Nor did his cousins. Other people in South Barnham took care of Edna’s property.
His key slipped into the lock at the wrong angle. The door was unlocked. He never left it open. Had a day or two of poking around the fire stirred someone up? Or, more likely, someone had broken in?