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“Impressive rehabilitation,” Baryn observes, adding something to his painting that bears a striking resemblance to the instructor’s example. “Was he always close with the Chief?”

That earns him a long look. “You’re awfully interested in old Vernard.”

“I’m interested in everyone,” Baryn assures her, offering a smile that has probably convinced an absurd number of people to confess things against their better judgment.

“Those two go way back,” the woman across from us volunteers, immune to whatever warning her companion is attempting to convey. “Before the church, before the Chief got his badge. I think they were in the Army together.”

“Vernard never served,” the first woman corrects her. “But he was around when the Chief came home. That’s when they got close.”

“Close how?” Baryn asks.

She shrugs, reaching for another paintbrush. “Close enough that you didn’t much want to get on the wrong side of either one.”

“That’s putting it politely.” The interruption comes from an older man two easels down, who has spent most of the evening painting what I believe is supposed to be a lighthouse.

He doesn’t look up when the woman beside Baryn turns toward him. “Oh don’t start.”

“I’m not saying anything.” He adds another shade of blue to his canvas. “Just saying that if you’re going to talk about Vernard and the Chief, you might as well tell the truth.”

“And what truth would that be?” Baryn asks, his brush finally coming to rest.

The man looks at him. “That the Chief spent twenty years cleaning up that man’s messes.”

A brief silence settles, interrupted by the clink of someone setting down a wineglass.

“You mean keeping him out of trouble?” Baryn quirks an eyebrow.

“I mean making sure it never officially happened.”

My attention shifts from my painting to the man, who appears considerably less concerned about the reaction he’s provoking than either of the women.

“Like what?” I ask.

“You remember that barn fire?” He directs the question to the woman beside Baryn. “The one they called an electrical accident?”

“Because that’s what it was.”

“Funny. I don’t remember anyone asking me what I saw.”

She closes her eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

Baryn twists on his stool, adopting the posture of someone with absolutely nowhere else to be. “What did you see?”

“Vernard’s truck. Coming down the road from that property not twenty minutes before somebody called in the fire.” He wipes his brush against a paper towel. “Told the deputy who came around asking questions, too.”

“And?”

“And nothing.” He gives a short laugh. “Report came out saying they couldn’t establish whether anybody had been on the property that evening. Funny thing to put in writing when I’d spent fifteen minutes telling a deputy otherwise.”

The woman across from us frowns. “I never heard that.”

“Most people didn’t. Chief came by my house a couple days later to explain that sometimes people get confused about what they see, especially when they’re recalling events after the fact.”

“Perhaps he thought you’d made a mistake,” the first woman suggests.

“Perhaps.” The man picks up his brush again. “Though he was remarkably certain about that considering he wasn’t there.”

Baryn glances at me. A witness being mistaken is one thing. A police chief personally intervening to discourage that witness from repeating his account is something else entirely.