Fred was a big man with a hearty handshake and a ready smile.  He had been constable over the parish for fifteen years now.  He welcomed Amanda and watched her with some amusement as she unrolled the paintings and told her story.  When he saw the third painting, though, his face turned hard.  The black cloud was big now, obscuring the sun over the woods behind the house.  Several trees showed in the foreground.  Through them the back patio could be seen, still bathed in sunlight.  A man was shown sitting on the porch swing.  “I take it that’s not Thomas,” he said, and she shook her head.  ”When did you say this came?”
“Yesterday.  It was in the mailbox, same as the others.  It gave me the creeps,” answered Amanda.
“I can see why,” commented Fred, and looked at her keenly.  “And you have no idea who is sending these, or who the man in the painting might be?”
“None whatever.  I was hoping you might know.”  Amanda returned his gaze, her eyes wide and troubled.  “Thomas won’t be home for a week.  I haven’t told him about this one yet.  He thought I was silly for worrying about the first two.  But look closely here.”  She pulled the first painting up and pointed.  In the trees well back from the house, way at the back of the painting, a figure could be seen.  It was hunkered down beside a tree and partly obscured, but the side of the head and one hand was plain.  “We missed it at first.  I zeroed in on the black cloud that is bigger in every painting.  I didn’t see this until today.  But that is unmistakably a man squatted there, and looking at my house.”

Fred got a magnifying glass and studied the figure carefully.  “Yes, it is,” he murmured, “and he’s smoking.  Let’s see the second picture again.”  The paintings were wonderfully detailed, and it took a moment to find what he was looking for.  “There he is,” said Fred, and pointed to a tree behind the house near the middle of the painting.  “He’s at the edge of the yard, too.”  The man was standing this time, but shown from the back. He appeared to be a bulky man with dark, short hair. He wore a gray overcoat and black pants, and a thin trail of smoke rose from his right hand as if he held a cigarette.  They studied the man in the third painting again.  It looked like the same man.  He held a cigarette in one hand and — Oh, Lord — a knife in the other.  “Well,” Fred sighed, “I wish his face was clearer.  I can think of ten men that could fit that description.  I think I need to come out and take a look around.  I can’t this minute, though.  Is there anyone you can stay with for a few days?”
“No.  I love the quiet out there, and haven’t gone out of my way to meet anybody.  We go to the church over on Red Brook Rd, but I don’t know anyone that well.”
“That’s a habit you may want to break,” said Fred.  “Especially if your husband is away much.  These are good folks here, and they look out for each other.  They’ll help you if you ask, but they won’t offer it if you remain a stranger.”  He thought a little more, his finger tapping as he studied the paintings.  “You know, there’s something about that house….  But I can’t put my finger on it.  Tell you what.  Why don’t you go down to the library and talk to Sarah, the librarian.  She’s an unashamed gossip, but if there’s a local story about your house she’ll know it and talk your ear off pouring it out to you.  I’ll be along by late afternoon.”
“All right.  Thank you, Fred, for not dismissing me as silly.  You don’t know what a comfort that is,” Amanda said as she got up and shook hands.
“Well, before you go making me a hero, I did at first.  But there’s nothing silly going on here, and we’ll get it sorted out soon enough.  Call that man of yours and get him home.  He needs to be here.”