Fifth Son (23 page)

Finally, she took a deep breath and dialled Sandy Fitzpatrick's number. She was hoping he'd be out so she could delay any decision, but he picked up cheerfully on the second ring. When she explained her request, there was a long pause.

“But you've only lived in it a month,” he said, his cheer dying abruptly.

“My husband finds it very long to drive,” she said. “We didn't realize how bad the traffic was along Prince of Wales Drive into town.”

“It's a very bad time of year to sell country property. Buyers look in the spring, sometimes in early fall. But we're getting towards November. Nothing looks appealing in November.”

She sighed. “I know. Just give me some idea how much we'd get for it, so I can discuss it with my husband.”

“You'd have to take a huge loss on it.”

“How huge?”

“Twenty or thirty thousand. If you can even find a buyer, which I doubt.”

Twenty or thirty thousand... She glared out into the gloom. He must have sensed her dismay. “You know what I suggest you do? Spend the winter fixing it up like you planned. Get as much done as you can by spring, and then if you still want to sell it, you can put it on the market then. It'll be much more likely to sell and if it's fixed up, it'll go faster at a better price.”

Her spirits lifted slightly. This was a possible compromise that made enough business sense that she might be able to persuade Jacques. Yet the renovation project seemed endless. “Seems like we'd just throw good money after bad. Where would we even begin? The basement is damp and smells. It's even still full of the Pettigrew junk!”

“Oh, dear!”

“From a legal point of view, can I throw it out? I don't want to deal with that family any more.” She meant that Jacques would have her head if she even spoke to them, but she settled for some personal whining.

Sandy countered by offering to come out with his pick-up truck and take it off her hands. Gratefully, she acquiesced and hung up, glad to have made one small dent in the mountain of work to be done. She flicked on the basement lights and went down to begin clearing up the mess Tom had made. She'd only just finished stuffing the last of the papers back in the boxes when she heard the roar of an engine outside, which triggered a ferocious volley of yapping. By the time she returned upstairs, Sandy was standing on the doorstep, dripping in the rain.

“You were fast,” she said, shoving Chouchou under her arm as she let him in.

“Like I said, business is dead this time of year. Besides, my mother just dropped in for one of her advice sessions—” He gave her a rueful half smile. “Sometimes it's my love life, sometimes my business. So any excuse in a storm.”

He peeled off his yellow slicker and shook it outside before hanging it on a peg. She turned to lead him towards the basement but found he'd stopped at the entrance to the living room and was looking inside with rapture. Isabelle had been stripping the old paint, and now much of the woodwork around the walls and fireplace mantle glowed a dark oak.

“Wow!” Sandy exclaimed. “I forgot how beautiful the old wood was before they painted it over. You've increased the market value already.”

“It was pretty badly damaged in places. I had to sand off huge scratches, and I'll have to do the same with the window sills upstairs. Someone really carved them!”

“Well, don't forget five generations of rugged country brats grew up in this house. It was lived in, the scratches are part of its charm.”

He ducked his head and followed her down the steep rickety stairs to the cellar. He frowned when he reached the bottom and saw the boxes cluttering the floor. “Robbie should have taken all this before you moved in.”

Isabelle recalled the frazzled, dejected young man she and Jacques had met the day before closing. “He was going to, but the one time we did meet him he was very distracted by his father's illness. I also think he hated having the sole responsibility for this place. Of course, now that his brother has come, maybe—”

“What!” Sandy whirled on her, his eyes wide.

“Tom. We had some excitement—”

“Oh, Tom.” The shock faded from Sandy's eyes, and his lip curled with disdain. “What the hell did Tom want?”

“This stuff. Apparently he was looking for another brother's address.”

Sandy had bent to pick up the nearest box, and he paused to scrutinize her curiously. “Did he say why?”

Isabelle shrugged. “Maybe something to do with the dead man they found at the church.”

Sandy propped the box on the bannister. “I heard that was Lawrence, so I guess Tom was trying to contact Derek.”

“Ah, yes. DP—the one with the bad love affair.”

Sandy looked startled. “What?”

She smiled. “Just some initials he scratched on the window sill upstairs. It feels like the family is still here, and this place is haunted by all the tragedies and deaths that occurred in it. Like even the house is weeping. Look at this.” She swept her hand to encompass the beautiful natural pine planks that panelled half the walls. “Even this room is sad, like they started with such enthusiasm that just died.”

Sandy had busied himself dragging boxes across to the stairs. Now he straightened, flushed and breathing hard. “They did. This was the middle son's project. Benji was a natural carpenter, loved woodwork, could build anything. He worked construction around here in the summers while he went to school. He was finishing it for himself as a place to get away from his parents' moods. But then he died...” Sandy shrugged. “A real shame. He'd had a rough few years, but he was trying to get his life together.”

Isabelle pulled her sweater around her tightly, sensing the damp and despair in the room. She didn't want to know any more about the history of this house. She wanted to rip it all down, at least symbolically, so that it could start from scratch. As Sandy began to carry boxes upstairs, she pitched in gratefully, and within half an hour the boxes were all piled in the front hall by the door. Although the rain had tamed to a melancholy drizzle, Sandy backed his truck right up to the steps to minimize the trek across the yard, which had become a muddy swamp.

Ten minutes later, Sandy tossed a tarp over the boxes, declined her offer of a hot cup of coffee and headed through the mud to his cab. He nodded at the pile of gravel in the hole.

“Sorry I jumped the gun on that, Isabelle.”

“It's okay,” she replied. “It was giving me the creeps anyway, with the fire, the axe and the bones—”

Sandy swung around. “The what?”

His astonishment amused her, as she realized how her words must have sounded. “Just an old cow bone. But I'm glad it's all gone. Your friend was very nice about it and promised to help me build a pond.”

Sandy climbed into his truck, revved his engine and leaned out the window. “Yeah, Scottie will do right by you. Don't let the snake tattoos scare you; he's got the heart of an elephant.”

With that, he waved and bumped off down the rutted lane, spewing mud in his wake. Feeling better about the country and its people, Isabelle returned to the basement, which now echoed emptily, and began to examine the half-finished walls. The framing was still solid but in places the pine planking had curled and cracked beyond salvation. She peered behind the panelling, where unidentifiable little creatures had taken up residence in the darkness, spinning thick clouds of web and collecting bits of dust and debris into cozy nests. God knows what was living back there. It would all have to be ripped down, cleaned out and fumigated. More money.

As she peered behind, a small dust-covered bundle caught her eye, jammed in behind the pine planks near the base and almost hidden from view. Curiosity battled revulsion as she reached around the plank and groped in the darkness, trying not to think about spiders and mice nipping at her fingers. Her hand closed on the bundle, which crackled beneath her grip. After some wiggling, she fished out a filthy object covered with cobwebs and chewed by mice. When she'd brushed off the dirt, she discovered the shredded remains of a small paper bag. The bag flaked as she opened it to reveal a collection of papers bound by a rubber band. Curious, she sat down on the bottom stair beneath the light and slid out a pack of papers. Lined foolscap, frayed and water stained at the edges, covered in a large, barely legible scrawl.

Upstairs, Chouchou barked a vigorous greeting that stopped abruptly. Isabelle heard the door open above her and a soft, cautious tread crossed the hall. Since Chouchou had stopped, it was probably Jacques back unexpectedly from work. Or perhaps Sandy, who had met Chouchou and who might have decided to give her more help. She rose to look up the stairs, preparing to call out. In the next instant the basement door opened, silhouetting a lean figure in the light from the top of the stairs. Not Jacques or Sandy. Not nearly big enough for Sandy. She thought of hiding, but knew she was clearly visible in the light hanging over her head. She backed up into the room and summoned all the bluster she could manage.

“What do you want!”

The figure began to descend the steps. Halfway down, he came into the light, and she recognized the man from last night. Anger surged through her fear.

“Tom Pettigrew! What are you doing here!”

Tom's eyes were locked on the package in her hands. He'd reached the bottom step and stood facing her. In the yellowish glare, he looked sickly pale except for the purple bruise above his left eye. He reached out a soothing hand.

“Sorry, don't mean to frighten you. Those letters are mine. I—I thought they got lost in the move.”

She backed up still further. “And you were just going to waltz in here and make off with them?”

He shifted his gaze from the package to her face. “No, I was coming to ask you for them. I rang the bell, but I guess...” He held out his hand. “Please. They're all I got left of my kid brother Benji.”

She was going to hand them over to him then, but something in his desperation struck her as odd. She wanted to be upstairs, where she could see better and where she had escape routes readily at hand.

“Fine,” she said. “But let's go upstairs where we can talk about this stuff in more comfort.”

He stepped away from the stairs to encourage her to go first, but she shook her head. Clutching the sheaf of papers firmly, she clumped up the narrow stairs behind him and watched as he disappeared through the door into the brightness of the kitchen. Just as she was stepping through into the light herself, she sensed a movement behind her. She spun around, alarm surging, saw his arm sweep down. She had no time to scream before pain exploded in her head.

R
obbie
slammed the phone down so hard that Green heard it from four feet away. Belatedly, Sullivan jerked the phone away from his ear and dropped it back into its cradle. There was no need to repeat a word.

“He's long gone,” Sullivan observed grimly. “A hundred bucks buys him a bus ticket back to Toronto, where he'll go underground for sure.”

Green leaned his elbows on the desk, his mind racing to try to figure out Tom's next move. The man's behaviour was looking more suspicious every moment, yet there was something about it that didn't make sense. If his theory about Derek's death was true, Green could understand why Tom and the family had covered it up. He could understand Tom's descent into a life of drink and the festering hatred he'd held for the psychotic brother who'd ruined his life. He could even understand that hatred erupting ultimately into murder. But Green saw Tom as a man who ricocheted from crisis to crisis, never planning his next move or foreseeing the consequences. If Tom killed Lawrence, it would have been on impulse, when the sight of his brother resurrected memories and emotions too intense to deny.

But why had Tom turned up in Ashford Landing in the first place? How could he possibly have known Lawrence was there? And what had he been doing at the old family homestead? Tom had claimed he was looking for Derek's address, but that was almost certainly a lie. Yet he was obviously looking for something, for he was tearing the basement apart. Robbie had said Tom was adamant about retrieving some important things from the house. And so far, he hadn't succeeded.

“No,” Green said quietly, breaking the silence of minutes. “I don't think he's dropped out of sight yet. Because he hasn't accomplished what he came back here for.”

He was about to explain when there was a sharp rap on his door and a young constable stuck his head in. “Sorry to disturb you,” he said diffidently. “But Rural West is calling. Seems there's trouble again at Ashford Landing.”

Green's heart leaped into his throat. “The Boisvert farm?”

“No, sir. Some woman called McMartin. She wants you there right away.”

Edna McMartin was visible even from the highway, clothed in a bright yellow rain slicker and massive Wellingtons. She was planted outside the front door of her house with her arms folded across her chest and her grey hair frizzing in the icy mist. As Sullivan drew the car to a stop, she stomped over, her face crimson and her eyes blazing.

“He took the truck, the bastard! Bold as you please, comes out of the woods, gets in the truck, and takes off!”

The two detectives climbed out and Sullivan took her elbow to steer her towards the house. A light rain had begun again, turning the ground slick.

“Were the keys in the truck?” he asked gently.

She shook off his hand and stalked ahead towards the door. “I told you cops that! I'd just come back from town, and I leave them in sometimes when I'm going to go out again. I don't expect anybody to steal it right off my front doorstep!”

Sullivan followed her inside. “You're sure it was Tom Pettigrew?”

“I was right there at the kitchen sink.” She led the way through to the kitchen, which smelled of spices. Six small pumpkins sat on the counter, surrounded by an array of cookware. She gestured through the window which overlooked the front yard and the outbuildings. “Saw him plain as day.”