AS ANDY walked to his car, he tried not to feel like shit. The last thing he’d intended to do was upset Weston.
It wasn’t really Andy’s fault, of course. He couldn’t control what was in the historical society files, and whatever had happened in the past had nothing to do with him. But he was the one who’d brought it to Weston’s attention. He should have kept his mouth shut.
Instead of returning to the motel, he drove past it and kept going. He didn’t know whether he would find anything interesting farther out of town, but the trip would at least give him something to do besides sitting in his room being pissed off at himself.
“This is getting way beyond ridiculous,” he said as he passed Walmart. Sometimes talking out loud to himself helped him sort his thoughts. “My birth parents are both dead. One died in an accident just outside Dayfield. The other died from what appeared to be accidental causes, and someone from Dayfield was there. Someone who might have known how to mess with a furnace to cause or worsen a carbon monoxide leak.”
He and Weston didn’t know for sure who had driven the van from Dayfield to Elise’s house in Beverly. The only thing they could confirm was that the van had belonged to Weston’s uncle. But since the guy at the scene had given his name as Tommy Hughes, it was equally as probable Tommy had borrowed Jason’s van as it was that Jason had given a false name.
Then again, Andy was beginning to think probability didn’t mean a damn thing in the situation. He didn’t want to suspect Weston’s relative of killing Elise, but he couldn’t deny the possibility either.
“Car accident caused by black ice. Carbon monoxide leak caused by faulty furnace.” Andy tapped a finger on the steering wheel. “Whoever drove that van might have made the furnace faultier. But if no one in Dayfield knew my birth mother even existed, why would someone from here drive all the way up there to kill her? Why would anyone want her dead in the first place?”
Why am I so sure someone wanted her dead? Maybe it happened exactly the way the news article says. If the furnace was malfunctioning, Elise or her parents would have called someone to repair it. And if it was malfunctioning, there might already have been enough carbon monoxide in the house to have slowly killed Elise.
But that didn’t explain why Jason Thibeault’s van was in Elise Cummings’s driveway the day she died. Whoever had driven the van, it had almost definitely been someone from Dayfield, and there was no logical reason for Elise’s family to hire a repairman from so far away.
Weston had said his uncle moved out of state not long after Elise’s death. Moving wasn’t cheap, and from what Andy had learned about the factory, employees there wouldn’t have earned enough money to move over a thousand miles away without any preparation or warning.
Even though the guy at Elise’s house had given his name as Tommy Hughes, the van had belonged to Weston’s uncle, who had suddenly come into enough money to get out of Massachusetts for good.
“But why would he have anything to do with Elise’s death?” Andy said. “And who gave him the money?”
He could think of only one person who would have had the money and possibly the inclination to bribe Jason into harming Elise. “Old man” Chaffee. Vardon’s father.
Supposedly, Chaffee hadn’t known his son fathered a child. But maybe he had, and he’d feared Elise would cause problems. Or maybe he wasn’t happy about losing a potential heir.
“She gave me up.” Andy slowed as a cow wandered through a broken section of the fence alongside the road. The lumbering animal crossed in front of Andy’s car and continued up the street. “Great. Obviously some farmer needs more cowbell to keep track of his animals.”
He waited a moment to be sure the cow wouldn’t meander in front of him again, then drove on, continuing his verbal train of thought. “My parents gave me up. I was adopted before either of them died. Obviously she wouldn’t have made trouble with the Chaffees. If she wanted their money or whatever, she would have kept me.”
If Elise hadn’t given Andy up for adoption, he could have been part of the Chaffee family, continuing the lineage and possibly the operation of the factory. As far as Andy could tell, none of the Chaffee cousins had stayed in Dayfield or shown any interest in manufacturing furniture. When Vardon died without an heir in evidence, his death had meant the end of the factory and the Dayfield Chaffees.
Vardon’s name was on Andy’s birth certificate. That didn’t mean Vardon necessarily knew Andy existed. Elise could have named him as the father anyway. Another thing Andy had no way to know for certain. But somehow he doubted Elise would have kept something so important a secret from Vardon.
“Yeah. Weston’s right.” He shook his head. “I read too many mystery novels. And there’s still the fact that Vardon died in an accident. Black ice.”
If he chose to continue pondering conspiracies, though, he could easily make a case for the accident not truly being accidental. The weather must have been bad on March 10, 1985, or the police wouldn’t have been able to claim black ice as the cause of Vardon’s accident without rousing suspicion. But that didn’t mean the ice was the only factor.
“Sure. Someone ran Vardon off the road and into a tree at full speed, or maybe they fucked with Vardon’s steering or brakes. And the cops blamed black ice for the accident because they were in the pocket of the same person who wanted Elise dead. Someone who also wanted Vardon out of the way.”
It was completely ludicrous. Something out of a murder mystery novel, not real life. But at the same time, Andy’s speculations made a sick kind of sense. If he accepted that Elise had been poisoned by a deliberately caused carbon monoxide leak rather than dying accidentally, it wasn’t a huge leap to believe Vardon’s death hadn’t been accidental either.
Neither had Oliver Chaffee’s or Larry Thibeault’s. Those had absolutely nothing to do with Vardon or Elise, but Andy couldn’t let go of trying to figure out who had started the fire and cut the rope to the fire door. And there was a connection, however slight: Oliver was Vardon’s great-something uncle, and Larry was a great-something-or-other of the man who might have killed Elise.
“Dayfield is one seriously fucked-up town,” he said. “All I was trying to do was find out something about my father. I wasn’t searching for all this other shit.”
He was too tired and too concerned about Weston to think it through any further. He didn’t really need to know the truth about any of the deaths anyway. The only purpose solving the “mysteries” would serve was satisfying his own curiosity. The more he dug into the town’s history, the more he uncovered things that should have stayed buried.
He turned on the car radio, tuned it to one of Boston’s classic-rock stations, and cranked the volume. The loud music and thumping bass helped clear his head.
Until the song ended, and the next was a Kiss song.
Andy tried to ignore it. It was a song. Nothing to do with anything except the bumper sticker Weston’s uncle had put on his van in 1980-something, which was how Weston had identified the van in the newspaper photo.
“Get over it,” he said. “Stop thinking and just drive.”
He changed the station and kept going. He didn’t have any destination in mind or any idea when he would turn around and go back to the motel. Not that it mattered. Unless Weston called, Andy had little reason to go back. In the motel, he would have nothing to do other than sitting alone watching TV.
Several miles farther on, he stopped for gas and a soda at a convenience store placed nowhere near anything else. As he returned to his car with the soda, his phone rang.
He quickly fumbled it out of his pocket. “Hello?”
“It’s Weston.”
From Weston’s tone, Andy couldn’t guess whether he was calling for a positive reason or a negative. “What’s up?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
“Just closed down for the day,” Weston said. “I’m on the way home, and I’m planning to ask Dad some questions about Uncle Jason. Maybe more about Vardon’s accident too. Does it seem weird to you that Vardon’s death and Elise’s happened so close together? We’re almost positive hers wasn’t an accident. What if his wasn’t either?”
“It’s a hell of a conclusion to jump to,” Andy said slowly.
“You jumped to the same one, didn’t you?”
Andy chuckled. “You know me that well already, huh? Yes. Black ice would explain Vardon’s accident, and there probably was black ice around that day. But it wasn’t necessarily the only cause.”
“Yeah. So anyway, I called to invite you over while I talk to Dad. Having you hear it from him directly would be easier than me relaying what he says.”
“I’m in… um.” Andy couldn’t remember the last town line sign he’d passed, and the name of the convenience store gave no hint as to its location. “I’m in the middle of nowhere, I guess. I headed west on the road past the motel, and I’ve been driving since I left the library.”
“Great,” Weston said, stretching the word to three syllables. “Turn around and come back, then. I’ll wait until you get here. You’re what, an hour and a half away?”
“Something like that.” Andy hadn’t paid attention to the time.
“Give me a call when you’re back in Dayfield. I’ll tell Dad you’ll be stopping by for pizza. Of course, that means I’ll have to actually order pizza, but the place at the edge of town is pretty good.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Andy got into his car. “Hanging up so I can drive.”
“See you when you get here.” Weston disconnected the call.
The drive back to Dayfield seemed to take less time than the one out to wherever Andy had ended up, maybe because instead of getting tangled up in speculations, he kept the radio loud and sang along.
When he crossed the town line, he called Weston, who merely said, “Come on over,” then hung up.
Weston’s car was again the only one in the driveway. Weston opened the front door of the house the moment Andy reached the steps. “Mom’s at a church thing,” Weston said. “She doesn’t stay home much when I’m here. She needs a break from Dad when she can get one.”
“Oh.”
“Come in.” Weston stepped back. “Dad’s waiting for you and the pizza. I told him a little bit about what’s going on. Not much. Mostly that we’re wondering about Elise dying so soon after Vardon. I didn’t want to say anything about the rest of it until you got here.”
“Thanks.” Andy wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what Floyd would say about his brother possibly being responsible for Elise’s death. And he definitely didn’t want to see Floyd’s reaction when Weston brought it up.
They went into the living room. Floyd was once again in his recliner with his feet up, but he was now dressed in a buttoned flannel shirt and loose slacks. He extended his hand. “Hey, Andy. Thanks for coming by again.”
“Thanks for letting me.” Andy shook Floyd’s hand, then sat on the couch. “I hear pizza’s on the way.”
“That’s what Weston tells me.” Floyd turned to his son. “Weston, sit down. You’re twitchy as hell.”
“I’m waiting for the delivery,” Weston said. “Guaranteed as soon as I sit down, he’ll show up, so there’s not really any point.” The doorbell rang. “Told you so.”
Weston left the room, and Floyd relaxed against the back of his chair. “Weston told me what you found out. Condolences.”
“Thanks. It is what it is.”
“Yeah, but it’s got to be rough. You come all this way hoping to find your parents, and they’re gone.”
Andy shrugged. “I didn’t come here to find them. Only to find information. I never planned to meet either of my biological parents. It seemed disloyal to my adoptive mom and dad.”
“Makes sense.”
Weston returned with a box of pizza and a small paper bag. “Pizza and wings. Dad, you’d better take it easy on this stuff tonight. I’m not in the mood for another lecture from Mom, and I doubt you are either.”
“No, I’m surely not.” Floyd put down the footrest of the recliner as Weston set the food on the coffee table in front of him. “Excuse me if I talk with my mouth full, Andy. Weston said you have questions, and I’m starving.”
“We can talk after we eat,” Andy said.
“The way Weston’s fidgeting, I don’t know if he could stand that.” Floyd picked up a steaming piece of pizza. “Sit down, Weston.”
“Yeah.” Weston took a slice and joined Andy on the couch. “Help yourself.”
“I will when it cools off,” Andy said.
“Dad, how old was Uncle Jason when he and his wife and kids moved?” Weston asked.
Floyd swallowed and raised an eyebrow in a perfect copy of Weston’s typical expression. “Twenty-five. Why?”
“He got Aunt Nancy pregnant when they were still in school, right?”
Floyd took another bite of pizza and chomped loudly. Uncomfortable, Andy took a small bite of his slice, grimacing as the too-hot cheese and sauce burned the roof of his mouth. He shouldn’t be there to hear Weston’s family’s dirty laundry, and he saw no way to escape.
Finally Floyd finished his slice, except the crust, which he put back in the box. “Yes. He was seventeen; she was sixteen. They got married right off.”
“He never finished school, did he?” Weston asked.
“Damn it!” Floyd’s voice rose. “Why are you bringing all this up now? And in front of a stranger. No offense, Andy, but I’m not in the habit of airing family shit in front of people who aren’t family.”
“No offense taken,” Andy said. “I don’t blame you.”
“I’m sorry,” Weston said. “There’s a reason I’m asking, Dad. I know it’s uncomfortable for you, but I still need answers. Or, actually, Andy does. I’m just helping him out.”
Floyd turned toward Andy. “How about you ask your questions, and I’ll tell you what I can without letting out family secrets?”
The last thing Andy wanted to do was piss off the one person in Dayfield who might give him some answers. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Weston?” Floyd narrowed his eyes. “Any problem with that?”
Weston shrugged. “Not as long as Andy finds out what he needs to know. But Dad, you and I are going to have a chat after Andy leaves.”
“We’ll see.”
Andy took a bite of pizza and chewed slowly to give himself time to come up with a question that wouldn’t offend Floyd. Finally, he swallowed and said, “We’ve been going by what the papers said about my dad’s accident. That it was black ice, completely one of those wrong place, wrong time things.”
“Yep,” Floyd said. “That’s what they reported.”
Something in his tone caught Andy’s attention. “You don’t believe them?”
“Didn’t say that.” Floyd picked up another slice of pizza. “Weston, get me a soda, would you?”
“Water,” Weston said. “Bad enough I gave you pizza. Mom would have my hide if I gave you soda too.”
“Whatever. I’m thirsty. Get Andy something too.”
“Water’s fine for me,” Andy said.
“Be right back.” Weston left the room.
“I don’t know what’s going on here,” Floyd said. “It isn’t like him to ask so many questions. By the way, a couple of my buddies called me about you. They don’t think you ought to be poking around the way you are. Tried telling them you’re just curious about your family, but I don’t know if I reassured them at all. Some things in Dayfield, people don’t want getting out.”
“I’m starting to realize that.” Andy paused. “Look, I’m not trying to stir up any shit. But there are a lot of things that don’t add up. I’m one of those people who likes to understand things.”
“Yeah. So’s Weston.”
“What about me?” Weston returned carrying a can of soda and two bottles of water. He handed a bottle each to Andy and his father, then sat down again.
“You ask a lot of questions.” Floyd gave Weston a tolerant smile. “One of the good things about you, usually. But there are times when you should know better.”
“Yeah, well, that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop.” Weston opened his soda and drank some. “By the way, the kitchen isn’t exactly far away. I heard you. Ed called the library and told me pretty much the same thing. Andy’s asking questions he shouldn’t be, and he’d be better off going back to Boston.”
Stunned, Andy stared at Weston. He was starting to feel like he was stuck in one of those horror novels where the entire town was in on the nasty stuff, and he was getting tired of it. “Why didn’t you tell me, Weston?”
“I didn’t see a need to.” Weston gave Andy a neutral look. “You aren’t going to let his blustering scare you off, are you?”
“No, but you should have told him,” Floyd said. “If people around here are against him, he might run into trouble. Andy, go on with your questions. I’ll answer what I can. But you’re not staying in town too much longer, are you?”
“Another day or two. I have to get back home to help my father with some things.” He wanted to stay in Dayfield longer, though. Especially now. He had far too many questions, and he was damned if he would let backward idiots chase him away before he got answers. “You didn’t answer my last question. You don’t believe black ice caused Vardon’s accident?”
Floyd glanced around the room, turning his head quickly from one direction to another. Weston opened his mouth, but Andy held up a hand. If Floyd chose not to answer the question, Andy would have to deal with it. But he hoped Floyd was simply considering how to respond.
“The cops said it was black ice,” Floyd said finally. “Could have been. The roads were kind of slick that day, and around here, crews aren’t too good about salting and sanding. Plowing either, for that matter.”
He ate more of his pizza.
Weston cleared his throat. “That doesn’t really tell Andy anything, Dad.”
“Do you have any idea how hard it is talking about this shit after so long?” Floyd sat back and put his feet up. “Don’t rush me. I ought not tell you anything as it is, but Andy, I understand why you want to know. Just not sure how much I should say.”
“Whatever you can,” Andy said quietly.
Floyd nodded. “The cops officially worked for the town back then. Back then, the factory pretty much was the town.”
He stopped again, but this time Andy easily filled in the blanks. “The factory was the town, so the person who ran the factory ran Dayfield. The police were in the Chaffees’ pockets.”
“Old man Chaffee, to be exact,” Floyd said. “They would say pretty much what he told them to.”
“Why would Chaffee want Vardon’s death covered up?” Weston asked. “From what I remember, he spoiled the kid rotten. Vardon was set to own the factory and the town.”
“He was gay,” Andy said slowly. “At least people thought he was. He was gay, but he had a kid. One Vardon and Elise gave up, meaning the Chaffees couldn’t get their hands on him. On me.”
The pieces were falling into place. Elise and Vardon gave up the child who would have become part of the Chaffee empire, in theory. They probably hadn’t consulted Vardon’s parents about the decision, or Andy wouldn’t have been adopted, at least not by anyone outside the family. Giving away a Chaffee child was probably an unforgivable sin.
Unforgivable, but not justification for murder, unless the Chaffees were way more fucked-up than he believed.
“I’m not sure who knew Vardon knocked someone up,” Floyd said. “I don’t think anyone did, except Vardon and your mother.”
“Someone did,” Andy said firmly. “They must have. My birth mother told Vardon about me. We’re pretty sure of that. His name’s on my birth certificate.”
“Did he sign off on the adoption?” Floyd asked. “He would have had to, wouldn’t he?”
“I don’t know. Probably.” Andy wanted to kick himself. He’d never checked the names on the adoption paperwork, only on the birth certificate. But he had the envelope of papers back at the motel, so he would be able to find out. “For the moment, let’s assume he knew and signed off. Somewhere along the line, he might have confided in someone. His parents or a friend. Cousin. Something.”
“He didn’t have any friends I recall,” Floyd said. “Not here in town, and as far as I know, he didn’t go anywhere else. He finished high school and stayed put, even though his dad pushed him to go to business school. Vardon flat out refused to do that. I remember them shouting at each other about it in the factory office more than once.”
“So Vardon’s father had more than one reason not to be too happy with Vardon,” Weston said.
“Fathers and sons don’t always get along.” Floyd flashed a smile. “Some do, some don’t.”
“Maybe Vardon didn’t tell his father anything, then,” Andy said. “But he must have at least mentioned it to someone. He’d gotten a girl pregnant, and neither of them was ready for a kid. He had to have asked someone for advice. Whoever he talked to could have told the old man.”
“Sounds reasonable to me.” Floyd closed his eyes for a moment. “Not a lot of people got along with Vardon. Like I said, I wouldn’t say he had any real friends, and I never saw him talking much to anyone outside the factory. He was a little odd. The whole gay thing, for one. But he didn’t go for what most guys were into. No sports, no cars, just books and walking around. The car he was driving when he had the accident was his father’s, not his.”
“In that case, maybe his wreck was a genuine accident,” Weston said. “Old man Chaffee wouldn’t have let someone deliberately destroy one of his cars, would he?”
“It would depend on how angry he was with Vardon.” Andy set down the remains of his slice of pizza. There wasn’t a chance he would be able to eat any more of it, not with the way his stomach was churning.
“Vardon sometimes hung around with Jason,” Floyd said. “Jason tolerated Vardon better than most. There was a few years between them, but that doesn’t matter much. If Vardon talked to anyone about the baby, it probably would have been Jason.”
“That would explain a lot,” Weston muttered.
Andy’s stomach gave another lurch, and he quickly took a sip of water, hoping to settle himself.
“What would it explain?” Floyd’s voice shook. “You asked about Jason a few minutes ago. What’s he have to do with anything?”
“In the file of clippings about Vardon’s accident, we found one about Andy’s mother.” Weston hesitated. “Andy?”
“Go on.” Pressing his lips together, Andy folded his arms. He refused to be the one to break the news to Floyd that his brother might have been involved in Elise Cummings’s death.
“Thanks a ton,” Weston said sarcastically. “Dad, the clipping said she died of carbon monoxide. There were problems with the furnace at her house. Her family had called a repairman, and he was the one who found her. Saw her through a window, or so he claimed.”
Floyd’s face grew pale. “So why are you bringing Jason into it?”
“We’re wondering if that had something to do with how Uncle Jason suddenly had the money to move to New Mexico.” Weston closed his mouth, opened it, and closed it again. “Shit. This isn’t easy.”
Obviously it wouldn’t be any easier for Weston to tell Floyd the truth than for Andy. Andy sat up straighter and decided to give Weston a break. “The repairman gave his name as Tommy Hughes.”
Vehemently, Floyd shook his head. “Tommy’s a friend of mine. He would never—”
Andy talked right over the older man. “He arrived in an unmarked van. The photo in the article showed a bumper sticker on the back of the van, and you can read the license plate if you look closely.”
“This was back in ’85?” Floyd took a few shallow breaths. “Tommy’s van back then had his name all over it. He wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
Weston tilted his head and studied his father. “No one said anything about anyone hurting Andy’s mother. Dad? What aren’t you saying?”
Floyd gulped and gripped the arms of the recliner. “Nothing.”
“You think we believe someone hurt—killed—my mother.” Andy agreed with Weston. Floyd’s reaction was over the top for someone hearing about a carbon monoxide leak. Even hearing one of his buddies might have discovered Elise’s body wasn’t enough reason to jump to the conclusion that Elise’s death was deliberate.
Andy had little doubt that somewhere along the line, someone had told Floyd the truth about Elise’s death. Most likely Jason himself.
“Sounds to me like that’s what you’re saying,” Floyd muttered.
“Neither of us said anything of the kind, so why are you assuming?” Andy asked.
“I can’t. I gave my word.”
“Dad, this isn’t something you cover up.” Weston leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Whoever you gave your word to, it’s been thirty-five years. Talk.”
Floyd inhaled loudly and slowly, his body trembling, and spoke in a rush. “Fine. Fine, but don’t you dare say this to anyone else. Jason told me. He did it.” His eyes widened, and he turned to Weston. “Your uncle killed that girl because old man Chaffee paid him to.”