For breakfast the next morning, Warren toasted a slice of bread and spread a thick layer of Sylvie Weber’s raspberry jam across its craggy surface. The jam tasted of the sun-drenched fields, its flavor round and red and acidic, and when he was finished he prepared another piece of toast, just to taste the berries again. Then he showered and drove to the barracks where he met Pinky and waved him into the Galaxie; Warren knew he’d learn the roads faster if he drove himself.
The sun rose in the sky as Warren followed the curve of the river along Route 5. He had copied out a map from the atlas on his desk at the barracks, creating a visual for himself of Agony Hill and the land stretching down the eastern slope of the hill to the river, and he handed it to Pinky so Pinky could study it too.
Neither of the two farms that abutted the Webers’ land was on Agony Hill. Rather, both farms were down below, along something called River Road, tucked next to the Connecticut in the fertile valley formed when the ancient ocean had receded, leaving behind the dark rich soil in which corn and alfalfa and other feed crops grew as though they’d been touched by magic. The corn was up above Warren’s chest, the hayfields tall. There was something about all that bounty that made him feel calm and satisfied, though he couldn’t think exactly why.
As they drove, he told Pinky more about the scene in the lawyer’s office.
Pinky wrinkled his nose, confused. “You think the brother had something to do with all this?”
“I don’t know,” Warren said. “It only makes sense if Victor Weber thought he was going to inherit something upon Hugh Weber’s death. Williamson said he was going to get some more information from the bank in New York about the estate, but the way it looks now is that Victor Weber had some reason for believing that he stood to inherit. He was the executor, after all, so he must have seen an earlier version of the will, the one before Weber’s marriage. We need to find out more. After we visit the farms, can you check to see if he’s still staying at the inn? I’ll have to go talk to him.” Pinky nodded. “The other thing is, Sylvie Weber told me that her husband first came to Bethany to live on a farm owned by someone named Jeffrey; the Prophet, she called him. Do you know who she was talking about?”
Pinky nodded his head. “Jeffrey Sawyer, it must be. He has a farm out near Goodrich Hill. He had some other people living there at one point and I think I did hear that he and Hugh Weber had some sort of feud going. He’s an odd old character. Now it’s just him and his, uh, wife. They keep themselves to themselves, though. Sell vegetables in town sometimes.”
Warren slowed the car at a stop sign, then turned onto a narrow dirt road. He could see the river now, beyond a few layers of fields planted with vigorously growing crops. He glanced over at Pinky. “A feud? Was that in the past or do you think there could still have been bad blood between him and Hugh Weber?”
“I don’t know. He keeps himself to himself is what I’ve heard. I’ll ask my dad, though. He’ll remember what the argument was about.”
“Thanks.” Warren drove in silence for a bit and then he said, “You think she could have been mentioning this Jeffrey Sawyer character as some sort of red herring, to throw me off her trail?”
Pinky shrugged. “You said she didn’t seem to know about the will and all.”
“Maybe she’s lying about that too,” Warren said. “She could have seen a piece of mail, done some research.”
Pinky made a little skeptical noise. Warren knew what he meant. Sylvie Weber didn’t seem canny enough for something like that. Warren wasn’t even sure how much she understood about her whole financial situation, even now.
“How did Hugh Weber get his farm?”
Pinky said that Weber had bought his twenty-acre parcel from a man named Horace Hickson fifteen years ago, right around the time he got married.
“Mr. Hickson’s wife died and he moved in with his daughter,” Pinky said. “I suppose Weber must have made an offer for the farm. Hickson always had a few cows and sheep and so forth, but the land is pretty poor up there. Not like the farms down here by the river.”
“What can you tell me about these farmers, Spaulding and Hatchett?” Warren asked. “If there was animosity between Weber and these men, what was it likely to have been about? Sylvie Weber said they wanted the land, but you just said it’s poor quality.”
Pinky studied the map some more while Warren focused on the road. “Weber’s parcel runs up against the two farms here and here,” he said, pointing to a spot on the map. “They’d both probably like to get ahold of these pastures here and here. Give ’em a few more grazing options, or they could be additional hayfields. Some of the farmers around here are trying to expand. Need to produce more milk to make it all pay.”
Warren must have looked confused because Pinky went on. “See, they’re making the dairy farms get bulk milk tanks, to store the milk hygienically, and lots of ’em can’t afford it. The interstate too. They bought up a lot of land from farmers for the construction, like that farmer who burned his place down. Farms closing down left and right. For the ones that are trying to survive, only answer is to make more milk.”
They drove another half-mile down the road. “That’s Terry Spauldings’ place, up there,” Pinky said.
“What’s he like?” Warren asked, alert to a hint of disdain in Pinky’s voice.
“Well … he looks out for himself.”
Warren smelled the farm before he saw it, the ripe tang of cow manure rising in front of them as they turned into a wide driveway lined with a couple of Ford pickup trucks and a shiny, brand-new tractor of some sort parked in the large driveway. It wasn’t the mellow animal smell of the Webers’ farm, but rather the sharp, fresh smell of a working dairy farm. He took in the panoramic scene. The farmhouse was large and well-cared for, freshly painted and neatly landscaped. A long structure, with a shiny new metal roof, sat next to the older barn on the far side of the drive. Across the road were deep corn fields, the plants already tall and shiny green in the sun. Beyond was the river.
No one came to meet them.
“They’ll be in the milking parlor,” Pinky said, pointing to the long building. Warren could hear cows inside, but no human voices. When they pushed through the door, though, and Pinky called out, “Mr. Spaulding? Anyone here?” someone called back, “Through here,” and they followed the voice into a large room with concrete walls. Beyond was an even larger space, a milking parlor with six stanchions and a gate at the far end. Three men were working with the cows, adjusting the machines attached to their udders and dropping scoops of grain into the feeding troughs.
A large man in a yellow coverall said, “Hiya, Pinky.”
“Hello, Mr. Spaulding, this is Franklin Warren. He’s the new detective at the barracks. Just moved to Bethany. He’s looking into this thing with Hugh Weber.”
“That right? How do you like it here?” Spaulding had a fleshy face, pink and smooth, his small eyes studying Warren shrewdly. Warren waited for Spaulding to introduce the other men but the pleasantry never came. The men, both in their twenties, looked up and nodded, then went back to their work. One was attaching the milking machines to the udders of the black-and-white cows on either side of the parlor, while the younger of the two was filling the troughs in front of each cow with grain. They were munching happily, oblivious to the machinations at their hindquarters. As Warren watched, milk began to whoosh through the clear plastic tubing and up into the ceiling. He’d thought that cows were still milked by hand, but Spaulding’s setup seemed state-of-the-art and he could see what an advantage it would be. You could milk three or four times as many cows in the same amount of time with a system like this one.
“Uh, it’s very nice, so far. Is there a quiet place we could talk for a moment?” he asked Spaulding.
Spaulding looked annoyed, but pointed to a door at one end of the milking parlor and then led them through into a small, neatly organized office. He sat down behind the large wooden desk, the top clear of clutter, and Warren and Pinky sat down in the two chairs opposite.
“How well did you know Hugh Weber?” Warren asked him, a bit abruptly, to throw him off in case he knew something. But Terry Spaulding didn’t flinch.
“Not very well. I doubt anyone would say they knew him well. He was a strange bastard. I never understood what his interest in that place was. He didn’t know how to keep it up. It was falling down around him and his stock was poor quality, animals he bought at auction for cheap. What’s the point of doing something if you’re not going to do it right?” He looked around at his gleaming, sterile office with an air of self-satisfaction.
“Let’s go back fourteen years. Was he the only buyer interested in Horace Hickson’s farm on Agony Hill?” Warren asked.
Spaulding scowled. “I make no secret of the fact that I would have liked it, but I didn’t have the funds at the ready then. Weber came in with cash, told Horace he wanted to buy it, gave him the money the next day. He had an inheritance, I think I heard. I guess he liked the idea of farming, but he didn’t know the first thing about it. Made a hash of it, all right. That woman of his knew a bit. He would have starved if not for her. I suppose she’ll have to sell it now.”
“The Weber property abuts another farm,” Warren said offhandedly. “Uh…” He looked to Pinky for the name, as though he’d forgotten.
“Hatchett’s,” Terry Spaulding said. “No love lost between Jorah Hatchett and Weber, I can tell you that.”
“Was he also interested in Hickson’s property?”
“I suppose.” Spaulding wasn’t going to go any further than that.
“Mr. Spaulding, as you know, we’re now investigating Mr. Weber’s death as suspicious. Do you remember the night of his death and the fire?”
“Yes, of course. My boy there, T.J., and my son-in-law, Gordo, too, are on the fire department. They went up and put it out and told me he was in the barn. I could smell the smoke of course. And the news was all over town the next day.”
Warren waited. “So you and your wife were here at home that whole evening?”
Spaulding looked up quickly. “Yes, well, I had a calving I came out to here. It was a bit complicated and I thought I might need the vet, so I stayed out in the barn most of the night. It was okay in the end, though. But yes, we were here all night.”
“And the rest of the family?”
“My daughter, Joanie, and her husband—Gordo there—live in the house up the hill.” He pointed vaguely to the outside. “Gordo was out at the fire, but otherwise, I think they were in.” He glanced away. “I need to get back. Is there anything more?”
“Well, I’m curious if you can think of any reason why anyone would want Mr. Weber out of the way. When I told you that we think Mr. Weber’s death might not be suicide, who was the first person you thought of, Mr. Spaulding?”
Spaulding leaned back in his chair and broke into hoarse, unpleasant laughter. “He was a miserable son of a bitch, Mr. Warren. I can’t think of a person in this town who wasn’t happy when they heard he was dead. But if I were you, I might look at that woman of his. Don’t they say that malice starts close to home? Now, I need to get back to milking.”
Out in the milking parlor, Warren hesitated for a minute, trying to see how he might ask the son and son-in-law—T.J. and Gordo—about where they were the night of the fire at the Webers’. But Terry Spaulding glared at them and they both put their heads down and focused on the milking. He’d just have to come back, preferably when the domineering paterfamilias wasn’t around.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Spaulding,” he said.
Spaulding didn’t answer. They had finished with the cows in the parlor and were moving them out through a different gate than the one they’d come in by. One of the cows stopped, sniffing at the ground, and Terry Spaulding whacked it hard on its hip bones with the wooden stick he carried. The cow jumped and hurried out the door.
The Hatchett farm was three miles down the road, set up a bit on the hillside, with what Warren assumed must be spectacular views of the river valley. There were no shiny new pieces of farm equipment here, just an older tractor and a few clean but worn-out-looking trucks in the driveway. The farmhouse was smaller and older than the Spauldings’; there was something austere about it, the dark gray clapboards weathered and the small garden around the front door pruned and trimmed to within an inch of its life.
Jorah Hatchett was also milking, but unlike Terry Spaulding, he was almost alone. Only a thin teenager helped with the task of bringing the cows in, attaching them to the milking machine, scooping grain into the feeding troughs, and then moving the cows out once they had finished.
“Mr. Hatchett?” Pinky called out. “We’re sorry to bother you.” He introduced Warren, which elicited nothing more than a curious glance.
When Jorah Hatchett looked up, Warren found himself intrigued by the man’s timeless face, its sharp angles and noble nose and brow. He was thin but wiry and seemed taller than he actually was. There was a Lincolnesque quality to him; his last name seemed appropriate. Hatchett said nothing, just nodded and went back to what he was doing. Pinky waited a minute, seeming to absorb the atmosphere of the milking room, before he said, slowly, “Looking into this Hugh Weber thing, the fire.”
Hatchett nodded, but didn’t say anything. Warren waited before realizing the response was complete. Hatchett hadn’t been asked a question so he wasn’t going to offer one.
“Mr. Hatchett, what was your relationship with Mr. Weber like?” Warren asked.
Hatchett looked up. “Didn’t have one.”
“But you knew him? He was your neighbor.”
“That’s right.”
Warren had to push down his annoyance. Did the farmer think this was a game?
“Mr. Hatchett, is there anything you can tell me about Hugh Weber that might be of interest to us? I have heard that he bought a piece of land that both you and your neighbor Terry Spaulding were interested in. Is that right?”
A long silence and then, “Yuh, that’s right. The farm up on Agony Hill isn’t worth much, but with some clearing, the hillside would have made a good extension of my pasture.” He took a deep breath as though the effort of speaking so many words had exhausted him.
“But Mr. Weber got it?”
He nodded. The answer didn’t need words.
“And at some point you wrote a letter, asking to buy some of his fields?”
Hatchett said, “Never heard back though, so I left it.”
The milking parlor returned to silence, except for the sounds of the cows and the machines.
“So there’s nothing else you can tell us?” Warren asked. “What kind of man was he?”
Jorah Hatchett took his time considering. Finally he said, “Wasn’t much of a stockman. Had money but no sense, and then he spent the money on land that was only valuable to myself or Terry Spaulding. Spent the rest of it on animals that were poor quality.”
“What about that?” Warren asked. “Was he taken advantage of?”
Hatchett shrugged. “I wouldn’t know about that. He had a few heifers that are sound now, but he didn’t know much about breeding. Some nice sheep, I’ve heard. But he didn’t know what he was doing. His woman, she knew more than he did. Any success they had was down to her.”
“Really?” Warren asked. It was what Spaulding had said as well. “Did she grow up on a farm?”
“Wouldn’t know. She’s not from around here.” The milking machine on the cow closest to Warren made a sucking sound.
“How did you hear about the fire up on Agony Hill?” Warren asked him, raising his voice to be heard over the machine.
“Smelled it.” The milk stopped swishing through the tubes and Hatchett pulled it off the cow’s udder and moved her out. He stood up and gave the cow a gentle push to move her along and out the door at the end of the room, murmuring something under his breath.
Warren caught Pinky’s eye and asked the silent question, Is that it? Pinky shrugged.
Warren was about to thank Hatchett when the man walked past him and said, “Finish up, will you, Gene?” The teenager bent to his work and Hatchett gestured with a hand for Warren and Pinky to follow him. Warren, not knowing what else to do, went behind him out the door and around the back of the barn. The cows that had been milked and were outside again watched them placidly as they followed Hatchett up a low slope and toward a field bordered by a high fence. They seemed somehow more vigorous than the cows at Spauldings’, their coats glossier, their eyes calmer.
Hatchett walked over to the fence line where a piece of vine, green and ropy, hung from a corner post.
“Thought you should see this,” he said, putting up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. “I was missing one of the heifers. She must have gotten over the fence in the last few days. I went looking, but…” He shrugged. “Then this morning, I heard her up here, bellowing away. Someone had caught her and brought her back. Tied her up to the fence with the vine, I think.”
He met Warren’s eyes and nodded as though Warren should know what he was saying.
“I’m sorry,” Warren said finally. “I don’t quite understand.”
Hatchett gestured to the vine on the fence. “That was all he had to secure her there. He must have found her wandering in the trees up that way, on Agony Hill.”
Warren still looked confused so Hatchett went on. “There’s someone been up there in the woods on Agony Hill.”