Five

Mid-morning Wednesday, Peyton climbed the steps, crossed the wraparound porch, and met Fred St. Pierre at the door of his 1928 farmhouse.

“The farm looks great, Mr. St. Pierre,” she said.

And it did. It could’ve been just a week ago when she and his daughter Sherry played in the barn. Had it really been more than twenty years?

“Looks like you just painted the barn.”

“I did. Like the new color, eh?” he said, his French accent as thick as ever. He was lithe with a weathered face that had seen too much sun and wind, and he had leatherlike hands. He wore a green John Deere cap with oil smeared on the bill; blue jeans; worn engineer boots, the steel toe showing; and a red flannel shirt over a long johns undershirt.

“The barn used to be red,” she said, “didn’t it?”

He nodded.

“I like it white. Looks great.”

“Peyton, eh, Christ, what the hell happened to my cabin? Marie told me she called you. If that weren’t bad enough, eh, I’ve got fire trucks and the fire marshal driving across my rows. And I couldn’t spray this morning.”

“I was hoping you might be able to help me learn what happened to your cabin, Mr. St. Pierre. Did you hear an explosion?”

“Call me Fred, Peyton.” He looked her up and down. “You’ve really grown up, eh?”

She cleared her throat, caught off guard by the remark—and by his eyes studying her figure. As a little girl, she’d spent many nights in Sherry’s room, in sleeping bags.

“I just want answers. Couldn’t afford to pay someone to build the cabin, so Freddy and me poured the slab and framed that one and another on the other side of the property. Then I finished the insides of both myself. Eh, Christ, it took me six months. I’m not so young anymore.”

She noticed he walked with a limp now.

“Invite the girl in, Fred,” a voice called from behind. This one, too, had a French accent. “Where are your manners?”

“Sorry,” Fred said. “I just don’t know how I’m going to replace that there cabin. ’Bout killed me to build the first one. Arthritis in my leg, eh.”

He held the door, and she entered the house, feeling Fred St. Pierre’s eyes on her the whole time. He might have changed, morphing into a dirty old man, but the inside of the farmhouse remained the same, which spoke volumes about Marie.

As Peyton had as a little girl, the first items she noticed were the fireplaces—four in all, and she could see two from the kitchen. But it still felt like there were more, seemingly one in every room. She’d never forget eating crepes at the huge dining room table, a tiny eight-year-old among the hulking men working the potato harvest. Now the kitchen fireplace housed a wood-stove insert. She sat down at the kitchen table. The candle in the centerpiece smelled of cinnamon.

“Jesus Christ,” Fred said, “eh, Marie, that candle, well, it smells awful.” The insult, although harsh, was delivered in that sing-song cadence Peyton heard only among French-Canadian English speakers—JEEzus CAARist, eh, Marie, that CANdle, well, it smells AWful—which gave the slur a nursery-rhyme quality.

“Just trying to cheer the place up,” Marie said to the floor and moved to the counter, where she wiped a spot of water with a paper towel.

While Fred was a farmer in his late fifties and dressed the part, Marie wore her hair in a short blond bob and wore floral capri pants with a white silk blouse, open at the throat, exposing a thin gold chain. Her stylish appearance made her look much younger than her husband. Peyton looked at Marie’s flashy capris. Hard to picture this woman belonging to the same bridge club as her mother, Lois, who was a farmer’s wife through and through and whose wardrobe ran to ankle-length conservative-colored dresses.

Watching Marie pour coffee into a thick ceramic mug, Peyton thought the woman might well have been a suburban Boston housewife.

“Sugar, sweetie?” Marie went to the fridge and put a small container of half-and-half on the table.

“No thanks,” Peyton said. “Black is fine.”

Fred St. Pierre shifted in his seat. “So what the Christ happened to my cabin, eh? Marie says she called you about someone on our property. I could’ve handled that myself.”

“I appreciated her calling. She did the right thing.”

“Have you caught him?” Fred said.

“It was two men,” Marie corrected, “not one. I just saw shadows and flashlights, but there were two.”

Fred said, “Marie, pour me coffee.”

Marie nodded once, went to the cupboard, took down a cup, and brought her husband coffee after carefully adding cream.

“Have you caught anyone yet?” Fred said.

“Are you saying you think the fire was arson, Mr. St. Pierre?”

“I wired the place myself. Wasn’t no electrical fire.”

“We’re just beginning our investigation.”

“Well, I can’t have fire trucks and people driving across my rows. We planted last month. There’s a lot of work to do. Farming is hard enough, you know?”

“I know,” Peyton said. “Believe me.”

He nodded, and she knew he was remembering her father and his lost farm.

“We do, though, have an ID on the man who died in the fire.”

“Who was it?” he asked.

Peyton took her iPhone from her cargo-pant pocket and slid it across the table.

“This is a passport photo,” Peyton said. “He’s Canadian. Came to Montreal about ten years ago and was living in—”

“Youngsville,” Fred interrupted. “You sure it’s him?”

She nodded. “They found his wallet at the scene, and Canadian Immigration confirmed his identity. You know him?”

“Of course.” Fred held the photo out to Marie, who looked at it and immediately covered her mouth and turned away.

“That’s why,” she whispered.

Fred looked at her. “That’s why what?”

Marie went back to the counter. “More coffee, anyone?”

“No thanks,” Peyton said.

“His name was Simon,” Fred said, pronouncing it See-moan. “I told him he was the only person I knew from Montreal with a Russian accent.”

“Russian?” Peyton said.

Fred nodded. “Get me some sugar, Marie. This coffee, eh, it’s too strong.”

“Then why don’t you make it yourself, old man?” Marie said. “I’ll tell you why. Because you don’t even know how.”

He shot her a look but met Peyton’s eyes and then refocused on his boots. “I could figure it out.”

Peyton cleared her throat. “His full name was Simon Pink. Listed his occupation as an oil-truck driver. What can you tell me about him?”

“I needed someone to deliver potatoes, eh? He drove several loads to upstate New York for me. I don’t like to drive anymore, and my truck, well, she’s old. Simon, he told me he went back to school at Northern Maine Community College to get a degree in diesel hydraulics technology, so he said he could fix the engine if she broke down. That put me at ease, so I gave him a job. After last year’s harvest, well, there, he said he needed work, so I had him shingle the cabin roof.”

“Last fall?”

Fred drank some coffee and made a face.

“Woman, can’t you make decent coffee?” he said.

Peyton nearly jumped to Marie’s defense, but she needed Fred on her side. “Did Simon Pink roof the cabin last fall?”

“Yeah. Him, me, and Freddy Jr.”

“Tell me about his Russian accent.”

“I liked the guy,” Fred said. “Don’t get me wrong. But, well, there, I never really believed him either. I grew up in Quebec. He said he lived there, but he didn’t know nothing about the place. I don’t think he actually lived there. I let him stay in the cabin last fall, until it got too cold and he got his own place in town.”

“So there was no heat in the cabin?” Peyton said.

“No,” Fred said.

Something had led to the explosion, and it hadn’t been the heating system. Peyton was feeling better about her theory.

“So Simon Pink wasn’t working for you in the winter?”

“No. He was done before Thanksgiving. Freddy Jr. and me, we do the work in the winter. We work on the equipment ourselves. I don’t pay anyone in the winter.”

“He was such a sweet man,” Marie said. Her voice seemed to trail off as she said, “So gentle.” She moved back to the counter, always on her feet, Peyton noticed. “I can’t believe he’s dead,” Marie said and carried the coffeepot to Peyton. “Did he die trying to put the fire out?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What happened?” Marie asked.

“Did you hear anything last night, Marie?”

Marie was looking at Peyton. She said, “No. Why?”

Peyton said, “Who used the cabin on a regular basis?”

“No one this summer,” Fred said. “I slept out there occasionally last spring”—his eyes ran to Marie—“but not recently.”

“Why?” Peyton asked.

“Not your business.”

Peyton looked at him. Should she threaten him with a formal interview? Remind him of a potential subpoena? Not here. Not yet.

“Who had access to the cabin?” she asked.

“No one,” Fred said.

“You can’t see it from here, correct?”

“So what? I’d know if someone was out there.”

“What was inside it?”

“Nothing much.”

“Fred, the fire marshal believes the cabin was being used as a laboratory of some sort. Do you have any knowledge of that?”

“No,” he said. “What does that mean?”

“They found some metal that didn’t burn. It looks like the cabin was used to make something.”

“Like what?”

“You have any theories?” she said.

“No,” he said. “What is this? What’s going on?”

“Just routine questions.”

“Eh, well, they don’t feel routine. Was the fire set? Did the fire marshal say that?”

“He thinks there was an explosion of some kind.”

“What does that mean?”

“That’s about all the information I have,” she said.

“Peyton.”

Peyton turned to Marie.

“Did Simon die in the explosion?” Marie asked. “Or was he trying to put the fire out?”

“That’s really all I know, ma’am.”

“I always know when women are lying to me,” Fred said, his eyes running from Peyton to Marie and back to Peyton. “You know more. What do you think happened out there, eh?”

“I wouldn’t want to speculate, sir.”

“I’m asking you to.”

“When was the last time either of you saw Simon Pink?”

Fred thought a moment. “Last week. Might have run into him at the store.”

“And when was the last time you saw Simon Pink?” she asked Marie.

“Same.”

Peyton smiled at the couple. “I’ve taken up enough of your time. Would it be alright if I dropped by again sometime?”

“Of course,” Marie said and walked Peyton to the door.

“Thanks for your time, Marie.” Peyton started down the steps. It was another beautiful mid-June morning, nearing seventy degrees. She remembered what it had been like to wear the uniform, including the Kevlar vest, in the hundred-plus temps of El Paso.

She heard the front door close and was surprised to hear Marie’s voice: “Peyton, I hope you won’t tell your mother about Fred. He’s just gotten old, and, well, he’s changed.”

Peyton stopped on the steps and turned back. “Does he always treat you like that?”

“He loves me. Please don’t tell your mother. I see her often.”

“Bridge club,” Peyton said.

Marie nodded.

“I won’t say a thing,” Peyton said and took a business card from her pocket. “You called the office to reach me about the two men on your property. Here’s my cell number, if you ever need to talk.”

“Thank you.”

“Marie, one final question: What oil company did Simon Pink drive for?”