TUESDAY, AUGUST 22, PRESENT DAY
Russ wasn’t surprised that two of the other men who had been persons of interest back in ’72 were still living in the area. After all, he had come home from a lifetime in the army, twenty-odd years after he’d sworn he’d never set foot in Millers Kill again. It was a little uncanny that Isaac Nevinson was living on the same farm where Russ had met him all those years ago, though. Driving through Cossayuharie’s fields of grass-green corn and pastures going straw-gold in the August heat, he felt he could crest the next hill and be back in the land of his youth. What was the song they had sung last Sunday at St. Alban’s? Time, like an ever-rolling stream, bears all its sons away.
The road still wound down past the orchard, but where the one he remembered was overgrown with branches and brush, this orchard was rank on rank of perfect trees, glossy green leaves, and barely blushing apples as far as the eye could see.
He pulled into the neatly graveled drive and parked. The original house and barn had been joined by several outbuildings and a little farm shop. Russ could see jars and jellies stacked behind the counter, and a glass-fronted refrigerator crammed with jugs and egg cartons. NEVINSON ORGANIC FARM, the sign over the shop read. CIDER—APPLE BUTTER—FREE-RANGE EGGS—HONEY.
He got out of the car, cracking his back and letting the heat of the sun soak in for a moment. He was headed toward the house when the slam of the screen door stopped him. A young woman raced down the steps barefoot, her gypsy skirt swirling around her legs as she ran toward the farm stand.
The hairs on Russ’s arms stood up. The girl stopped at the corner of the stand, flipped her long dark hair over her shoulder, and smiled at him. “Sorry. I’m trying to keep an eye on the store and help Isaac with the baby. What can I help you with, Officer?”
It took him two tries to find his voice. “I’d like to speak to Isaac Nevinson.”
Her mouth and eyes both went round. “Ohhh.” In a whirl of skirts she was gone, back to the house. The screen door slammed before Russ could say anything else.
Russ walked to the farm stand. Its roof was built out over the counter, offering a couple feet of welcome shade for customers. The strings of dried apple slices and crafty little dolls did nothing for him, but the sight of cinnamon-dark apple butter and golden honey made his stomach growl. He sighed. Lunch was likely to be a heart attack in a sack again today.
The slamming door turned him around. The man coming toward him—barrel-chested, balding—could have been anyone until he opened his mouth.
“This is bullshit. Now they’re sending cops? Well, go ahead!” His arms windmilled. “Search the whole damn place! You’re not going to find anything, because I got rid of every scrap of equipment, which, they probably didn’t tell you, I paid over a thousand bucks for! A man tries to make an honest goddamn living in this country and this is what he gets! A friggin’ nanny state propped up by the fascist police!” He poked his finger toward Russ’s chest, and suddenly Russ could see the young wild-haired Isaac inside this middle-aged farmer. “Ask yourself why they’re setting the law on me. Hmm? You know why? Because I said I was going to sue them. You take one step toward threatening some pencil-pushing bureaucrat’s authority and this is what you get.” He held out his hands, wrists together. “Go ahead. Arrest me. I’ll sue the goddamn police department, too.”
Russ was pretty sure, but he had to ask. “Mr. Nevinson?”
The man looked at him as if Russ were a particularly stupid five-year-old. “Who else would I be?”
“What is it you think I’m here for, Mr. Nevinson?”
The farmer frowned. His eyebrows had grown as full and thick as his mustache had been in ’72. “The Liquor Licensing Authority?”
“Ah.” Russ nodded. “They catch you making illegal apple jack, did they?”
“It wasn’t apple jack. It was French-style apple brandy.” Nevinson rolled his eyes. “You can’t call it Calvados unless it comes from Normandy. Friggin trademark protection.” He squinted at Russ, as if trying to place his face. “The Licensing Authority didn’t sic you on me?”
“No.” Russ tugged at his collar. “Mr. Nevinson, can we go inside? This heat is just about killing me.”
“Oh. Well. Yeah. Okay. Sure.” The farmer turned back toward the house, Russ trailing after. If necessary, Russ could stand outside the whole day long, but he wanted to get a glimpse of what was going on in Isaac Nevinson’s life. He may have lost his hair and gained a gut, but the man’s hair-trigger temper was just the same.
The temperature was twenty degrees cooler once they had passed through the screen door. A long waterproof runner ran up the middle of the wide front hall, with rows of hooks for raincoats, jackets, leashes, and hats on either side. One archway led into a front room crowded with plastic baby toys and a playpen. Another opened onto the kitchen.
“Glass of water?”
“Thanks, yeah.” Russ took a seat at the checker-cloth-covered table. Nevinson filled two glasses and handed one to Russ before sitting down. His change of manner made Russ uneasy. Nobody was that casual when the cops dropped by wanting to chat.
Nevinson braced his elbows on the table and leaned in. “Look, I gotta be honest, I’m probably going to be voting for the state police option. I’ve been in business over thirty years, and I’ve never had any need for law enforcement. I mean, I’m glad you guys are there on the Fourth, directing traffic, but there’s no reason that couldn’t be done by the fire and rescue team. The sheriff’s department has said they can budget for a deputy at the high school. What else do we need?”
Okay, that explained Nevinson’s relaxed air. “I’m not here about the referendum, either.” Russ took the unsub’s photo out of his pocket and laid it in front of the farmer. “Have you ever seen this girl before?”
Nevinson picked the picture up. His face changed, stilled, closed in on itself. His eyes shifted to Russ. “This is a dead person.”
Russ nodded. “Do you know her?”
Nevinson put the picture down. “No. Why should I?”
“Her body was found in the middle of McEachron Hill Road. She was wearing a fancy dress, but had no shoes and no purse. No signs of violence. We can’t tell how she was killed. Yet.”
The farmer folded his hands and was silent for a long moment. “Okay,” he finally said. “You obviously know about the ’72 investigation. I’m sure it was in the record or whatever you guys keep. If you have that, you know I wasn’t ever charged with anything.”
Russ tipped his head toward the man, a not-quite assent. “I’m not saying you had anything to do with either death, Mr. Nevinson. I’m just trying to find some connections. We have two identical … incidents separated by thirty-four years. Not a lot of people who were involved then are still around today.”
“Bullshit. Terry McKellan still lives here. That carnival company the cops were interested in last time are still around. Have you checked with them? And there was that guy who found the body, what about him?”
Russ shifted in his seat. Nevinson blinked, leaned forward, and peered over the table. His mouth opened in an O. “Holy shit. That’s you. You’re that guy.” He waved his hand at Russ. “It is you, isn’t it? The glasses and the hair threw me off.” He made a sound that could have been a laugh. “Jesus, buddy, you must be the only guy in the county whose hair is longer now than it was then.” He scraped his chair back and stood. “You’re barking up the wrong tree. I had nothing to do with Natalie’s death, and I sure as hell don’t have anything to do with this one.”
“You won’t mind letting me know where you were Friday evening into Saturday night, then.”
Isaac grinned. “I was at my daughter and son-in-law’s house in Saratoga all weekend. Brooke and Dan Shaftsbury. I brought my grandson home on Monday so they could have a few days’ vacation. They’ll be back tomorrow to pick him up.”
He stopped at the slap-slap-slap of small bare feet on wooden floors. A toddler raced into the kitchen, the dark-haired girl close behind. “Sorry, Isaac. He got away from me.”
“Aw, that’s okay.” He scooped up the boy. “What’s up, bud? You ready for your tractor ride?”
“Twacta!” the boy yelled.
“I’ve got him, Steffie. You go ahead and get the rest of the stuff unpacked in the store.”
The girl swished out of the room, leaving a glowing smile hanging in her wake. “Your, um…?” Russ invited.
“Apprentice. I’ve got four agronomy majors from SUNY Adirondack learning the ropes.” He snorted. “I left academia for the simple life, and here I am, teaching college kids.” The boy in his arms wiggled and Isaac put him down. “Go find your hat if you want your tractor ride, buddy.” The toddler ran into the wide hallway, circled once, then tore back upstairs.
Isaac ripped a sheet of paper from a notepad and bent over it. “This is my daughter’s address and number. I’d take it kindly if you’d speak to her, clear me, and then leave me the hell alone.”
Russ tucked the paper into his pocket.
Isaac looked at him and shook his head. “I can’t believe you kept all your hair.”
Russ shrugged. “Maybe I’m not that old yet.”
Isaac crossed his arms over his broad chest. “In which case, there’s gotta be any number of guys who aren’t too old to have killed this new girl. Lotta people who’ve spent their whole lives in this area.”
“I know.” Russ sighed. “I’ve got to go talk to one of them now.”