Fallen Sparrow

by D. A. Keeley

  It was a pleasant June morning, but she didn’t get iced coffee. She took hers black and went to a booth near the window.

  It had been bad enough when Tommy came home upset (embarrassed) three times after being pulled from class to be tested. But now it was apparent that Tommy was just a number to his teacher, who, Peyton thought, didn’t believe in the concept of learning disabilities. Nancy Lawrence assumed that if Tommy was failing he simply wasn’t working hard enough.

  But something else about the conversation bothered Peyton, something she’d inferred: Nancy Lawrence viewed some kids as simply “slow.” And that enraged Peyton.

  Her son was struggling. And what if Tommy was in fact diagnosed with a learning disability? She’d known agents whose children—usually boys, in fact—were deemed to have Attention Deficit Disorder. The stigma was of behavioral issues. She didn’t want that for Tommy. Didn’t want him pigeonholed at age ten. Yet there was no denying that Tommy needed help. He was struggling academically, and it was spilling over into other areas; his confidence was taking hits, and now it looked like he was being bullied.

  She, too, needed help. Needed to talk to someone who knew about the educational system, about learning disabilities, about what she could and should do for her son.

  She was glad she would see Pete Dye that night. Dye taught US History at the high school, coached girls’ basketball, and tended bar some nights to help make his mortgage payment. He could offer an overview of the district and maybe tell her if having Tommy tested for a learning disability made sense. They’d grown up together, but hadn’t started dating until six months ago.

  She thought about Tommy’s ten-year-old life and compared it—as she often did—to her own at that age. Her parents hadn’t had much, but they’d had each other. And her life hadn’t been nearly as complicated as Tommy’s. No crushing academic failures. No bullies. No fathers who took little interest in her.

  From her vantage point, she could see the Aroostook Centre Mall. The mall might have been a far cry from what had been available in Texas, but it did have a JC Penney, a Staples, a Kmart, and several smaller retailers. And not wanting to rely solely on the Internet, the Aroostook Centre Mall was more than sufficient for her shopping needs. Given her career choice and ensuing daily uniform, fashion had long given way to practicality. Besides, the last time she wore heels, when she’d gone to dinner with Pete, she’d slipped and nearly fallen.

  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 sa
id. “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?”

  Six

  During the day shift, three field agents conducted routine border sweeps—driving to various locations, observing wooded areas, or walking trails and sign-cutting—leaving Peyton and two other agents on duty to follow up on open cases. The corpse of murder victim Simon Pink made the fire on the St. Pierre property high-priority.

  Aroostook Oil and Heating was located at the north end of Academy Street in Reeds, a ten-minute drive from the stationhouse. It was the site of a renovated farm. Peyton didn’t need to ask why the venue had leapt from farm to private business. One of two things had occurred: the farmer had worked the land until old age then sold the place off, or the farmer hadn’t been able to keep up with the Canadians’ government-subsidized potato prices and was driven to selling or, like her father, had lost the farm.

  She pulled her white-and-green Ford Expedition to the side of the barn and climbed out, recalling the day when she’d been thirteen and watched the bank’s men and her father around the kitchen
table, hearing the words “small, maybe a trailer, on one acre.” Charlie Cote hadn’t taken the trailer the bank men offered. Instead, he’d built his own house—the 1,200-square-foot home in which her mother still resided. Usually Peyton smiled when she thought of her late father. Now, though, she remembered his slouched shoulders at the kitchen table as he signed the bankers’ papers, recalled his first day as janitor at Garrett High School and the look on his face when they’d seen each other in the hallway, and finally the day his heart gave out. It taught her that when you take a man’s way of life, you take his dignity, and when you take his dignity, you take his life.

  She entered Aroostook Oil and Heating glad to push those thoughts aside and think of the bullet hole in Simon Pink’s torched skull.

  She crossed what had once been a parlor complete with a stone fireplace and leather furniture. A young receptionist sat, head buried in a textbook. In her early twenties, the raven-haired woman wore jeans, a blouse with three buttons undone, and stylish short boots with two-inch heels. She closed The Principles of Accounting and centered her keyboard, ready to type, but looked up instead.

  “May I help you?” Her words were spoken in a default tone, but there was an oh-shit quality in her voice Peyton had come to anticipate when entering someplace in uniform unannounced.

  “I need to speak to whoever might be in charge.”

  “That would be Gary. Everything okay?”

  Peyton smiled, moved to the stone fireplace, and stood near the hearth.

  “Gary owns the company.”

  “If he’s in charge of personnel,” Peyton said, “then he’s the guy I need to see.”

  “Is everything okay?” the receptionist asked again.

  “Of course,” Peyton said, reading the girl’s name plate: Samantha Buckley. She took her iPhone out and made a note of the jumpy receptionist.

  “Sammy told me you have some questions about our employees,” Gary Buckley said.

  It was a leap, albeit a subtle one, from If he’s in charge of personnel, then he’s the guy I need to see to questions about our em-