by D. A. Keeley
“My hands are already full with that,” she said, turning back to her screen, “believe me.”
“Want to tell me all about it?” Linda said, eagerly.
“No, I certainly do not.”
“Damn,” Linda said, and went back to her Sudoku.
A new email had entered Peyton’s inbox. She opened the attachment from the state lab and read it. She did not delete this one. Instead, she immediately knocked on Hewitt’s office door.
Hewitt was nodding when she re-entered.
“You read the state lab’s report,” he said.
She sat across from him again. Through the window, the sun was over the Crystal View River, the natural boundary between the US and Canada. She remembered the man they, along with two game wardens, had pulled from there—a bloated, blue corpse whose pockets had been stuffed with air-packed marijuana. Had he fallen from a boat or tried to swim from one side to the other? Thinking of the dead man reminded her that they’d never learned the answer.
“So they definitely weren’t making crystal meth in that cabin,” she said. “Hard to believe Fred St. Pierre Sr. didn’t know about what was going on in his cabin.”
“Maybe that explains why he killed his wife and himself,” Hewitt said.
“To avoid being accused of making bombs?”
“Slow down,” Hewitt said. “You took two steps and jumped to the crystal meth lab, and that was wrong. We have no idea for certain what they were doing. This is Fred St. Pierre, we’re talking about here, by all accounts a simple farmer.”
Something was tugging at her from her mind’s periphery.
What was it?
What had she missed?
“They had urea nitrate, a fertilizer-based explosive, and hydrogen-gas cylinders,” she said.
“Is it possible that the hydrogen was being used for something to do with the farm?”
“Come on, Mike.”
“Peyton, I’m no farmer. I really don’t know.”
“If this were any other place in the US, you’d be telling me they were making bombs.”
“Not necessarily true.”
“They were making explosives,” she said. “That’s why I found a shingle fifty feet away.”
Hewitt said, “See if the neighbors ever heard explosions.”
“Already on my to-do list.”
“What else is on your list?”
“You hate it when I show initiative,” she said, “don’t you?”
“I hate it when you go off on your own because I usually get a phone call from Sector Headquarters.”
“That’s only happened twice,” she said.
He sighed. “Please talk to Freddy’s sister again.”
“Also on my to-do list,” she said. “One guy I interviewed told me Simon Pink had a chemistry background.”
Hewitt moved a legal pad to where he could see it and reviewed his notes. “Things don’t look good for Freddy St. Pierre. The DA likes the murder charge.”
“We can’t place him at the crime scene.”
“Stephanie thinks she can get a conviction without it. And she thinks that eventually we will place him at the scene. But even if we can’t, she thinks Nancy Lawrence will be a disaster on the stand.”
“I agree with her on that,” Peyton said.
The station’s front door opened and closed. Voices were heard in the bullpen. Then Linda shushed the agents. It made Hewitt smile.
“She reminds me of my mother,” he said.
“She’s stricter than mine.” Peyton stood, tired of sitting. “Two men are seen by Marie St. Pierre walking toward the cabin at midnight. The cabin burns to the ground. Simon Pink is found inside it the next day, shot with the handgun from the younger Fred St. Pierre’s closet.”
“Those are the facts,” Hewitt said.
“It strike you as odd that mine was the only call to the fire department?” she said. “And that must have been three, four hours after the fire started, after the explosion.”
“What are you getting at?”
“The explosion happened after the fire started,” she said. “And the fire marshal believes someone torched the cabin with gasoline and matches.”
“And?”
“It means someone is walking around with all the answers,” she said and left the office.
Sixteen
Rhonda Gibson was in her mid-to-late sixties, and she opened the door maybe thirty seconds after Peyton knocked at 11:30 Friday morning.
“Mrs. Gibson, I doubt you remember me, but I used to sell you Girl Scout cookies.”
“I remember you. Lois Cote’s girl. The one who changed the tire when your mother got a flat. You were all of twelve. You and Lois had driven here to sell cookies, but you hit a nail in the yard.”
“Actually, I was thirteen, and I’d just helped my father change a tire on the farm truck the week before.”
Rhonda Gibson had pale-blue watery eyes and wore navy-blue polyester pants, a white blouse, and a pearl necklace. Had she raided Lois’s closet?
She held the door open for Peyton and motioned to the distant neighboring house, more than two hundred yards away. The St. Pierre home was dark, a pickup and a Honda Accord in the driveway. But the state police and Border Patrol vehicles were gone now. The ambulances were, too.
“I can’t believe it,” Rhonda said. “What happened there, I mean. I heard the gunshots. It brought me out of my seat. There’s nothing but farmland between our houses, but I couldn’t see that far—just some cars, nothing more—but I heard the bang. Sounded like Thomas’s rifle when he and our son used to shoot targets before hunting season. Before Thomas left me. Did you know our son?”
“No,” Peyton said. They were inside now, standing in the kitchen.
“He must be about your age.”
“I’m in my thirties,” was all Peyton would give her.
“He’s thirty-six. He spent most of his youth downstate. Anyway, he recently got transferred and now lives in the area. Your mother wants you to meet him, actually.”
“I’m sure she does,” Peyton said.
“Aren’t you lucky to have a mother who cares so much?”
“Oh, I sure am.”
“It was sweet of her to call him about you this week.”
“My mother called him?”
Rhonda Gibson nodded.
“About me?” Peyton said.
“Yes. And he’s really looking forward to meeting you Saturday. He says, from what Lois told him, you two have a lot in common.”
“Saturday?”
“At your mother’s house, Saturday night. We’re having dinner with you.”
Peyton stood staring.
“Coffee, dear?”
“Love some,” Peyton said, “unless you have something stronger.”
“What?”
“Love some, ma’am.”
“Mrs. Gibson, you said you heard the gunshot the afternoon Mr. and Mrs. St. Pierre were killed,” Peyton said.
She was stirring creamer into her coffee. Rhonda Gibson had poured creamer from the refrigerated container into a china dispenser. Lois, the apparent matchmaker, did the same when company popped in. Both women were traditional farm wives. And based on her own mother’s life, Peyton assumed neither had ever wanted for more, a notion that perplexed Peyton.
But there was something else about these women that she understood completely and greatly admired. Rhonda Gibson was dressed to go to lunch or to a meeting. She even wore a faux-pearl necklace. Did she have plans for the day? Somewhere to go? Probably not. It was how her mother dressed—Lois Cote rose at 5:30 a.m. each day and dressed as if the president were coming to lunch. And she’d spent six hours one day the previous week meticulously maintaining her flower garden. It was an aspect Peyton loved most about Aroostook Coun
ty: pride in one’s self and one’s things. And the pride and the care people took of their possessions had little to do with material costs.
“I heard two shots, actually,” Rhonda said, pouring cream into her cup. She stirred, the spoon tinkling lightly against the cup’s edge.
Peyton motioned to the picture window in the adjacent living room. “What did you see?”
“Nothing. It’s too far for my eyes, but I know what I heard.”
“Is it the first time you’ve heard something from the St. Pierre house?”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Had you ever heard gunshots—or what sounded like gunshots—on the St. Pierre property before that day?”
“Not in months. Oh, no—” Rhonda stood and moved quickly around the table. “I forgot.” She turned off the stove and, using a dishtowel, retrieved a tin of muffins.
“I wondered what you were baking,” Peyton said. “I smelled them when I got here. My muffins never smell like that, and they certainly don’t look like that.”
“I’ll have these ready for you once they cool. I’m so happy you came when you did. I was baking for my son, but now someone gets to eat them while they’re warm.”
“No need to go out of your way on my account. Can you describe the sounds you heard previously? And how long ago was that?”
“Oh, months. They were louder than the shots this week. A bigger gun, maybe? Maybe Freddy got a moose permit and was target shooting.”
Peyton sipped her coffee. “Mrs. Gibson, does anyone live with you?”
“My daughter, Sara. She’s two years younger than my son.” Rhonda stirred in more creamer. “My husband used to take his coffee strong. I’m sorry. I never got out of the habit of making it that way.”
“The coffee is wonderful. Was Sara here in the spring?”
“Oh, yes. She’s a homebody.”
Peyton did the math: Sara Gibson was 34, still living at home. “May I speak to her?”
“I’ll see if she’s awake.”
It was almost noon.
“Does she work nights?”
“No.”
Rhonda Gibson stood and left the kitchen.
Peyton retrieved her phone from her pocket and checked messages: One from Pete Dye. She heard footsteps overhead, then two sets on the stairs. She slid her phone back into her pocket; she would read his text later.
“Peyton, this is Sara. She says she remembers you.”
Peyton looked up. She remembered Sara Gibson as well. It would’ve been hard not to—she was dressed exactly as she had in high school.
Sara Gibson’s face was only vaguely familiar, not one Peyton would recall in passing. It was her outfit—the skirt a good five inches above her knees, the blouse with four buttons undone, exposing lace from a black bra, and the four-inch heels—that gave her away.
Sara crossed the kitchen as if the room were still spinning. Given her blood-shot eyes, it might have been.
She extended a hand. “Didn’t I used to know you?”
Peyton stood and shook hands. “You were a few years behind me in school.”
“You played basketball. I remember. You scored a lot of points. There was a ceremony.”
“That was a long time ago. They gave me a ball when I scored my thousandth point.”
“And they hung a banner,” Sara said. “It’s still there.”
“Nice to see you again,” Peyton said.
It was noon, but Sara’s hair was disheveled. Her mascara had run, her lipstick was smeared. And judging from her breath, she’d had far too much beer far too recently. She didn’t seem the least bit apologetic or embarrassed by her appearance and seemed in no hurry to get to work.
“Can I ask you a few questions?”
“Why?” Sara said. “About what?”
“Your neighbors.”
“Oh, the shooting.” She seemed relieved.
“Did you hear anything that afternoon?”
“Hear it?” Sara said. “I saw the whole thing. I don’t know why the newspapers and TV never called me. I was looking out my bedroom window, saw Fred shoot Marie, then pressed the gun to his temple, squeezed his eyes shut, and pull the trigger. I can’t imagine what Freddy Jr. is going through right now.”
“Was it the first time you heard noises like that coming from there? Did you hear anything Monday night?”
Sara looked embarrassed. “I was away all night on Monday.” Then to her mother: “Do we have coffee, Mom?”
“Sure, dear. Peyton, I woke up Monday night, but I’m not sure what I heard.”
“Can you describe it?”
“No. I just remember waking. Maybe I didn’t hear anything. But usually I sleep soundly.” She shrugged and moved to the coffee maker. “I’ll pour you a cup, Sara. Did you meet any nice boys last night?”
“Did you see anything, Mrs. Gibson?”
“No. I went back to sleep.”
Sara went to the kitchen table and sat. Peyton remained standing.
“I’ve heard a few sounds from time to time,” Sara said.
“Can you describe them?”
“Like gunshots.”
“Like the gunshots you heard the other day?”
“They were faint, like they were far away. I never saw anything, just heard them.”
The cabin was well beyond the house. Had Sara heard ex-
plosions?
“When and how often did you hear these sounds?”
“Just once or twice. In the spring. I’m not sure what it was. Maybe a car backfiring.”
Peyton looked at Rhonda, who was staring at the floor in deep thought. Was she embarrassed by her daughter’s appearance? Had she wanted more for her daughter than Sara was finding?
Peyton stood, knowing she’d gotten all there was to get during this interview.
At the door, she paused. “Sara, did you report the sounds you heard in the spring to anyone?”
“No. Like I said, I figured they were target shooting or it was a car backfiring.”
“Makes sense. Thanks for your time.”
Peyton left her card and made the obligatory call-me-if-you-remember-anything statement at the door.
Seventeen
Peyton drove back to Garrett Station.
Aroostook County was flat relative to its sister border in northern Vermont. As she noted the red maples, green and black ashes, and sugar maples—producing dramatic reds, yellows, and oranges against the mid-day sun—she recalled her time on the Southern border. She’d loved the long, low, blue Texas sky (like an inverted ceramic bowl, she’d read somewhere), and she remembered how, standing on a vista, you could see forever. But nothing matched snowshoeing on winter afternoons, crisp air exhaled in smokey puffs, sun reflecting off the white landscape; or summertime night walks beneath the full moon.
Peyton shifted, retrieved her iPhone, and plugged its charger into the dashboard.
Sara Gibson claimed to have seen the murder-suicide that had taken place nearly forty-eight hours ago. She described it in vivid detail, claiming Fred St. Pierre had put the gun to his temple, squeezed his eyes shut, and taken his life.
That made her testimony problematic. Fred hadn’t put the barrel to his temple; he’d put it in his mouth. And those images couldn’t be confused. Peyton surely wouldn’t forget the frame-by-frame sequence anytime soon.
So why was Sara’s story off base? Had she been too far from the events to get a good look and therefore allowed her imagination to fill in details? And why had she wished the media contacted her, especially since she’d refrained from reporting similar sounds months earlier?
Her explanation made sense. Gunshots weren’t uncommon; hunters shot targets year-round in Aroostook County. There was a rod-and-gun club in town that most agents visited monthly in preparation for requalif
ication sessions.
But if Sara knew the difference between the sound of gunshots and the sound of what Peyton now believed to be explosions, why hadn’t Sara called the authorities upon hearing the latter?
Sara wasn’t exactly an impeccable witness. This was a thirty-something party girl, a woman who still lived at home and whose mother was desperate to see her meet a “nice boy.”
Peyton thought about that as she opened the front door at Garrett Station and found a “nice boy” of her own waiting to see her.
“He’s been here twenty minutes,” Linda said when Peyton entered.
Peyton carried a backpack and wore her forest-green uniform and boots. Her short ponytail protruded through the back of her baseball cap. In her free hand, she carried her iPad sheathed in a protective OtterBox case.
Across the room, seated in a plastic chair next to her desk, Dr. Chip Duvall, the southern Maine dentist and Sherry’s husband—who patted her thigh like she was a Labrador—sat reading the New York Times.
“Doesn’t want to see anyone else,” Linda said. “Doesn’t want coffee. Doesn’t want to chat. He’s just been sitting there, chewing breath mints and smelling like expensive cologne.”
“Don’t make a pass at him. He’s married,” Peyton said, although she doubted that would stop the silver-haired widow. “He say what this is about?”
Linda shook her head.
Miguel Jimenez, the station’s youngest agent, walked out of the breakroom with a plate of poutine.
“Hey,” he called, “want some?” and pointed to his plate. “I’m bringing this recipe back to Texas.” He grinned. “I’ll open a diner and retire.”
She smiled. “French fries, cheese, and gravy? That’s your ticket to millions?”
“It’s addictive,” he said.
“If I ate that every day for lunch, like you do, I’d weigh three-hundred pounds and be on cholesterol meds.”
Chip Duvall followed the exchange, folded the Times, and smiled when Peyton set the backpack near her chair and sat facing him.
“Doesn’t look to me,” he said, “like you have trouble staying fit.”
