Chapter 19
I was on the ladder, pry bar in hand, working the old gutter loose from the fascia when I heard the vehicle. The sound carried clear through the morning air. Engine noise on my access road, moving slow and deliberate.
I set down the pry bar and climbed down and wiped my hands on my jeans.
A green SUV emerged from the treeline. County seal on the door. The kind of vehicle that never brought good news.
It pulled to a stop about twenty feet from the cabin. The driver's door opened and a man stepped out. Mid-fifties, gray at the temples, wearing khakis and a polo shirt with the county logo embroidered on the chest. He carried a clipboard and had a pen tucked behind his ear.
"Good morning," he said. "You Thomas Harmon?"
"That's me."
He walked toward me, hand extended.
"Gerald Weymouth. Jefferson County Environmental Health. I'm one of the field inspectors."
I shook his hand. Firm grip, professional manner.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Weymouth?"
"This is an official visit. Routine assessment of the property." He glanced at his clipboard. "County records show this parcel changed hands recently. Standard practice is to conduct a site evaluation within ninety days of transfer. Just to make sure everything's in compliance."
"I see."
"Mind if I take a look around? I'm specifically interested in the septic system, given your proximity to the water features."
"Go ahead."
Weymouth made a note on his clipboard. "Do you have any documentation on the septic? Installation records, last pump date, that sort of thing?"
"The previous owner gave me what she had. The system was installed in 1973. It was last pumped about four years ago, according to the paperwork."
"Four years." He wrote something down. "That's pushing it. County recommends pumping every three years for properties with significant water features nearby."
"Already addressed. I've got a specialist scheduled to come out next week. Full service and certification."
Weymouth looked up from his clipboard. "That's good. Who are you working with?"
"Roy Nguyen. Runs Peninsula Septic Services out of Sequim."
"Roy's good people. Been doing this work for thirty years. He knows what he's doing."
"That's what I heard."
Weymouth tucked his pen behind his ear. "Mind showing me where the drain field is?"
I led him around the back of the cabin, past the woodshed I'd been working on, toward the gentle slope that ran between the cabin and the tree line. The drain field was clearly visible, a rectangular area where the grass grew slightly greener than the surrounding ground.
"Here," I said. "Runs about forty feet, northwest orientation."
Weymouth walked the perimeter, making notes. He stopped at the lower edge and looked toward the stream, then turned and looked at the pond.
"Good placement," he said. "You've got adequate separation from both water features. Stream's what, about two hundred feet?"
"Two hundred twenty by my measurement."
"And the pond?"
"Hundred and sixty."
He nodded and wrote something down.
"County minimum is seventy-five feet. You're well clear." He crouched down and examined the soil. "Good drainage gradient. Whoever sited this system knew what they were doing."
"The previous owner's father built the place. Mark James. He oversaw the septic installation. Apparently he was meticulous about things like that."
"Everyone knew Mark James." Weymouth stood up and brushed dirt from his knee. "Good family. Shame what happened to him. How's his tea farm going?"
"Just had its first harvest. I helped out."
"Really? Bet they appreciated that. Claire Beaumont is a beauty, isn't she? I'd love a piece of that ass."
He grinned at me, as if expecting some kind of a shared bond between two middle-aged men. My scowl and silence let him know he'd crossed a line. His grin vanished and he quickly resumed his professional demeanor.
"Let me just walk out the boundary," he muttered.
Weymouth walked the full length of the drainfield, occasionally stopping to make notes. Professional. Thorough. When he finished, he circled back toward the cabin.
"Mind if I take a look at the exterior?"
"Help yourself."
I watched him walk the perimeter of the cabin, examining the foundation, the gutters I'd been replacing, the electrical panel on the south wall. He spent a long time looking at where the underground power lines emerged from the ground and connected to the meter box.
When he finished, he walked back to where I was standing.
"Septic looks to be in good order," he said. "But you'll need that certification from Roy Nguyen before we can close out the file. The county's very strict about septic systems near lotic and lentic features."
"Lotic and lentic?"
"Moving water and still water. Your stream and your pond. State regs got tighter about five years ago. Can't be too careful with groundwater contamination."
"Understood. Roy's coming Tuesday."
Weymouth made a final note on his clipboard. Then he looked up at me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"One other thing," he said. "Those underground power lines serving the cabin? The ones running from the road to your meter?"
"What about them?"
"They may not meet current code requirements. The installation looks like it predates the 1996 revision to the National Electrical Code. Nothing's being declared at this time. But there could be a follow-up report filed."
I felt something tighten in my chest. I kept my face neutral.
"Which specific code sections are we talking about?"
Weymouth blinked. He'd expected something else. Confusion maybe, or anger. He got neither.
"Article 300.5 primarily. Burial depth requirements for direct-buried cables. Pre-96 installations were often shallower than current standards allow."
I pulled out my phone and opened the notes app. "Article 300.5. Burial depth. What else?"
"Article 230. Service entrance requirements. There's been some revision to conductor specifications."
I typed it in. "230. Service entrance. Conductor specs. Anything else?"
Weymouth stared at me for a moment. Then he almost smiled.
"Article 250. Grounding and bonding. The requirements for underground systems got more specific in 2008."
"250. Grounding and bonding. 2008 revision." I looked up from my phone. "Is there a specific subsection I should be looking at?"
"250.52 and 250.53. Grounding electrode system and installation requirements."
I typed it in. "Got it. Anything else I should know?"
Weymouth shook his head slowly.
"No. That covers it." He tucked his clipboard under his arm. "I have to say, Mr. Harmon, most property owners don't ask questions like that."
"I like to understand what I'm dealing with."
"I can see that." He extended his hand again. "Nguyen's report should clear the septic issue. As for the electrical, I'll file my assessment. Someone from the building department may follow up. May not. Depends on priorities."
I shook his hand. "I appreciate you being thorough."
"Just doing my job." He walked back to his SUV, opened the door, then paused. "Good luck with the place, Mr. Harmon. It's a nice property. Very desirable."
I watched him drive away. I stood there for a long time after the engine noise faded.
Then I went back to my ladder and finished pulling down the gutter. Work always helps me think.
That evening, Abner and I shared some coffee on my porch. The evening light was soft, golden, slanting through the trees.
"Had a visitor today," I said.
Abner turned his head slightly, listening.
"County inspector. Environmental health. Name was Weymouth."
"Gerald Weymouth. I know him."
"He seemed competent. Professional."
"He is." Abner took a sip of coffee. "What did he want?"
I described the visit in detail. The septic assessment. The walk around the drain field. His approval of the system's placement. His mention of Roy Nguyen.
Abner nodded along, saying nothing.
Then I told him about the electrical lines. Article 300.5. Article 230. Article 250. The suggestion that a follow-up report might be filed. The careful phrasing that declared nothing while implying everything.
When I finished, Abner was quiet for a long moment. He stared out at the treeline, his weathered face unreadable.
"Fifteen years ago," he said finally, "I received a similar visit."
I waited.
"County inspector came to my property. Different man, long retired now.
He informed me that the transformer serving my cabin was improperly positioned.
Five feet from its drawn location on the county plat.
Five feet." Abner's voice was flat. "He said this constituted an unpermitted installation.
He said the county would need to review the situation. "
"Over five feet?"
"Indeed. The transformer had been in that exact position for twenty-three years. I had the original installation records. The county's own surveyor had signed off on the location when I bought the property. None of that mattered."
"What happened?"
"They cut my power. Said it would be restored once the permitting issue was resolved.
I filed the paperwork they requested. Attended the hearings they scheduled.
" Abner's jaw tightened. "Nothing was ever resolved.
Every solution I proposed was rejected on technical grounds.
Every appeal was denied. Every deadline was extended. "
"What the hell? Why?"
"That is what baffled me." He turned to look at me. "I tried everything, Thomas. I wrote letters. I attended county meetings. I even went to the state. Nothing worked. The county's position was always the same. The matter was under review. A decision was pending. Patience was appreciated."
From somewhere in the forest, an owl called. Abner cocked his head, listening. He took a deep breath, his lungs wheezing.
"Then one day, about six months after the power was cut, a man appeared at my cabin. A very rich man."
I knew the answer before he said it.
"Harlan Foster."