Chapter 9
Sylvie Deering
The forensics team was packing up for the evening as Sylvie crossed the rear grounds of the estate.
Two technicians in Tyvek suits emerged from the greenhouse carrying equipment cases, and a third was coiling extension cords near the portable generator.
The work lights inside had been switched off, leaving the glass structure dark against the stone wall, its iron frame silhouetted in the fading light like the ribs of something long dead.
The Bureau had arranged for the team members to stay at a motel in town, which meant they’d want to grab a late dinner before settling in for the night.
Early mornings and long hours in the July heat made for short evenings.
Sylvie, for one, was grateful they didn’t have to continually make daily trips to and from a random motel.
The air had cooled slightly since the afternoon, but the humidity remained, clinging to Sylvie’s skin and carrying with it the heavy, green scent of the overgrown grounds.
Lightning bugs had begun to drift above the hedgerow in slow, blinking arcs, and the sky to the west had softened into bands of amber and violet above the tree line beyond the property.
Sylvie paused on the gravel path and turned, walking backward for a few steps as she studied the rear face of the mansion.
She studied the sightlines, specifically which windows had a direct view of the greenhouse.
The ground floor was partially blocked by the shrubbery, but the second story was a different matter altogether.
The windows along the left side of the house were Gwenyth’s wing, and those windows offered a clear, unobstructed view of the greenhouse and the grounds surrounding it.
If Gwenyth had ever stood at one of those windows at night when she was younger, she would have been able to observe anyone approaching the structure, particularly if they were carrying a light.
Sylvie filed that detail away and turned back around, mindful of her footing on the uneven gravel.
As she rounded the hedges, she passed Bit, who was balanced on a small stepladder near the corner of a toolshed, holding a compact wireless camera in one hand and a roll of electrical tape in the other.
He’d spent the better part of the last hour mounting cameras at strategic points around the property, covering the greenhouse entrance, the main drive, and the path between the house and the rear grounds.
Bit had received permission from Porter, who had apparently consulted with Gwenyth.
“How many is that?” Sylvie asked as she came to a stop beside the ladder.
“Four active, two more to go.” Bit tilted the camera into position before checking the angle on his phone. “I’ll have full coverage of the greenhouse, both access roads, and the front drive by the time I’m done. Anything larger than a raccoon comes onto this property tonight, I’ll know about it.”
“What about the raccoons themselves?”
“I’ll know about those, too.”
Sylvie left him to his work and continued along the path, which curved past the weathered toolshed and a large woodpile before arriving at a small guesthouse set back against the rear wall of the property.
It was a modest structure, single story, with a stone foundation that matched the main house.
A covered porch ran the width of the front, and a pair of work boots sat beside the door next to a folded tarp.
A moth circled the bare bulb next to the front entrance in slow, erratic loops, and the yellow light gave the immediate area a warm, isolated quality.
She climbed the two steps and knocked. Once she stepped back, she waited patiently.
The door finally opened, and Porter Voss stood in the frame, one hand on the knob and the other resting against the doorjamb. He was still wearing the same flannel shirt and canvas pants from earlier, and the faint smell of coffee and tobacco drifted out from behind him.
“Mr. Voss, I’m Sylvie Deering. We didn’t get the chance to be formally introduced.
I work with S&E Investigations.” She offered her hand, and he eventually dropped his to take it.
“I understand you spoke with my colleague earlier today. Now that the investigation is formally underway, I was hoping you wouldn’t mind answering a few questions. ”
Porter studied her. Long enough that she thought he might deny her request. Given that his expression hadn’t changed in the least, it was difficult for her to get a read on him.
“Come on in. Can I get you some water?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
The interior of the guesthouse was small but lived in, with an open layout that combined the kitchen, dining area, and living space into a single room.
The furniture was sparse and functional.
A kitchen table with two mismatched chairs, a counter with a coffeemaker and a small dish rack, and a recliner positioned near the window that faced the main house.
Sylvie couldn’t help but note he had a clear view of the greenhouse, as well.
A braided rug covered most of the hardwood floor, and the walls held a few framed photographs that were too far away for Sylvie to make out in detail.
The evening light came through the window in a single, slanting beam that caught the dust in the air and lit the edge of the recliner’s armrest in a stripe of fading gold.
It was hard to miss the bottle of whiskey on the small table beside the recliner, accompanied by an empty glass. The amber liquid was down to the last third. A second bottle sat on the kitchen counter near the coffeemaker, unopened.
Porter lived alone, on an isolated estate, looking after a woman whose condition was deteriorating. The whiskey wasn’t surprising. The quantity gave her pause, though she kept her expression pleasant as she took a seat at the kitchen table without comment.
Porter pulled a toothpick from a shot glass near the stove and worked it into the corner of his mouth before settling into the chair across from her. The wood groaned under his weight.
“I’d like to start by asking about your relationship with Nestor Ellingham,” Sylvie began, folding her hands on the table. “I understand you worked for him as the groundskeeper, but I’ve also heard that the two of you were friends.”
Porter’s jaw worked the toothpick from one side to the other. He took his time, and she got the sense that he was deciding just how much information to reveal.
“He was my employer, and I respected him. But over the years, especially after Claudine passed, the line between the job and everything else got blurred. He didn’t have many people in his life, and I was here every day.
We’d talk sometimes, that’s all. Not about anything deep, just the kind of conversation that happens when two men are clearing some brush.
He was private, but he wasn’t cold. There’s a difference. ”
“And your relationship with Gwenyth?”
Porter's face gave way to something gentler, though he reined it back in almost as quickly as it had appeared.
“I’ve known Gwenyth since before she could walk.
After Nestor disappeared, she didn’t have anyone else.
Dale wasn’t around much. Her mother was long gone.
I stayed because someone had to, and over the years, I just never left.
” Porter moved the toothpick again. “She’s not what people think she is.
She has her difficulties, but there’s a person in there.
A real person. Most folks have forgotten that. ”
“What are your thoughts on what Dale is doing with the guardianship petition? He’s basically saying that she can’t take care of herself or make her own decisions.”
Porter’s softness vanished.
“Dale wants what Dale has always wanted. Money. The estate is worth something, and Gwenyth is in his way. He’ll dress it up however he needs to.
Concern for her welfare, the cost of her care, whatever sounds best in front of a judge.
But the bottom line hasn’t changed since the day Nestor went missing.
Dale wanted to sell this property thirty years ago, and the only thing that stopped him was Gwenyth refusing to leave. ”
Sylvie decided to take their discussion in another direction.
“I’d like to ask you about the greenhouse. Specifically, about who had access to the property back when Nestor was still alive.”
Porter leaned back in his chair, and the chair groaned beneath him.
“The property was technically always open. There used to be a gate, but the Ellinghams never used it. Eventually, the hinges rusted, and I had it hauled off to the junkyard. No security system, either. No one really finds themselves out here, if you know what I mean. Too far out from town. Nestor put all the money into soil, nutrients, and such.”
“And the greenhouse itself?”
“Nestor spent most of his time in there. It was his workspace, whatever you want to call it. He didn’t lock it, if that’s what you’re asking me.”
“Eight sets of remains were found in there, Mr. Voss,” Sylvie said quietly. “Seven of them women.”
The color left Porter’s face in stages, starting at his forehead and working down. He pulled the toothpick from his mouth and held it between his fingers, staring at the table as though the surface had just rearranged itself.
“Seven,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“Nestor wouldn’t hurt a soul.” Porter’s words came immediately, reflexively. He had automatically assumed that she and the team would believe Nestor Ellingham was responsible. “I don’t care how strange people thought he was or how much time he spent in that greenhouse. He was not capable of that.”
“Someone was,” Sylvie said gently.
Porter met her gaze, and his next question came before she had to prompt it.
“How did they die?”
“We don’t know yet. The forensics team is still working on it.”