Chapter 18
Sylvie Deering
Ray Freeling’s residence was tucked away at the end of a cul-de-sac on the town’s fringes, a modest clapboard rental flanked by a rusted chain-link fence.
The lawn was a haphazard mix of browning patches, and the mailbox leaned precariously, hinting at a past collision that had left it slightly askew.
A pickup truck sat in the short driveway, its bed empty, the tailgate down.
Sylvie had originally planned to head back to the estate after the Owen Pruitt interview, but Bit’s text with Freeling’s address had come through while she was still in the SUV, and a quick check of her GPS put her less than ten minutes away.
Since Theo was at the crash site with the sheriff and Brook was managing the situation at the estate, there was no reason not to make the stop.
She parked at the curb and walked through the gate, which was unlatched and swung open with a creak that carried across the otherwise quiet street.
The neighborhood had the drowsy, late-afternoon stillness of a place where most residents were either still at work or on their way home.
A sprinkler ran two houses down, its arc visible over the top of the fence, and the only other sound was the distant hum of a window unit laboring against the July heat.
The front porch was concrete, swept clean, with a single folding chair and an ashtray that hadn’t been used in some time.
A coffee can near the chair held a collection of nails and screws, the kind of thing a man kept within reach when he spent his evenings sitting on the porch with nothing to do but sort through small tasks.
She knocked, and the door opened after a long pause.
Ray Freeling was in his mid-sixties, though the years had worn on him.
He was thin, with dark hair dusted with gray on the sides, cut short.
He wore a plain white T-shirt, work pants, and socks, but no shoes.
His hands hung at his sides, and he didn’t extend one in greeting.
The interior of the house behind him was dim, and the smell of reheated coffee drifted through the doorway.
“Mr. Freeling? I’m Sylvie Deering with S&E Investigations. We’ve been brought in to consult with the Bureau on a case involving the Ellingham estate. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”
Ray regarded her for a moment, his expression neither hostile nor welcoming. Then he stepped aside and held the door open.
“I haven’t heard that name in a while.”
The interior was as sparse as the exterior.
A living room with a couch, a television on a low stand, and a single bookshelf that held more vintage knick-knacks than books.
The carpet was clean but threadbare in the high-traffic areas, and the curtains were drawn against the afternoon sun, leaving the room in a muted half-light that made everything appear slightly faded.
This was the home of a man who had pared his life down to what he needed and nothing more.
Sylvie took a seat on the couch when Ray gestured toward it, getting the impression that he hadn’t been informed about the latest events.
He lowered himself into a straight-backed chair across from her, the kind that belonged at a kitchen table rather than in a living room. He then rested his hands on his knees.
“Mr. Freeling, Nestor Ellingham’s remains have been discovered on the estate. They were found buried in the greenhouse.”
The change in Ray’s expression was immediate and unguarded. His lips parted, and the wariness in his eyes was replaced by something that came across very much like grief. He sat with the information for several seconds, his hands tightening on his knees, before he spoke.
“Nestor is dead?”
“I’m sorry. I understand this is difficult to hear.”
“I’ve always wondered…” Ray’s voice drifted before he cleared his throat. “People said he left. Packed up and walked away from Gwenyth, from the estate, from everything. I never believed that. Not for a second.”
“Why not?”
“Because he loved that greenhouse more than most people love their homes. And he loved his daughter more than the greenhouse.” Ray shook his head slowly. “He wasn’t the kind of man who left. How did he die?”
Sylvie had been wondering if Ray was going to inquire about Nestor’s cause of death. Had he not, she would have taken this interview in another direction.
“We believe he was murdered,” Sylvie replied, keeping the specifics to herself for now. She adjusted her glasses. “I understand that you used to deliver soil and such to the estate back then. How well did you know Mr. Ellingham?”
“Better than most people realized, I think.” Ray regarded her as if he were trying to ascertain whether she was trustworthy.
“I drove routes and made deliveries for Ward Seldon for years. Nestor’s estate was on my regular route back then.
Specialty soil, growing compounds, plant specimens.
He had a standing order. Ward was busy growing his business, so I was the one who filled it. ”
“How often were you making deliveries?”
“Twice a week, at least. Sometimes more if Nestor called in a special request.” Ray paused, his gaze lowering as the memories returned. “Nestor was a night owl. He’d work in that greenhouse until the wee hours of the morning. He’d wave me in, and we’d end up talking for an hour.”
“You’d deliver that late at night?”
“Sometimes.”
“What did the two of you talk about?”
Something shifted in Ray’s face, a softening that Sylvie hadn’t expected from a man who presented as guarded. He leaned back in the hard chair, and for the first time since she’d arrived, his posture loosened.
“Everything. His research, mostly. He’d explain what he was working on, the compounds he was trying to isolate, why he believed plants held the answer to diseases that modern medicine was still throwing chemicals at.
I didn’t understand half of it, but he didn’t care.
He just liked having someone to talk to. ”
Ray’s thumb traced a slow circle on his knee.
“I think he was lonely.”
“Did you ever interact with Gwenyth during those visits?”
“Rarely. If I showed up during the day, she was in school. On those late nights, she’d already be asleep. I saw her a handful of times over the years, but we never had what you’d call a conversation. She was quiet. Kept to herself, even back then.”
Sylvie’s phone vibrated in her purse. She murmured an apology, checked the screen, and found a text from Bit. Brook was drafting a press release regarding the additional remains to be released first thing in the morning. Sylvie kept her phone in hand and returned her attention to Ray.
“Mr. Freeling, I should tell you that in addition to Nestor’s remains, the forensics team has discovered seven other sets of remains buried in the greenhouse. All women. Since the information will be made public very soon, I was hoping you could provide us with some insight.”
“I don’t…” Ray frowned, as if he couldn’t quite grasp what she was trying to convey. “What do you mean?”
“The remains of seven women were found in Nestor Ellingham’s greenhouse,” Sylvie reiterated as she continued to observe his reaction. “Do you know anything about them? Notice anything unusual taking place on the estate when you would make your deliveries?”
“Seven women?”
“Yes.”
“In the greenhouse?”
“In the raised beds and planting areas, yes. They’d been there for approximately thirty years.”
Ray was silent for a long time, as if he were still struggling to accept such news. The dim room seemed to press closer around them, the drawn curtains holding the afternoon sun at bay while the conversation inside grew heavier. He blinked slowly until he was able to form a question.
“And you think Nestor killed them?”
Sylvie held his gaze.
“Do you think Nestor Ellingham could have killed seven women?”
“No.” The answer was immediate and absolute, delivered with more conviction than anything else Ray had said since she’d arrived.
“Nestor mourned over a plant’s death. I watched him spend an entire evening trying to save a specimen that had contracted root rot.
He talked to it. Apologized to it. When it died days later, he sat on the greenhouse floor for twenty minutes before he could bring himself to remove it from the bed.
I’m telling you that man could not have hurt another living thing.
Not a plant. Not an animal. And certainly not a person. ”
“During those late-night visits, did you ever see anyone else on the property? Anyone who shouldn’t have been there?”
Ray seemed to truly mull over the question, and it wasn’t long before he was shifting in his chair with unease.
“Porter was usually in his cottage by that hour. Cal Brennan would be there from time to time, but…”
“Do you recall something, Mr. Freeling?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing.” Ray paused, an odd expression crossing his face, as though a memory were catching up to a question he’d never thought to ask. “Actually, now that I think about it, maybe it was something.”
“What struck you as unusual at the time?”
“I was bringing in bags of soil, maybe a month before I heard the news that Nestor had disappeared, and I found a scarf stuck on the doorframe. I brought it in and handed it to Nestor. At first, he looked confused, but then he said it must belong to his daughter.” Ray lifted his gaze to meet hers, the color draining from his weathered face. “You don’t think…”
“I honestly don’t know, Mr. Freeling.” Sylvie moved through several more standard questions.
Employment history, how long he’d rented the house, whether he’d had contact with anyone from the estate since Nestor’s disappearance.
Ray answered each one with the same spare, careful delivery, offering exactly what was asked and nothing more.
The room had grown darker around them as the afternoon wore on, the thin light through the curtains fading to the color of weak tea.
She was nearing the end of the interview when she decided to share one more piece of information, partly to gauge his reaction and partly because Ray Freeling had known Porter Voss for decades and deserved to hear it from a person rather than a news broadcast.
“There’s something else you should know. Porter Voss was killed in a vehicle accident earlier today. His truck was found on County Road Nine.”
Ray’s hands went still on his knees. He didn’t utter a word for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice had gone flat in a way that wasn’t grief or shock but something closer to resignation, as though the news had confirmed a fear he hadn’t been able to articulate until now.
“Porter is dead.”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
Ray stared at the floor between his feet, and his jaw worked silently for several seconds.
Then he raised his head and stared at Sylvie with an expression that had changed entirely.
The guardedness was gone. So was the reserve that he’d maintained throughout the interview.
What remained was something raw and urgent.
“You should be careful out there.” Ray’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“What do you mean by that, Mr. Freeling?”
Something moved behind his eyes that he chose not to give voice to. He then shook his head slowly, as if at a loss himself.
“I don’t know. That scarf…I don’t know. I just don’t know. Nestor seemed uncomfortable. Maybe even afraid, now that I think about it more. I didn’t ask about it again, and I wish I had.”
Nestor had been afraid. Not isolated, not eccentric, not consumed by grief. Afraid. Of something…or someone. And he’d carried that fear silently, the same way Porter had carried his observations about Gwenyth’s condition without connecting the dots.
What exactly had been taking place on that estate?
Sylvie left her card on the coffee table and asked Ray to call if anything else came to mind. He walked her to the door, flipped on the living room light, and stood on the porch as she made her way to the SUV, his thin frame silhouetted against the doorway.
She was behind the wheel with the door closed before she allowed herself to process what Ray Freeling had just given her. A scarf on a doorframe that, in all likelihood, hadn’t belonged to Gwenyth. And a man who had been afraid in the weeks before he disappeared.