Chapter 9 #2
Porter processed her response in silence, his jaw tight, the toothpick turning slowly between his fingers. Through the kitchen window behind him, the last of the daylight was bleeding out of the sky, and the tree line in the distance had gone from green to black.
“Who else had regular access to the estate back then? Anyone who came and went without needing an invitation?”
“Cal Brennan was Nestor’s closest friend.” Porter exhaled through his nose, tilted his head, and stared at the ceiling for a moment. “He came by regularly, though he spent most of his time in the house, not the greenhouse. Their friendship slowly faded the more Nestor threw himself into his work.”
“After Claudine died?”
“Yes,” Porter replied, shifting in his chair.
He wasn’t comfortable sharing information, almost as if he believed he was being disloyal.
“Then there was Ward Seldon from the nursery in town. He owns the place. Still does, though he stopped coming round after Nestor’s death.
He used to supply Nestor’s research, from soil, plants, and sometimes even compounds.
His drivers had access, too. They’d bring deliveries right up to the greenhouse.
Nestor had a standing order, so the truck was out here at least once a week, sometimes more. ”
“Drivers, plural?”
“Over the years, sure. Ward has had different people on the route. But there was one who’d been doing it for as long as I could remember.
Quiet fellow. Never said much. Rick, maybe?
No, Ray. His name was Ray. I’d see the truck parked near the greenhouse, and by the time I came back around, he’d usually be gone. Efficient, that one.”
Sylvie committed every detail to memory. The others joked that she had close to an eidetic one, but she’d just learned early on how to store the simplest of facts in her mind. She’d relay these details to the team tonight, though she would also type up a supplemental report for the Bureau.
“One more thing,” Sylvie said, adjusting her tone to keep the question conversational rather than pointed. “Gwenyth mentioned someone named Owen this evening. She asked one of my colleagues if Owen had sent him to the house with her medicine.”
“Gwenyth spoke to one of your people?”
Porter’s surprise was evident.
“Briefly.”
“That’s good.” He smiled slightly in affection. “Must be having a good evening. Those are few and far between.”
“Our research shows that Owen Pruitt was the pharmacist at the local pharmacy,” Sylvie continued, not giving an explanation as to how she’d already come by the man’s full name and occupation.
Bit had been able to pull quite a lot of information on the man.
“Retired now, from what we understand. But I was surprised that Gwenyth seemed to be on a first-name basis with him.”
Porter set the toothpick on the table before rubbing the back of his neck.
He took his time responding to her latest question.
“Owen and Nestor used to be part of the same poker group. A few guys from town would get together once a month. Nestor, Owen, Cal, Ward, and a couple of others. After Claudine died, Nestor stopped going, and the group eventually fell apart. Cal and Owen were the only two to stop by the estate every now and then.”
“And after Nestor disappeared?”
Porter hesitated. It was a brief pause, no more than a second or two, but Sylvie caught the slight waver. His fingers curled inward against the tabletop before deliberately relaxing.
“Gwenyth started having her episodes a few years after Nestor vanished. Nothing severe at first. Confusion, mostly. Talking to people who weren’t there.
She refused to see a doctor. Flat out refused.
She wouldn’t leave the property, and she wouldn’t let a stranger into the house.
Owen was one of the only people she’d let through the door, on account of knowing him from when she was young. ”
“So, Owen began managing her care? A pharmacist?”
“Look, miss,” Porter said with a frown. “I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”
Sylvie allowed her silence to do what it always did when someone was deciding whether to cross a line that they’d been standing behind for a long time.
The cottage had grown darker around them while they’d been talking, the last of the daylight gone from the window, and the only illumination came from the overhead kitchen light and the faint glow of the porch bulb bleeding through the curtains.
“I believe Owen has been giving Gwenyth something,” Porter said, his voice lower now, as if that would save Nestor’s friend from the authorities.
“I can’t say for certain whether it’s prescription medication or something else, but she takes these pills that he brings her.
He claims they are vitamins, but she’s better for weeks after his visits.
No doctor has ever been involved. No diagnosis, no formal evaluation.
Whatever arrangement the two of them have, it’s been going on for years, and I’ve never fully understood it. ”