Chapter Five
After the last few miles of colorless landscape, the red barn to the right of the Welcome to Tolerance sign was an eye-opener.
Just past the barn was a tidy farmhouse with a wide wraparound porch, faded green shutters, and a black pickup truck in the driveway.
Farther down the road she passed a cluster of traditional New England white-framed houses as she approached the center of town. And yes, there was a proper town!
This was more like it.
She slowed to a crawl to take it all in.
The town was small by the standards set where she came from, but there was an order to it.
She could tell the town had been carefully laid out, each of the old homes built in a style that would complement its neighbors.
A closer look as she passed by showed a need for some porch repair here, a fresh coat of paint there, but still, it looked like a postcard.
Tolerance had a pharmacy, Zehren’s—obviously not part of a chain but probably named for the family who owned it—and a grocery store, Danvers.
Across the street the general store looked like a large barn, with windows carved into a wooden frame.
Next to it was an early-Victorian house painted pale yellow with a sign identifying it as the Tolerance Administration Building.
An arrow at the head of the driveway pointed the way to the Tolerance Police Department behind the building.
The library was next, painted the same shade of yellow, and was a mirror image, albeit a smaller version, of the town hall.
On the next block were two churches on opposite sides of the street, one gray stone, the other white clapboard, both spired.
A gift shop with a Closed sign in the window, and a children’s clothing store was also closed.
A newer brick building sold sporting goods, and a sign out front read Hunting Licenses Sold Here.
There was a hair salon, a restaurant with a Closed sign on the door, and a pizza place.
On the opposite side of the street, three older houses had been turned into businesses—a restaurant with the name Ruthie’s Hearth written on the front window in cursive, a pediatrician’s office, next to which was a dentist. The last house on the block was colonial in style with a handsome sign out front: Banks, Anderson & Banks, Attorneys-at-Law.
She parked the rental car next to the curb and pulled down the visor to check her appearance in the mirror.
After tucking a few errant strands of hair back into place, she grabbed her bag from the passenger seat and stepped out into the chilled air, colder than when she’d started out earlier that morning.
She pulled her coat closer, happy to stretch her legs after almost two hours on the road.
She had to sidestep the icy patches here and there on the sidewalk—no sand or salt in sight—and snow piled up on either side of the narrow path made by what appeared to have been a narrow shovel, and made her way to the steps that led to a wide front porch.
She paused—should she ring the doorbell, or just go ahead and enter?
It being a business, she was pretty sure they’d expect clients to walk in, so she pushed open the door and went inside.
The front room had dark-green plaid paper on the walls above wide-planked wainscoting, and a fire in the brick fireplace warmed the air.
A large modern desk stood against the back wall, but no one was in the room.
Might be lunch hour, Kit thought after checking the time on her phone. Perhaps she should have called.
“Katherine Porterfield?” A woman appeared in a doorway next to the reception desk.
“Yes.” Kit turned, having begun to gravitate toward the fire.
The woman walked toward Kit, her hand extended, a smile on her face.
“Caroline Banks. I’m happy to meet you.” She was dressed in tailored brown pants and a Fair Isle sweater, brown leather ankle boots, and gold earrings.
Her light-brown hair was pulled back in a low ponytail and she appeared to be somewhere in her late forties.
“Let me take your coat and I’ll let my dad know you’re here.
He’s on a call but he shouldn’t be too long. ”
Kit was aware that she looked like she’d been sitting for the past six hours, which she had been.
While the flight had lasted barely ninety minutes, there’d been driving time to the airport and check-in time and wait time, then the drive from Augusta.
Even her wool coat was creased from the seat belt, and she tried to smooth it out covertly when Caroline left the room.
“Ms. Porterfield.” Jeremy Banks burst through the door.
He was short and round and wore metal-framed glasses that perched at the very end of his nose.
What he still had of his hair was more white than blond, and he was nicely dressed in a dark suit with a tie sporting Scottish terriers, but his age was indeterminable.
He could have been anywhere from seventy to ninety.
“What a pleasure. I’m so glad you decided to come to Tolerance.
Caroline, honey, would you get us some”—he turned to Kit—“tea or coffee?”
“Oh. Coffee, please, and it’s Kit.”
“All right, Kit. And you’ll call me Banks. Everyone does.” He gestured for her to follow him into his office. “Now, how was that drive from the airport? Much traffic? I know the logging trucks can be disconcerting if you’re not used to them. Did you stop anywhere along the way? Had lunch?”
“No, I—” Kit tried not to stare at the man. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d had a conversation with someone who spoke as quickly and changed topics just as fast.
“Me neither. Caroline, forget the coffee. Ms. Porterfield—Kit—and I are going to Ruthie’s for lunch. Can we bring you something?” He opened a closet and took out his coat.
“I brought my lunch, so I’ll man the fort since Elsie isn’t in today.” Caroline helped her father into his overcoat. “I haven’t heard from Liam, so I don’t know what he’s up to or when he’ll be back.” She smiled at him. “I know that was going to be your next question.”
“I sent him out to the Meadows place to make sure there’s no one squatting in the house or any of the cabins.” He glanced at Kit. “Thought maybe we should know if anyone’s set up shop out there before you head over.” He walked to the front door and held it open for Kit. “Shall we?”
Coming from the warmth of the office, the cold seemed even more pronounced, and she shivered.
“I should get my gloves out of the car,” she said when it appeared they’d be walking to wherever it was they were going.
“Sure, sure. We’re not going far, though. Just up at the end of the block.”
Kit retrieved her gloves and immediately put them on. Tiny flurries of snow were beginning to drop. When she closed the car door, she realized that Banks had kept walking. She had to hustle to catch up with him.
“Was snow in the forecast for today?” she asked when she was finally beside him. Who knew that a man that short and that round and that advanced in age could move so quickly?
“Possibly. I rarely check the weather forecasts anymore. It’s usually more of the same. In winter, there’s always the possibility of snow. In the fall and spring, fog and occasional showers. Summer, humidity, fog, deerflies, and mosquitoes. And ticks, all year-round.”
“Swell,” she muttered.
“Just kidding. Actually, I’m not but it’s not as bad as it sounds. Well, sometimes it is.” He took her elbow and steered her to the one-story brick building on her left. He held the door for her.
“Thanks.” Kit glanced around the restaurant, where about three dozen square tables with four chairs at each stood in neat rows.
Half of the tables were occupied by anywhere from one to four people.
The walls were stark white and lined with photographs in thin black frames.
On the back wall was a mantel attached to a brick fireplace.
Over it hung an oil painting of a moose standing knee-deep in water, the colors muted and moody, the execution somewhat amateurish.
“Regular table, boss?” A middle-aged waitress in black leggings and a long-sleeved tee emblazoned with Ruthie’s Hearth in white greeted them with a smile.
“That would be fine, Mary Gail.” Banks began to unbutton his overcoat as he followed the waitress to the table in the far-left corner of the restaurant, waving to several other patrons as he went. He hung his coat on a nearby rack and turned to assist Kit with hers.
“Thank you, but I think I’ll leave it on for a few minutes.” She shivered into the sleeves. The cold had felt more raw than it had when she left Augusta, and she said so.
“You’ll get used to it if you stick around long enough,” he said as he held out her chair.
“I doubt I’ll be here long enough for that to happen.” She laughed as she sat. “I don’t much care for the cold.”
“A lot of people from away say that, but it’s not so bad.” He took the seat opposite her and smiled. “And you do get used to it.”
“Don’t listen to him.” Mary Gail, who’d greeted them at the door, appeared with two paper menus, which she passed to them. “I’ve been here since I was four years old and I’m still not used to it.”
“That’s ’cause you insist on bundling up all the time.” Banks turned to Kit. “The secret is to wear clothing lighter than what you think you need. Your body starts acclimating itself to the temperature. Pretty soon, you hardly feel it at all.”
Mary Gail rolled her eyes. “Another myth.”
Banks chuckled good-naturedly and turned to Kit. “Mary Gail likes to think she’s going to be heading south one of these days, but we all know better. By the way, Mary Gail, this is Maxine’s niece Kit Porterfield.”
“Oh, honey, we were all so sorry to hear about your aunt. She was something else, you know? We all miss her something terrible.” Mary Gail came around the table and bent down to give Kit a consoling, if unexpected, hug. “I am so sorry for your family’s loss.”