He said, “Mr. Cole … if I may, all you have to do is go into your house, have a seat on your couch, and we’ll be as quick and as quiet as we can. You’ll hardly notice we’re there.”
“While you’re doing what?”
“Taking photos. Measurements. Recording what this place was like back when my grandfather was stationed here during the Korean War.”
I took a breath, trying to keep my temper in place. “Really, I’m trying not to be rude here, but this place—my home!—is not the same place as it was when your grandfather was here. It’s changed, it’s been built, expanded, some parts torn down, and just last year, a good chunk was burned down in an arson. I did my best rebuilding it with old lumber and timber from the nineteenth century, so I don’t see what you’d gain.”
His voice got sharp. “What I gain is none of your business, Mr. Cole.” And then, like he knew he had gone too far, he added, “Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. Mr. Cole, your home doesn’t just belong to you. It belongs to history. It belongs to future generations. Certainly it has changed over the years—I do realize that—but the basics of your house, the foundation of your house, it’s remained the same. And all I ask is some time and courtesy to let me record a part of it.”
“History and future generations don’t pay the utility bills or the property taxes,” I said. “I do. Is that clear enough?”
“I—”
His wife, Marjorie, got up on the granite steps, tugged at her husband’s jacket. “David please, that’s enough.”
His face was red and he stepped down hard from the steps, like he was making a statement. Marjorie rubbed her hands—she looked pretty cold, even with the April sun up high and warm—and she said to me, “I’m sorry. David … he’s a bit of a compulsive, you know? The kind of guy who eats M&Ms by putting them on a plate and organizing them by color, or who makes sure his shirts are hung by sleeve length and fabric. When he gets a notion in his head …”
Her husband stepped back a few more steps. Marjorie glanced back at him and then turned back to me, lowering her voice. “I know he’s being a pain.” She gave me a wide smile. “You should try being married to him.”
“No thanks.”
A pleasant nod. “I understand, and I’m sorry for disturbing you again.”
“I appreciate that, Mrs. Hudson. And honest, just give me two more weeks, all right? I’m sure I’ll be in a better position then.”
She nodded. “I get it. Again, sorry.”
Marjorie stepped back and went to her husband, and there was a brief yet spirited discussion that I couldn’t quite make out, and then she took his arm—not the one with the folder—and started walking back up my dirt driveway. Marjorie turned and gave me one more sympathetic look, and then she turned back to her husband.
I watched for another minute or so as the couple walked away, heading up to the parking lot of the Lafayette House, and then Hudson shook off his wife’s grasp, stood, and then looked back at me.
His gaze wasn’t friendly or open or forgiving.
It was pure hate.
CHAPTER SEVEN
After that dreary event, I had a lunch of defrosted frozen soup and some cheese and rolls, the soup having come from Diane Woods’s fiancée, Kara Miles. And as chance would have it, Diane called me and we made a date for an early dinner. So I napped and poked around and, thanks to Paula’s help, I called the Tyler Historical Society three times. Each time, the call went to voice mail, except the voice mail box was full and couldn’t accept any more messages.
At five P.M., Diane came through the front door without looking at me and flopped down on my couch, barely missing my feet.
She looked very tired, wearing jeans, a black turtleneck, and short leather jacket. I said, “Thanks for coming by.”
“Glad to do it.”
“I thought you’d be busy at work.”
She rubbed her face with her right hand. “Ah, yes, I would be, if there was any work for me to do.”
“What’s going on?”
“You’re aware that this state is in the middle of an opioid crisis?”
“I know, but I’m sure I don’t know enough.”
A sigh. “Get this. Our little Granite State, our little slice of heaven, it’s ground zero in the current heroin epidemic. Per capita, we’re number one—not as newsworthy as having the first-in-the-nation primary, but it’s right up there. Each day we lose a couple of men and women, boys and girls, to ODs. Over in Manchester we had a mom and dad who OD’d and died in a restaurant bathroom while their kiddos were having the early-bird special.”
“I don’t remember hearing that or seeing that in the papers.”
Diane stretched her legs, rubbed her hands along her jeans. “That’s because it didn’t really officially happen. Sometimes, if there’s no real crime involved, like an underage victim or someone forcing the drug into a person, the families like to keep it quiet. You’ll see it in the obits if you read it the right way. ‘Died unexpectedly.’ ‘Died at home.’ ‘Died with friends at his bedside.’ Saves the family a bit of grief, though that’s changing now. Lots of families want to get the word out, even if they’re embarrassed, so they can help save another family.”
She took a breath and I interrupted. “Then what does this have to do with Maggie Branch’s murder?”
“Yesterday morning, it had nothing to do with Maggie’s murder. Then after we did another sweep of her barn office, it had everything to do with Maggie’s murder. We found a little plastic envelope of high-grade heroin. Goddamn stuff even had a stamp on it, that’s how brazen the goddamn dealers are getting.”
“What kind of stamp?”
“Oh, just a stamp with a bird on it. A bluebird. Your stamp of approval that you’ll
