Fifth Son. Barbara Fradkin
“If it made some of the families uncomfortable, well, they just had to adjust. Tried to drive me out once before, too. Lucky for me the pastor at Rideau Church of God was a fool—”
Green laid Ident’s digitally doctored photo of the dead man down on the card table. “Is this one of your flock?”
Taylor picked up the photo and gazed at it in a distracted way. His tangled brows knit further. “Well, of course, I haven’t had a flock in several years. How many, Nancy? Three?”
“Eighteen.”
Taylor looked shocked. “Nonsense. They drove me out, see, said I was too old, couldn’t handle the demands. Nonsense. That pastor at Rideau Church of God wanted the crowd. He’d been driving away congregants with his thundering about brimstone and hellfire, so he thought he’d better steal mine—”
“Reverend, do you know this man?” Green repeated.
Taylor shifted his gaze back to the photo and eyed it with surprise. “This man’s dead!”
“Yes, he jumped off the tower.”
“Now why would he do that? I always welcomed people, even the sick, the poor, the deranged. There but for the grace of—”
Green swore a silent prayer of his own for patience. But before he could speak, Nancy jumped in. “Reggie! The police haven’t got all day! Look at the picture.”
Meekly, Taylor peered at the photo and slowly wrinkled up his nose, as if he could smell the man. “Seen better days, I’d say.”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“Never known them to be so dirty. Always a particular family. The mother kept them all well-scrubbed behind the ears, father wouldn’t allow so much as a fart indoors. Hard to imagine it could be one of them.”
“One of whom?”
“Could be, mind you. But with that beard and all that blood, well...” As if sensing Nancy’s imminent tongue-lashing, he nodded at the photo with some vigour. “Could be one of the Pettigrews. Don’t know which one. They all looked alike, and they were mere lads the last time I saw them.”
“Were the Pettigrews a family in Ashford Landing?”
“Oh, not in Ashford Landing. They had a farm just north of town off Number 2. Nice spread, backed on the river.”
Green glanced at Sullivan, who discreetly put his notebook away and slipped outside to verify the address. With any luck, they could stop by the farm on their return to Ashford Landing. Green took out his own notebook and returned to the brighteyed old man. “Did the Pettigrew family attend your church?”
“Pettigrews helped build it, every limestone block of it, back in 1896. Before my time, of course, but there have always been Pettigrews at Ashford Methodist Church, until that pastor at Rideau Church of God started his hellfire and damnation. What did you say your name was, my son?”
“Michael Green. Inspector Green.”
Taylor glanced at Nancy with twinkling eyes. “They make them younger every year, don’t they, Nan. All except you and me.”
Green smiled. He was over forty, and a little grey had just begun to pepper his fine brown hair, but his skin was still unlined, and a spray of freckles across his nose gave him a deceptively innocent air. Which came in handy when he wanted to go unnoticed.
“Irish too, are you?” Taylor persisted. “Mind, I’ve nothing against the Irish. Worked side by side with us to build up this country, and I’ve no patience for those who say otherwise.”
Green hesitated. In the city, his Semitic nose sometimes gave him away, but out in the country, Green suspected few of the old-timers would have ever met a Jew. Moreover, the reverend’s concept of religious diversity seemed to be more than a century out of date, and Green wasn’t sure the man’s welcoming attitude would extend that far. Instead of responding, he plucked the photo from the Reverend’s reluctant fingers, thanked the man for his help and headed gratefully towards the fresh outside air.
Sullivan was just coming back from the car. Across the road behind him, a solitary tractor was chugging slowly along an open field, and the smell of manure wafted over the road. Green wrinkled up his nose. “Let’s hope this Pettigrew family grows corn, not cows.”
Sullivan laughed. “That’s fertilizer, Green. Great stuff! The Pettigrew farm will be knee-deep in it, no matter what they grow.”
* * *
Fortunately, when Green and Sullivan turned down the long lane leading up to the Pettigrew farm house, there were no tractors to be seen. The country air was sharp and clean, despite a faint overlay of turpentine, a smell Green was all too familiar with these days. A minivan and a dusty turquoise Sunbird sat in the gravel drive and as Sullivan drew to a stop behind them, a tiny poodle burst through the front door, yapping.
A young woman strode out, waving her arms. “Chouchou, stop! Assez!”
The dog raced around the car like a frenzied cotton ball, growling and snapping every time Sullivan tried to open the door. Green knew better, having become somewhat more versed in the canine psyche since acquiring his oversized Humane Society reject. He showed the woman his badge through the window and sat in the car waiting for her to capture her dog. By the time she pounced on it and shoved it under her arm, she was panting as hard as it was. As she approached the car again, the odour of turpentine grew stronger and Green saw flecks of white paint on her hands. She leaned against the car, her chest heaving and her cheeks flushed. Even in tattered jeans and T-shirt with a paint smudge on her nose, she was a sexy, vibrant woman.
“Sorry, officers. We just moved in, and Chouchou is...” She ended the explanation with a Gallic shrug. Her accent was slightly French Canadian, more in its cadence than its words. “He’ll be all right once he gets to know you. What is this about?”
The two detectives exchanged quick glances before Sullivan took the lead. “We’re looking for Mr. or Mrs. Pettigrew.”
She looked puzzled. “They were the previous owners, but they don’t live here any more.”
“Can you tell us where we might reach them?”
“We only met them one time. We communicated through a real estate agent.”
“Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” A reedy young man appeared around the edge of the house carrying a leaf rake. He was smiling, but behind thick glasses his gaze was wary. “What’s going on?”
“It’s the police looking for the former owners.”
The detectives climbed out of the car and introduced themselves. Sullivan handed them his card, then indicated his notebook. “For our paperwork, could you give us your names?”
Jacques and Isabelle Boisvert, the woman said, but they could be of little help since they had only met one of the sons.
Sullivan pulled out the photo. “Is this the son?”
Jacques took the photo and recoiled in dismay. “This man is dead!”
“That’s why we’re anxious to reach the family. Have you the name and phone number of the real estate agent you dealt with?”
Isabelle fetched a business card, which Sullivan took back to the car to make the call. The husband was eyeing the photo with almost morbid fascination.
“Could that be the son?” Green prompted.
He shivered and shook his head. “This man is more aged. The man we met was Robert Pettigrew, and he was only in his twenties. No beard, very pleasant-looking.”
“Perhaps this is the father. You never met him?”
“He was in hospital. He had a stroke, the agent said. That’s why the son had to sell the farm so fast.” He cast an anxious glance at the vast unkempt meadow that surrounded them. In the distance, a copse of maples