Skene looked at the image for a moment. Something may have struck him, but he dismissed it, Brendan thought.
“So she has a child,” said Skene. “Or it’s her niece. Or a friend’s kid. What does it mean? How does it help us?”
Brendan turned to Delaney. He nodded at a frame propped on the shelf on the senior investigator’s side of the table. Delaney got the message. Typically cavalier, Delaney picked up the frame with his bare hands, studied it for a second, then faced it forward and held it out over the table for Skene, who leaned in to see.
This picture showed Rebecca and the child again. The child appeared to be about the same age.
“As you can see, the victim has company in this photograph,” said Brendan.
A man was standing next to Rebecca, just behind her. He was in his late thirties, dark-haired, dark-eyed, handsome, smiling. It appeared, in all ways, to be a quaint family photo.
“With any luck,” said Brendan, “we have his size-eleven boot print from where he kicked in the door upstairs. As soon as the pathologist finishes the investigation of the body, we could have his blood and semen, too.”
Skene remained fixed on the picture. He only glanced at Brendan briefly.
“I don’t believe in luck,” he said.
CHAPTER EIGHT / THURSDAY, 3:12 PM
Donald Kettering was cordial and cooperative on the telephone. He invited Brendan to come and see him at his hardware store in Boonville, a village ten miles north of Remsen. He left the offices of the Sheriff’s Department in Oriskany, got in the Camry and drove with the AC on. Oriskany was south of Rome, and the drive up to Boonville took an hour. Brendan took a route that went up 26 and entered Boonville from the west. Along the way he found himself thinking of the past.
Kettering looked the same as he did in the photo. Clean-cut, with a kempt appearance. He wore a fresh pair of Carhartt work pants and a button down white chambray work-shirt with an incongruous geometrically-patterned tie. His smile revealed Chiclet white teeth, and his grip was firm and dry as he shook Brendan’s hands on the steps outside of “Kettering's,” his eponymous hardware and appliance store on Erwin Street. There was no wedding ring on his finger.
Boonville was bigger than Remsen, with a population of almost five thousand. Erwin Street was busy with traffic and people out running errands. The sun was just past its zenith overhead, and the pavement and sidewalk radiated heat. Kettering invited Brendan into the store, where it was cooler and darker.
“We’re actually not so much a summer town, really,” Kettering said as he led Brendan further into the store. There was white tile underfoot, scuffed but squeaky clean. Brendan noticed that the front door was left open, even though the air conditioning inside was blasting. Kettering either had money to burn or wasn’t thrifty. “But we’re more of a winter place,” he said. “‘The Snow Capital of the East.’” He turned as he walked, slowing his pace, and frowned. “But you probably know all that, I’m sorry. This is your county. You probably know every nook and cranny. I just start rattling on when a new face shows up. It’s the salesman in me.” He smiled, showing his white teeth again.
He was in considerably good spirits for a man who’d been told, thirty minutes ago, that someone he was close to was dead. Then again, he had a business to run, and keeping up appearances was probably second nature to him. Brendan wondered if he would take a day, shut down. Then again, the detective didn’t know the extent of the man’s relationship with the deceased woman. He had decided to save his questions until they were in person.
“I don’t mind,” Brendan said about Kettering’s exposition. Brendan had a chance to glance down one or two aisles – racks of nuts, bolts, and washers, cans of house paint stacked ceiling-high, a wall of uncut keys, and a duplication machine – before Kettering said, “My office is right back here.”
He led Brendan around a long white counter where a young male employee with a rash of acne looked back at Brendan with a mixture of awe and fear. The youth’s eyes seemed to probe Brendan’s person for where his firearm might be tucked away. Brendan offered a reassuring smile.
They went through an open door and into a decent-sized space. It was at the back of the building, and two windows overlooked a parking area outside.
“Please take a seat.”
Brendan sat in one of two chairs across from what looked like a school-teacher’s desk, a double pedestal model. Kettering sat down and his chair squeaked. Behind him was a peg board filled with bulletins, flyers, newspaper clippings, and pictures. There were filing cabinets, a small couch beneath one of the windows, and an exercise bike.
“Thank you,” said Brendan as he got comfortable. He added, “I really don’t mind hearing about the town. I try not to hide the fact that I’m new here. A big snowmobile destination?”
Kettering lit up even brighter. “Oh, absolutely. That’s when things get really booming in Boonville. The Oneida County Fair, the Woodsman Field Days, really great events, without a doubt, but the Snow Festivals are one of a kind. We’re the only village in Upstate New York to really do winter right, if you ask me. Up Saranac Lake they have a nice Winter Carnival, too, historic and all that. These Snow Festivals we got though . . . boy.”
Brendan watched Kettering’s enthusiasm dwindle as he settled into the business at hand. “So, how can I help you? I mean, this is . . . a terrible tragedy. Terrible.” His facial features rearranged into a properly downcast expression.
Brendan put a small tape recorder on the desk. “Is this okay with you? Otherwise you can go and give your official statement at the office. But then you have to take a trip and repeat yourself.”
Kettering only glanced at the recorder. “That’s fine.”
“How long have you known Rebecca Heilshorn?”
He leaned back and his chair squawked again. His eyes rolled up to the ceiling, and he rubbed at his closely-shaven chin. “Oh jeeze, now. Let me think. We met in . . . oh I think it was three years ago?”
“How did you meet?”
“Right here,” he said with notable pride. “Right in my store. She was getting some hardware for the house. She came back two more times, and I asked her out for a cup of coffee.”
“And then you were together? I’m sorry to ask such a personal question.”
“No, no, I understand.”
Kettering leaned forward now, resting his elbows on the desk, his eyes still darting around. “I understand. We, uh, well, we dated a little while, if you could call it that. We’d go for walks, I’d meet her at the house – the whole thing was kind of under the pretense that I could help her fix it up. But it never came to that, really. She was always coming and going from the area. Hard girl to pin down.” He offered a laugh and a wink. “So, I don’t know, for about two years we saw each other on and off.”
“What was she doing up here?”
“Well, first she was meeting with the realtors, and those types. Then, you know, closing. All of that stuff takes so much time. She was coming back and forth, back and forth.”
“To buy the house?”
Kettering raised his eyebrows. “Oh, right. Sorry, yes, I wasn’t sure what, you know, what of the particulars you already had.”
“Assume I know nothing.”
A look from Kettering. “They bought the old Bloomingdale farm.”
“The place south of here, about eight miles.”
“That’s right. Everyone calls it the Bloomingdale farm. There’s been a lot of development in this area over recent years, but that farm, that’s been there . . . jeeze, since the area was settled. Early 1800s, maybe. It’s been redone, you know, this patched up, that. I think the original barn caved in and a new one was erected in the 70s. But it was originally built by Arnold Bloomingdale.”
“Why was Rebecca interested in it, do you think?”
Again, Kettering seemed to pause for some silent evaluation. It was only a second or two, but Brendan couldn’t help but record it in his mind. “I couldn’t honestly tell you. I’ve met them, you know. Alex and Greta. I think the kids call them Bops and Ma’am. Very nice people.” His eyes seemed to narrow a bit. “Very wealthy. Different sort of people than everyday folks like you and me. Know what I mean?”
“Money can change you, sure. Or, you’re born with it. So she was brokering a deal for her parents? Not buying the house herself?”
“It was their money, if that’s what you mean, yes.”
“But she came here for hardware, you said. Before she bought the place she was making repairs?”
Kettering blinked, seeming momentarily derailed. “No, ah, she was staying in a little rental right here in Boonville. Sometimes she stayed at motels, she told me, but then she rented this little place. If I recall, there was a leak, and she wanted to fix it herself. She was very self-reliant.”
Brendan made a mental note to look into this rental situation later. “Does she have any siblings?”
Another pause. “Her brother, Kevin.”
“No others?”
“Not that I know of, sir. Why?”
“Well, I’ve met Kevin, actually. He made a comment about how he was ‘the last in a line of token children.’”
Kettering sat back again, giving this consideration. “I see. Well, again. Different strokes. You know, some of these wealthy types, they don’t have children always out of love. It may be, what’s the word?”
“Perfunctory.”
“That’s it. To have an heir, to pass on the family business.”
“And what is their business?”
“That I couldn’t quite tell you,” said Kettering. “It’s all Greek to me once it gets up into the mega millions. After that, it just seems that money makes money. I think he’s in medicine, though.”
“Alexander Heilshorn.”
“Yuh.”
“So it might be new money. Some sort of patent, or investment. Maybe a company that has done very well.”
Kettering scowled with thought. “Rebecca said something once about her father having his finger on the pulse when it came to biotechnology. A technocrat, she may have said. But, even though we were fond of each other, there was this air of . . . what do I want to say? They were just private about it. I didn’t ask.”
“And you never married Rebecca.”
Kettering came to a full stop this time. He stopped moving, his face stopped emoting. He seemed to look across the desk at Brendan like he was an auditor. “No,” he said.
“Can I ask why?”
“You can, but I don’t know that I can tell you that, either. It wasn’t for lack of trying, I can tell you that.”
“So you proposed.”
“Not in so many words, but yes. We talked about marriage. I brought it up. She’s . . . Rebecca is several years younger than me. I’ll be fifty in December. So, there’s that.” He seemed to grow uncomfortable.
Brendan decided to push a little further. “Was she afraid her parents wouldn’t approve?”
It took him a moment, and Kettering found the words. “Rebecca was very independent. I know that’s, ah, maybe incongruous with how it looks, her buying a place with her parents’ money and living there, but she didn’t do anything she didn’t want to. And she did do the things she wanted to do. You see what I’m saying?”
“Yes. You’re being very helpful, Mr. Kettering, and I appreciate it.”
He seemed to soften a little, to revert back to the glad-handing salesman. “Feel free to call me Donald.”
“Thanks, Donald. Just a few more things I’d like to ask and then I’ll get out of your hair.”
“It’s no trouble.” A cloud seemed to pass over him. “Jesus, this is just terrible. How did she die?”
Brendan was careful. He had told Kettering on the phone that Rebecca Heilshorn’s death was unnatural, but had left it there. “She was viciously assaulted and murdered,” he said now.
Donald Kettering put a hand over his mouth. Through his fingers he said, “As in . . . beat up? Shot?”
“I’m sorry I can’t say just how. But to call it foul play would be an understatement.”
“Terrible. Oh my God.” Kettering took his hand away and looked out the window over the couch.
“It is. And I’m sorry for your loss. When did you last see Rebecca?”
His gaze lingered on the parking lot outside. His voice was distant. “Oh, well, has to have been a year.” Now his eyes came back and focused on Brendan. “Yes, about a year.”
“No phone calls during that time? Emails, anything?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “No. When Rebecca broke something off, she broke it off.”
“So, if I may, you dated for about two years. But then you became . . . more serious?”
He nodded. His face seemed to contort with a painful memory and he looked down at his desk. Brendan leaned forward a little. “What is it?”
Kettering shook his head. He seemed to snap out of something. “It’s just. I just can’t believe this.”
“Did you live together?”
“No. She wanted her space.”
“But you were exclusive.”
His eyes came up. They had a haunted look. “I hope so, Detective.”
“And this went on for how long?”
“Just about a year.”
“How about friends? Did the two of you go out to dinner, double-date? Who did Rebecca know in the area?”
“Nada. Zip,” said Kettering. “We never did anything, despite my trying. We went to the mall once to buy some things for the house. I mean, we would go to dinner every once in a while if I pried her, but she was always looking around like she didn’t want to be seen. She never talked about any friends.”
“Really? Not even an acquaintance? Someone that knew her at the local bakery, let’s say? Anything. You see, the details are critical to this investigation. Where she may have been the night before the tragedy is very important. Who she might have been with. I hate to ask this again, but you’re sure you were exclusive? She didn’t see other people?”
“No. She was. Ah, I don’t want to sound cruel here. She was frigid.”
“You two never . . .”
“Oh we did. We did. But, you know.”
“I understand. And there’s no one, not a single name you can think of, someone she may have talked to, even just once or twice?”
Kettering looked like he was probing his memory. His grimaced and said, “There was a vegetable stand we stopped at a couple of times. She thought the woman who worked there was nice. A little blue hair.” He held up his hands. “That’s it.”
Brendan nodded. “Okay. If you think of anyone, anyone or anything else at all, you’ll please call me, alright?”