Page 32 of Scarred By Sin

“Owen, there’s someone here for you,” she called into the house.

Sylvie entered a narrow foyer that opened into a living room where the furniture was well-worn but clean. The carpet was the kind of deep beige that had probably been installed in the eighties and had held up through sheer stubbornness, and the walls held framed family photographs arranged in the careful, crowded way that accumulated over decades rather than being curated all at once. A chocolate Labrador was sitting beside a recliner, tail thumping against the carpet, apparently having decided that the intruder was acceptable. The man in the recliner was already reaching for the lever to lower the footrest.

Owen Pruitt was also in his mid-seventies, with a compact build that had softened with age. His hair was white and thinning across the crown, and he wore wire-rimmed glasses that sat low on the bridge of his nose. He had the hands of a man who had spent decades handling small bottles and smaller labels, precise and steady despite the years. A crossword puzzle book lay open on the armrest beside him, and a pencil was tucked behind his ear. The television was on but muted, featuring some kind of game show.

“Mr. Pruitt, I’m Sylvie Deering with S&E Investigations.” She crossed the living room and extended her hand. “We’ve been brought in by the Bureau to consult on the Ellingham case. I’m not sure you’re aware, but his remains have been discovered on his estate.”

“I spoke to Dale yesterday,” Owen said as he shook her hand. He gestured toward the couch across from his chair as the dog padded over to investigate Sylvie’s shoes. From the greying around his nose, he was clearly older. “Please, have a seat. Nancy, could you bring us some iced tea?”

“Of course.”

Nancy Pruitt disappeared into the kitchen without asking Sylvie whether she wanted any, which, in this part of the country, was less a question than a statement of hospitality.

Sylvie took a seat on the couch and set her purse beside her. The cushions were soft and deep, the kind that had been sat on thousands of times and had long since conformed to the household's habits. The Labrador rested its chin on her knee, and she gave him a brief scratch behind the ears before turning her attention to Owen, who had lowered himself back into the recliner.

“Dale told me they confirmed that Nestor’s remains were found buried in the greenhouse,” Owen revealed, settling into his chair. He folded his hands across his stomach. “He also told me that there were other remains. Other bodies.”

So much for keeping a lid on things.

Sylvie kept her expression neutral, but internally she was recalculating. If Dale had already shared the details with Owen, then the information was loose in the community. It was only a matter of time before someone mentioned it to a reporter, another neighbor, or a local news outlet, and from there, the story would spread faster than anyone could contain it.

Brook would need to release a statement on the FBI’s behalf, and the press would follow. The quiet, discreet investigation the Bureau had wanted was about to become significantly less quiet.

“Since you’re already aware of the situation,” Sylvie said, adjusting her approach on the fly, “I’d like to ask you some questions directly, if that’s alright.”

“Ask whatever you need.”

Nancy returned with two glasses of iced tea on a small tray, set them on the coffee table, and retreated to the kitchen. The ice clinked against the glass as it settled, and a ring of condensation immediately formed on the wood beneath each glass. The dog followed Nancy, apparently deciding that the kitchen offered better prospects.

“How well did you know Nestor Ellingham?”

“We were friends, though not as close as some others in town were with him.” Owen reached for his glass and took a sip before continuing. “Nestor, myself, and a few other men used to have a poker night once a month. This was years ago, back when Claudine was still alive. After she passed, Nestor pulled away from just about everyone and everything except his research. The poker group eventually fell apart, and most of us lost touch with him.”

“But you maintained some contact?”

“More with Gwenyth than with Nestor, in the years after he disappeared.” Owen set the glass back on the tray. “Nestor and I had a professional relationship, as well. He would come to me with questions about how certain compounds interacted with human biology. Absorption rates, toxicity thresholds, that sort of thing. He was a brilliant botanist, but he wasn't a pharmacologist. I filled in the gaps when he needed someone who understood what those compounds would do once they entered the body.”

“Were you aware of the specifics of his research?”

“In broad terms. He was working on plant-based compounds with potential cancer-fighting properties. He believed he was onto something, and honestly, I thought he might have been. Nestor was a brilliant man. Unconventional, yes, but brilliant. The academic world didn’t give him the time of day, which I always thought was shortsighted.”

“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to hurt him?”

“Nestor was gentle. Reserved.” The corner of Owen’s mouth lifted into a half smile that faded almost as quickly as it arrived. “He kept to himself, especially in those last years. I can’t imagine anyone having a reason to harm him. It just doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“I’d like to talk about Gwenyth, if you’re willing.”

“Of course.”

“You’ve been checking in on her over the years. How would you describe her current condition?”

“Gwenyth is a deeply troubled woman, and I say that with genuine compassion.” Owen removed the pencil from behind his ear and turned it between his fingers. The pencil was worn, the eraser nearly flat, and the way he handled it suggested a habit that went back years. “After Nestor vanished, she was alone on that property with no one but Porter, and Porter, while well-meaning, is not equipped to manage the kind of decline she’s experienced. She began to have periods of confusion where she didn’t recognize people she’d known her entire life. She talks to individuals who aren’t present. She can go days without eating properly if no one intervenes, and her sleep patterns are erratic at best.”

“Has she been formally diagnosed with anything?”

“That’s the problem.” Owen set the pencil on the armrest. “Gwenyth refuses to see a doctor. She has refused for as long as I can remember. She won’t leave the property or allow a physician into the house. I’ve tried to convince her, as has Dale. Porter has tried. She won’t budge.”

“What do you believe is wrong with her?”