Page 41 of Scarred By Sin

Thursday — 5:03 pm

Ray Freeling’s residence was tucked away at the end of a cul-de-sac on the town’s fringes, a modest clapboard rental flanked by a rusted chain-link fence. The lawn was a haphazard mix of browning patches, and the mailbox leaned precariously, hinting at a past collision that had left it slightly askew. A pickup truck sat in the short driveway, its bed empty, the tailgate down.

Sylvie had originally planned to head back to the estate after the Owen Pruitt interview, but Bit’s text with Freeling’s address had come through while she was still in the SUV, and a quick check of her GPS put her less than ten minutes away. Since Theo was at the crash site with the sheriff and Brook was managing the situation at the estate, there was no reason not to make the stop.

She parked at the curb and walked through the gate, which was unlatched and swung open with a creak that carried across the otherwise quiet street. The neighborhood had the drowsy, late-afternoon stillness of a place where most residents were either still at work or on their way home. A sprinkler ran two houses down, its arc visible over the top of the fence, and the only other sound was the distant hum of a window unit laboring against the July heat.

The front porch was concrete, swept clean, with a single folding chair and an ashtray that hadn’t been used in some time. A coffee can near the chair held a collection of nails and screws, the kind of thing a man kept within reach when he spent his evenings sitting on the porch with nothing to do but sort through small tasks.

She knocked, and the door opened after a long pause.

Ray Freeling was in his mid-sixties, though the years had worn on him. He was thin, with dark hair dusted with gray on the sides, cut short. He wore a plain white T-shirt, work pants, and socks, but no shoes. His hands hung at his sides, and he didn’t extend one in greeting. The interior of the house behind him was dim, and the smell of reheated coffee drifted through the doorway.

“Mr. Freeling? I’m Sylvie Deering with S&E Investigations. We’ve been brought in to consult with the Bureau on a case involving the Ellingham estate. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

Ray regarded her for a moment, his expression neither hostile nor welcoming. Then he stepped aside and held the door open.

“I haven’t heard that name in a while.”

The interior was as sparse as the exterior. A living room with a couch, a television on a low stand, and a single bookshelf that held more vintage knick-knacks than books. The carpet was clean but threadbare in the high-traffic areas, and the curtains were drawn against the afternoon sun, leaving the room in a muted half-light that made everything appear slightly faded.

This was the home of a man who had pared his life down to what he needed and nothing more.

Sylvie took a seat on the couch when Ray gestured toward it, getting the impression that he hadn’t been informed about the latest events. He lowered himself into a straight-backed chair across from her, the kind that belonged at a kitchen table rather than in a living room. He then rested his hands on his knees.

“Mr. Freeling, Nestor Ellingham’s remains have been discovered on the estate. They were found buried in the greenhouse.”

The change in Ray’s expression was immediate and unguarded. His lips parted, and the wariness in his eyes was replaced by something that came across very much like grief. He sat with the information for several seconds, his hands tightening on his knees, before he spoke.

“Nestor is dead?”

“I’m sorry. I understand this is difficult to hear.”

“I’ve always wondered…” Ray’s voice drifted before he cleared his throat. “People said he left. Packed up and walked away from Gwenyth, from the estate, from everything. I never believed that. Not for a second.”

“Why not?”

“Because he loved that greenhouse more than most people love their homes. And he loved his daughter more than the greenhouse.” Ray shook his head slowly. “He wasn’t the kind of man who left. How did he die?”

Sylvie had been wondering if Ray was going to inquire about Nestor’s cause of death. Had he not, she would have taken this interview in another direction.

“We believe he was murdered,” Sylvie replied, keeping the specifics to herself for now. She adjusted her glasses. “I understand that you used to deliver soil and such to the estate back then. How well did you know Mr. Ellingham?”

“Better than most people realized, I think.” Ray regarded her as if he were trying to ascertain whether she was trustworthy. “I drove routes and made deliveries for Ward Seldon for years. Nestor’s estate was on my regular route back then. Specialty soil, growing compounds, plant specimens. He had a standing order. Ward was busy growing his business, so I was the one who filled it.”

“How often were you making deliveries?”

“Twice a week, at least. Sometimes more if Nestor called in a special request.” Ray paused, his gaze lowering as the memories returned. “Nestor was a night owl. He’d work in that greenhouse until the wee hours of the morning. He’d wave me in, and we’d end up talking for an hour.”

“You’d deliver that late at night?”

“Sometimes.”

“What did the two of you talk about?”

Something shifted in Ray’s face, a softening that Sylvie hadn’t expected from a man who presented as guarded. He leaned back in the hard chair, and for the first time since she’d arrived, his posture loosened.

“Everything. His research, mostly. He’d explain what he was working on, the compounds he was trying to isolate, why he believed plants held the answer to diseases that modern medicine was still throwing chemicals at. I didn’t understand half of it, but he didn’t care. He just liked having someone to talk to.”