A Gala Event (19 page)

“What did the fire report say?” Seth asked.

“I think you should look at it—you'd probably understand it better than I would. There was some line in it about the balloon framing allowing the rapid spread of the fire, which is why the building was fully engaged when the fire department got there.”

Seth was silent for several beats. “That can't be right,” he finally said.

“Why?”

“Because the Eastman house was built in the later eighteenth century, like yours and mine. Balloon framing didn't come into use until the nineteenth century.”

“I don't understand,” Meg said.

“Balloon framing means the studs run from the bottom sill to the top of the structure, which, as you might guess, leaves nice open channels for air flow—and fire. If there was any insulation back then, it would have been something flammable, too, like straw. Colonial timber-frame construction, on the other hand, has more interruptions within the studs, so the fire can't spread as quickly. It may be splitting hairs, though—it was an old wooden building, so it would burn fast. Where did the fire start?”

“In the basement, where Aaron apparently kept his drug stuff, away from prying eyes.”

“And where was the parents' bedroom, where they were found?”

“Directly above, on the second floor. Why?”

“There would have been ample time for them to realize what was happening and get out of the building. What about the grandmother's space?”

“That was added toward the back, at the same end of the house.”

“And that was relatively new, so modern fireproofing standards should have been in place. Again, she should have had time to get out. Something's not right.”

They'd reached Hadley while they talked. “Well, let's see what Eric's got for us. We can resume this discussion later.”

“Lead on!” Meg said.

They spent an entertaining couple of hours wandering through Eric's large, rambling old barn, loaded with architectural salvage, both large and small. Seth wanted a bathtub to replace the existing modern one in the main bath, plus a sink to replace the existing one there; another sink for the new bath, part of the laughingly entitled master suite; and a third sink for the new powder room. The shower for the master suite would be tiled, they had decided, but there were plenty of modern tiles available. They found a small mirrored cabinet that would fit over the sink, suitable for toiletries and prescriptions but not much more. By the end, they'd found everything they wanted, and Seth spent some time haggling over the price, in a friendly way, with his buddy Eric. While they dickered, Meg prowled around poking at other odds and ends, wondering if she'd ever take home decorating seriously. As long as there was something for people to sit on and eat off of and light to see by, she was
more or less content, although she did draw the line at plastic furniture. Other than that, she enjoyed picking up odds and ends that appealed to her, with no particular plan in mind.

Finally Seth retrieved her from the maze. “All set. There's too much stuff for me to carry, so Eric's going to deliver them by truck. The bathtub's going to take two of us to get upstairs, and I need to get the plumbing into place and make sure the floor is up to the task before that can go in.”

“Whatever you say, dear,” Meg said primly, but with a mocking tone in her voice. Seth raised one eyebrow at her. “So I guess we need to look at tiles before that happens?”

“Yup. Let me check my calendar when we get back. Anyway, I think we're ready to roll.”

“When did you plan to start?”

“This weekend, if nothing else crops up.”

“Oh. Wow.” Somehow Meg had been envisioning this in a misty distant future. Like . . . after the wedding. “How long will it take?”

“Two, three days? I promise that I'll make sure you have workable plumbing throughout, anyway, although you may be surrounded by bare lath for a few days.”

Meg smiled at him. “I am descended from hearty pioneer stock. I'm sure I can cope.”

“Attagirl!”

The phone was ringing as they walked into the house, and Meg grabbed it up to see Rachel's number.

“Hi, Rachel. Everything okay?” she asked anxiously.

Rachel laughed. “I keep forgetting everybody is hovering over their phones waiting for baby news. No, Pumpkin is still taking her own sweet time. I'm just reporting on the information you requested.”

Seth was still standing by, but once Rachel had assured her that she was all right, Meg waved Seth away. He pointed
toward his office, at the back of the property, and Meg nodded vigorously to show that she understood, then turned her attention back to Rachel. “You've already found stuff?” Meg asked.

“Sure—you just have to know where to look, and how to ask nicely. So, you want to hear?”

“Of course I do!” Meg said quickly.

“All right. I started with the Hampshire County probate court, because that's in Northampton. If you don't already know it, wills and deeds are a matter of public record, so anyone can ask to see a will. A lot of the current documents are online, but we're looking for something from twenty-five years ago, right? Now, in theory you're supposed to show up in person to ask for a copy, or fax or mail a written request, and pay for the copying fee for a hard copy. But I know the clerk there—we were in high school together—and I explained I was very pregnant and she'd be doing me a really big favor if she could fax me the information ASAP, and she said yes. It helps that she just had a baby last year, so she knows what it's like.”

“And?” Meg said, getting impatient.

“I've got the will! And not only that, but since the Eastmans both died in the fire, the courts had to identify all the beneficiaries and creditors, and include an itemized inventory of the assets and liabilities.”

“Who was the executor?”

“Court-appointed, since the kids weren't in any shape to handle it. He did an okay job. I can give you his name if you want, but I don't know him.”

“Hold on to that for later. What did the assets look like?” Meg asked.

“Well, the insurance on the house and contents was the
biggest chunk, followed by the land itself. Surprisingly little in any bank accounts.”

“Did they list a business account?”

“Sure did, but there wasn't a whole lot in it.”

“How much, roughly?”

“About five hundred thousand.”

“Brokerage accounts?”

“Yes, but they're pretty skimpy, too. Didn't you say this guy had a lot of clients?”

“Your mother and I found a list that said so.”

“Can you send me a copy? Anyway, if that's true, then either the auditors missed something, or there's something really funny going on.”

“That's about what we concluded. Interesting. I wish we could get the records of bank transactions, but we don't have any legal standing. It would be nice to know what kind of deposits Eastman was making.”

“Can't help you there,” Rachel said cheerfully. “One other thing: I looked up who can benefit if he—and I quote—‘feloniously and intentionally kills the decedent,' according to the statute. Here's what it says: ‘The decedent forfeits all benefits under this article with respect to the decedent's estate.' That includes the property. So if Aaron was hoping to score some cash from Mom and Dad's deaths, he was out of luck, although he might not have known that. But you didn't really expect that, did you?”

“No. Although he might have been stoned enough to think it was a good idea at the time. So the other two children inherited everything?”

“Yup. In case you're wondering, the age of majority in Massachusetts is eighteen, so the boys—or, after Aaron's conviction, his brother—required a guardian.”

“But the sister was over eighteen, wasn't she?”

“Yes, but reading between the lines, I think someone decided she wasn't a fit guardian. Or maybe she didn't want to do it. Have you met the sibs?”

“No, but I'm beginning to think I'd like to. So, bottom line, how much did the children inherit?”

“Not a whole lot, oddly enough. Dad Eastman had a whole lot of debts, and by the time they were paid off, there really wasn't anything left over.”

“What happened to the investors?”

“That's a different search, but I'm going to guess that they settled for less than the full amount they claimed, if they got anything at all. Nobody could find any more money squirreled away, unless it's in some offshore account that nobody knows about, and all the records were destroyed in the fire. Unless you've found anything that points in that direction?”

“No, nothing like that. So the obvious conclusion is that Mom and Dad were living way beyond their means, and scamming their neighbors as well as some outsiders, and the whole house of cards was about to fall down.”

“So does that point to a joint suicide? One that took the grandmother, too?”

“I'd really rather believe that they wanted to burn the house down to collect the insurance.”

“And forgot to get out of the way?” Rachel laughed. “Anyway, the insurance proceeds wouldn't have covered the full amount they owed investors, would it?”

“I don't think so,” Meg told her. “But it might have given them a little breathing room. I don't pretend to understand the mentality of a financial scammer. Maybe it's like with a gambler: they think the next hand or roll of the dice or whatever will fix everything.”

“So, what now, Sherlock? Or do you prefer Nancy Drew?”

“Seth said there was something odd in the fire report.”

“Really? What?”

“Something about the description of how the fire spread not matching the architectural structure of the period.”

“Trust him to pick out a tiny detail like that. But he does know houses. So what's he think? The fire inspector got it wrong? It's a typo? Or somebody got paid off to falsify the report?”

“I, uh, don't know. For one thing, we didn't talk about it, because I don't know that much about what he was talking about. For another, the fire report came from the state, not from a local inspector.”

“Ah, but did the state inspector rely on a report from someone around Granford? Did he ever come out and actually look at the place?”

“I don't know, Rachel. By the time the fire was over, there wasn't much to look at, as far as I can tell. Maybe a cellar hole and some parts of the foundation.”

“Check on it. Look to see who reported what.”

“Rachel, I'm beginning to think you've got a devious mind. You've just accused a state official of deliberately falsifying a report.”

“You think that never happens?”

“Well, yes, I guess it does. But why? Who benefits?”

“Follow the money. And see if there's anyone still around Granford who remembers the details. Oops, gotta go—the kids are arriving. Talk soon!” Rachel hung up quickly, leaving Meg holding the phone, bemused.

She was startled out of her reverie by a knocking at her front door. As she headed toward it, she thought that she ought to make a sign saying
FRIENDS: USE BACK DOOR. EVERY
ONE ELSE: GO AWAY
. Front-door visitors usually arrived bringing bad news.

She pulled the door open to find a fortysomething woman in well-worn jeans and a bulky sweater standing on her stoop. “Are you Meg Corey?”

“Yes. What can I help you with?” Meg sent up a quick prayer that it wasn't someone looking for a contribution to something or other worthy.

“I'm Lori Eastman. I'm looking for my brother Aaron. At the police station they said you'd know where to find him?”

Meg was momentarily stunned into silence, and then her mind started whirring briskly. “Come in, please. How did you—”

“Find out he was out? He sent me a letter when he knew his release date.” Lori stepped into Meg's hallway and looked around. “Nice house—kind of like ours used to be. Anyway, he didn't have my address because I moved a few months ago and it took a while for the letter to catch up. But he did say he wanted to visit Granford one last time, so I just headed here. I live in Vermont now, so it wasn't a long ride. Is he still in town?”

“Uh, yes, he is. Hey, where are my manners? Come on through to the kitchen. Can I get you coffee? Tea?”

“I didn't plan to stay long; just tell me where to find Aaron.”

Was she hostile or just nervous? Meg wondered. “He doesn't have a phone, and I'd have to explain where to find him. Please, come in. I'm glad you're here, because I have some questions.”

“About what?” the woman asked. Definitely hostile.

“About the fire that killed your parents.”

Lori Eastman looked like she wanted to turn tail and run. “Why the hell would you want to know about that?”

“Because Aaron wants to know what really happened that night.”

“And he asked you? Who are you?”

“A friend, I hope. I live here, at least for the past two years or so, and I run an orchard. I met Aaron . . . well, it's complicated. I don't have an axe to grind, and I want to help Aaron. It won't hurt to sit down and talk for a few minutes, will it?”

Lori wavered for a moment, then shook her head. “I guess not.”

“Good,” Meg said firmly. She gestured toward the kitchen, and let Lori precede her. Once there, she asked, “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Water's fine.”

“Please, sit down. Oh, do you mind if I call my fiancé? He's interested in Aaron's story, too.”

“Whatever,” Lori said. Now that she'd agreed to stay, at least for a short while, she seemed kind of passive.

Meg stepped into the dining room and hit Seth's speed dial number—which seemed ridiculous because he was no more than a couple of hundred feet away. When he answered, she said, “We've got company—Aaron's sister is here.”

“I'm on my way.”