“So,” Brightwell interjected. “he took the precaution of clearing out whatever was in the barn once he knew Ms. Lincoln would be taking a look at the property. If she hadn’t found the empty storage units and made a fuss about them, he’d probably have waited to see if she located the diaries before doing anything else. Instead, he panicked.”
“But the police had already been there,” I objected. “They found nothing. Oh!”
“What?” Brightwell asked.
“I don’t think I told him that I called the police, or that they searched the barn. But if he was worried about evidence he might have left behind, why didn’t he set fire to the barn as soon as he knew I’d discovered the storage units?”
“It would have taken him a few days to organize things.”
Featherstone, hunched over his coffee, spoke more to himself than to us. “He’d never have been caught if he had just been patient. All he had to do was wait a few more weeks. When no more diaries surfaced, he’d have inherited. The barn and its secrets would have been his to do with as he pleased.”
I cleared my throat. “That’s not quite true. You see, it wasn’t Estelle’s journal that Tessa wanted published. I finally found the diaries she meant to preserve. They were written by her mother. I’ll have them edited and online well before the deadline.”
Featherstone’s head jerked up and he stared at me. “They’re Nellie Swarthout’s diaries?” A note of incredulity had crept into his voice.
“Yes, and there are two of them, so the search is over. I inherit.”
“Did Coleman know you found them?” Brightwell interrupted.
I shook my head. “I hadn’t gotten around to telling anyone here at the law firm.”
“They . . . they must be quite old,” Featherstone mused. “Written long before the house was closed up.”
I confirmed this and told him how I’d come to discover the hidden cupboard and its contents. “I’m surprised Tessa and Estelle didn’t arrange to have someone retrieve them,” I added. “I can understand why they couldn’t bear to go back into the house themselves after Rosanna’s murder, but those diaries and the scrapbook that was stored with them must have had sentimental value for them both.”
“I have no answer for you,” Featherstone said. “I wasn’t even aware there were diaries until Tessa had me put that provision in her will. I asked her who wrote them, but she wouldn’t say. I doubt Coleman knew any more about them than I did.” He swung his head around to pin Laura with a hard stare. “Did he?”
Looking like a scared rabbit, she shook her head. She hadn’t said a word since we entered the conference room.
Featherstone gave a dry, rattling laugh. “Don’t worry, Ms. Koenig. You did the right thing by coming forward. I’ll see to it that you have a new assignment and a bonus, too. We can’t have crooks like Jason Coleman working for Featherstone, De Vane, Doherty, Sanchez, and Schiller.”
He attempted a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Leland Featherstone seemed to have aged a decade in the last hour.
Chapter Forty-four
The rest of that week and another weekend passed without any further contact with either Leland Featherstone or Detective Brightwell. Since the original event—an abandoned barn catching fire and burning to the ground—had only rated a single paragraph in the local paper, no reporters showed up on my doorstep to dog me for a story. Jason Coleman’s arrest had been duly recorded in the police log, but that too went almost unnoticed by the press. Either they had more important stories to cover, or the attorneys at Featherstone, De Vane, Doherty, Sanchez, and Schiller had called in favors to keep the law firm’s name out of the news. Whatever the reason, I was perfectly happy to remain anonymous.
Along with my regular work, I edited Nellie’s diaries and learned how to configure them to turn them into electronic books on various platforms. I didn’t expect anyone to actually buy one, but Tessa’s instructions had been quite specific. I was also to post pdf versions on social media sites and use print on demand to produce paper copies that might, or might not, be offered for sale in local historical society gift shops.
Writing an introduction to go with the material was time-consuming. Adding one wasn’t required, but it felt wrong to send Nellie’s words out into the world without any context. The tricky part was deciding how much Swarthout family history to reveal.
Proofreading was a bear. By the time I was ready to do the final pass on a printout on Monday morning, just five days short of my deadline, I was so familiar with the text that I had no choice but to read it aloud to make sure no pesky typos had managed to sneak in. I am not fond of the sound of my own voice. As for Calpurnia, she sent me one disgruntled look when I started to declaim and headed for the hills.
To say I was relieved to be interrupted by a ringing phone would be an understatement. Since the caller ID told me it was Darlene on the other end of the line, I popped my hearing aids back in and hit the button to engage the speaker. I can hear better that way, since the alternative is to take out one hearing aid and hope the person calling will speak clearly, loudly, and distinctly. Leaving the hearing aid in while pressing the receiver against that ear isn’t an option. The batteries react with a deafening squeal.
As soon as I heard what Darlene had called to tell me, I did a little happy dance. She’d acquired a copy of George Swarthout’s will.
“That’s great,” I said. “What does it say?”
“I’ll give you the details when I get there.”
“Can’t you just give me the CliffsNotes version over the phone?” Yes, I am aware of the irony in asking that question. Luke had said practically the same thing to me when I’d put off giving him the latest details of my adventures at the Swarthout farm.
Darlene’s response also paralleled mine: “Nope. See you in a few.” Then she hung up on me.
True to her word, Darlene arrived a short time later. By then I had coffee waiting. As I’d hoped, she brought muffins, homemade and freshly baked. As soon as we sat down at the dinette table, she fished an envelope out of her purse and placed it on the surface between us.
“You were right,” she announced. “George Swarthout set up a trust. He was a typical chauvinist patriarch who didn’t think females capable of managing money or property by themselves. He took it upon himself to do it for them from beyond the grave.”
I gave the envelope a dubious look. “Is that legal?”
“Apparently, and trusts are hard to break without going to court. I imagine his womenfolk didn’t fight the terms because they’d have had a difficult time coming up with the cash to pay a lawyer. Everything was tied up in the trust.”
“Catch-22.” I opened the envelope, drew out a certified copy of George Swarthout’s will, and began to read.
I’m no expert when it comes to interpreting legalese, but the basics didn’t seem all that complicated. George had left the family farm to his widow for her lifetime. After Rosanna’s death, his two daughters inherited jointly, but the provisions didn’t stop there. On the death of one of the sisters, everything went to the other. That surviving daughter was still not permitted to sell the land. The property and the trust remained intact until after her death.
More than ever before, I was glad I’d been born in the era during which the women’s movement succeeded in making things better for wives and daughters.
I skimmed to the end, and found it got worse. Fifty percent of whatever money George had when he died had been earmarked for upkeep of the property. The other fifty percent was to be doled out to Rosanna, Tessa, and Estelle in small increments as an allowance.
“Did he leave much of a fortune?” I asked.
“That’s not clear,” Darlene admitted. “I wasn’t able to find an inventory, but I have a feeling the farm’s income was barely sufficient to support the three of them. Why else would they continue to take in boarders?”
“And rent out the apartment over the garage,” I added. I’d already brought her up to date
on what I’d learned about the Roths.
“The mindset of people back in the fifties makes me angry every time I think about it,” Darlene said. “A few women managed to make careers for themselves, but most just stayed home and let their fathers or husbands make all the decisions for them.”
“Exactly what I was thinking.” I bit rather savagely into a muffin. “After reading Estelle’s journal, I didn’t like her much, but I had to feel sorry for her. As much as she wanted an acting career, the deck was stacked against her. Thanks to her father, she didn’t have enough money for trips to the city for auditions, let alone headshots or acting lessons, or even appropriate clothing.”
“You’re assuming she really did have talent,” Darlene said. “She was a big fish in a little puddle here in Sullivan County, but starring in amateur productions put on by a rural drama society wouldn’t have meant much to a Broadway producer.”
“True, and I suppose the same applies to Hollywood.” I sighed. “By the time Rosanna died, Estelle must have been too old to find work there as anything but a character actress.”
“Do you think she managed even that much?”
“The first address I have for Tessa after they left the farm is in California,” I reminded her, “but you’re probably right and Estelle found out the hard way that it was too late to have the career she wanted.” Sipping coffee, I considered her situation in light of George’s will. “With Rosanna gone, Tessa and Estelle would have split fifty percent of their father’s money two ways instead of three.”
“It would have still been tough going for two single women in those days,” Darlene said. “They couldn’t get credit cards or take out loans, or—”
“You’re missing my point. George’s will gives them a solid motive to have murdered their stepmother.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Darlene polished off the last of the muffins.
I frowned and finished my coffee. It irked me more than I liked to admit that I might never know for certain who had killed Rosanna Swarthout or why Tessa and Estelle had so completely abandoned the only home they’d ever known.
Chapter Forty-five
Late that same Monday, Detective Brightwell phoned me. I listened in amazement as he informed me that Jason Coleman had confessed, confirming that his gambling problem had led him to steal from his law firm’s clients and to take advantage of his position of trust with Tessa Swarthout.
“He claims the fire in the barn wasn’t his idea,” Brightwell said, “and insists he didn’t know anyone was inside the farmhouse when his associates decided to torch it.”
“I know what I heard him say. I’ll testify to that.” Coleman deserved a long prison sentence and I was ready to do my bit to see that he got it.
“Good. That’s good.” There was a long pause.
“What?”
“Coleman said something odd to his attorney before he formally agreed to cooperate. It doesn’t seem to have any connection to the charges against him, but it might be of interest to you. When he said it, Coleman sounded—” Brightwell hesitated, as if he was searching for the right word. “I don’t know. Sulky?”
“Petulant?” I suggested.
He laughed. “Like a kid ratting out a playmate on the grounds that the other child did it first. What he said was that Leland Featherstone went out to the Swarthout farmhouse before Coleman did and, I assume, before he notified you about your inheritance. Any idea why Coleman would be miffed about that?”
“Maybe he thought Featherstone had discovered his operation in the barn and was willing to overlook it?”
“Until you came along? I suppose that makes as much sense as anything else.”
After Detective Brightwell gave me a few particulars about what to expect when the case came to trial, I thanked him for the update and disconnected. Curled up on the loveseat with Calpurnia on my lap, I tried to think why Featherstone had gone out to the farm. At his age and in obvious ill health, it hadn’t even made sense for him to accompany me out there. Had he been looking for the diaries? Any reason why he should, other than to turn them over to me, eluded me. Coleman had been the only one with a motive to find and destroy them. Until Featherstone helped Tessa make her will, he hadn’t even known there were diaries.
“To give him the benefit of the doubt,” I said to Calpurnia, “he might have yielded to simple curiosity.” That was certainly something I could understand.
I got up and made myself a cup of green tea, still mulling over the lawyer’s behavior. I carried it upstairs to my office, scowling as I settled into the chair by the window.
Why had Coleman been bothered by Featherstone’s trip to the farm? Did he know something I didn’t? His grandfather had been partners with Featherstone’s father at the time of Rosanna’s murder. Had he known something significant about the case? Something he had told his grandson?
Cal padded into the room and sent me one of those contemptuous looks only cats can manage. I stared at her. She was right. Sometimes humans make things much too complicated. But as I sipped my tea I continued to think about Leland Featherstone, I remembered how surprised he’d been to learn the diaries had been written by Nellie Swarthout. He’d expected me to tell him I’d found another of Estelle’s journals.
Back when I’d announced that I’d located the record Estelle had kept, I hadn’t thought Featherstone’s reaction particularly strange. I’d already begun to suspect that he wasn’t well, and at his age, any number of things could have sent him scurrying into his private restroom to regain his composure. Now, though, I had to wonder if he’d been alarmed by what I’d discovered. He’d only relaxed after I told him that Estelle’s entries stopped a month before Rosanna’s murder.
He’d insisted he’d barely known her, and I’d believed him even after Darlene discovered his name as a member of the stage crew on a production Estelle had headlined. There had been no mention of him, or his father, in the pages of her journal.
Or had there?
I paused with my cup halfway to my lips. Was it possible I’d overlooked one? There were several passages where Estelle had referred only to “that bitch” or “Mr. Smarty Pants” or “the diva who upstaged me”—she hadn’t always named names. Had Conrad Featherstone been mentioned in her journal, after all?
Call me naïve, but it took me multiple readings to find the significant sentences. When I finally did, I couldn’t believe I’d missed their importance. I guess my mind just doesn’t naturally descend into the gutter.
“Listen to this,” I said, waking Calpurnia to read aloud. “Indulged in a delicious treat backstage after rehearsal. It’s been a long time since I tasted fresh fruit. That it’s forbidden made it all the more pleasurable.”
I didn’t think she was talking about apples.
“Am I just being a dirty old lady?” I asked the cat.
She didn’t bother to answer me. It didn’t matter. I was ninety-nine percent certain I was right and that Estelle Swarthout, by then in her late thirties, had initiated a sexual encounter with Leland Featherstone, aged between fifteen and sixteen and working on the stage crew for an amateur production of My Sister Eileen.
He had been searching for the diaries mentioned in Tessa’s will. He thought they might have been written by Estelle and he’d been afraid of what she might have said about him. He’d hoped to destroy any record of their fling.
“Like anyone would care,” I muttered.
Such liaisons—an older, sexually experienced woman seducing an underage teenage boy—aren’t exactly unheard of. These days, Estelle might have been arrested for statutory rape, if the wrong person found out, but back in the 1950s? Hardly! Even as late as the mid-1990s, as I discovered when I was working on a project for the historical society, such things went on and no one raised a fuss.
Mr. Featherstone doesn’t have to worry, I thought as I put the journal away and got ready for bed. I’m not about to expose his dirty little secret.
I took off my glasses, removed my hearing
aids, and turned out the light on the bedside table, ready to settle in for the night.
Sixty seconds later, I sat bolt upright again. The section of my brain that stores random knowledge had reminded me of another case of an older woman preying on teenage boys. In that instance, seduction had led to murder.
Pam Smart was a schoolteacher in neighboring New Hampshire when I lived in Maine. After granting sexual favors to two of her students, she persuaded them to kill her husband. When the sordid details eventually came out, all three were arrested, tried, and convicted. She’s still in prison.
I lay there in the dark, wondering how strong Estelle Swarthout’s influence over Leland Featherstone had been. I’d considered the possibility that the father had helped Estelle cover up a crime. I hadn’t envisioned a scenario in which she persuaded the son to kill her stepmother. If she’d convinced someone else to commit the crime, that certainly explained how she’d been able to provide herself with such an excellent alibi.
“Sheer speculation,” I said aloud. “Your imagination has really run away with you this time, Mikki Lincoln!”
I forced myself to lie back down and close my eyes, but I didn’t sleep much that night. My thoughts kept circling back to Leland Featherstone and Estelle. Try as I might, I could no longer convince myself of his innocence. That the respected senior partner at Featherstone, De Vane, Doherty, Sanchez, and Schiller had once been an infatuated teenager led me to believe that he might also have been capable of stabbing Rosanna Swarthout to death with a kitchen knife.
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