To Love and to Perish - By Lisa Bork Page 0,59

one stop along the grapevine to the next like a ball in a pinball machine. Ding, ding, ding. Hit the paddle, keep the story going. Celeste’s friends and family connections were unparalleled. Church, exercise class, the merchants association, book club, volunteer work: all excellent places to cull information. She could look through a window anywhere in this town and know exactly who lived in the house, maybe even the remaining balance on their mortgage and the last time they went to church.

I waited patiently.

Her eyelids flew open. “I started it.”

My jaw dropped.

Celeste waved her hand. “I know it’s hard to believe. But I think I did.”

Not hard to believe, just hard to believe she’d admit it. I recovered. “How?”

“As soon as Brennan moved to Wachobe, he opened a bank account at the bank where my cousin’s niece works. He wrote a check for cash every month for five thousand dollars.” Celeste bugged her eyes to emphasize the amount and the oddity.

I arranged my expression to surprised and shocked, since that seemed to be the reaction she sought.

“Then he went to the grocery store with the cash. My friend at church manages the store.”

I knew that. I nodded.

Celeste seemed annoyed, as though she could tell I already knew this part. “Where he would ask for a five thousand dollar money order, which he put in an envelope and mailed.”

Now I gave her the jerk of surprise she’d been waiting for, and she preened. “Do you know who he mailed it to?”

Celeste pursed her lips and rolled her eyes skyward. “I don’t recall the name, but it went to an Albany address.”

“To the Potters?”

Her gaze shot to me. “Yes!” Celeste jumped up and down like a contestant on a quiz show. “To a William Potter.”

I knew the answer but asked the question anyway. “Does Brennan still mail the money?”

“He stopped over a year ago.”

“Do you know why?”

Her face dropped. “No.”

Finally, something I knew that she didn’t. Brennan helped pay off Elizabeth Potter’s hospital bills, just like he said. Perhaps the sheriff’s department could obtain the financial records to confirm it.

“But how did the rumor about Brennan burying stuff in his foundations get started?”

Celeste had the good grace to look ashamed. “I said the payment looked like he had a skeleton in his closet. Then the next time I heard it, it was that he had hidden something in the foundation of his building. You know, people never repeat things exactly the way you say them.” She sniffed.

How true, not that Celeste ever worried about the truth. Like all gossips, her interest lay in the titillation, not the truth. But apparently she liked to be quoted accurately. Go figure.

I took the high road. “Thank you for sharing that story with me, Celeste. You may very well have helped Brennan.”

“Wonderful!” She stepped closer to me. “I do have one question for you, though.”

Ah, she’d been priming me all along. “Okay.”

“Was Brennan really having an affair with the dead guy, Wayne Engle?”

TWENTY-TWO

BY THE TIME CORY and Catherine walked through the door to the showroom together at ten fifty-eight, I had considered and dismissed the theory Celeste presented dozens of times. She said it was the latest rumor around town—and not one of her own making. The source, she believed, was the wife of someone who worked at the sheriff’s office. At first, she thought that might be me. After I ridiculed the rumor, she reconsidered. In fact, she stormed off in a huff, bringing the traffic on Main Street to a screeching halt as she headed back to Talbots in time to unlock the door for business.

Cory also laughed off the rumor as the three of us sat around the conference table in the showroom an hour later. “No way. Take it from me, Wayne Engle was not gay. He was a ladies’ man. Didn’t you see those women working in his office? They told his story.”

Catherine opened a leather binder and ran her pen down a list of names. “Funny you should say that. I’ve got their names right here: Pam Sullivan, Missy Temple, Silvia Porter, and Elizabeth, or Beth as she prefers, Smith. Anyone want to guess who Elizabeth Smith is?”

Cory and I exchanged puzzled glances. “We met an Elizabeth Potter.” A vision of her climbing out of her Honda Accord in her driveway flashed before me, followed by a memory of the same color Accord in the parking lot at Wayne Engle’s office. I recalled Mrs. Potter saying that her daughter had