Page 15 of Forever Dead

The name was familiar. Farmer. Late fifties, maybe early sixties. His family had owned land outside Elmsview for generations.

“I’ll go see if he saw anything,” Connor said.

Arnold gazed toward the door. “Want me with you?”

“No. Stay here. Keep everybody off that drive until Matt’s finished with it and call me if Cheryl gets anything on the tip.”

Outside, the morning had warmed a little. Connor crossed the yard and climbed the low fence rather than walk back down to the road. The field between the properties was uneven and soft from rain earlier in the week, forcing him to watch where he put his boots.

It should have been a peaceful October morning. Sunlight lay across the pasture. Somewhere to his left, a bird worked through a hedgerow. The trees around both properties still carried bands of gold and copper.

A gust moved through them.

Leaves broke free in clusters and spun across the field. With the foliage thinning, the branches beneath were exposed, long and narrow against the sky, like sharpened fingers.

Connor kept walking. Deacon Blair’s farmhouse was smaller than Eleanor’s and less well maintained. Paint had peeled from the porch rail, and a length of gutter sagged over one corner. The tractor beside the shed was old enough that Connor remembered seeing the same model when he was a kid.

A dog barked from somewhere behind the house.

Before Connor reached the steps, the front door opened.

Deacon came out wearing work pants, boots and a green over-shirt buttoned crookedly near the middle. He was broad through the chest, with a graying beard that covered most of his jaw.

“Sheriff.”

“Morning, Deacon,” Connor said.

His attention shifted past Connor toward Eleanor’s property. “Something happened over there?”

“You didn’t notice the patrol cars?” Connor asked.

“Saw them.”

“Then you probably figured something had happened.”

Deacon pressed his lips together. “I figured.”

Connor stopped at the foot of the porch. “When did you last see Eleanor Marsh?”

Deacon rubbed his beard. “Few days back, I guess.”

“Did you talk with her?” Connor asked.

“No. I ain’t really the talkative type.”

“You see anything unusual at her place last night?”

He hesitated.

Only a second, but Connor caught it.

“Headlights,” Deacon said.

“What time?”

“After ten.”

“Can you narrow that down?” Connor asked.