Chapter 12 - What Eleanor Kept
The consultant's preliminary report arrived on Thursday. Two sediment samples contained industrial contaminants at levels that required further investigation. She recommended keeping the service basin closed and notifying the appropriate authorities.
I followed both recommendations before lunch.
By two o'clock, Bellwether's director had called four times.
“An old basin can produce alarming results,” he told me when I finally answered. “Our people could help you avoid unnecessary disruption.”
“Send your historical disposal records to our attorneys.”
There was a pause long enough for me to hear traffic outside his window.
“Those records predate our current ownership.”
“Then send the ownership history too.”
Afterward, Tobias and I went to the farmhouse attic. Mother had kept household receipts in labeled tins and business correspondence in square archival boxes. Garrett had never bothered with them. He preferred accounts that could be moved with a password.
We found the basin file beneath a stack of Christmas tablecloths.
Inside lay photographs of tankers parked beside the eastern fence, copies of shipping manifests, and a letter addressed to an environmental laboratory. Mother's neat handwriting filled the margins.
One photograph showed a young man standing beside a truck, his face turned toward the camera. Dan recognized him that evening.
“Samuel Pike. Worked nights. Quit without collecting his last wages.”
The final page in Mother's folder was a telephone message written on the back of a grocery list.
Samuel says they are changing the manifests. Meet him Friday. Bring copies, not originals.
Friday had been the day my parents died.
Tobias sat down hard on the attic floor. Dust drifted through the light above his shoulders.
“I spent years listening for people outside my room,” he said. “And all this time, she had left us something right here.”
I lowered myself beside him.
“We found it now.”
“That doesn't give the years back.”
“No,” I said. “It doesn't.”
We stayed there until the house cooled around us. Then we photographed every page and arranged for the originals to go to our attorneys.
That night, I searched the old employee records for Samuel's emergency contact. The number was disconnected, but the address led to a small repair shop outside Brunswick.
I sent a brief letter asking whether he would speak with us. No accusations. No mention of money.
Four days later, a woman called my office.
“My father got your letter,” she said. “Before he answers, he wants to know something.”
May you like
I tightened my grip on the receiver.
“Does Eleanor's daughter still have the photographs?”
