“Where’d she get wood?” I asked.
“We found a guy who says he took a truckload each March for a few years. He says a woman paid in cash.”
“When was the last delivery?”
“His record-keeping’s a bit glitchy. He thinks maybe 2009.”
“Show him the photos.”
“Will do. Andy?”
“I’m here.”
“Did you tell her about the newspapers and food expiration dates?”
“Yes.”
“Here’s what I’m thinking. Pomerleau makes her way from Montreal to Vermont in ’04. She moves in and lays low. The house is abandoned in 2009. You and Doc Karras think she could have been dead that long?”
I pictured the barrel. The body. The leaves preserved in pristine condition. “Five years is possible,” I said. Then, “Who owns the property?”
“There it gets interesting. The deed is still in the name Margaux Daudet Corneau.”
“Stephen Menard’s maternal grandmother.”
“I’m guessing since Corneau died in Canada, no one caught that the title never transferred after she passed away. The taxes, a staggering nine hundred dollars per year, were handled by auto payment from an account in Corneau’s name at Citizens Bank in Burlington.”
“When was the account opened?”
“I’ll know more once I get a warrant.”
“What about utilities?”
“The place has its own well, there’s no gas. Green Mountain Power was paid from the same account as the taxes. But the money finally ran out. Notices were sent—”
“But not received, since there was no mail delivery or phone.”
“The electricity was cut off in 2010.”
“The state took no action due to default on the taxes?”
“Notices were sent. No follow-through yet.”
I heard a click.
“Hold on. I’ve got another call coming in.”
The line went hollow. Then Rodas returned, tension in his voice up a notch. “Let me call you back.”
“You’re right,” Ryan said when we’d gone a few miles. “I’ve been acting like an ass.”
“You have,” I agreed.
“I hate that Pomerleau knew your whereabouts.” The lane markings sent double-yellow lines tracking up Ryan’s lenses. “That she wanted to know.”
“I don’t like it, either.”
“I’m glad the bitch is dead. Hope she rots in hell.”
“Someone killed her.”
“We’ll get him.”
“And in the meantime?”
“We’ll get him.” Ryan continued not looking at me.
“If I hadn’t granted that interview, Pomerleau never would have gone to Charlotte.”
“We don’t know that she did.”
“Her DNA was on Lizzie Nance’s body.”
“She’d have continued the carnage here in Vermont. Or someplace else.”
“Why Charlotte? Why my home turf?”
We both knew the answer to that.
We’d crossed into Quebec when Ryan’s phone buzzed again. As before, he put Rodas on speaker.
“One of my detectives found a mechanic who says he serviced a furnace at the Corneau place, once in ’04, again in ’07.”
“Did he recognize the images I sent?”
“Yes, ma’am. He says Pomerleau was alone the first time. The second visit, someone else was there.”
I shot Ryan a look; his jaw was set, but he didn’t return it.
“Can someone work with him to create a sketch?” I asked.
“Negative. He says the person was too far off, way back at one of the sheds and all bundled up for winter. All he’s sure of is that the guy was tall.”
“It’s something,” I said.
“It’s something,” Rodas agreed, then disconnected.
Ryan and I took some time digesting this latest piece of information. He spoke first. “By 2007 Pomerleau has hooked up with someone willing to share her psychosis. They kill Nellie Gower. A year and a half later, they travel to North Carolina, kill Lizzie Nance, then return to Vermont to tap their maples. The relationship tanks—”
“Or there’s an accident.” Caution, à la Karras.
“—he kills her, seals her body in a barrel, and splits for North Carolina.”
“It plays,” I said.
“Like a Sousa march.”