Jeremy was glad that he had made a point of getting and staying on good terms with Joe Brentwood, because Brentwood’s acceptance seemed to give him access to any information he needed.
On the way to his car, he pulled out his phone, hoping to get Brentwood on his cell, but the man didn’t pick up. A call to the station put him through to Detective Ivy Sinclair, who supplied him with an address for Eric Rolfe. He thanked her for her help and headed out of town on the road that eventually led to the MacElroy house, Rowenna’s house, and then, a bit farther down and to the left, the Rolfe property.
Apparently Eric Rolfe was not a man who needed to bask in his success.
The old farmhouse needed paint, and the front yard was filled with a melange of materials—wood, metal scraps, twine, stone and marble—all stacked untidily on the ground or on a series of mismatched broken-down chairs. There were paint cans in the yard, as well, along with a pile of fabric, and plastic bins filled with various bits and pieces of what seemed to be debris.
Rolfe was seated in a chair, sanding a length of wood. He looked up curiously when he saw Jeremy’s rental pull into the drive, and gave a pleasant nod when Jeremy got out of the car.
“Hello,” Rolfe said simply. He was a tall man, as Rowenna had said, but he’d lost weight as he matured and would no longer be considered husky, though his arms, bare below the pushed-up sleeves of an old gray sweater, were well defined with muscle. He had long, light blond hair, but his full beard and mustache had streaks of red. He smiled again beneath all the hair and said, “Hiya. Something I can do you for?”
Jeremy strode forward and introduced himself.
“Up from the Big Easy, huh?” Rolfe said politely.
“Recently, yes,” Jeremy said. “I didn’t realize it was common knowledge.”
Rolfe grinned broadly. “I know all about you. Salem’s a pretty small world when you get right down to it.” He waved a hand toward town. “Nice to meet you. To what do I owe the honor of your driving way out here?”
“Dinah Green,” Jeremy said bluntly.
The other man frowned slightly, and appeared to be thinking. Then he shook his head. “No, can’t say I know who she is. Am I supposed to?”
“She’s the woman whose body was found in the cornfield.”
Rolfe smiled slowly. “I see. And I make devil masks and live near the cornfield, so…”
“And you just returned to town after a long time living away,” Jeremy added evenly.
“No alibi. I’m living alone,” Rolfe said agreeably.
“Those are some pretty weird masks you make,” Jeremy told him, changing the subject.
Rolfe nodded. “Yeah, I was a weird kid, too. I always loved the movies. Did you ever see An American Werewolf in London? That was it for me. They created a new Academy Award for special effects that year, it was so damned good.”
“I did see it,” Jeremy said. “I liked it.”
“Want to come in? Have a beer or something?” Rolfe asked.
“Sure.”
“I didn’t kill that woman, you know,” Rolfe told him. “I’m all artist—a lover, not a fighter. But I guess I can understand why you have to eliminate me as a suspect.”
He got off his broken chair, and headed toward the rickety porch and unpainted house.
“Guess you’re wondering how I could have done so well in Hollywood and own such a ramshackle place,” Rolfe said after telling Jeremy to watch out for a broken step.
“I was finding it interesting,” Jeremy admitted.
He was even more interested by how surprisingly different the house was inside. It was neat and clean, with a typical parlor to one side of the entry, and a long hallway that branched off to the right and led to the rest of the rooms. The parlor had new leather furnishings, modern end tables and an overall appearance of being well kept. Far more livable than the exterior had led him to expect.
“I picked up some new stuff when I came back,” Eric explained. “I hadn’t been home in maybe five years. My father died, and my mother moved to Florida. I have a sister in Las Vegas. No pressing need to come back, except that it’s home, you know? I always loved the fall. Anyway, when you don’t come around in five years, things kind of go to hell, especially in New England. The weather takes its toll.” He moved on through the house. Jeremy noted that he was lean, but fit. His hands were powerful, calloused from the work he did. Papers strewn on the dining room table were evidence of his expertise in design and electronics, but it seemed evident that he was a hands-on man, that he enjoyed bringing his visions to life—sometimes literally.
“Light or full-bodied?” he asked Jeremy.
“Whichever,” Jeremy said.
Rolfe took two cans of beer from the refrigerator. He handed one to Jeremy, then popped the top on his own. “So you’re here with Ro, huh?” He grinned.