I leaned back in the hard library chair, taking this in. I’d assumed by “accident,” Caroline meant automobile. I hadn’t been prepared for this. I knew something about house fires, having survived one at our place on Morrow Island in the spring. They were terrifying.
The cause of the Lowes’ fire was not immediately determined. The paper mentioned that the guests from the previous night were being interviewed as a part of the investigation. There were photos and bios of Madeleine and Howell. He had commuted to Wall Street, where he worked for a well-known brokerage. She had been active in town life, volunteering at the thrift shop at the Unitarian church and a local senior center.
But there was one thing in the article that I kept reading over and over. The Lowes’ son, Austin, had been rescued from his bedroom in a separate wing of the house. The five-year-old had been badly burned, but he had survived.
When Caroline Caswell had said the Lowes “died young” and didn’t get to raise a family, I’d eliminated the possibility of children. But “young” for someone Caroline’s age had a different meaning than it did for me. The Lowes had a son.
I sat at the terminal for a few moments, thinking about the man at the bar, the scar that snaked up his neck and his prosthetic ear. It had to be. Who else could it have been? I should have been elated at finally making the connection, but the tragedy sat heavily in my chest. A young couple dead. A little boy orphaned and scarred for life.
I scrolled through several more issues of the weekly paper, looking for a follow-up story. Perhaps the news that Austin had been discharged from the hospital, or that the fire investigation had been concluded. But as big as the news about the Lowes had been when the fire occurred, the accounts disappeared immediately afterward.
I was tempted to call Lieutenant Binder right away, or at least call Jamie, who now had an undoubtedly related case, but my instincts told me not yet. The more I knew, the more compelling my information would be.
I wondered if files from fire investigations were housed in the police archives and if I could get someone to give me a look.
Before I left the library, I used one of their computers to look up an address for Austin Lowe in Guilford and for the Hoopers, whose car Enid had stolen. Then the nice librarian directed me to the police records office about a mile away.
*
“Fill out the form, pay your fee,” said the middle-aged woman behind the window at the records office.
“Before I do, I want to ask if you’d even have the record I’m looking for.”
“When was the accident?”
I got it then. This was the place to get accident reports that were needed to file car insurance claims after a collision. My hopes dimmed. “1974. An investigation into a fatal fire.”
Her officiousness melted away. “Ah, honey, that wouldn’t be here. Best case, it would be in the state archives in Middletown. But I wouldn’t bet on it. That’s a long time ago, and all the files were paper back then.”
What had I expected?
I must have looked so dispirited that she tried to help. “Do you have the name of the insurance carrier or agent?”
“No. Sorry.”
She leaned across the counter. “I don’t know if this will help, but there’s a retired insurance agent in town, Tom Dudley. He’s kind of a pack rat, and back in the time period you’re talking about, he insured almost everyone in town. He’s kept every file. It’s a long shot, but some other people I’ve sent his way have had good luck.”
*
I punched Tom Dudley’s address into the GPS in the cab. As I drove slowly through the historic district near the green, listening to the dulcet tones of the GPS, I noticed many houses had plaques proudly proclaiming they were built in the 1600s, 1700s, or 1800s.
Tom Dudley lived in a Victorian house on a generous lot. I parked on the curbless street and walked up the drive. A screened-in porch ran along the entire side of the house. My heart sank when I saw its jumble of broken furniture and cardboard boxes. The records clerk had described Tom Dudley as a pack rat. If he had the insurance report about the fire, would he be able to find it? As I got closer, I could smell the mildew coming off the boxes. Even if he could find the report, would it be in any condition for me to read it?
When he answered the door, Mr. Dudley was a surprisingly tidy man somewhere in his late seventies or eighties with wisps of white hair and an impressive mustache.
“Can I help you?”
“Hi. I’m Julia Snowden. I’m sorry to turn up like this. The clerk at the police records office sent me over. I’m looking for any information you have on a fatal fire here in Guilford. She said you might be able to help.”
“You better come in, then.”
We stepped into his front hall. From there, I could see into the living room, dining room, and den. I needn’t have worried. The house was as neat as a pin, though every room was lined with old metal filing cabinets.
“Do you have the date of the fire?”
“January 1, 1974.”
“Howell and Madeleine Lowe. I’ve got that right here.”