"Oh no. My husband passed away two years ago. Cancer." She said it the way people do when they've said it enough times that the words have worn smooth. There was no break in her voice but a pause after, like a rest in music. "I meant my son. Paul."
"Is he around?"
"No, he's visiting my sister in Saranac Lake. Helps out with the kiddos."
She led him through to the kitchen. It looked like it hadn't been updated since the house was built, or close to it. Oak cabinets with brass pulls that had gone dark with age. Brown floral wallpaper that was peeling at the seams near the ceiling. A window over the sink that looked out at the barn.The countertops were clean but cluttered with the accumulated objects of a life lived in one place for a long time: a ceramic rooster, a stack of mail, a pill organizer, a radio tuned to a station that was playing something quiet.
Noah took a seat at the kitchen table. A copy of the Adirondack Daily Enterprise sat in front of him, folded to show the front page. The headline was about the bodies found in Bloomingdale Bog and a possible connection to the death of Brooke Danvers. Beside the newspaper were a couple of plates, a tube of craft glue, and several small wooden structures in various stages of completion. Miniature houses. Detailed work. Tiny shingles cut from balsa, window frames no bigger than a thumbnail, a porch with posts the thickness of toothpicks.
Lydia smiled as she cleared the pieces to one side. "A hobby of mine," she said. "Something about working in small details that gets your mind off the bigger things."
"You work at Adirondack Medical Center, right?"
"Ah, you've seen me around."
"I visit there often. The Medical Examiner is in the basement."
"Adelaide Chambers. We're good friends." She took a deep breath and went to put the kettle. Next, she reached for a French press, spooning grounds into it from a canister on the counter. "You been there a long time?" he asked, reading the newspaper.
"Twenty-seven years this September. Gone by in a flash." She ran water into the kettle and set it on the burner. "Earl, my late husband, used to be an EMT for the hospital, that’s how we met. After he passed I was thinking of selling the farm. Too much to do on your own, you know? But..." She stopped, gripping the edge of the counter. Her knuckles went white for a moment. Then she released and turned back with a steady expression. "I just couldn't bring myself to part with it. So I found a localfarmer who bought most of the land. We keep a small portion. The rest belongs to him now."
The kettle started to hiss. She poured the water over the grounds and brought two cups to the table along with a small jug of cream. She sat across from Noah and pushed one cup toward him.
"How old is your son?"
"Twenty-eight."
"He didn't want to run the farm?"
She took a swallow of her drink. "Yes and no. Paul's a gentle soul. He's always been that way, even as a boy. The world just moves a little too fast for him. He's simple. Not in a bad way. In a pure way." She turned the cup in her hands. "He doesn't have a mean bone in his body. He just needs someone looking out for him."
"Sounds like a good lad."
"He is. My boy sees the good in everyone. That's his gift and his curse, you might say. He's not like other men his age. He doesn't understand how the world works. How cruel people can be to someone who's different."
"So he works?"
“He helps me around the property. There's always something that needs doing. The yard, the fencing, the vehicles. He's good with his hands. Better than most men twice his age."
"But does he have a job? Employment?"
She bristled. The warmth in her face tightened, just for a second. "He doesn't need a job. I provide for us just fine." She set her cup down. "Not that we didn't try. I tried once, years ago. Got him work at a hardware store in town. It was a disaster. They had him sweeping floors and stacking shelves and the other boys made fun of him. He came home crying. I never put him through that again." She paused. "My sister gives him money from timeto time to help with her kiddos. He's useful. He's valued. He doesn't need a timecard to prove that."
Noah took a sip of his drink and let the silence settle.
Lydia looked down at the newspaper on the table. "I gather they figure the discovery of those bodies is connected to the Ellison girl?"
"It's early days right now in the investigation." Noah pulled a folder from the bag he'd brought and opened it on the table. "So I was looking over the file from the night of the crash. You're listed as Witness A. You were coming back from a shift that night?"
"That's right. Driving home."
"Take me through it."
She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms, not defensive, just settling in. "I placed a call to my son before leaving work. I always do that, just in case my vehicle breaks down on the way. I'd hate to have him worried. Besides, there are some dead spots along the road for cell coverage." She paused, organizing. "Anyway, I came around the bend where the Ellison girl's vehicle was and I saw a police SUV pulled off to the side of the road."
"It says you saw no one?"
"That's right."
