Page 22 of Scarred By Sin

“I’m fine, thank you.”

The interior of the guesthouse was small but lived in, with an open layout that combined the kitchen, dining area, and living space into a single room. The furniture was sparse and functional. A kitchen table with two mismatched chairs, a counter with a coffeemaker and a small dish rack, and a recliner positioned near the window that faced the main house.

Sylvie couldn’t help but note he had a clear view of the greenhouse, as well.

A braided rug covered most of the hardwood floor, and the walls held a few framed photographs that were too far away for Sylvie to make out in detail. The evening light came through the window in a single, slanting beam that caught the dust in the air and lit the edge of the recliner’s armrest in a stripe of fading gold.

It was hard to miss the bottle of whiskey on the small table beside the recliner, accompanied by an empty glass. The amber liquid was down to the last third. A second bottle sat on the kitchen counter near the coffeemaker, unopened.

Porter lived alone, on an isolated estate, looking after a woman whose condition was deteriorating. The whiskey wasn’t surprising. The quantity gave her pause, though she kept her expression pleasant as she took a seat at the kitchen table without comment.

Porter pulled a toothpick from a shot glass near the stove and worked it into the corner of his mouth before settling into the chair across from her. The wood groaned under his weight.

“I’d like to start by asking about your relationship with Nestor Ellingham,” Sylvie began, folding her hands on the table. “I understand you worked for him as the groundskeeper, but I’ve also heard that the two of you were friends.”

Porter’s jaw worked the toothpick from one side to the other. He took his time, and she got the sense that he was deciding just how much information to reveal.

“He was my employer, and I respected him. But over the years, especially after Claudine passed, the line between the job and everything else got blurred. He didn’t have many people in his life, and I was here every day. We’d talk sometimes, that’s all. Not about anything deep, just the kind of conversation that happens when two men are clearing some brush. He was private, but he wasn’t cold. There’s a difference.”

“And your relationship with Gwenyth?”

Porter's face gave way to something gentler, though he reined it back in almost as quickly as it had appeared.

“I’ve known Gwenyth since before she could walk. After Nestor disappeared, she didn’t have anyone else. Dale wasn’t around much. Her mother was long gone. I stayed because someone had to, and over the years, I just never left.” Porter moved the toothpick again. “She’s not what people think she is. She has her difficulties, but there’s a person in there. A real person. Most folks have forgotten that.”

“What are your thoughts on what Dale is doing with the guardianship petition? He’s basically saying that she can’t take care of herself or make her own decisions.”

Porter’s softness vanished.

“Dale wants what Dale has always wanted. Money. The estate is worth something, and Gwenyth is in his way. He’ll dress it up however he needs to. Concern for her welfare, the cost of her care, whatever sounds best in front of a judge. But the bottom line hasn’t changed since the day Nestor went missing. Dale wanted to sell this property thirty years ago, and the only thing that stopped him was Gwenyth refusing to leave.”

Sylvie decided to take their discussion in another direction.

“I’d like to ask you about the greenhouse. Specifically, about who had access to the property back when Nestor was still alive.”

Porter leaned back in his chair, and the chair groaned beneath him.

“The property was technically always open. There used to be a gate, but the Ellinghams never used it. Eventually, the hinges rusted, and I had it hauled off to the junkyard. No security system, either. No one really finds themselves out here, if you know what I mean. Too far out from town. Nestor put all the money into soil, nutrients, and such.”

“And the greenhouse itself?”

“Nestor spent most of his time in there. It was his workspace, whatever you want to call it. He didn’t lock it, if that’s what you’re asking me.”

“Eight sets of remains were found in there, Mr. Voss,” Sylvie said quietly. “Seven of them women.”

The color left Porter’s face in stages, starting at his forehead and working down. He pulled the toothpick from his mouth and held it between his fingers, staring at the table as though the surface had just rearranged itself.

“Seven,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“Nestor wouldn’t hurt a soul.” Porter’s words came immediately, reflexively. He had automatically assumed that she and the team would believe Nestor Ellingham was responsible. “I don’t care how strange people thought he was or how much time he spent in that greenhouse. He was not capable of that.”

“Someone was,” Sylvie said gently.

Porter met her gaze, and his next question came before she had to prompt it.

“How did they die?”