In a Heartbeat - Elizabeth Adler [54]
The Hainsville Gazette occupied what must be the oldest premises in town and, in fact, looked as though no speck of dust had been disturbed in its entire fifty years of business.
Camelia explained his quest to the gray-haired woman behind the counter, who was definitely not a member of the Disneyland cast assembled to greet the tourists. This one was sharp, and sour, too.
“Ain’t never heard of the fella,” she said briskly, shuffling papers on the counter.
How small fame was, Mel thought sadly. No one here had even heard of Ed. Nobody knew what he had accomplished, nobody knew how good he was. And nobody cared.
And even though Camelia insisted they search the records, going back forty years, they found that the woman was right. There was no mention of a Vincent family.
“Ah told ya so” was her parting shot as they departed, sneezing from the dust and stung by her venom.
“Seems to me that if Ed really did live here, the best thing he did was get out,” Camelia commented as they stepped across the street to the Explorer. There was a pink parking ticket stuck under the windshield and he snatched it up, irate. “So much for love and goodwill toward tourists.”
Mel giggled. “You’re a cop, you can fix it.”
“I’m a law-abiding cop,” he said in a steely voice. “I pay my tickets.”
Her eyebrows rose and she pursed her lips to stop from smiling. “Where do we go next?”
“Follow me,” he said, climbing back into the car.
The town hall had a parking lot, so at least he wouldn’t run the risk of another ticket. Inside was as elaborate as out: pale oak paneling, black-and-white-checkered marble floor, Doric columns, and a wash of gold leaf. The receptionist told them where the Land Registry Department was, and they strode down the endless corridors of small-town power until they found it.
As Camelia now expected, a brief look revealed no “Vincent.” But then he got down to business in earnest. He searched the names of all the previous landowners in the area, and the dates on which they had sold their parcels to Michael Hains.
“It seems like every single person in this town sold out to Hains,” Mel finally said, exhausted.
“Except one. Farrar Rogan. His tract of farmland—five acres—was picked up by default, for the sum of one dollar. Now, don’t you think that’s a tad strange, when everybody else got a couple of thou’?”
“So what d’you think happened to Farrar Rogan?” she asked, not hoping for much of an answer.
“Let’s ask around and find out” was what he said.
Back at the Gazette, the gray-haired woman did not look pleased to see them. No bland, warm, white-toothed smile there, Mel thought, glancing at her watch, longing to call the hospital again, though she had spoken to them early that morning. And she wanted to hear Riley’s voice so bad. And Harriet . . . God, she was missing out on her life. What was she doing there, chasing wild geese, when she should be with the ones she loved, even if it meant being bicoastal.
The woman flinched when Camelia flashed her his badge. “I didn’t know you was cops,” she whined. “Sure, I remember the name Rogan. There was an accident, I don’t recall what. Yes, sir,” she added with new respect, “I’ll show you where to look in the archives.”
It didn’t take her long to find the relevant newspaper. And there it was, in big, bold headlines.
Farrar Rogan and his family were front-page news.
33
The blurred photo in The Hainsville Gazette showed a pile of smoldering ruins with the caption “ROGAN FAMILY PERISHES IN TRAGIC FIRE.” Underneath, it read:
Fire destroyed the log cabin of Farrar Rogan, killing him and his entire family, wife Ellin, daughters Honor and Grace, sons, Jared, Jesse, and Theo. Only one son, Mitchell, was saved, due to the fact that he was at the Hainsville Saloon at the time.
How the cabin caught fire remains a mystery, though the sheriff says it might have had something to do with the old stove, since Mitch says his mother was in the habit of stoking it up on such cold nights. The cabin burned