Silent Harbour

Chapter 5: The Envelope

The following days are busier than usual. Erin had come by with some more paperwork that I needed to fill out, and I was expecting the home inspector sometime this afternoon.

I open the fridge and grab an apple out of the crisper. Then I piece together a peanut butter sandwich and sit down at the kitchen table.

"Damn it," I mumble, realizing I am out of milk before downing a cup of leftover black coffee.

The open house is this weekend, but the staging furniture has yet to arrive. I pick up my phone with the hand that isn't holding the half-eaten sandwich and dial Erin's number.

After a few rings, Erin picks up. "Emery, I'm glad you reached out, I was actually just getting ready to call you," she said in a distant voice, without her usual cheery disposition. "The stager canceled on us. Unfortunately, we don't have a backup, and it's too late in the game to push the open house out further. We've got many promising potential buyers coming in from out of the area this weekend who've already made travel plans. We will have to set up the house on our own." She pauses. "And I'd like to talk to you about something in person–I can drop by later today if you're free? ..."

I looked despairingly at the pile of dishes accumulating in the sink. "No problem. The inspector still hasn't come by yet, so I'll just be at home. Why don't you drop by the house around five for an early dinner?"

She hesitated. "Alright, but you're not cooking. I'll pick up some take-out on my way up."

**********

The inspector finally shows up at around four and made his way through the house, out to the yard, and finally, the garage. Standing on the porch, he handed me a folder filled with notes and forms and said that everything on the inside looked okay but that he had flagged the porch for loose deck boards that might pose a safety hazard. "You should get an official notice in the mail in about 10 days with a receipt of today's results and any official recommendations," he assured me.

I thanked him, and he left.

On the way back inside, I poke at one of the loose boards with my shoe, and sure enough, a screw comes loose. I concede that it needed fixing.

Painstakingly, I wash the remainder of the dishes, setting them neatly on the drying rack and rearranging the pillows on the couch in the dining room in a way that I think looks presentable. I put away the jacket I had strewn across the back of a chair in haste and some albums and books I'd set out on the coffee table. I take the books to my room and stack them back on the shelf, but stop when I come to one of the photo albums.

2011-2012, read the cover. I turn the page and, there is my 12th grade graduating class photo. I scan over the photo until I spot myself standing awkwardly in the third row, directly to the right of my highschool math teacher. I was grinning and sported a mortarboard cap and a gown reminiscent of a dementor. Peter, being a rather tall fellow, was positioned in the very back row next to Alisha and Rafi, another two of our close friends at the time. All of our names were listed in the order we appeared on the next page.

It is strange to think that just a week ago I'd run into Peter in town. Living, breathing Peter who'd existed as little more than a memory of a person, a friend, or over a decade.

I am pulled out of my thoughts by a rapp at the door that promptly reminds me I need to replace the doorbell. I had been looking into getting one of those all-in-ones with a camera and a two-way mic. I make a mental note to order one later. I sigh and tuck the album away, and make my way downstairs.

Erin is standing in the veranda in a forest-green hoodie and a pair of faded denim overalls, a messenger bag hanging from one shoulder, holding out two carry-out bags, one in each hand.

"Hey, thanks for getting here on such short notice," I offer as I motion for her to come in. She steps inside and removes her sneakers. I'm not used to seeing Erin dressed so casually, as she usually dropped by after work –ever the modern professional in her blazers and pants-suits.

"I'm really sorry about this last minute change of plans," she starts. "But lucky for us, I have a friend at the office who used to work as an interior decorator and she's drawn up some sample designs for us. We'll look through them while we eat."

I get a plate for each of us and some silverware, and we each had a bit of each of the dishes she'd ordered from the Singaporean restaurant in town. Erin pulls out her iPad and shows me the sample layout for the showing using the furniture and decor we'd ordered and we quickly agree on one we think would be manageable for the two of us.

We continue to converse light-heartedly until I ask Erin what it is she'd mentioned wanting to tell me in person. Her face turns solemn.

"Emery, I know you're a journalist, and lately, the Rochester case has been all over the news, and I know it's not really my business..." she continues cautiously, "I'm really sorry about what happened. I know you and Peter were close."

I am caught off guard by her earnestness. "I–I'm sorry too," I admit. "I really hadn't seen much of him these last few years. I kind of wish I had–you know–reached out more," I trail off.

She nodded. "A lot has changed since school. People change, heck, places change. Silent Harbour isn't what it used to be. We're practically the suburbs now."

"Tell me about it. A new housing development? A community center-with a pool no less? What were they thinking??" I chuckle.

"Can I ask–and you can be honest about it–how are you holding up, really?" She looked at me with unveiled curiosity. "You're here by yourself right?"

"I'm getting by," I manage while twirling a noodle around the end of my fork. "Younger me would be disappointed if she knew what our life would look like at 31."

She looks at me pointedly, "Who am I to judge?"

I bite my tongue and curse myself silently for sounding so pretentious. Coming back here from the city and grumbling about my failed aspirations and happiness to a woman who almost overdosed at 18...

"After you guys all went off to college, things took a turn for the worse. My mom kicked me out of the house and moved in with her boyfriend at the time–who was also her dealer. I was out on the streets for a good two years. I met this woman, Nelly, at a pop-up safe health clinic downtown. One of those safe-injection sites run by the public health department. She was a social worker and she helped me get myself registered for housing and an income subsidy while I looked for work. She was the reason I got clean. Anyway, I eventually got back on my feet and went back to school to get the credentials I needed to get into real estate." She paused, "Where I come from, there's no timeline that dictates if or when you can find peace. You know? Embrace the highs and lows, I'm just glad to have another go at it." She looked past me pensively.

"Look, I don't know how much longer you're going to be in town, but I know how tough it is to find your footing in a new place job-wise."

She rummages through her bag for a few moments and pulls out a large orange envelope.

"If you want to get ahead of the press around here, you're going to need some help from the inside." She continues, "I happen to have some information on what went down before the sale of Rochester Farm given that The Rochesters were clients of our agency–had been for 35 years."

She hands me the envelope. "It's a record of all the properties the Rochesters have owned along with any sales and purchases made with the brokerage. You'll want to have a look at a particular purchase made by Arthur Rochester 18 months ago. The purchase of a five bedroom lakefront cottage in Cedar Creek. It was acquired by Mr. Rochester, and the transaction was made, under his birth name, Harold Stewart. That was five months before Vista Ventures had even put in an offer. I don't know if this was an investment property, or if Arthur Rochester was planning a move, but whatever the reason was, it wasn't information that the Rochesters made privy to public consumption."

I am at a loss for words. Was Erin Halstead feeding me information about Arthur Rochester that she thought would help break open the case? Here she is offering me confidential information about the Rochester family finances that neither the media nor the police had looked into yet.

"I figured you knew the family better than most. If anyone has a shot at getting to the bottom of all this, it's you Emery."