Free Habit by T. J. Brearton Page A

ceiling, and he rubbed at his closely-shaven chin. “Oh jeeze, now. Let me think. We met in . . . oh I think it was three years ago?”
    “How did you meet?”
    “Right here,” he said with notable pride. “Right in my store. She was getting some hardware for the house. She came back two more times, and I asked her out for a cup of coffee.”
    “And then you were together? I’m sorry to ask such a personal question.”
    “No, no, I understand.”
    Kettering leaned forward now, resting his elbows on the desk, his eyes still darting around. “I understand. We, uh, well, we dated a little while, if you could call it that. We’d go for walks, I’d meet her at the house – the whole thing was kind of under the pretense that I could help her fix it up. But it never came to that, really. She was always coming and going from the area. Hard girl to pin down.” He offered a laugh and a wink. “So, I don’t know, for about two years we saw each other on and off.”
    “What was she doing up here?”
    “Well, first she was meeting with the realtors, and those types. Then, you know, closing. All of that stuff takes so much time. She was coming back and forth, back and forth.”
    “To buy the house?”
    Kettering raised his eyebrows. “Oh, right. Sorry, yes, I wasn’t sure what, you know, what of the particulars you already had.”
    “Assume I know nothing.”
    A look from Kettering. “They bought the old Bloomingdale farm.”
    “The place south of here, about eight miles.”
    “That’s right. Everyone calls it the Bloomingdale farm. There’s been a lot of development in this area over recent years, but that farm, that’s been there . . . jeeze, since the area was settled. Early 1800s, maybe. It’s been redone, you know, this patched up, that. I think the original barn caved in and a new one was erected in the 70s. But it was originally built by Arnold Bloomingdale.”
    “Why was Rebecca interested in it, do you think?”
    Again, Kettering seemed to pause for some silent evaluation. It was only a second or two, but Brendan couldn’t help but record it in his mind. “I couldn’t honestly tell you. I’ve met them, you know. Alex and Greta. I think the kids call them Bops and Ma’am. Very nice people.” His eyes seemed to narrow a bit. “Very wealthy. Different sort of people than everyday folks like you and me. Know what I mean?”
    “Money can change you, sure. Or, you’re born with it. So she was brokering a deal for her parents? Not buying the house herself?”
    “It was their money, if that’s what you mean, yes.”
    “But she came here for hardware, you said. Before she bought the place she was making repairs?”
    Kettering blinked, seeming momentarily derailed. “No, ah, she was staying in a little rental right here in Boonville. Sometimes she stayed at motels, she told me, but then she rented this little place. If I recall, there was a leak, and she wanted to fix it herself. She was very self-reliant.”
    Brendan made a mental note to look into this rental situation later. “Does she have any siblings?”
    Another pause. “Her brother, Kevin.”
    “No others?”
    “Not that I know of, sir. Why?”
    “Well, I’ve met Kevin, actually. He made a comment about how he was ‘the last in a line of token children.’”
    Kettering sat back again, giving this consideration. “I see. Well, again. Different strokes. You know, some of these wealthy types, they don’t have children always out of love. It may be, what’s the word?”
    “Perfunctory.”
    “That’s it. To have an heir, to pass on the family business.”
    “And what is their business?”
    “That I couldn’t quite tell you,” said Kettering. “It’s all Greek to me once it gets up into the mega millions. After that, it just seems that money makes money. I think he’s in medicine, though.”
    “Alexander Heilshorn.”
    “Yuh.”
    “So it might be new money. Some sort of patent, or investment. Maybe a company that has done