Thirty-Four
Janice McCabe felt a talk with the other Chartwell son, Holden, was long overdue. She’d spoken to Reece at length, and he’d
been present when she’d interviewed his mother again at the house. Maybe Holden would know more about his father’s affair
with Leah Kennard, and possibly the death of Evelyn Corby, although that was more of a long shot, given that it had happened
so long ago.
On the way to his house, a call came through on her cell, which was mounted on a bracket attached to the dash. On the screen:
MOIRA.
“Hey, honey,” she said.
“I’m ready,” her daughter said.
“Ready?”
“To hit the mall.”
“I’ve got one more stop to make.”
“So now I’m in, like, solitary confinement? You’ve been gone all day. I’m going to call Greenpeace or something.”
“They save whales. You’re thinking of Amnesty International.”
“Whatever.”
Moira ended the call.
There was a car in the driveway of Holden Chartwell’s house. She pulled over to the curb, got out, went up to the front door
and knocked.
Ten seconds later, the door swung open, and McCabe did a double take.
Holy shit, she thought. I know this face.
“Yeah?” said Holden. A little wide-eyed, on edge, she thought as she identified herself, showing her badge.
“I’ve spoken to your mother and your brother, but before I wrap up my investigation of what happened yesterday—and condolences on your loss—I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“I don’t know anything,” he said, not opening the door any wider.
She smiled. “Sometimes people know more than they realize. Just a few questions.”
He hesitated a moment before admitting her into the house. “I guess,” he said.
As she stepped inside, thinking Holden had the decorating and tidying skills of a college freshman, McCabe said, “You live
here alone?”
“Yeah. Uh, look, I don’t know what to tell you about my dad. It’s pretty obvious what happened, right? My dad left a note?”
“Yes.”
“And it was Dad’s handwriting, right?”
“Your brother seemed to think so.”
“So what else is there to say?”
“You must have been shocked when you found out.”
“Shocked? Sure, yeah, I’m shocked. We’re all shocked.”
He went to the cupboard, grabbed a glass, ran some water into it from the tap, and took a drink.
“How’s your mother doing?” she asked, not mentioning that she’d just come from talking to her.
“Haven’t seen her today. She came by yesterday and she was pretty torn up about it. I mean, not just that Dad was dead, but,
you know, the circumstances and all.”
“You know the name Evelyn Corby?”
She tossed it out, no buildup. Wondering how he’d react.
He blinked.
“Uh, who?”
“You’d have been a kid at the time, but did you ever hear the name? Hear your parents discussing her?”
“Sorry, Evelyn who?”
“Corby.”
“No,” he said quickly.
She waited a beat, then asked, “You’re not curious?”
“Curious?”
“About who she is? Why I’m asking?”
“Not . . . really. But okay, who is she?”
“She was a Wiffel-Smith colleague of your father’s who was murdered back in nineteen ninety-nine.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“The gun your father used yesterday was the same one that killed Evelyn Corby.”
“That’s . . . that’s weird. That doesn’t make any sense to me.”
“You don’t look surprised.”
“There’ve been so many surprises the last couple of days I guess I’m getting used to them.” He drank some water, wiped his
mouth with the back of his hand.
“Was there ever a time, growing up, when things seemed particularly tense around your house? Your parents were going through
a difficult time?”
Holden appeared to think. “Not really. I mean, there was the whole Wiffel-Smith scandal, but that happened after Dad left,
so it didn’t hit him that hard.”
“Anything else?”
He shrugged, managed a small grin. “There was me. I was a huge pain in the ass for my parents since I was in my teens.”
McCabe nodded, decided to switch gears, ask what she’d wanted to from the moment she’d laid eyes on him.
“Who’s Tom?”
“Tom?”
“Ever go by that name? Is Thomas a middle name?”
“Nope.”
“No one’s ever referred to you as Tom?”
“How many times do I have to say it?”
“How about Leah Kennard? You know that name?”
“I hadn’t heard of her until yesterday.”
“Your father never spoke of her? Maybe you met her at some point?”
Holden shook his head. “I don’t even know what she looks like.”
“Let me help you with that.”
McCabe went into her purse and brought out the driver’s license she had taken from the wallet in Leah Kennard’s handbag. “Not
a great shot, but this is her.”
He took it between his thumb and index finger, studied it, handed it back. “Nope.”
“Then how would you explain this?” From her purse she brought out the small photo album she had taken from the drawer in Kennard’s
bedroom, handed it to Holden.
He opened it to the first page, where Kennard had written, in calligraphy, “My Boy Tom.” What followed were pictures of Holden
from different periods in his life, often in shots where the other people who might have been in them had been cut out.
“What is this?” he said, leafing through the pages. He looked back at McCabe. “This is me.”
“I know.”
“I don’t— I don’t understand.” His puzzlement and distress were genuine. “Why would she have these? Why’s everybody else cut
out?”
“You tell me.”
“How would I know? Some of these go back years. Here’s one where I had a beard. I shaved that thing off like ten years ago. What the fuck?”
“There has to be a reason.”
“Well, I have no idea what it is!” He tossed the book onto the kitchen table, shook his head, paced.
He dug his phone from his pocket and entered a number.
“Who’re you calling?” McCabe asked.
“The only person who might be able to explain this,” he said.
McCabe said, “Speaker.”
Holden looked at the detective, took a second to consider her request, then tapped the button on the screen that would allow her to hear a conversation.
“Hello?” a woman said.
McCabe recognized the voice as Catherine Chartwell’s.
“Who the fuck was Leah Kennard?” Holden shouted, the words flying out of his mouth.
“We know who she was,” Catherine said with forced calmness. “Some fling your father was having.”
“Why’d she have pictures of me?”
“What?”
“Hundreds of them! In an album! They—”
“Holden, Holden, slow down! What are you talking about?”
“She calls me Tom!”
Silence at the other end.
“Why’s she call me Tom?” he asked.
There was another short silence before Catherine said, “We’ll have to talk about this. But not now. I’m in the middle of—”
“There’s shots of my graduation! That Montreal trip. And there’s notes scribbled on them, like I miss you and my boy and . . . What’s going on?”
McCabe listened.
“I don’t want to do this on the phone,” Catherine said. “There are things I need to tell you, that I’ve wanted to tell you
for a long time, and—”
“My boy! What does that mean?”
“Holden, calm down.”
“Who are you?” he asked.
“What?”
Slowly, deliberately, Holden said again, “Who are you?”
“I’m your mother, Holden.”
“Are you?” he asked, the two words hanging out there like bombs floating through the air, ready to detonate.
Several seconds went by before Catherine said, “We’ve all gone through a terrible thing, Holden. It’s hit you hard. You need to go back to Sharnwood. I’ll set it up. I’ll call them now.”
“I’m not high, Mom. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been more sober. Things are starting to get clearer. Clearer than they’ve
been in a long time. Is this why it was so easy?”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“If someone’s not your real son, not your real flesh and blood, does that make it easier to tell them you’d stop loving them?”
A moment of silence at the other end. Then:
“Holden, you might think you’re clearheaded right now, but you’re not. Trust me. I’m your mother. I love you. I’ve always loved you and will always love you. And if I ever said something that suggested otherwise I didn’t mean it and I’m sorry. From the bottom of
my heart, I am sorry. Believe me.”
Holden seemed to be shrinking into himself. He dropped slowly into a chair, shoulders hunched, head down, the phone still
in his hand, McCabe watching the whole time.
“Holden?”
“So Dad was seeing her for years?” he asked. “Never broke it off? She had a baby—she had me—and you faked birth records or
something?”
“It’s not like that. I’ll explain it all. I will. I promise. You sound . . . you sound far away. Holden? Are you on speaker?”
Holden exchanged glances with McCabe.
“Holden! Is someone there with you?”
“I have to go,” he said, ending the call, letting the phone slip from his hand to the floor. He put his head in his hands
and began to weep.