Chapter Ten
As each sweep of the fire hose washes more of the crime scene into the lake, Seton snaps photos of what evidence she can, including her mother’s boat.
When she returns to where I slump against the tree trunk, she faces the bare rock face above us.
“You had a view of the whole lake from up there, Charlie,” she says. “What did you see?”
“There was a boat on the water.” I take a moment to reconstruct the scene in my mind, still not trusting my memory. “It was heading toward the cove.”
“Maybe you saw my mom driving toward the fire. Maybe one of those lanterns drifted into the house and smoldered all night.”
That could be true, but it wouldn’t explain who walloped me in the head.
Seton asks, “Is there anyone who has a score to settle with your family? Or with Paul?” She pauses. “Besides my mom, that is.”
“You’d know better than I. You’re the one who lives here,” I say as I remember the man who came by the site yesterday in the truck, the one my mother couldn’t get rid of fast enough. “Don’t get mad, get Moodey,” I say.
“Vance Moodey,” Seton says. “What about him?”
“He was here yesterday, after you left,” I say, telling her about the conversation with my mother. “She said she’d touch base with him once the weekend was over.”
“He’s probably supplying lumber for this job,” Seton says, “but duly noted.”
She snaps another photo, this time of my bloody face.
“Am I evidence?” I ask.
“Everything’s evidence.”
“Do I need a lawyer?”
“Not yet.”
So much for the flash of intimacy between us.
By the shoreline, the EMTs wheel Seton’s mother toward the ambulance. Seton appears detached from this whole situation, though I wonder what that demeanor might be hiding. “Be with your mom,” I say. “I’m fine on my own.”
“Actually, I need to stay as far from her as possible till my deputy shows up and I can hand off the scene. I don’t want accusations or innuendo about this investigation floating around.”
The EMTs slide the gurney into the back of the ambulance, right as my brother’s Audi speeds out of the trees and blocks the exit. Reid climbs from the car.
“Hey, buddy,” one of the EMTs shouts. “You have to move.”
Reid ignores him, dashing toward the point, his blond hair disheveled.
“Stay here,” Seton mumbles, leaving me by the tree and stepping into my brother’s path. “You can’t get any closer, Reid,” she says.
“This is my construction site,” Reid says, trying to maneuver around her.
Seton pivots to block him. I like seeing her take charge. “And it’s my crime scene,” she says.
“Not for long,” Reid says. “Everyone already knows what your crazy mother did—it’s all over the Hero Board. She started a fire and nearly got herself killed.”
I resist the temptation to step into the fray. Reid must have six inches and fifty pounds on Seton, but I suspect she could take us both down in a fight. “Don’t do something you’ll regret,” she says to Reid.
A second cruiser pulls in behind Reid’s car, and an officer gets out.
Seton holds her hands out where Reid can see them. “That’s my backup,” she says, “so my job is officially over. I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Kilgore. Why don’t you move your car so we can do our jobs?”
Reid shoves an index finger in Seton’s face. “If your mother isn’t booked and in prison by the end of the day, you’ll have more than me to answer to.”
“Reid,” I say, leaving my spot by the tree and joining them. “Chill, okay?”
My brother’s face softens as he takes in my appearance. “Charlie, what happened to you? You’re bleeding like a stuck pig.”
“It looks worse than it is,” I say.
Reid glances at Seton. “Did your mother do this, too?” he asks.
“She didn’t do anything to me,” I say.
The EMT shouts toward Reid again.
“Could you move your car, Mr. Kilgore,” Seton says, her voice steady, her words clipped.
Reid stares her down, then turns away, phone in hand as he punches in a number and speaks to whoever picks up.
“Sorry about that,” I say. “He has a lot wrapped up in this project.”
“I’ve dealt with way more emotion than Reid Kilgore offered up,” Seton says, maintaining a remarkable detachment.
I wonder when she’ll break, and who will be there to support her when she does.
“Besides,” she continues, “he has every right to be upset. This is way worse than the Randalls’ rooster crowing too early in the morning. ”
Out on the lake, a speedboat arcs into the cove and around the fireboat.
“That’s one of the state detectives,” Seton says. “He lives in Kingston, on the other side of the lake.”
The boat slows as it approaches the shore.
A man with thick, dark hair tousled by the wind stands at the helm, steering with one hand.
He calls to the deputy and tosses her a line.
She pulls the boat as close to shore as she can, where the detective leaps off, missing by six inches and landing with a splash.
He seems undeterred as he stumbles over the rocks and recovers his footing.
“Detective Gilcrest,” Seton says to me.
The detective’s name rings a distant bell, one I can’t quite place. He wears a slim-cut houndstooth suit and a white shirt, open at the collar to reveal a bare chest. It’s an outfit a financial consultant might wear on the town. “Did he roll out of bed looking like that?” I ask.
“He has his own sartorial style,” Seton says.
The detective approaches, adjusting his jacket, his sodden leather sneakers squelching with each step as he takes in the burning house and the firefighters at work. By now, they’ve mostly contained the flames.
“Glad you’re on this, Chief,” the detective says. “We’ll need your department’s support.” He extends a hand toward me. “Gilcrest.”
I guess we use last names, like on TV. “Kilgore,” I say.
“Charlie, right?” Gilcrest says. Up close, he seems older than he presented from a distance, maybe in his mid to late forties. “You got into it with someone. What’s with all the blood?”
“Charlie was on the scene when I arrived,” Seton says. “I’ll get you up to speed.”
To her credit, she hits most of the salient points without pause, ending with, “The likely suspect is Andrea Haviland. She’s unconscious. They’re transporting her to Kingston Hospital.”
Gilcrest turns to where Reid has finally moved his car. The EMTs drive off, sirens blaring, leaving Hadley and my brother in the parking lot with the deputy. “Andrea Haviland,” Gilcrest says. “As in your mother.”
“One and the same,” Seton says.
“Why don’t we chat in private, Chief?”
They consult by the lakeshore, and I watch as Seton’s shoulders slump and Gilcrest puts a hand to her back and whispers in her ear.
I wish I could do more to help Seton right now, that I could find the words to make whatever she must be feeling go away.
I should be well suited for the role since I’ve spent my whole life dealing with someone else’s crimes.
When they finish their conversation, Seton leaves to talk to the deputy, while the detective joins me.
“Is she okay?” I ask.
“The chief’s a pro,” Gilcrest says. “She’s handing off this case to the state. Gotta watch our step here. Be official. She told me you helped pull the victim from the fire. Pretty dumb move there.”
“It all worked out,” I say.
“It doesn’t always. She also told me she assumed the boat tied to the dock was yours, right?
You were lying on the shore unconscious.
She sees you, sees a boat resembling yours, and assumes the two things go together.
She also assumed the fire started because of the Lantern Festival, that one of the lanterns drifted into the house and smoldered all night. Was that what you thought happened?”
“At first,” I say. “But I saw the boat tied to the dock and recognized it.”
“And you knew Andrea Haviland had started the fire,” Gilcrest says, a statement, not a question, and I nearly trip up and nod in agreement.
Before I can respond, he adds, “But the boat’s the same type you have over at your place, so it could have been your mother or your brother here, which would make sense since it’s their construction site.
Why did you assume it was Mrs. Haviland? ”
“I didn’t know who it was,” I say. “But Mrs. Haviland’s been trying to get this site shut down. Is this arson?”
Gilcrest makes a note on his phone, and when I try to read what he’s typing, he shields the screen. “We’ll see what the state fire marshal’s team turns up. Right now, I’m concerned with the assault.”
And we both know a paper lantern didn’t hit me with a tree limb.
“You’re Jane Reid’s kid,” the detective says. “Where is she?”
“On a site visit,” I say. “Near Finstock.”
“I’ll need to speak with her sooner rather than later,” Gilcrest says. “To the owner, too. Paul Burke.”
“I left my phone at the house, but my brother can call them. He’s right over there.”
“I know your brother.” The detective meets my eyes. “I was out on my own dock last night with my wife and kids. The lanterns made me think of you and your family. They do every year. It’s nice to see you all grown up, Charlie.”
From the parking lot, my aunt shouts, “Duncan, wrap it up. Charlie needs to see a doctor.”
Duncan Gilcrest.
Now I recognize the detective’s name. Officer Duncan Gilcrest was the first to respond to the call at Idlewood all those years ago.
His name is in the police reports. He was the officer who’d started the job a week earlier, the one who waded into the lake and convinced Reid it was safe to return to shore.