Chapter Nineteen
During the day, the Landing transforms from a pub into a café, where the air smells of coffee and fresh-baked muffins, and conversation buzzes with local gossip.
The cash in the jar for Mrs. Haviland’s defense has multiplied, and Blancy works the espresso machine as though he hasn’t left since last night.
He fills a paper cup with coffee when he sees me and shoves it across the counter. “To go,” he says. “Move your boat.”
“Any news about Mrs. Haviland?”
He turns to another customer, taking his time steaming milk for a latte, before returning when a lull hits the store. “Was Duncan outside with you? He can’t be too happy with you after last night. He and Freya are a thing.”
Tell me something I don’t know. “You could have clued me in,” I say.
“Not my business.”
“Everything’s your business,” I say. “What are people saying about the fire, anyway?”
“If I tell you, will you move your boat?”
“Scout’s honor.”
“They’re saying Andrea’s awake, and the DA wants to charge her with arson, but Duncan keeps asking questions on what seems like an open-and-shut case.”
“Any theories why?” I ask.
“How would I know?”
“People talk.”
Blancy shrugs. “What’s the usual motive for arson?”
Money. Gilcrest is following the money.
“Do you remember the guy sitting next to me at the bar last night?” I ask as I AirDrop Blancy my phone number. “Text me if he comes around again.”
The door to the café opens. A pack of Spandex-clad cyclists clomps into the store. “Fine,” Blancy says. “Now move your boat.”
I pull the cover from the boat and contemplate the image of my father that continues to take shape.
Hadley already told me he may not have been the monster I grew up fearing, and now, thanks to Freya, I’ve begun to question whether the crimes he committed happened in the way I’ve believed.
Though it will take more than a plotting session in a writers’ room to convince me of his innocence.
Still, when I imagine sitting beside him, sharing another beer, the only question I know I’d ask is “Why?”
Behind me, footsteps sound along the planks as I unsnap the final button on the boat cover.
“Charlie?”
I turn to find Seton standing on the pier, wearing that boxy uniform. She kicks off her boots and steps onto the stern. “Do you remember my friend Tammy, the kindergarten teacher?” she asks.
“What about her?”
“She had a few suggestions and lent me some supplies,” Seton says, handing me a sheet of pink construction paper with Certificate of Apology printed in gigantic font along the top.
“I, Seton Haviland,” she says, reciting what’s printed on the page, “officially apologize for letting the emotion of a difficult day get the better of me. I overreacted and took my feelings out on you, which you didn’t deserve.
I take full responsibility for my actions and understand this apology is yours to accept or reject, as you see fit. With respect, Seton J. Haviland.”
I fold the sheet in half and stow it in the glove box. We could have gone back to being friends without acknowledging yesterday’s blip, but I appreciate the effort. Maybe the note represents a new level of maturity in our relationship. “I’ll keep the evidence, but apology accepted.”
I unfurl the boat cover, and Seton takes the other end to help fold. Ashen skin and dark circles under her eyes tell me she must have been up all night.
“I’d give you money if I could,” I say.
“I didn’t ask you for money,” Seton says. “And thanks, I know you would, but it’s better if you don’t. Paul loaned my mom money once.” She nods toward the Landing. “It was to keep this place going after my father died. She claims their friendship wasn’t the same afterward.”
More money. Mrs. Haviland owed Paul. Isaac hit Freya up for a loan long ago on a TV set. And based on Vance Moodey’s visit to Burkehaven the other day, my mother owes him, too. Who else might be looking to collect on a debt?
We finish folding the cover, and Seton stows it under the rear seat.
“Mom woke early this morning,” she says.
“She’s already demanding to be released from the hospital.
She claims she saw the smoke from the boat, and by the time she arrived at Burkehaven, the house was in flames.
She says someone else was inside, and she tried to help, which is why she was in the building.
” Seton touches the stitches on my forehead.
“And that same person could have assaulted you. That’s why Gilcrest hasn’t made an arrest. Too much reasonable doubt. ”
And why he’s asking so many questions.
Seton sprawls across the back of the boat. “I was up most of the night,” she says. “But so were you. How’s Freya Faith anyway?”
I listen for a tinge of judgment or jealousy in her voice, but all I hear is curiosity. Behind us, some guy in a speedboat pulls in close to the pier. “Hey,” he shouts, “make some room.”
Seton shifts so the badge on her uniform flashes in the sun. The guy runs his hand through his hair. “Sorry,” he says.
“We’ll be out of your way in a minute, sir,” Seton says as I turn on the blower.
“I don’t know how you put up with these Massholes,” I mumble.
“These Massholes are you,” Seton says.
“I grew up here,” I say.
“Sort of. On the lake. Off to prep school. And now you live in Boston, which makes you an official Masshole.”
“I like to think I’m better than that.”
“Keep hoping,” Seton says, untying the lines and shoving off.
I back into the marina and drop anchor, while the guy in the speedboat swoops in to take the spot. “Last night,” I say, “you could have mentioned Gilcrest had a thing going with Freya before I went home with her.”
Seton closes her eyes, her face lifted to the sun. “Do you have any pot in this boat?”
“Aren’t you on duty?”
“Don’t remind me. And I wasn’t talking to you last night, remember? Besides, you wouldn’t have listened. You weren’t really thinking with your head.”
“True,” I say. “But now your boss has it in for me. He came to Freya’s condo this morning and acted all territorial.”
“Gilcrest isn’t my boss,” Seton says. “We’re peers. We manage different parts of the job. And what do you expect? You stepped on his turf.”
“I didn’t know they were dating. Freya didn’t tell me. Besides, Gilcrest is the one who has a wife and kids.”
“Take it as a compliment,” Seton says. “He’s intimidated by your beautiful eyes.
You know it’s true! Besides, Gilcrest and Nicole have been separated for years.
They’re still friends, but they’re only married for the state health insurance.
She probably got sick of him looking at himself in the mirror. ”
“Speaking of which,” I say, showing Seton the photos of Gilcrest at Burkehaven.
She swipes between the two shots. “Be careful what you say to him,” she says. “He’s not as ridiculous as he presents. His act is how he disarms suspects.”
She rolls on her side and props her head on a fist. The stud in her lip glints in the morning light.
“Are you supposed to be wearing that on duty?” I ask.
“I’m too tired to remember regulations,” she says, taking the stud out and slipping it into a pocket. “Does Freya really sleep in a safe room?”
“Did Gilcrest tell you that?”
“I won’t reveal my sources.”
“It’s not a safe room,” I say, “but it’s close. She covers the windows with steel shutters and keeps a gun. And don’t forget about Ginger, the dog, who’s as sweet as can be . . . until she isn’t.”
“Cut Freya some slack,” Seton says. “She’s famous.
Or she was. Plus, she had a stalker when she lived in New York.
That’s why she left Scene of the Crime and disappeared off the face of the earth.
And it’s why she’s so paranoid. My department gets about ten thousand calls a week from her security provider, all of which turn out to be false alarms.”
Now the steel doors, the perimeter checks, and the gun make sense. “If Freya has a stalker, it’s probably Reid,” I say, remembering his teenage bedroom covered with images of Freya, and forgetting even a sleep-deprived Seton Haviland is all cop.
She swings her feet around and leans forward. “Why Reid?” she says.
“It was a joke. Forget I said anything.”
“Details, or I’ll talk to Reid myself.”
I groan and tell her about sneaking into Reid’s bedroom and finding Freya’s signed headshot on the bedside table. I omit the other photos taped to the walls. “It was teenage stuff,” I say. “Plus, Paul knew her and talked about working with her.”
“I suppose having your photo in the bedroom of random teenage boys comes with the territory when you’re on TV,” Seton says. “But Freya came to New Hampshire to escape that. And to see where things went with Gilcrest. Seems as if they may be going nowhere.”
“Last night, she sounded ready to go back to New York,” I say as a boat passes by, and we rock in the wake.
I trail my hand through the water, grateful to be here with Seton, to have someone I trust, someone who won’t judge me for succumbing to the charms of a TV star.
“It’s better when you and I aren’t angry at each other. ”
“Who says I’m not angry?” Seton asks. “But I’m not angry at you. What did Gilcrest ask about anyway?”
“Mostly the podcast. He wants to be part of it. He mentioned getting a book deal, though I’ll believe that when I see it.”
“Don’t do that fucking podcast,” Seton says.
I shift and feel the weight of my father’s pint glass in my coat pocket. “The podcast isn’t about you,” I say, though as I say the words, I hear how lame they are.
“Will you mention my name?” Seton asks. “Or my mom’s? Or my dad’s? Will you talk about what happened to my family as though it’s your story to tell?” When I don’t answer, she adds, “Your stupid podcast is about me.”
“What do you remember about your father anyway?”
Seton clenches her fists and lets out a groan. “Nothing, Charlie,” she says. “I’m two months younger than you. He’s been dead and buried my whole life. And if you’re secretly recording me right now, I’ll kill you, then turn myself in for murder.”
“I’m not recording,” I say. “But didn’t you ever wish your father had been living another life somewhere else? And that he’d never been murdered?”
“Only all the time.”
“If there’s no story to tell,” I say, “I’ll drop the podcast. I promise. And I’ll avoid using your name as much as possible. But tell me what you used to imagine about your father. Where did you think he’d gone?”
Seton stands, fists on her hips. “I want my certificate of apology back.”
The boat bobs in the water. I should be recording this conversation, but I want the answers for myself, not to share. If Seton and I are honest, we might learn what we actually mean to each other. “Please,” I say.
“My name’s Seton Haviland. My father was killed when I was ten months old. His murderer’s son was one of my favorite people till he told me he was working on this podcast. Now I hate his guts.”
Julian would encourage me to forge a personal connection and make Seton feel heard, but what I really want is to push through the imaginary wall between us to see what might be on the other side.
And maybe that’ll mean having Seton hate my guts for a while, but it could mean something better, and we won’t know until we try.
“You told me you used to imagine your father was alive. Where did you imagine he went?”
“Anywhere but here.”
I touch her hand, but she yanks it away. “Take me to the pier,” she says.
“We’re friends, you and me,” I say. “But there’s this thing sitting right there between us, watching what we say, what we do. This thing we don’t mention. Wouldn’t it be better to talk about it, to see where the conversation leads?”
For a moment, I worry I’ve said too much of the unspoken, that I’ve damaged things between us for good, but Seton sinks back onto the seat. “When did you get so deep, Charlie?” she asks.
I smile, relieved, but I won’t let her off the hook, either. “I’m not saying anything we both haven’t already thought.”
She rolls away from me and stares over the gunwale into the water.
“I imagined my dad all over the place. It was typical kid stuff. Fantasy. For a while, I decided he’d joined the circus.
I’d watch TV shows about spies whose long-lost parents returned, and imagine him as a CIA agent.
We live close to Canada, so for the longest time I pictured him up in Quebec, speaking French and running a maple syrup factory with a team of elves. ”
“Did you tell anyone?”
“Not till right now. My mom, she had to work hard after my dad died. The Landing is a twenty-four-hour-a-day job once summer begins.”
“What would you do if your father walked into the Landing one night and ordered a beer?” I ask.
Seton trails her hand through the water. “I’d give him a big hug and ask about the maple syrup factory. How about you?”
“I might get a beer with him.”
Push further, I tell myself. Be bold. It’s the only way to get to the heart of the story.
“I asked you about DNA testing last night,” I say, taking the pint glass from my pocket and handing it to her. “Get the lip tested.” I spit in a tissue from the glove box. “Test this, too. See if there’s a familial match.”
Seton unwraps the glass from the paper napkin. “You stole this from the Landing,” she says, and I can see the pieces falling into place for her. “Who could you possibly be related to?”
Gilcrest will report what he and I talked about this morning to Seton, including my claim of seeing my father, and besides, didn’t I challenge Seton to be honest?
“Glasses. Ponytail,” I say. “That was my father sitting next to me. At least I think he was. I’ve seen him before.
Usually I convince myself it was my imagination, but last night he was there. I mean, you saw him. So did Blancy.”
Seton takes my hand in hers, weighing her next move and choosing her words with care. “You didn’t see your father. And it doesn’t matter how much you wish you did.”
“I want to be sure.”
“If the glass is related to the fire, I’ll need to turn the evidence over to Gilcrest.”
I wouldn’t expect anything else. “Gilcrest knows about most of it anyway,” I say.
“If he knows most of it, what doesn’t he know?”
“He knows I saw my father, but not about the glass or the DNA.”
Seton holds out a hand, and I drop the tissue in her palm. She tucks it into her own bag. “We’ll see what happens,” she says. “But I wouldn’t hold your breath.”