Chapter Twenty-Nine
Paul stands by the sugarhouse in Burkehaven Farm’s front yard as I speed up his driveway and skid to a stop beneath an ancient maple tree.
He wears work boots and a red overshirt that swallows his thin frame.
His normally coiffed salt-and-pepper hair stands on end, and dirt smears his face as though he’s been working the fields.
“You look like there’s something on your mind,” he says as I approach.
I have questions about the call between him and my mother the night before the fire, though I’m not sure where to begin. I worked out a whole scenario at the landing field after I talked to Seton, but what seemed clear then now seems muddled. “It’s nothing,” I say.
Paul lifts the door to the sugarhouse, where a large evaporator sits at the back of an open space and tools line the walls.
“It was a good year for sugaring,” he says.
“We got over ten gallons of maple syrup. Remind me to give you some before you go back to Somerville.” He takes a shovel and hatchet from the wall and hands me a long iron crowbar and a pair of work gloves.
“I could use help in the south pasture. Whatever’s going on, a little hard work will help you think it through. ”
Paul has a way of calming the loudest of internal voices, and I can feel my resolve seeping away.
Keep pushing for answers, I tell myself, as he steers me across a field where tufts of new green grass have begun to poke through the winter gray.
We follow a fieldstone wall, up and over a hill, where we pass the bloody remains of an unfortunate creature.
“Coyotes,” Paul says. “They’re all over the place. You can hear them howling at night.”
A moment later, we come to a spot along the wall where lichen-covered stones lay scattered across the ground, along with the remnants of a fallen tree.
“One of the beech trees gave up the ghost during a storm last winter,” Paul says.
“I lost count of the rings on the stump when I got to 150. Some of the guys from Reid’s crew cleared most of the debris a few weeks ago, but we can cut these last limbs for firewood, and the wall needs repair. See if you can move that stone.”
I wedge the crowbar beneath a round stone, inching forward until Paul rolls the stone toward the gap in the wall. “You and Freya hung out yesterday?” he says.
I ease the stone into place. “She taught me how to shoot.”
“Freya’s used to being in control. She’ll hold a grudge, too. You don’t want to find yourself at the end of a lawsuit, especially when the other party has money to burn.”
“There’s no lawsuit,” I say.
“You recorded her without consent.”
“And I deleted the recording.”
“That recording,” Paul says.
I work another stone into place. I’ve made the mistake of assuming my conversation with Freya was confidential.
Now I wonder how much of what I said she reported to Paul.
“She gave consent,” I say. “I have it on record, and I’ll get it in writing, too.
Are you talking to me as a family friend or as Freya Faith’s lawyer? ”
“Maybe a little bit of both,” Paul says. “But mostly, I don’t want to see you hurt. You’re a kid, Charlie.”
I start to protest, but Paul holds up a hand to stop me.
“I know. You’re not a kid,” he says. “I have to remind myself of that. But Freya’s definitely not a kid, and now that .
. . now that your mother’s gone, I have to look out for you.
Freya doesn’t know what she wants, but I can guarantee you she won’t be moving to Somerville or sticking around New Hampshire much longer.
This town isn’t her style, even if she’s convinced herself it is for the time being.
Freya prefers the city, and she craves the spotlight.
She won’t settle for singing in a run-down bar for the rest of her life. ”
“Freya’s not a kid,” I say. “You said it yourself. She’s a grown woman who makes her own choices.”
“And those choices put one person on center stage. Not Duncan Gilcrest. And definitely not you.”
“I can handle myself,” I say.
Paul crouches beside a wide, flat rock. “Get on the other side of this,” he says.
We lift the rock together and use it to form the top edge of the wall.
“Freya’s using you because Gilcrest won’t let her control his every move,” Paul says. “That’s what she does. That’s what she’s always done. And Gilcrest is probably keenly aware that the moment he gives in to her, she’ll get bored with him. But he’s getting desperate, too.”
Paul’s worked with Freya for decades. He probably knows her better than nearly anyone else, but the person he describes now doesn’t mesh with the woman I spent the day with yesterday.
Still, she admitted she’d used me to make Gilcrest jealous.
She also posed for the cameras outside the police station and slowed her truck to be sure that reporter gave chase.
Maybe she’s using me in other ways, too.
And maybe she’s a better actor than I realized.
Half an hour later, we set the final stone in place along the top of the wall.
“These projects never end,” Paul says, admiring the work. “I prefer New York, where I call the super when something needs attention.”
I sit on the wall to test its stability. “Solid,” I say. “Satisfying, too.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” Paul says.
“I noticed a crack in the firepit at Idlewood. Guess who needs to fix it now. You.” He leans on the crowbar.
“That cut on your head healed. Send me the hospital bill, and I’ll take care of it while we settle the estate.
Any thoughts on who whacked you? Or why? ”
“I had a suspect,” I say, “but he didn’t pan out.”
Paul takes in the information without comment, waiting for me to fill the silence.
“Vance Moodey and my mother were dating,” I continue.
Paul raises his eyebrows. “Your mother was good with a secret,” he says.
“Secrets like why Reid owes Vance money.”
Paul swings the crowbar over his shoulder and begins to retrace the path to the farmhouse.
“Once your mother’s will is out of probate, you, Reid, and I should sit down and go over the estate so you can get a sense of what you’re dealing with.
If you have questions about creditors, we can cover them then.
Reid Construction is a complicated business.
The condos by the marina, the ones where Freya’s staying, haven’t sold.
Reid’s the owner, so it’s been a strain on the firm.
Now that spring’s fully underway, they should move. ”
I don’t know a lot about real estate, but I do know brand-new lakeside construction sells quickly. Or it should. “That project finished over a year ago,” I say.
“They need to repour the foundation. It’s not a big deal.”
“That sounds like a huge deal.”
We reach the crest of the hill. Below us, Burkehaven Farm sits nestled among the trees. In the distance, an SUV glides into the driveway. Duncan Gilcrest gets out and peers up the hill toward where we stand, then begins hiking our way.
“I wondered when he’d show up,” Paul says.
“Did my mother know Reid had money tied up in those condos? Or about other creditors like Vance?”
“Jane was the president of the company.”
And my mother would hardly be the first company president who lost track of the accounting at her organization, but like any good lawyer, Paul’s made a career of evading answers.
“My mother called you the night before the fire,” I say.
“Your mother and I talked a lot,” Paul says.
Down below, Gilcrest has begun to cross the pasture toward us, his black anorak blowing in the breeze.
I need to ask Paul my questions before the detective reaches us.
“You were my mother’s lawyer,” I say. “The night we played cards, Jane said what was happening at Burkehaven would never happen to Idlewood, even when Reid mentioned property taxes. Mrs. Haviland is the chair of the conservation commission. And when I was out in the helicopter with Seton just now, she told me Mrs. Haviland had been after Jane to put Idlewood in conservation.”
Paul turns to face me, and I can see him calculating how much to reveal. “Andrea can be persuasive,” he says. “I’ll give her that.”
“You’re not answering the question,” I say.
“I didn’t hear a question.”
“Did my mother talk to you about changing her will?”
Paul glances to where Gilcrest has begun the final ascent toward us.
He lowers his voice. “Your mother wanted Idlewood protected against anything that might happen in the future, but stop asking about this, Charlie. If we’re lucky, Gilcrest and his team will make an arrest soon.
Andrea Haviland should have been in jail weeks ago.
There’s a good case against her, and she had plenty of opportunity to kill your mother and start the fire.
I should have made a bigger deal of what happened with those security cameras, but I let false loyalty sway me.
If I had, maybe your mother would be alive. ”
“Mrs. Haviland rode into Burkehaven after the fire began. It’s on tape.”
“And she knew that camera was in place because she made sure it was there when she destroyed the other ones. Then she killed your mother, moved her car into the woods, set the fire, got in her boat, and drove into the cove at the one angle she knew the camera would capture. It’s pretty simple.”
It’s not simple, and it’s hardly the simplest explanation. “What happened between you and Andrea Haviland, anyway?” I ask. “Why do you hate her so much? You loaned her money, but there has to be more to the story.”
“Charlie Kilgore,” Gilcrest calls out, his breath ragged from the hike, “you’re always one step ahead of me.”
“I fronted her a few thousand dollars, nothing more,” Paul says, his voice low, his tone a warning.
He wants me to leave this alone.