“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 inchesand 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 wellsuited 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.”
