“Charles Kilgore,” I say. “Charlie. I called a few times. No one answered.”
“Do you pick up your phone when you don’t recognize the number?”
I open the car door an inch. The dogs press forward. “Will they bite?” I ask.
“They won’t, but I might.”
I ease out of the car as both dogs leap up to lap me in the face. They’re friendly, in an aggressive, nonconsensual way. “I wish I had treats,” I say.
“You’d never get rid of them,” Lisa says, snapping her fingers so the dogs come to her side. “This one’s Lenny. The other one’s Squiggy. You’re too young to get the reference.”
“Laverne and Shirley,” I say.
“Score one point for the handsome stranger who rides into town. What do you want, anyway?”
“You were married to Wendy Burrows.”
“In another lifetime,” Lisa says. “And we weren’t exactly married. Wendy and I were together long before any of that was legal. And she probably died before you were born.”
“I’m looking into one of her cases. A cold case.”
Lisa takes in my chartreuse cardigan and bowling shirt. “You can’t possibly be a cop.” Her eyes narrow. “Charlie Kilgore ... You’re that baby, Mark’s kid. I should have known. You look exactly like him. Same floppy black hair. Same blue eyes. Same skinny ass.” She glances toward my car. “Same yellow Volvo.”
Yes, my yellow ’83 Volvo sedan is the same car that was parked at Idlewood when my father killed Isaac Haviland. I found it stored in a shed a few years ago when I needed a free set of wheels, and it started on the first try. The car has a cassette tape deck, a functioning cigarette lighter, and an interior that reeks of tobacco and pot. Lately, the asphalt has started to show through the rusted-out holes in the floor. Now that I’m in New Hampshire and away from the busy streets of Somerville, I’ll find the time to slide under the frame to see what I can patch.
I plan to keep the Volvo until it dies on the side of the road, or at least until I finish recording this podcast. Photos of me behind the wheel will play well in social media posts.
“Could I ask you some questions?” I ask. “It’ll only take five minutes.”
“How about thirty seconds,” Lisa says, “and then you can get the hell out of here. I didn’t know your dad well, but he was supposed to be inPippinthat summer. I played Berthe. Your father could sing. Tenor. Beautiful voice.” She puts a hand to her hair, and I swear she blushes. “But once your father screwed everything up, I had to sing with Whit Entwhistle, who couldn’t hit a single note.”
Ruining the local musical was hardly my father’s worst crime. “But Wendy, your wife—”
“I told you already, we weren’t married. If we’d been married, I’d have her pension and could afford to get the roof on this house replaced.”
“Wendy was the lead investigator on the Haviland murder.”
“And we were supposed to go camping in Old Orchard Beach the day after Wendy got put on that investigation. I tried to rebook the site,but they were full, and Wendy wound up having to work around the clock anyway. The whole summer was ruined.”
“Did Wendy ever mention my father, or why he did what he did?”
“Nothing worth sharing,” Lisa says. “She was due to retire at the end of that year. Look what happened with that.”
From what I’ve read, Wendy Burrows was either a good cop with a good close rate or a cop who did her best to close cases quickly—I’m not sure which. What I do know is that she was found in her car at the bottom of the lake. “She died in the middle of a homicide investigation,” I say. “That’s suspicious, right?”
Lisa swings the pitchfork over her shoulder. “Wendy was a state detective. She was always in the middle of an investigation. That was her job. What is there to say, anyway? She ended most shifts by drinking a fifth of vodka over on Foss Hill. That night, she hit the gas instead of the brake and drove off the ledge into the lake. It was before they put in the guardrail. With the way she drank, I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner. Why are you asking about the Haviland case, anyway? It’s not like your father wasn’t guilty.”
“Could he have killed Wendy?” I ask.
“Your father?” Lisa asks. “Only if he came back as a ghost.”
The door to the house opens and a woman steps onto the porch. “Lunch is ready, Lisa,” she says.
“My minder,” Lisa says under her breath. “This one keeps me on a short leash, but they don’t last. I’ll have her out of here within the week.”
The woman approaches. She must be in her early forties, with dark hair tied in a ponytail and sensible shoes. “Can I help you?” she asks.
“We’re fine,Zoe,” Lisa says. “Charlie here’s an old friend.”
