“Well, here’s another thing going on around town,” Seton says. “My mom has it in for Paul Burke. He tore down his old cabin at Burkehaven. Now he’s putting in a whole development.”
Seton’s mother, in addition to being on the hiring committee for the new chief of police, is the unofficial mayor of Hero, a position shemanages from the café she owns downtown. She’s also the chair of the Hero Conservation Commission and opposes most new development, which usually involves attending public hearings and then getting drunk and rage-posting on the town listserv, the Hero Board. Unfortunately for her, the Burkehaven project was approved unanimously.
“I know all about Burkehaven,” I say. “Reid’s designing the development.”
My family’s construction firm won the bid, and Seton’s mother’s opposition probably has more to do with our involvement than anything else. Seton’s mother, Andrea Haviland, is the widow of Isaac Haviland, the man my father killed, a topic Seton and I manage to avoid discussing however we can. It’s the only way we’ve stayed friends.
“This is a part of the story you probably don’t know,” Seton says. “Someone took out the security cameras at the construction site yesterday morning with a spare sledgehammer. I’ll give you one guess who the prime suspect is. My mom. I had to question her. She tried to blame it on teenagers who hang out there and drink.”
“She could be right,” I say. “We drank plenty of Bud Light at Burkehaven when we were that age.”
“Well, now she’s not speaking to me,” Seton says. “But I finally moved out of her house. I got an apartment in town. It’s over the café, so technically my mom’s my landlord. And right now, I’m banned from the café.”
With the sound of an approaching car, Seton stands straight, smile gone, her thumbs resting in her belt loops. The car slows as it passes, and the driver shouts Seton’s name.
“Gotta look like I’m earning my keep,” she says, dropping the act as soon as the car turns the next corner.
“Try arresting the Randalls’ rooster,” I say.
“Thanks, hack,” Seton says. “That’s a good line:Thanks, hack.I’ll say it when we work together onHaviland and Kilgore.It’ll be my signal to the audience that I know how annoying you are.”
“There is noKilgore and Haviland,” I say.
“It’sHaviland and Kilgore. Get it right. Alphabetical. I’m the main character. You’re the sidekick ...” Seton pauses, glancing past me. I follow her gaze to where the digital recorder sits on my dashboard, the red record light illuminated. “What are you doing?” she asks.
“Sorry, I forgot that was on.”
She reaches over my shoulder and hits pause. “You can’t record someone without consent. It’s a felony. And erase what I said about my mom.”
Another car turns the corner. Seton nods at the driver and touches the brim of her hat. When the car passes out of sight, she crouches. “Spill. What’s the recording for?”
“A podcast.”
“Aboutwhat?”
“You can’t tell anyone,” I say.
Seton swears under her breath. “That’s why you were asking about Lisa Lawson. She used to live with the lead detective on my dad’s murder case. Is this some true-crime crap about our fathers?”
So much for the détente on that topic.
“Why would you dig all that up?” Seton asks. “We all know what happened, Charlie.”
Damn.We all know what happened, Charlie—that would have been a good line to record.
“I’m trying to find out whatreallyhappened,” I say.
Another good line.
“We all know whatreallyhappened, too,” Seton says. “Your dad killed mine, and by some miracle, we’re friends, though right now I’m not sure for how much longer.”
“Will you sayWe all know what happened, Charlie, again for the recording?”
“No! I’m not saying anything for the recording. That story’s been following me for my entire life. Keep me out of it.”
“Okay, okay,” I say. “I get it. You don’t want to be interviewed. The podcast is mostly conceptual anyway, and it probably won’t go anywhere.”
“How about guaranteeing it doesn’t go anywhere by not doing it?”
