“Okay, think through some other ideas. Try it.What if—”
“What if,” I begin, my voice trailing off. At first my mind’s blank, but then a fully realized idea snaps into place. “What if my mother wasplanning to meet my father at Burkehaven, and somehow she wanted your mother to be there, too. What if your mother was the one who helped my father escape. She told me she drove to Sunapee the night your father was killed because you couldn’t sleep, but your mother could have been anywhere. There was no GPS tracking then. She could have had my father hidden in the trunk of the car, and no one would have bothered to look because she was the victim’s widow—”
“Stop!” Seton says. “Remember what I said about going with the obvious? That sounds like a plot forHaviland and Kilgore, not real life.”
“It’s convoluted,” I say.
“More like ludicrous,” Seton says. “But here’s another one for you: What if Jane wanted to tell my mom to stop getting in the way of the Burkehaven project? My mom’s annoying. That’s what I’d have done in Jane’s place.”
It’s a simpler explanation. And it actually makes sense.
Seton glances at her phone. “I have to get to work,” she says. “But keep going. What if ...? And keep it real. Think of the things my mom does, and how they overlap with Burkehaven. She’s a selectperson, she owns the Landing, she’s on the conservation commission. My mom has a foot in almost anything that happens in this town. Where did those things overlap with your mother? If you come up with something useful, let me know.”
After she drives off, I sit in my car. Why did my mother go to Burkehaven that morning, and why did she ask Mrs. Haviland to meet her there? And who else was lurking in the trees, waiting?
I don’t have the answers, but I know in my heart that the solution must be more complex than a catering order.
What if . . . what if . . . what if . . .
Then I remember something Seton said as we hovered in the helicopter. What if Mrs. Haviland and her crusade to save the lake had more to do with the fire at Burkehaven than anyone has realized?
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.”
“Thatrecording,” 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 ifshe’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.”
