Oliver’s heavily modified lawnmower crouched on the grass nearby. It appeared to have sprouted a collection of new bits and pieces.
“Are you going to turn that thing loose again?” Pearly said suspiciously as Oliver came out to greet him.
“Lawnzilla? I’m about to.”
“Should have brought my shotgun.”
“I’ve told you it’s harmless,” Oliver said. “There are safety interlocks all over the thing.”
“Bullshit,” Pearly retorted.
“Anyway, I fixed that software glitch from last time,” Oliver assured him.
“That was a glitch? I call it downright homicidal.”
“If you hadn’t tried to run away, it wouldn’t have gotten confused.”
“Confused? Not even your dog trusts the thing.”
“Did you just come here to bust my chops?”
“I need the trash bag,” Pearly said. “They found Cathy’s body.”
“Where?”
“In Myra’s well. It had been there a long time.”
“Myra’s well?”
“She had a dug well at the edge of her lawn,” Pearly said. “The Grabow kids were playing over there and pulled the cover off it—said they were trying to get a snake out of the stonework—and they saw something floating inside. Talk about poisoning the water.”
“Symbolic,” Oliver mused.
“Symbolic, hell. It was probably just a convenient way to get rid of the body, if you figure she was killed in January when the ground was frozen too hard to dig. They won’t know for sure until the autopsy, but Charlie says it looks like she was shot in the head. Small caliber, most likely a .22. They had to use dental records to identify the body, and the cops are going after Eldon again.”
“You’re giving them the headstone, right?”
“I’m going to take it back to the shop and let them find it themselves,” Pearly said. “I figure we’ll leave Cathy’s boat here for a while. Keep Eldon from mooning over it.”
* * *
The Rockland marina was a far cry from Pearly’s quiet pace. Dozens of boats sat on the pavement, propped up on tripod-like metal stands. Oliver led Sarah through the maze, dodging around boats, stands, electrical cords, ladders, and hurrying people.
Suddenly, they were face-to-face with Caldwell. An oversized sponge in his hand and a bucket at his side, he was scrubbing a stain on the hull of a power cruiser whose deck stood well over Sarah’s head.
Caldwell looked at her. “You’re Sarah Cassidy, from Sunday,” he said.
“I’m showing her around,” Oliver said. “Did you hear they found Cathy’s body?”
“The State Police called,” Caldwell replied. “I hope they lock Tupper up and throw away the key.”
“Why do you think Eldon killed her?” Sarah asked.
“He killed Myra too, as far as I’m concerned. He’s the one who persuaded Cathy to help keep the poor old woman at home, when she was in no shape to be alone. And her tending a wood stove, for god’s sake. Her mind was going, and she could hardly get up and down those stairs. No wonder the place burned down. Myra would still be alive if they had put her into a nursing home where she belonged. Eldon was a bad influence on Cathy from the start.”
“I understand that Myra was against the Oak Hill development,” Sarah said.
“She was against everything.”
“Did Cathy ever say anything to you about the development? I know you’re BCD Properties.”
Caldwell dropped his sponge into the bucket, splashing Oliver’s left sneaker. He stared at Sarah. “Who are you anyway?”
“Just a friend of Myra’s,” she replied.
“My being BCD Properties isn’t a state secret,” he said. “I knew Cathy didn’t approve, but she never made a big thing out of it. A lot of people don’t like developments.”
“Did Cathy mention Gerhard Burndt’s headstone?”
“What headstone? Everybody knows he’s in an unmarked grave somewhere in the cemetery.”
“His grave has been disturbed,” Oliver murmured.
“Disturbed? What do you mean?”
“He might have been buried behind his house,” Oliver said, “where Oak Hill’s access road is.”
“Not possible. The graves are inside the cemetery wall and the construction is outside.”
“Unless the wall was built after he was buried,” Sarah said.
“Ground penetrating radar,” Oliver said thoughtfully.
“What?” Caldwell said.
“Ground penetrating radar,” Oliver repeated. “Utility companies use it to locate buried pipes, and archeologists use it to find old ruins and grave sites.”
“Is this some kind of a joke?”
“It wouldn’t take long to scan the area for graves.”
Caldwell glared at them. “This is ridiculous. There are no graves on our right of way, and I’m not spending a fortune on some wild goose chase. Furthermore, if we had found an old grave we’d have gone to the town and dealt with it legally. Unmarked graves turn up all the time, and it’s no big deal.”
Unless you’re dealing with Myra Huggard and are running out of money, Sarah thought.
* * *
Harry Caldwell returned home that evening and called Brian.
“That Sarah Cassidy woman was asking about Gerhard Burndt’s grave, practically accused me of paving over his coffin. She knows there isn’t room to move the access road.”
“Did you pave over his grave?” Brian asked.
A brass lamp lit the mahogany surface of Caldwell’s desk with a reddish glow, and left the rest of his den in shadow.
“How do I know? Where did she get the idea, anyway?”
“She went to Migawoc years ago and visited Myra back then. Maybe they kept in touch, or Cathy talked to her.”
“The way we’re burning up money, I can’t afford to have her stir up the town, the planning board, the historical society, and god knows who else. It could take years for Christ’s sake.”
“Nobody knows where Gerhard Burndt was buried. It’s all just guesses,” Brian reassured him.
“She’s got Oliver Wendell involved too. He’s talking about using ground penetrating radar, whatever that is, to go over our right of way,” Caldwell said.
“Oliver is involved in this?” Brian paused. “They must know something. I’ll see what I can get out of her.”
Harry Caldwell sat at his desk and thought for a long time after hanging up the phone.
Chapter 20
The Beetle Cat sailboat is about twelve feet long, six feet wide, and shaped like a melon seed, with its mast well up in the bow. The shallow cockpit lacks seats, leaving its occupants to sit on the often wet floor.
Oliver and Arlene had picked a hot July morning for a sail to West Island. It was a perfect day for a pair of newlyweds to enjoy the brilliant sun and warm waters of Buzzard’s Bay, and Arlene sat very close. Her hair, smelling of shampoo, brushed Oliver’s ear as the light breeze stirred the golden strands. Her bare legs glistened with lotion and she wore one of Oliver’s shirts over her bikini. They had a picnic lunch stowed under the foredeck for when they reached the island.
If they made it to the island. The closer they got, the more perverse the wind became. They could only get within a few hundred feet of the sandy beach before the wind veered and drove them back. Again and again, they tried, only to be defeated.
The skies were suddenly filled with black, writhing clouds, and the wind became a howling fury that drove them helplessly out to sea where towering waves crashed down on the boat, washing them into the sea. He made a grab for Arlene’s arm, but it was just out of reach in the churning water. Her face, just below the surface, was open-mouthed in a silent, pleading scream—
Oliver awoke, covered with sweat. It was years since the dream had last haunted him.
It was partly based on fact. They had borrowed the senior Wendell’s Beetle Cat and sailed to West Island a few weeks after their wedding. The w
ind hadn’t thwarted them, though. In fact, they sailed right up to the beach, anchoring in the shallows.
They were alone, except for a couple with a toddler, splashing in the water a hundred yards further up the shore.
They swam, spread a towel on the hot sand, ate lunch, then lay in each others arms under the sun’s warmth.
After a while Arlene murmured, “The hook’s in front.”
“What a brilliant idea.”
“They made it that way with you menfolk in mind.” She ran her hand down his lower back.
“Very thoughtful.” He kissed her again.
“I don’t want to be a spoil-sport,” she said a little later, “but there are people over there.”
“Shiver me timbers,” Oliver replied, in his Captain Hook voice, “mayhap we should retreat to our pirate ship.”
“Will all that timber shivering involve a lot of boat rocking?”
They had often joked that John Junior was born nine months later.
Wes growled, and Oliver realized that it wasn’t the first time. A faint noise came from outside.
Oliver dressed hurriedly in the dark—an easy chore since he was in the habit of leaving his clothing in a heap beside the bed. He fumbled for the flashlight on the night stand. There was another, louder noise outside.
An old 12-gauge Remington pump action shotgun stood behind the closet door. It was only loaded with birdshot, but that would have to do.
He worked his way downstairs in the darkness, hushing Wes as he went, and looked out the kitchen window.
Owl, with Cathy’s boat beyond it, sat in front of the barn, indistinct blobs in the faint moonlight. A pickup truck was slowly backing up the driveway towards the barn. As he watched, the truck stopped, pulled forward a few yards, and then started to back up again. Somebody was trying to hitch onto the trailer of Cathy’s boat and appeared to be having trouble lining up the truck in the dark.
Oliver started to ease out the kitchen door while keeping the struggling dog inside, but Wes was too quick. With a series of ferocious barks, he hurtled into the night.
The truck lurched to a stop, the sharp crack of a .22 rang out, and Wes yelped.
Without thinking, Oliver vaulted down the porch steps and fired. He was jacking another round into the chamber when the pickup roared off into the night.
* * *
Patches of ground fog still clung to the low spots as Pearly and Oliver headed towards Route 1. A white BMW, doing close to ninety, leaped at them over the crest of a hill, and Pearly jerked the pickup’s wheel, his tires churning dirt from the shoulder. The BMW, still straddling the crown of the road, swept by with inches to spare.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Pearly said as he pulled back onto the pavement.
“Summer is coming,” Oliver observed.
“It doesn’t have to come so damn fast.”
“Can’t live with them, can’t eat without them.”
“You’re quite a philosopher, for someone who was up half the night shooting at people,” Pearly said. “You want to saw the cedar for shares, like last time?”
“Sure, so long as I can borrow Eldon to help me run the sawmill.”
“I don’t need any oak, so that’s on you.”
“Yeah. It’s only a couple of trees,” Oliver said.
“I wouldn’t drag you up there except you wanted logs with some sweep, so I figured you’d better make sure they’re crooked enough for you. You met Fournier and his crew?”
“No.”
They landed on Route 1 and hit the Thursday morning tourist traffic, early birds hurrying north to get ahead of the weekend rush.
“They’re kind of rough hewn.”
“Like you?” Oliver said, meaning it as a joke.
Pearly didn’t take it that way. “I went to college, Ollie. Four years at UMO. To Jack Fournier, if someone went to college it means they did a stretch at the Super Max in Warren. Don’t get me wrong. He’s honest as the day is long.”
They turned onto the quiet of Route 46, heading inland.
“What did the police say?” Pearly asked, breaking the silence.
“Mostly they bawled me out for shooting at the truck.”
“Not much sympathy.”
Oliver’s face was red. “The goddam bastard shot my dog.”
“Winged him, anyhow. Could have shot you too,” Pearly pointed out. “Just be glad the vet is letting you pick up Wes, alive, and not in a box.”
Oliver nodded, still fuming. The bullet had grazed the top of Wes’ neck. The vet told him an inch lower would have been fatal.
“I hope you didn’t finger Doc Caldwell for it,” Pearly said.
“I was tempted. We talked to him yesterday evening, Sarah asked about the headstone, and this happens.”
“She asked him about the headstone?”
“Just in general. Nothing specific.”
“She ever report being run off the road?”
“She had to, for the insurance, if nothing else.” Oliver glanced at Pearly. “She didn’t tell them it was Eldon’s truck.”
“She probably couldn’t be sure.”
“Yes she could. She just didn’t know who was driving.”
“It’s a mess,” Pearly said. “Leave it be.”
“Are you kidding? Somebody waltzes in and shoots my dog, and you tell me to leave it be? I’m going to get the sonofabitch.”
Pearly sighed. “What about Cathy’s boat? You want me to take it away and hide it if someone was trying to steal it?”
“No, I’m going to use it for bait.”
“What do you mean, bait?” Pearly said. “I’ve got money tied up in that boat. Cathy never made the final payment on it.”
“Don’t worry. I hid a Tracfone in it, so it’ll call for help if the boat is moved.”
“I thought you hated cell phones.”
“They have their uses,” Oliver said. “Maybe I’ll rig it to set off a smoke flare in the boat if you call it.”
“No way that’s legal,” Pearly replied.
“I set it to call your cell, by the way.”
“The hell you did,” Pearly grumbled.
* * *
An hour from the coast, they entered what is often called “The Other Maine,” a place that gets somewhat less attention on post cards and travel brochures. Traffic was sparse here—mostly battered pickups with Maine plates. The scattered houses were tired and worn, surrounded by the remains of things too broken to use, too valuable to throw away, too expensive to replace.
“Sarah told me that Myra had a sister.” Oliver said as they swept by one of the hardscrabble farms.
“Cara was the ambitious one, moved to Boston right out of High School, never set foot in town again. She ended up running a bank in Chicago. The farthest Myra ever got from Burnt Cove is when Cathy drove her down to Portland for those medical tests last year.”
Oliver wondered about Cara’s ambition, and Myra’s rootedness. What made some people cling stubbornly, in the face of all reason, to the place and ways of their youth, while others couldn’t wait to rid themselves of the past? Was it fear of change, lack of ambition, or an inherent timidity, that motivated people like Myra? Was he naive in thinking that her choices were based on valuing community and tradition above ambition and wealth? Wherever it came from, Myra’s rootedness was a Mainer’s great strength. Until those roots were torn up.
Oliver emerged from his musings to ask, “What happened with the headstone?”
“I told the cops I found it in the back of the shop. I put it in a new trash bag first, since our prints were all over the old one.”
“You swapped trash bags? Jesus,” Oliver said, “have you ever heard the term ‘tampering with evidence?’”
“You ever heard the term ‘jail cell,’ Dick Tracy?”
“We could tell the cops the truth for a change, just to try something different. How are they going to find out where the stone came from without dusting the bag for prints?”
“No problem. I told them Cathy put it there last winter.”
“But you don’t know it was Cathy.”
“Sure I do. Besides, you want them to find your prints on it? Or Sarah’s? Don’t worry, I wore gloves.”
“Gloves? What the hell are they going to think when there aren’t any prints on the bag at all?” Oliver said.
“They’ll think the perp wore gloves. For chrissake Ollie, make up your mind. First you’re Osama bin Laden, booby trapping boats and threatening the most respected doctor in town, and now you’re Dudley Do-Right, fussing, over a goddam trash bag.”
Oliver took a deep breath, and went on more calmly. “You can’t protect Eldon forever, Pearly. If he did something wrong, it’ll come out sooner or later.”
* * *
They pulled off the pavement a little way beyond a scraggly farmhouse whose attached barn was missing an end wall and half of its roof. A muddy tote road cut into the woods, and a pile of tree-length logs were yarded up beside the road.
“Wet time of year to be cutting trees,” Pearly said as they tramped through the woods, skirting water-filled skidder ruts. They followed the track until they came on three men seated in a clearing, eating lunch. An ancient Chevy Nova was parked beside them. The car was mostly tan, except for the driver’s side fender and door, which were blue. A length of wire held the tailpipe off the ground. Oliver saw a skidder in the woods nearby, it’s chain-encased tires thick with mud. Three trees were hitched to the skidder’s cable.
“How did they get that car in here, a helicopter?” Pearly muttered.
“Well, we thought you’d got lost.” The speaker looked to be in his late fifties, unshaven, wearing a sweat-stained tee shirt and worn jeans with the knees blown out.
“Jack Fournier, this is Oliver Wendell, the guy I told you about,” Pearly said.
Fournier sketched a salute and they traded introductions. “BB” Pearson, referred to as the best skidder driver around, was small and wiry with a greasy sweatshirt. Ralph, bald and looking to be in his seventies, was sharpening a chain saw.
Gravely Dead: A Midcoast Maine Mystery Page 14