by B. D. Smith
Doug nodded, located the birds, slowed, and angled the boat to port to avoid them. As he changed course he saw something just below the surface, maybe ten yards in front of them, and abruptly swerved further to port to avoid it. The vintage boat’s throttle lever was mounted in the center of the steering wheel, and as Doug turned the wheel counterclockwise with his left hand, he rapidly turned the throttle clockwise with his right, dropping the engine speed to idle. The boat slammed into a large log at an angle, with the bow’s steel shearwater strip absorbing most of the impact. Jack slid onto the floor from his perch on the engine cover and Anne blurted out an expletive as Doug shifted the boat into neutral, glanced over at the log, now bobbing some distance away, and remarked on their good luck.
“That was a close one. If we hadn’t slowed for the loons and changed course, I never would have seen it in time. We would have hit it head on at a good speed and likely sunk like a stone.”
Reaching over and pushing the floor mounted gear shift into forward, Doug slowly circled the boat and came up alongside the large log. Reaching under the dashboard he pulled out a towline and tied it around one end of the log, which looked to be about two feet in diameter and thirty feet long. Tying the line to the boat’s rear tow ring, Doug continued at a slow speed on into the marina, pulling up at the dock next to the gas pump.
An older man with a white beard walked over from the marina’s office and caught the aft mooring line from Anne, tying it off while glancing over at the log.
“Can’t say that I have much use for a log, Doug. There’s plenty around here, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“Very funny Tim. We hit this a few minutes ago – it was floating loose out toward the point.”
Walking around to the bow of the boat, Tim looked closely along the waterline.
“Looks OK – I’d say the bow shield saved your ass this time.”
Smiling in response, Doug pulled the log up next to the dock and looked at it more closely, noting the trimmed limbs and orange symbol spray painted on its end.
“That’s no dead tree that fell in the lake,” Tim remarked. “That’s off a logging truck. How the hell did that happen?”
“Must be deliberate,” Anne suggested, puzzled. “Why would anyone do that? It looks like somebody’s got it in for boaters.”
Tim frowned as he unscrewed the gas cap and started fueling the boat from the dockside pump, looking over at Doug.
“I didn’t think it was worth bothering any of you law enforcement types, but we have been having problems the last several weeks or so with pranksters. Last weekend someone untied a bunch of the boats here in the middle of the night. Fortunately, there wasn’t much wind so they all just floated around the marina without doing much damage. But people were pissed. Then a few nights ago two boat trailers disappeared from the parking area over by the roller rink. I mean who steals a boat trailer?”
Jack had regained his place on top of the engine box, and reaching over to scratch his offered belly, Anne recalled something she had heard the week before.
“They’ve been having problems down at Bear Point Marina too – a bunch of boats untied, and a few drain plugs pulled. Nothing funny about waking up early for a good morning of fishing only to find your boat on the bottom.”
Rather than continuing on as planned to the South Cove and Peaks-Kenny State Park, Doug headed north toward the narrows and then turned east and followed the north shore of the lake back toward home. Anne stood next to him in the fading daylight, scanning the waters ahead of them for any more floating hazards. As soon as they docked Doug lifted the floorboard just behind the front seat and checked the bilge to see if the boat had taken on any water. The mahogany bottom was original, and almost seventy years old, but still in good condition. It didn’t appear to have sprung any leaks. He would come back out before they turned in for the night and check again. In the morning he planned on pulling on his swim goggles for a closer underwater inspection of the bottom to look for damage.
12.
Jack, as usual, woke Doug up just before six the next morning with a gentle nose nudge to his foot, which was sticking out over the end of the bed. This maneuver usually did the trick, but if not, it would be followed after a few minutes by a shaking of his head and rattling of his dog tags. If that failed Jack would eventually invoke his default ploy – barking to alert his slugabeds that something serious was occurring close by – perhaps a fisherman cruising past in a bass boat, or some raucous loons yodeling in celebration of the sunrise.
After his morning bowl of food and a leisurely walk with Doug and Anne, Jack took up his usual position on the screen porch. He would spend the morning napping in the sun and watching the red squirrels in their invariably unsuccessful attempts to access the bird feeder, while Doug and Anne headed off to the meeting of the patio boat race committee. The meeting was to be held at the old roller rink at Merrill’s Marina next to Greeley’s Landing, which had stood empty and unused for a number of years but was now serving as the command center for the upcoming race.
By race week one half of the roller rink would be restricted access, housing monitors and several technicians handing the different video feeds from stationary cameras along the racecourse, as well as the cameras mounted on patio boats and drones. The other half of the space would be occupied by a registration and local information desk for race entrants, as well as a number of picnic tables and couches for people to congregate.
None of this was set up yet, however, when Anne and Doug arrived a few minutes early for the 10AM meeting. The large space was empty except for a 4x8 sheet of plywood set up on sawhorses in the center of the room, surrounded by a number of folding chairs. Bob Lutz, a member of the race committee who was responsible for maintaining the data base of information on race entrants, was alone at the table, busy with a laptop computer. Light streamed in from a series of windows high up on the long wall of the roller rink, illuminating small explosions of dust that rose from the floor with each step Doug and Anne took. Their footsteps echoed through the room, and Bob looked up and smiled as they approached the table. He stood and shook hands, inviting them to sit.
Lutz, who had worked at Dave’s World, the appliance store in Dover, for more than a decade, was an outgoing, up-beat individual and active in a range of community activities.
“Thanks for getting here a little early. It will give me a chance to bring you up to speed on how everything is organized, and the timeline for the weekend of activities. It’s a lot more complicated than you might think, with lots of moving parts and challenging logistics. Being law enforcement, I would guess you probably are most curious about how all the parts fit together, so let’s start there.”
Anne and Doug took seats across the plywood table from Lutz and waited for him to continue.
“OK, first off, The Bureau of the Warden Service, part of Maine’s Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife, is in charge of keeping everyone safe on the water. They only have 125 wardens statewide but are willing to assign up to a half dozen officers to us for the race weekend. The wardens will have overall responsibility for keeping the course clear of interlopers – boaters and others that might stray into harm’s way. Obviously, they can’t do it all on their own, and will be overseeing Kiwanis volunteers who will be stationed around the routes the race will follow – from Greeleys Landing east around Pine Island and back for the Friday preliminary time trials, and then on Saturday west from Greeleys through the narrows into the west basin and Bucks Cove, then back to Greeleys Landing.”
Lutz paused and glanced at Doug and Anne, who both nodded for him to continue.
“OK, turning to the situation on terra firma – Sebec Lake extends across four different town boundaries – Dover-Foxcroft, Bowerbank, Sebec, and Willimantic. Each town ha
s agreed to provide people to manage the boat ramps within their jurisdiction and to oversee the smooth launching and pull-out of patio boats for the race, as well as coordinating trailer placement and other related tasks. Willimantic is responsible for monitoring the new boat ramp up at the west end of the lake, Sebec the Cove Road ramp down at the dam, Bowerbank the Newell Cove Boat Ramp, and Dover-Foxcroft the launching ramps at Greeleys Landing. The Bowerbank Fire Department will also be deploying their fire boat in case there are any race related mishaps.”
Looking concerned, Doug broke in.
“You’re using all four boat ramps – how many entries will you have?”
“Yeah, that’s turning into a bit of a potential problem. So far, we have 120 or so confirmed, paid-up entries, and the way things are going we could hit 200, which is the cutoff. More than that would be too many, but it’s going to be hard to turn people away.”
“Two hundred?” Anne blurted out. “Are you insane? Can you imagine what this lake will be like with two hundred crazed patio boat racers flying around?”
“It will be amazing,” a voice behind them boomed out, followed by a loud laugh. Anne and Doug turned to look at a tall older man in a dark suit striding across the roller rink. Behind him, two beefy men in suits took up positions on either side of the door. Reaching the table, the man who had called out to them took a chair and reached across the table to shake hands. Ignoring Bob Lutz, he flashed a remarkably white set of teeth at Anne and Doug.
“Nigel Underwood here. You must be Investigator Anne Quinn and Detective Douglas Bateman. Sorry we have not been able to connect before now, but I have been quite busy lately, planning for the race and all.”
Looking at Underwood’s dazzling smile, Doug raised an eyebrow and turned to Anne.
“I thought you said he was British.”
Nigel laughed good naturedly and responded.
“Yeah – not sure where that got started. My mom thought the name Nigel sounded upper class, but I’ve never claimed to be British. And as soon as I open my mouth, my smile and my New Jersey accent remove any question of my origins.”
Careful to dust off the plywood tabletop before resting his bright white shirt cuffs on it and clasping his hands, Underwood continued with deliberate casualness.
“I have a very full calendar of meetings and events today, so I won’t be able to spare any time to talk with you about the unfortunate demise of Don Robertson, or the death of John Eastman – both fine gentlemen who will be sorely missed. But you can contact my lawyers to set something up – maybe next week?”
Underwood raised his hand and snapped his fingers. One of the men stationed by the door hurried over and handed Doug a business card – “Redman and Spencer, Attorneys at Law.”
Clearly enjoying the little performance Underwood was putting on, Doug responded in kind.
“That would be most excellent Mr. Underwood, we shall contact your legal representatives forthwith and schedule a time, at your convenience of course, for you to come down to the sheriff’s office here in Dover-Foxcroft and be interviewed. It should only take a few hours or so, and your lawyers are, of course, welcome to attend as well.”
Clearly getting the import of Doug’s reply – that rather than being interviewed on his own ground he would be compelled to come in and be questioned in a formal setting, Underwood frowned as he turned toward the sound of several new people entering the roller rink.
“Here they are,” Underwood said loudly, raising his hand in greeting as Lou Binford and an older man in jeans and a “Whoopie Pie Festival 2010” t-shirt took the remaining seats at the plywood conference table. Doug recognized the older man as Don Wilson, a prominent and long-standing officer with the local Kiwanis Club.
“What about ESPN. Aren’t they coming?” Anne asked.
Underwood laughed. “ESPN puts their name on the race when it airs, but it’s my baby, my idea, my up-front money. That’s what I do Anne - package junk sports events and pitch them to ESPN and other broadcasters. ESPN liked this idea, and we’re going to try it one time, see if it catches on. Don’t misunderstand. I’m not badmouthing patio boat racing when I call it junk sports. Lots of now very popular sports started out being viewed as marginal and laughable. The first triathalons were mocked, and how about snowboarding – it was banned from most ski resorts for years – now look at its popularity. And have you seen the junk events they are adding to the Olympics? Patio boat races may seem silly, but there are lots of people who own them and would enjoy watching them compete. We could well be on the cusp of a very popular new sport. Sebec could become the center of the Patio Boat racing universe.”
Doug looked at Underwood across the table with a quizzical expression and asked another question.
“Surely other places have patio boat races?”
“We looked into that Doug,” Nigel replied. “It turns out there are patio boat competitions, like the Shootout at Lake of the Ozarks, but those are just individual speed runs on a straight timed course. They don’t involve head to head competition between boats.”
Doug moved to the question he had been most interested in.
“How does the financial arrangement sort out between you and ESPN and other stakeholders?”
Underwood gave Doug and Anne another thousand-watt smile.
“That’s the genius of it. Without going into the boring details, I can tell you that my company, Underwood Events, has donated a good-sized chunk of money to the Kiwanis Club up front. For this contribution they will be providing all the logistics and volunteers and lining up all the necessary buy-ins from law enforcement and the four towns involved. The Kiwanis Club also gets all the entry fees from the race, and of course will be running hotdog stands and other concessions throughout the weekend. I’ve also arranged an umbrella insurance policy to cover any claims made against the race organizers. ESPN, in turn, will provide all the necessary media marketing for the races. In fact, later today we’ll be filming some promotional footage for ESPN. I’ll be taking my patio boat on a high-speed run through the narrow entrance into Bucks Cove, around a small island, and back out again. You’re welcome to come along for the ride if you want. It should be a blast.”
Bob Lutz cleared his throat and changed the subject.
“I have to be at work in less than an hour, so let’s work though what we need to get accomplished. I can start by summarizing where we stand on contestants. Registrations continue to come in at a steady pace, and we could hit our ceiling of two hundred entrants by race day. Participants are required to check in on Thursday, the day before the preliminary time trials around Pine Island. We’ll have information packets for each registrant ready to pick up starting on the day before race day. Included will be boat bibs showing their race number, bright red commemorative t-shirts indicating their race participant status, and instructions for staging areas and race day procedures. Race participants have been divided into four different groups and assigned to one of the four different boat ramps at Newell Cove, Greeley’s Landing, Willimantic, and the Cove Road ramp at Sebec Village by the dam.”
Lutz paused, looked down at his laptop, and continued.
“Each entry will pass through two inspections at the boat ramps prior to being launched – first to ensure that the boat and trailer are free of any unwanted invasive aquatic plants, and secondly to make sure the boats conform to regulations regarding limitations on structural modifications below the waterline. All the volunteers are lined up and all the forms and procedures are ready to go. We anticipate smooth sailing, so to speak, on race weekend.”
Lutz closed his laptop and turned to Don Wilson, who scratched his head and nodded before picking up the narrative.
“No problems so far on the Kiwanis end of things. We’l
l have concession stands at each of the boat ramps and at the Piscataquis Valley Fairgrounds, where we will provide facilities for RVs and campers. Peaks-Kenny is also keeping some of their campground reserved for race participants that weekend. I’m sure we’ll encounter some problems along the way, but that’s to be expected. That’s about it – we’re pretty much ready to go.”
Anne looked across the table at Wilson and questioned the rosy picture being painted.
“I wonder what the level of support for this race is among Sebec Lake property owners. There are not all that many summer weekends in Maine to enjoy. Are people going to be happy with getting their lake activities shut down for a whole weekend? What does the Sebec Lake Association have to say?”
Nigel sat forward, placed his palms down on the table, and interrupted.
“Everybody’s on board with these plans – let’s not start making waves here.”
“So, let’s be clear on this,” Anne replied, “The recent boat vandalism here at Merrill’s Marina and at Bear Point, as well as the burning of John Eastman’s boats and boathouse has no relationship to the upcoming race? And what about the recent floating of logs as boat hazards on the lake?”
Nigel looked puzzled and looked at Don Wilson and Bob Lutz for an explanation.
“Ya can’t please everyone,” Wilson responded. “Sure, we’ve had some complaints, but we just have to press forward – this will put Sebec on the map, and we sure as hell need the publicity and the economic boost.”