by Barbara Ross
Lieutenant Binder of the State Police Major Crimes Unit.
“He wants to meet with us as soon as he arrives. You, too, Ms. Snowden. The lieutenant wants to see you right after he’s finished with us.”
The first state police officers to arrive at the scene commandeered the pizza joint that backed onto the pier as a makeshift headquarters. I paced under the watchful eyes of a trooper until Lieutenant Binder and Sergeant Flynn arrived from Augusta. While we waited, the Claminator was cordoned off with crime scene tape. The police cars at the end of the pier moved out of the way and the ambulance sped off with Richelle, running its siren full-out as it reached Main Street.
At the entrance to the pier, Bunnie argued with a uniformed officer. I imagined her telling him she was much too important to be stuck there. The cop held up his palm, signaling for her to be patient. I saw my boyfriend Chris on the other side of the barricade. He seemed to insist he had to get onto the pier. It warmed me to see he wanted to be with me. I waved to get his attention, but he didn’t see me.
Finally the Major Crimes Unit arrived. I paced some more while they met with the local cops. Then I was called inside.
Lieutenant Jerry Binder and Sergeant Tom Flynn stood in the noisy room, a little apart from the uniformed officers and crime scene techs who bustled in and out. “Ms. Snowden. We meet again,” Binder said.
Indeed. When we’d had a murder on our island in the spring, Binder and Flynn had been the principle investigators. For the most part, I liked Binder. He had an even-handed, methodical way about him, which I’d come to appreciate, though it had been more than a little aggravating when my family’s property and livelihood had hung in the balance. He had warm brown eyes over a ski-slope nose. What was left of the hair ringing his head was medium brown.
Flynn was more difficult to know. His hard body, bearing, and short hair suggested a military background, but our conversations had been all business, so that was pure speculation on my part. It was obvious from their relationship that Binder had total confidence in Flynn, and that gave me confidence, too, despite Flynn’s closed-off manner.
Binder indicated one of the restaurant’s tables and we sat down. “How are you?”
“I was better an hour and a half ago.”
“I know. It’s tough. My understanding is the remains were found in a wood fire you were using for your clambake.”
“That’s correct. At least I assume it’s correct. All I saw was a foot, an ankle, and a bit of calf. Was it a whole body?”
“There was more than what you saw, but we won’t know how complete the remains are until the medical examiner finishes,” Binder answered.
“Do you know who it is?”
“No,” Binder responded. “Do you?”
“I think it’s Stevie Noyes.” My answer popped out before I could stop it. While I’d waited, I’d wondered who the person attached to that foot might be. It was so odd that Stevie wasn’t at the opening ceremonies. He’d been looking forward to Founder’s Weekend for months. Somehow, my worries about Stevie’s absence had combined with the foot’s presence to convince me the foot belonged to him.
Flynn fixed me with a level gaze. “Why Noyes?”
“No reason. Except he wasn’t at the opening ceremonies. And he should have been. He was on the committee and loved the idea of our first Founder’s Weekend.”
“Where does Mr. Noyes live?”
“Just up the peninsula. He owns Camp Glooscap, the RV park, and lives on the property.”
Flynn wrote in his notebook.
“Did you build the clambake fire this morning?” Binder asked.
I shook my head. “My brother-in-law Sonny did. Or I assume he did. With his assistant Cabe Stone. I didn’t get to the pier until much later. I’m on the Founder’s Weekend committee and had other things to take care of.”
“When the body was discovered, where were you?” Binder asked.
“About thirty feet away, standing on the curb next to Richelle Rose.”
“The woman who was injured? Did you see her go down?”
“No, by then I was running toward the clambake.”
“Who else had access to the fire?” Binder asked.
“There were maybe six hundred people on the pier.”
“No, I mean earlier. During setup.”
“‘I’m sorry. Like I said, I wasn’t there.” I was beginning to feel less than useless.
“What about”—Flynn glanced at his notes though I had a feeling he didn’t actually need to—“this Cabe Stone, the person who was assisting your brother-in-law?”
“He’s the new guy, so he had to work with Sonny today. Most of our employees have the day off.” The town clambake, unlike the sit-down meal we served on the island, was strictly buffet, which meant a rare holiday in the middle of the high season for our employees.
“What did Stone do when the body was discovered?” Again, I felt like Flynn was asking a question he already knew the answer to.
“He left.”
“Left the fire?”
“Left the pier.”
“Walking? Running?”
“Jogging.” In my mind’s eye, I saw Cabe loping away, just before the local cops appeared.
“What do you know about Mr. Stone?” Binder asked.
“He’s a hard worker. A good person.” I wanted to make sure Binder and Flynn understood that.
“Yes. But what do you know about him? For example, where does he live?”
I shook my head.
“Where did he work before?”
I shook it again.
“Is he a native of Busman’s Harbor? Does he have people in the area? Do you have any idea where he might likely go?”
“No, not that I know of, and no.”
“This guy works for you full-time?” Binder’s eyebrows rose, indicating either he didn’t believe me or I was an absolutely terrible employer.
“Yes, but my brother-in-law supervised him at the fire pit. You’ll have to ask Sonny.”
“Great.” Flynn didn’t look like he thought this was so great. Sonny had been less than forthcoming with the cops the last time they’d been in town.
“Do you have anything in your employee records with his address or phone number on it?” Binder asked.
“Maybe his employment application. I’ll look.” A flush crept up my neck. I was certain Binder and Flynn noticed. I couldn’t remember exactly what information I’d collected from Cabe, but I had a terrible feeling it wasn’t much. At the time, I was desperate for a warm body. Ugh. I’ll never use that phrase again.
“Is there anything else you can tell us that might help?” Binder asked.
“Just one thing. It’s tiny, really.” I wasn’t even sure if I should mention it, but I was struggling to find some way to be helpful. Both officers looked interested. More interested than my information warranted. “There was a man on the balcony of the Lighthouse Inn. He was taking photos of the activity on the pier using a big lens. I wonder if he might have captured something.”
“Was he out there early this morning?” Flynn moved forward in his seat like it was new information.
“Like I said, I didn’t get to the pier until later. Do you think that’s when the . . . body . . . was put in the firewood?”
“We don’t know yet. Where was this photographer exactly?”
I squinted to bring back the scene. “Lighthouse Inn, third floor, second balcony from the left.”
“Thanks. You’ll still have to make a formal witness statement. The officer over there will take it.” Binder pointed in the direction of the officer.
“I understand.”
“Oh, and Julia, I’d like you to keep your ears open and keep us in the loop. You live in town. You’ll pick up things we won’t.”
So I was Julia now, was I? This was apparently as close as Binder was willing to go in acknowledging my help on his last case. The one he wouldn’t have solved without me.
“Absolutely,”
I said. And meant it.
Chapter 3
Binder directed me to a business-like state police detective who methodically took notes while she walked me back over the ground I’d just covered. When we were done, she sent me out the pizza parlor’s front door onto Main Street.
Outside, I blinked in the mid-afternoon sunshine. Gangs of tourists laughed and called to one another as they ducked in and out of shops. It seemed so incongruous given the grim scene on the pier behind the buildings.
I wanted to ask Sonny all the questions Binder and Flynn had asked me. When had he and Cabe set up the Claminator, and who’d been around? And find out if he, who worked side by side with Cabe, knew any more about him than I did. But Sonny and Livvie were still on the cordoned-off pier, waiting their turns with the state police. There was no way to get back to them and it wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have over our cell phones.
Meanwhile, Founder’s Weekend went on around me. My next scheduled committee job was to check on the art show already in progress on the town common. I headed up the hill.
The common was mobbed. A steady breeze billowed the tops of the white tents where the artists displayed their wares. Around me I heard comments—“I love it,” “I hate it,” “It matches the couch,”—and bargaining, “I’ll give you forty dollars for it.” The happy sounds of commerce.
“At least something’s going right.” Bunnie stood on the path, trapping me between two tents.
“Bunnie. They let you off the pier.”
“Yes, the police finally took my information and told me I could go. I’m surprised they were done with you so quickly. After all, it was your contraption that cooked that poor soul. And the killer was your employee.”
“The killer? I’m not aware anyone has been arrested.”
“The young man. What’s his name? He hasn’t been arrested, yet, but it’s just a matter of time, I hear.”
“His name is Cabe Stone. Who told you he was going to be arrested?”
Bunnie waved a hand, taking in the entire common. “Everyone. I heard he was a juvenile delinquent with a record as long as your arm. And he ran away from the pier as soon as the body was discovered. I saw it with my own eyes.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Is it? “Why would Cabe kill Stevie Noyes?”
The color drained from behind Bunnie’s makeup. “Stevie? Who said the victim was Stevie?”
“No one,” I admitted. I couldn’t believe I’d blurted out Stevie’s name again, this time to Bunnie, of all people. “I just find it terribly odd he’s not here today.”
A bit of pink returned to her cheeks. “Oh, is that all? I don’t think it’s odd he’s not here. People let you down, Julia. They let you down terribly. When you’re older, you’ll know.” She paused. “You shouldn’t spread gossip. It can be very hurtful. The last thing we want is Stevie’s friends hearing unfounded rumors of his death.”
I had to admit she had a point. Her emphatic tone gave me hope Stevie was safe and sound at the RV park.
Bunnie hurried off to boss someone else around. I stood for a moment in the crowd, listening more carefully. Sure enough, below the happy chatter about the watercolors of lobster buoys and the oil paintings of crashing waves, there was a low throb of commentary from the local people on the other side of the tables.
“They say it was the boy, the one who ran away.”
“I heard he’s wanted by the police up in Washington County.”
“I heard he escaped from prison.”
“I heard he’s a serial killer.”
“What was a person like that doing working for the Snowdens?”
And always, the refrain, “If he didn’t do anything, why did he run?”
Sometimes I frickin’ hated living in a small town.
Chapter 4
From the town common, I walked to Waterfront Park. Busman’s Harbor’s teens were running relay races passing a ten pound dead cod instead of a baton, cheered on by a mixed crowd of tourists, parents, and classmates. In the chilly water of the harbor, lobstermen ran across the tops of bobbing lobster traps. The person who crossed the most traps before falling in won.
Everything appeared to be running smoothly, so I crossed the footbridge that bisected the inner harbor and headed toward my mother’s house at the top of the hill. Painted a deep yellow, with a cupola on top of its mansard roof, the house could be seen for miles around from land or sea.
From our front walk, I watched the parade of windjammers, commanding beauties with three, four, even five tall masts, sails unfurled. They sailed as close to the head of the harbor as they dared and then pivoted, like beautiful models at the end of a runway, and sailed away again. The crowd along the banks roared its appreciation.
I found Sonny and Livvie sitting on our screened-in front porch. Sonny nursed a beer and they both looked exhausted. Through the doorway, I heard my mother and Page, Livvie and Sonny’s nine-year-old daughter, chatting away in the kitchen.
“Where’d you go?” Sonny asked.
I flopped into the soft cushions of the wicker love seat. “Binder and Flynn interviewed me at the pizza place and then sent me out the other door. I couldn’t get back to the pier.” It was true, though I also hadn’t tried. “Then I had to check on some events for the committee. What did I miss?”
“They took the Claminator apart—completely destroyed her.” Sonny put his freckled face into his big hands so all I could see of his head was his flaming orange buzz cut. It was typical that he’d named, and assigned a gender to, his beloved cooking contraption. It was also typical that on a day when someone had been killed, cooked even, and one of our employees was the rumored suspect, Sonny’s main preoccupation was with his invention.
He pulled his face out of his hands. “Binder and Flynn questioned me for hours.”
From her perch on the porch swing, Livvie nodded confirmation.
“What did they ask?”
“What didn’t they ask? Mostly about the Claminator. When did we set it up? Was Cabe alone with it?”
“Was he?”
Sonny spread his great paws on his knees. “Yes.”
“How long?”
“All night. Since we built the Claminator originally on Morrow Island, we had to break it down to get it onto the Whaler.”
Our Boston Whaler was used for runs back and forth from the island to the harbor.
“We brought the Claminator over last night, after work.”
The second seating at the clambake typically ended around nine, but Sonny and Cabe would have been able to leave an hour earlier when their duties at the fire pit were complete.
“We also brought over a load of firewood. Cabe and I reassembled the Claminator. When I left, I asked Cabe to set the logs under it, ready for today, and then to stay and guard it.”
“You left Cabe out on the pier all night! Alone? What time did you leave him?”
“I left around one AM. All the other vendors were gone. Someone had to stay. The Claminator’s a valuable piece of equipment.” Sonny’s voice rose, as it always did when he felt defensive. And he always felt defensive when he knew he was in the wrong. “It’s no big deal,” he insisted. “When I was Cabe’s age, we used to do things like sleep on the pier all the time.”
I didn’t know where to begin. The inappropriateness of asking an employee to sleep in a public place was just for starters. Not to mention to work for thirty-six straight hours. I couldn’t argue the Claminator didn’t need to be guarded. Obviously, it did. Though not against theft. Against having a human being stuffed among the fire logs.
“This morning, I brought Livvie and Page over from the island,” Sonny continued.
My sister and her family were spending the summer in the house my grandfather built next to the dock on Morrow Island. My mother had spent her girlhood summers there, as had Livvie and I.
“We stopped at the lobster pound and picked up the seafood.”
“And when you got to the pier, Cabe was there?”
“Cabe, Weezer, the Smalls, and the public works guys setting up the stage. There were probably twenty people there.”
“Who started the clambake fire this morning, you or Cabe?”
Sonny looked at the ceiling. “Me.”
“And you didn’t notice anything odd?”
He was losing his patience. “No. The police asked me that, too. The fire was laid just like I’d instructed. I remember, I complimented Cabe. The dead guy must have been tucked way inside.”
“And you told the police all this?”
“Of course,” Sonny said, as if there could be no doubt about it.
“What else did the police ask you?”
“After the where-was-I-every-moment-from-last-night-through-this-morning questions, Binder and Flynn started asking about Cabe’s background. Why did I hire him? Where did he come from? Had he ever talked about his family? And so on.”
“Had he ever talked about his family?”
“Not that I remember.”
Sheesh. Typical man. “What do you guys talk about down at the fire pit all day long?”
Sonny rolled his big shoulders. “Baseball, fishing, the usual stuff. You hired him. You checked his references, right?”
My face gave me away.
“Julia!”
“We were so busy trying to reopen the clambake in less than two weeks after the—”
“Murder? Fire? I remember. I was there. But I trusted you to hire a member of my team. Did you at least get his social security number?”
Heat radiated from my face. “I thought I would get to it later. I meant to.”
“Are you joking? You told me this kid was okay!”
The tables were turned. Sonny was on offense and I was defending myself.
“You like Cabe,” I reminded him. “You told me he was a great fit for the job. You thanked me for hiring him.”
“That was because I thought you’d done your job.”
Sonny hadn’t been sure about Cabe when I’d hired him at the end of June. That spring, we’d had a series of tragedies, including a murder on Morrow Island and a fire that destroyed my ancestors’ abandoned twenty-seven-room mansion. The Snowden Family Clambake had been in financial trouble even before that, and we were desperate to reopen before Fourth of July weekend. It was late in the season to be hiring. Everyone we reached out to already had a job. So when my restaurant-owner friend Gus recommended Cabe, I hired him on the spot.