The slamming of the screen door behind Evan was like the snapping of a hypnotist’s fingers, waking Lillian from a deep trance. “But why?” She believed that I knew; in fact, I didn’t. But I had a theory.
“I don’t know, Lillian. Sadly, people do things like this for many reasons. We may never learn why your husband skipped out. Some sort of trouble he couldn’t get out of without making it appear as though he had died? The death of your son could have sent him over the edge.”
All of the emotions that Lillian had conveyed up until then—grief, sorrow, remorse, confusion—suddenly morphed into blind rage. She stood and pushed the stacks of paper from the counters and table onto the floor where she stomped on them. “He hated Jason! That bastard! He humiliated and ridiculed his own flesh and blood! And he beat him. He thought Jason was weak and not enough of a man, not good enough in sports, not strong enough. No wonder my sweet baby used drugs. He needed to escape the abuse of his father. You have to track him down. I’ll kill him!” I had neither the nerve nor the heart to explain to Lillian that this case was now beyond my jurisdiction. If Parker had flown to Guatemala, the feds would have to pick up his scent. I had reached the end of the road in my search for the missing fisherman.
But now I knew why Jason hated his father; it was, sadly, because his father hated him.
15
THE THING I MOST APPRECIATED about Cal was his willingness and ability to listen. He seldom interrupted me and never broke my train of thought. He just listened. He didn’t make facial expressions to influence the next word to come from my mouth, nor did he ever appear uninterested or bored. He just plain listened. Cal kept his opinions to himself, except when I asked or was way off base—like I had been with the red paint. By the time we arrived back in Green Haven from Cobble Harbor, I had said all that I could, and Cal had probably heard more than enough. It had been a long week, and I was pretty well exhausted.
So the Parker Alley case had reached a conclusion. Any resident of Cobble Harbor still waiting for a body to wash ashore could relax. Lillian was broke, but she had some closure. I would hand everything to the state police; I assumed they would in turn bring in the feds to locate and extradite Parker Alley on charges including murder one. The only thing that remained a mystery was the why, and I now had more than a hunch on which to follow up. Not today though. It was five in the afternoon, and I was tapped out. Cal and I parted company in our usual manner, he in his truck and me on foot. Cal agreed to call me after he had a chance to speak with his wife about tomorrow’s schedule, and hoped to get me to Bucksport for the Duster. I assured him that I was in no particular rush to rescue my car, and might need a day or two to catch up on the insurance work I had neglected, not to mention needing time to sleep and rest my ribs.
I might be mistaken for a regular Mainer tonight, I thought as I crawled up the hill to my place. An early dinner and bed before the street lamps came on sounded extremely appealing. I knew from past experience that my ribs would bother me for some time to come. But there was no reason to see a doctor. I could tolerate the pain. I had before. However, I did almost give myself a reason to seek medical help when I tripped on the bottom step of the stairs to my apartment. I’m sort of clumsy when I’m tired. I caught my balance, though, so didn’t do any damage to my already-injured frame.
A big red “2” was flashing on my answering machine again. I figured I was due to hear from Mr. Dubois about the boat surveys I hadn’t done. Preferring to hear his reprimand now and not spoil a fresh day tomorrow, I pushed PLAY. “Hi, Janie, dear. It’s Mrs. V calling. We’re having the most wonderful time. And the mussels we’ve had! Henry isn’t much good after dark … driving that is. So we are staying in Ellsworth tonight and will see you in the morning. Bye, dear.” That was thoughtful. Gee, it must be Friday already, I realized.
The second message was from none other than the handsome captain, Dane Stevens. I was delighted to hear his voice. He said that Quasar and he had completed their work and were not feeling particularly welcome in Cobble Harbor, so they were making landfall in Green Haven instead. They hoped that I could join them for dinner and return the sleeping bag. They knew of only one place to eat—the café—and would be there around six, and were looking forward to seeing me. Wow. Dinner out, even at the café, would be nice. And a chance to see Dane Stevens, and even Quasar, was nice, too. Friday night is all-you-can-eat fish night. Great! Oh my God! I didn’t have much time to get myself presentable. After Audrey’s comments this morning, I realized that fifteen minutes hadn’t quite done the trick.
I hopped in and out of the shower and began the Holy Grail-like search for something decent to wear. By the time I figured out that I wasn’t happy with anything I owned, I had emptied the contents of my bureau drawers and my closet onto the bed. Digging through the sad pile, I found the lesser of all evils in a newish pair of jeans and a light blue blouse that had somehow lived its life without obtaining a coffee stain. I tied a black sweater around my shoulders the way I had seen sailboaters do. Slipping into a pair of black flats, I checked myself in the mirror, knowing that I had to go with whatever the end result was, as I had no time to change. Not bad. I pulled the down-filled sleeping bag from under my bed, rolled it into a ball, and headed out. This was not an official date, I reminded myself, more of a meeting to return a sleeping bag.
When I entered the café, my first thought was to give thanks to Cal for not allowing me to humiliate Audrey this morning while she was with the young suitor. I was well aware of her propensity for payback. As expected, Audrey, who works every shift of every day, was front and center as I closed the door behind me. She gave me a puzzled look and said, “Hey, I know the service is slow. But come on! A sleeping bag?”
“Hi, Aud.” I chose the more familiar nickname, hoping to stay in her good graces tonight. I held the bag out. “I’m returning it to a friend.”
“You have a friend?” She sounded rather skeptical. I saw the men seated behind her at a table for four, and waved a hello.
“Yes, there he is.” I nodded toward the table.
“The one with the glasses, right?”
“No. The other one.” I didn’t consider this a lie, as Dane Stevens was my friend, sort of. And this was his sleeping bag.
I was sure Audrey was going to ask if I was kidding, but she surprised me with “You vixen!”
“Look, Aud, I would really appreciate it if you—”
“Don’t worry.” She cut me off before I begged her not to embarrass me. “I won’t say a thing. Who do I look like, the Grinch? I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize this annual event for you.” Fortunately an order was up in the kitchen. Audrey sauntered off, allowing me to join Dane and Quasar at their table.
They both got to their feet to greet me with light, one-armed hugs. We sat and were immediately engaged in conversation; three people off duty and off the record. I gave the men a brief summary of what had happened since they had left me with the corpse in Southwest Harbor. “We couldn’t believe it when you left the message saying that it wasn’t the right guy,” said Quasar. “Unbelievable. Who would have believed it was not the right guy? After that, we were a little trigger-happy. I’ll bet we launched the net a dozen times thinking we had another body. We were sure anxious after that news. I still can’t believe it was the wrong guy. Weren’t we trigger-happy, Dane?”
“And every time we hauled the net back aboard, we were relieved that we didn’t have another body,” Dane Stevens chimed in. Audrey appeared with a pitcher of water, filled our glasses, and asked if we were ready to order. We all decided on the fish and chips. When she moved to the next table, I breathed again, and Dane continued. “So who was the dead guy?”
I ran around that loop of the story in record time, answering the question, but not in much detail, since I didn’t think the part about being aboard the Asprella put me in the best light. Waving a gun and breaking ribs are not the most flattering images to share with someone you hope is finding you attractive.
“On to nicer topics! Your job for the oyster farm is complete. Congratulations! Will you be getting the bonus?” I asked.
The men shared an awkward moment, making and breaking eye contact. They seemed to be deciding how to answer and who would do the talking. I was ready to change the subject when Audrey saved us all with our meals. She left again quickly. We all got very busy passing tartar sauce, ketchup, and salt. I was not amused with Audrey’s artwork. My fish had been cut and arranged to form a perfect heart in the center of my plate, and a few fries had been placed to make an arrow that pierced the heart, Cupid style. My eyes darted to Quasar’s and Dane’s dinners. I was glad to see that the fish on their plates hadn’t been arranged in any special way. I ate mine quickly, partly because I was famished and partly to destroy the creation of my immature friend. My question about the men’s work had absolutely deflated the buoyant atmosphere we had enjoyed before I asked it. Now we were quiet, and I couldn’t think of anything to say.
Quasar cracked first. “Let’s just tell her, Dane. It’s not a secret anymore.” My first thought was that they were getting ready to come out of the closet. “It will be in the paper tomorrow. We have good news,” Quasar said to me. By the time Dane smiled and agreed that there was no reason for secrets anymore, I was totally intrigued. They started with an apology for not telling me sooner, but added that they just couldn’t. Now the men were excited and telling all, interrupting each other to avoid missing any details. It seemed that the “bonus” the men had been pushing for was sunken treasure. As bizarre as that sounded, by the time they had finished, it made perfect sense to me.
In the late 1700s, the ships that comprised the Northeast fleet were busy exporting rum and fish to Africa and bringing home gold and ivory. Although importing slaves had been banned in 1788, some ships still engaged in that awful trade. The Embargo Act of 1807 closed all shipping from the Northeast; the result was a huge increase in smuggling and piracy. Sometime before the War of 1812—the dates were sketchy—a fully loaded schooner, the Abigail, went down in Cobscook Bay. Because trading had been made illegal, there was no paperwork, only rumors of what had gone down with the ship. Dane and Quasar had researched and found a journal kept by a member of the Abigail’s crew that verified a cache of gold and gave a detailed description of the land he had swum to nearby. When Quest was hired to do a survey for the oyster farm, Dane and Quasar had the perfect opportunity to chase a dream.
The men confided that George Paul shared the same knowledge; his information was passed down from early generations of native Maine Indians who had hosted the shipwrecked crew until they were rescued by another schooner. George Paul had no resources to attempt to recover the gold. So he had been working to get legislation passed to declare the offshore site the property of his people, which would have barred aquaculture and everything else, and would have given him time to raise money for a search for the treasure. Dane and Quasar knew that George Paul had sabotaged their deck equipment and that he had tried to run Quest onto the rocks to delay their find and subsequent claim to salvage rights. That explained a lot, I thought, including the book on shipwrecks I had seen both Dane and George Paul reading. It also explained why George Paul had been following me and had tried to scare me a bit when he used the truck to try to push me off the road; he had seen me spending time with Dane and Quasar and knew that my job as deputy gave them a certain amount of protection.
But I was pleased to hear that Dane and Quasar had no hard feelings toward George Paul and that, in fact, they were going to give the lion’s share of the haul to establish a local Native American cultural center and also a fund for sustainable economic development. Their interest was far more in history than in getting rich. And I was also pleased to discover that I had no hard feelings toward George Paul either. I don’t think he had it in him to hurt me or them.
We’d finished dessert and coffee, and I was tired. Dane and Quasar would be working out of Green Haven for the next month or so, which I was very pleased to learn. There would be ample opportunity to get to know Dane Stevens better. We planned to meet for coffee in the morning, and I excused myself after being forbidden to contribute to the dinner bill. The men stayed behind for another cup of coffee when I turned down their offer to walk me home, and I escaped unscathed while Audrey was in the kitchen, though I assumed I would be in for a fair bit of teasing over breakfast.
I admonished myself as soon as I realized that I had left my apartment unlocked. Was I that tired, or had I been foolishly fuzzy-headed with the prospect of dinner with Dane Stevens? Either way, it wouldn’t happen again, I vowed, as I closed the door behind me and reached for the lights. A hand covered my mouth and jerked me close to a warm body. The pain in my side crippled me, and I felt faint. I was never totally out, but I was woozy enough from the shock of the pain that I was unable to put up a fight. Before I knew it, I was strong-armed into a chair and duct taped so that I couldn’t move. As I gathered my wits, I knew I needed to remain calm. The shadow of a large figure moved slowly around the kitchen. Screaming would be of no use. The Vickersons were in Ellsworth and no one else lived within earshot.
The small table lamp was switched on, illuminating the face of the man who stood over it. Willard Kelley glared at me. I saw my gun under the lamp beside the phone. I hadn’t locked it up, something I never forget to do. I was mad at myself for that. Willard paced back and forth on the linoleum a few times, never taking his eyes from mine. He checked cupboards until he found the unopened bottle of Johnnie Walker, pulled the other chair over, and sat facing me. He was jittery, but I’m guessing he thought the whiskey would smooth the shaking in his hands. He drank directly from the bottle, and the alcohol loosened his tongue. “Deputy Bunker has beeeeen very busy.”
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Information.”
“There are easier and more lawful ways to get information,” I suggested. “Could you loosen the tape on my wrists? My ribs are killing me.” I tried to establish a bit of rapport with my captor and wanted to see if I could get him to empathize a bit with me.
“When I’m done with you, you won’t beeeeee feeling a thing.” Now Willard teetered in the chair a bit and slurred his speech. The booze had already had an effect. He must have been pretty drunk already. This was not good. Drunk people act crazy. The telephone rang. “Who might thaaaat be?” He reached across to the end table and started hitting buttons on the answering machine to silence the ringing, but had no luck. The ringing persisted.
“If I don’t answer, someone might get worried and come to check on me.” Willard grabbed the phone, held the receiver to my ear, and aimed my gun at the other side of my head as a reminder.
“Hello,” I said as normally as I could, knowing that a drunk had a loaded gun pressed to my temple. It was Cal. He was calling to tell me that Betty wanted to do some shopping tomorrow and that they would be happy to take me to Bucksport to pick up the Duster since they had some errands to run in that area. “Great, Cal. I’ll treat you both to a really expensive lunch.”
“Betty isn’t crazy about fast food,” Cal teased.
“I’m not talking McDonald’s. I’m talking lobster. A great bottle of wine. My treat. Sky’s the limit, pal. Good night.” As I hoped, Kelley put the gun down when he placed the phone back on the table.
“I want to know what you know, and whoooo else knows it,” Willard said.
“Well, I have everything figured out—including your involvement. And I’ve already told the whole thing to the sheriff.” I figured my best chance of escape lay in convincing him that his cover was already blown and he would be caught no matter what, but be in much worse shape if he harmed me before he was caught. I hoped he would buy it. So I continued, “Obviously, part or all of the Asprella’s crew were bringing Parker Alley heroin packed in bags of coffee beans, and he was distributing it around the region stashed inside the freezer packs he FedExed with his lobster. No dog can sniff heroin when it’s masked by two heavy scents like co
ffee and lobster. When Alley’s kid died from an overdose, he got jumpy and started preparing his exit strategy. He was worried local law enforcement might start snooping around his home. Someone—I assume the kingpin of the heroin gang—also got nervous. Maybe the gang leader figured that Parker was skimming heroin from the shipments and selling it locally. So the gang leader sent Jorge Aguilar to kill him. The sick wife was a sham to set Jorge aboard the Eva B. Parker was tipped off, though—I assume by you—and he killed Aguilar the second he got off the big ship and onto the lobster boat. Parker’d already cashed out all of his savings and was prepared to stage his own death, steal Aguilar’s ID, and skip the country using tickets intended for Aguilar.
“How am I doing?” I asked.
“You nailed it,” he said. “If he hadn’t gotten greedy! Parker double-crossed the connection. Heeee was skimming a little off the top and handing it tooo a local guy. That was the heroin that his poor stupid kid OD’d on. God, heeeee hated that kid. You got to love that the kid got his revenge in death—if the kid hadn’t OD’d, then the gang never would have figured out that Parker was selling loooocally. Parker and I agreed he would kill Aguilar, but he wasn’t supposed to disappear with all the money. Of course, I was supposed to get a cut of the local sale and Parker was saaaaving my cut for me. Now he’s double-crossed meeee. He’s left meeee holding the bag.”
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