A light grey Falcon 900LX with its unique three engines surrounding the tail taxied to a stop closest to the patio and shut down its engines. Skyler pulled out her iPhone and checked the tail number Brenda had texted: N601US. It matched. The front left door popped open and stairs were unfolded to the ground. A uniformed flight attendant descended the stairs with two dogs, followed by Brenda who was wearing what looked like a Hawaiian MuMu. A sudden blast of wind sent the MuMu up over the chef’s head. The flight attendant rushed to help bring it back under control, but the crew had already gotten a look at Brenda’s tautly stretched g-string. Skyler immediately erupted in a fit of laughter and walked toward Brenda.
“You bitch! Is that any way to welcome me to fucking Maine?”
“You know I love you,” Skyler said as she approached her oldest and dearest friend. “But that was really funny. Why are you wearing this?”
“I’m fat and lazy, why else? Plus, I was in the damned studio all week wearing uncomfortable stuff. I taped seven episodes of my new cooking show in one week. I won’t have to work again until after Labor Day.”
“Good. I’m not working until after Labor Day either, so we can spend the entire summer up here, out of the humidity. Game?”
“Game, set, and match!” Brenda said. “Is the bar stocked?”
“When have you ever been to my house when it wasn’t?”
“I need blueberry pie, corn on the cob, some of those amazing little cucumbers from that little stand near your house, and a martini. Stat!”
“No lobster?”
“That, too, I guess. Although I ate like a hundred pounds of it this week. I was testing a new lobster stew for the show and I kept messing it up. Well, I messed it up because I ate so much of it that we had to keep boiling more of those poor creatures. You know they are crustaceans, right? Big sea bugs.”
“Lovely. I try not to think about them alive. I like them dead and buttered.”
Skyler really wanted a tour of the interior of the jet—which belonged to retired professional baseball player Wayne Southern, a friend of Brenda’s who had also appeared on a few of her television shows—but Brenda was hell-bent on getting a move on. Instead, they retrieved the coonhounds from the flight attendant, got into Skyler’s Jeep Cherokee, and sped off toward Wabanaki. The dogs immediately fell asleep on the backseat.
“Wait,” Skyler said, slowing the car. “We don’t have your bags.”
“I don’t have bags. Just what’s in my tote. I had all my stuff, and the dog’s food, overnighted to your house.”
“That’s one way to travel light.”
“I do it everywhere I go these days. The bellboys at the Ritz Carlton hate my guts, but guess what, I just breeze in and breeze out. I hate schlepping bags. I bought the coolest steamer trunks. It kind of looks like I’m boarding the Titanic, except with those stupid plastic FedEx sleeves stuck all over them.”
“I am totally buying myself some steamer trunks.”
“I’ll have to get a kid from the neighborhood to get them up to that small guest room of yours. Is it still upstairs?”
“I’ve told you, if you want the master suite, you can have it.”
“I’m kidding. And I’m not putting you out of your own room. I like the guest room. Of course, it doesn’t have a balcony and stairs to the backyard to let the dogs out, but it’s very quaint.”
“Quaint isn’t what I was going for.”
“What were you going for, because it’s quite quaint.”
“When are you leaving?” Skyler asked.
“Actually, I was thinking about buying my own place up here. What would you think of that?”
“I think I’d love that, of course. Why would you even ask me a question like that?”
“I think it’s a shame that our childhood houses don’t exist anymore,” Brenda said.
“It’s a travesty! Listen, I’m all for property rights and people doing what they want on their own land, but those developers, tearing down all those historic houses to build those prefab monstrosities, it just makes my skin crawl.
“McMansions. Isn’t that what they call them?”
“Yes,” Skyler snorted, “And they’re ugly. I won’t even drive down our old street anymore. I just thank God that the city preservationists woke up and put a stop to it before the whole town was ruined. That developer only got his hands on one block. Ours, sadly.”
“But your cottage is so cute.”
“I need to give it a name one of these days.”
“It does need a name. When was it built?”
“1944, as a single level. The pop-up was done in 1968, or so. And I added the screened porch and redid the kitchen when I bought it. I blew out the first floor walls then, too. I just love that the family room, kitchen, and dining rooms are all open.”
“Me, too. And I like that you live next to that big old sea captain’s house.”
“Lois Millhouse’s.”
“Right. Is she still the mayor?” Brenda asked.
“She is. I think for life.”
They drove in silence for a few miles until Brenda couldn’t stand it any longer—she had to get into it. “Listen, tell me everything about Rufus. Has he called you yet?”
Skyler exhaled deeply. “I thought we made a pact not to talk about relationships, or men, or any of that crap. And, no, he has not called, texted, written, or faxed.”
“Who the fuck faxes anymore? No one.”
“Not even Rufus.”
“Fuck Rufus.”
“No, thank you. Been there, done that.”
More silence. A few more miles. They listened to Mulder and Scully snoring in the backseat. They passed a small red convertible sports car in a ditch on the side of the road near the farm stand, then turned onto Route 17 and headed into downtown Wabanaki. Traffic was lighter than it should have been on a holiday weekend.
“Where are the crowds?” Brenda asked.
“Kennebunkport, I suspect. I think the Bushes are having a big family thing for the Fourth. People are still interested in them after all these years.”
“What about our very own former politician?”
“Vice President Farr? He’s okay, I guess. Keeps to himself. No one seems to know or care where he lives. At least it’s not a tourist attraction.”
“I always liked the man. He should have run for president.”
“I don’t think he had it in him. He’s happy petering around on his boat and golfing. I think he winters in Palm Springs.”
“I just signed a contract to do a hotel restaurant in Palm Springs. We start some time next year. It’s going to be a very cute, super hip place. Like Norma’s at the Parker Palm Springs; I love that place. You should come with me the next time I do a site inspection. I adore the desert and it’s not all grays and gays anymore. The young people are starting to discover it. I’m thinking about buying a place there, too. Oh, and there are Indian casinos!”
“I’m not really a gambler.”
Brenda made a popping sound with her tongue. “You are, you just don’t know it.”
* * *
In the commercial terminal of the Jetport, Patty Little hauled her red, hard-sided suitcase off the conveyor belt and wheeled it outside into the sunshine. She crossed the driveway and entered the parking garage and climbed the stairs to the second level. After an agonizing ten-minute search, she located her black Mustang, extremely dusty from sitting for several weeks. She found a ticket tucked under one windshield wiper blade explaining that the vehicle was suspected of being abandoned and was due to be towed away the next day.
I came back just in time, she thought to herself.
After forking over a parking fee nearly equal to a mortgage payment, Patty aimed her car toward Wabanaki. She chain-smoked the entire way and tried not to think about what it was going to be like to be back living with Leonard again after a glorious month of freedom, something she’d never experienced in her life.
It was all pretty simple. She w
as lured away by a man on the internet who promised her the world. She knew it had been stupid and naïve. She was fully aware of the dangers and had heard all the horror stories. But she had a good feeling about the guy. And she did her research. His story was real and he was who he said he was. He had a successful chain of dry cleaning businesses in south Florida and he was a generous philanthropist. He was separated from his wife and living in a rental apartment. He had three children in college. And he was just as lonely and unhappy in his current situation as Patty had been in hers.
She too married a person because of good looks and charm and ignored all the flaws. Patty agreed to marry Leonard on their fifth date—the same day his second marriage was officially annulled—and they eloped instead of having a big to-do. It was tacky and exciting but the love affair was ultimately fleeting. The sex was good, but they had nothing to talk about. He had a decent job, but he was interested in little else. She wanted to move up in the world, move away from Wabanaki, start a family, and have a career outside of food service. Leonard wanted to sit on his ass, pet his giant dog, and play video games.
That’s why she left unannounced and spent a glorious month with the dry cleaner in Miami.
Until he returned to his wife.
She was heartbroken but she felt like she had some kind of fucked up obligation to return to Maine to explain everything to her husband. The husband that didn’t do a thing to try to find her.
As she approached Wabanaki, she made a last-minute decision to stop at the Chowder House to see if just maybe, despite missing 20-something shifts without calling, her last paycheck was there waiting for her.
She parked in the employee lot at the rear of the building and entered through the back door that led into the steamy kitchen. She gave a little wave to Manuel who was busy washing oysters, scooted by Lillian who was filling salt shakers, and slipped around the corner to Tanner’s desk. In a cubby above his filing cabinet she found her check and stuffed it into her well-worn, oversized fake leather purse.
“I suspect you won’t be getting another one of those,” Lillian said dryly.
Patty managed a weak smile. “I suppose not. I hope I didn’t put you out.”
“Oh, I was okay. I didn’t mind the extra shifts. I always need the money. Tips have been decent this summer. So, where are you working now?”
“Not sure yet,” Patty said. She started walking toward the door that led to the back hall. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to hit the head.”
“Be careful in there. We just did the floors.”
Patty entered the dimly lit ladies’ room. The floor was still slick from being mopped. Her sneakers squeaked on the linoleum as she entered one of the three stalls. She turned to latch the door when it came slamming in towards her, hitting her on the forehead. She tried to scream but a gloved hand covered her mouth and twisted her head toward the back wall. She struggled, slipped on the wet floor, and felt her body falling. Her head cracked against the rim of the toilet. The figure—A man? A woman? Someone strong—bent down over her, picked her up by her hair and neck, then slammed her head forcefully into the toilet again. She was so stunned by the unexpected attack that she had trouble processing what was happening.
Then she started feeling it. Through the searing pain, she had a fleeting thought: she should have stayed in Miami.
And then all went black.
SIX
Sheriff Little stood in former Vice President Farr’s living room sweating through his polyester uniform. The windows were open and there was no breeze even though the old house sat just a few yards from the water. Mrs. Farr entered the room with a tray of lemonade and set it on the coffee table.
“It’s been a few days now,” she said, “but I think he’s finally ready to talk to you.”
“I am so sorry,” the Sheriff said.
“Don’t apologize to me, Sheriff,” she whispered. “I didn’t care for the dog. There is not one crease or crevice in this house, or in our house out in California, that doesn’t have dog hair in it. I’m not unhappy he’s gone.”
“I wanted to come the day I hit the…”
The Sheriff heard someone enter the room behind him. “The day you killed my dog?”
“Mr. Vice President, I…”
The Vice President held up a hand. “Stop with the formality, will ya? We’re not in Washington and I’m no longer holding that office. You always used to call me Daryl.”
“Daryl, I really want to...”
“First someone murders Gerald Gains’ poor alpaca and now you murder my Mondale. What is going on in Wabanaki, Maynard? I know many of the folks around here want more notoriety to attract the tourists, but is this really the way we’re going to go about it? By becoming Maine’s pet murder capital?”
“I didn’t murder Mondale. I accidently ran over him with my truck. He was in the middle of Route 17. When I came around the bend, he was just there. And I wasn’t speeding.”
Daryl collapsed onto the couch. His wife sat down next to him and took his hand. “Do you want some lemonade,” she asked sweetly.
“I don’t want any goddamned lemonade. Bring me a whiskey. Neat.” Daryl turned his head to look at the Sheriff. “I know that it seems like I am overreacting. And I guess I am. I haven’t been this upset since the President and I sat in the Situation Room and ordered bombs dropped on Libya. Thousands of people were killed that night.”
“I remember that.”
“That damned dog was my best friend.”
“I am so sorry.”
“I hated Walter Mondale, you know. Many people think I named the dog after my Vice Presidential hero, but that’s not the case. He was a rescue dog. He came with the name.”
“I kept my dog’s name, too.”
“I didn’t know you had a dog, Maynard.”
“Well, he’s no longer with us, sadly.”
“Did you run over him, too?” Daryl asked, nearly laughing.
“No, sir. Cancer.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. What breed?”
“He was a mutt. A mix of several things. Black lab, mostly. A sweet guy ‘til the end.”
The Vice President stood up after his wife handed him his drink. “Grab a lemonade and drink with me. To man’s best friend.”
“To man’s best friend,” the Sheriff said. And they drank.
The Vice President finished his and slammed the glass down on the coffee table. “Now get the hell out of my house and go catch a criminal.”
Sheriff Little placed his glass down carefully and backed out of the room. Once outside, he exhaled. He felt like he had been holding his breath the entire time he was inside the old house. When he was behind the wheel of his truck he got on the radio and inquired about his son’s location.
“He’s at the Chowder House, Sheriff,” a deputy at the station replied. “I was about to radio you. You need to get down there ASAP. We have a possible one eight seven on our hands.”
“I think you better repeat those numbers, son,” the Sheriff said.
“You heard me right, Sheriff. A one eight seven.”
He pulled onto the main road, placed the magnetic strobe on the roof, and headed downtown with a lump in his throat. In Maynard Little’s nearly 30 years on the force, no human had ever been murdered in Wabanaki.
* * *
Leonard Little was on his hands and knees in the long, dimly lit hallway that led from the main dining room of the Chowder House to the bathrooms beyond the kitchen. He used a pen light to look at a trail of blood on the well-worn wood floor.
“Why is there blood out here?” he asked himself out loud. He stood up and put his hands on his hips. “I’m not qualified for this.”
“I heard that,” Lillian said.
Leonard spun around and looked at the waitress. “I was talking to myself.”
“I assumed that. Are we safe in here? I want to go home.”
“I really, really need you to stay here, Lil. I need everyone who was here whe
n the incident took place to stay right here. I’ve called in a forensics team from Portland and my dad is on his way. Can you just calm down?”
Lillian’s raised her eyebrows. “I’m calm. I’ve seen a lot of C.S.I. episodes. You’re the one who isn’t calm, Deputy.”
“I’m perfectly calm. Can you go put a ‘closed’ sign on the front door? I don’t want tourists and locals filing in here hoping for dinner tonight.”
“We haven’t been closed for dinner in July for almost 100 years,” she said.
“And you haven’t had someone murdered in your bathroom in almost 100 years either. Go put up the sign.”
Lillian went into the kitchen just as Tanner entered the restaurant through the front door. It was just after five o’clock.
“What’s going on?” he asked a group of waiters who were sitting around a large round table in the front bay window. “Why aren’t we open?”
Shea pointed toward the back hall just as Leonard emerged with a roll of yellow police tape in his hands.
“Lenny, what the fuck?”
“Don’t call me Lenny, Tanner. I hate that shit.”
“What’s going on?”
“Well, it seems that someone has killed my wife in your bathroom.” Leonard swallowed hard.
Tanner was sure he heard him wrong. “Excuse me? I’m having trouble understanding what you just said.” He shifted his weight and examined his friend’s face. “You seem too calm for that to be true.”
“It’s true,” Shea said through tears. “I loved her so much.”
Tanner’s head was spinning. “Patty died? In the Chowder House bathroom?”
“She’s still in there. We have to wait for a team from Portland. And my dad. This is a crime scene.”
The Maine Nemesis Page 4