I pull my phone out of my pocket and scroll to Ben. Once the phone connects us, I hear a rustle of wind against the speaker.
“Hey,” Ben says.
“Where are you?”
“I’m on a run.”
“Where?”
“By the Abbotts.”
“Can you come to my house?” I ask.
“Are you allowed visitors?”
“Oh, you heard. Is she at Gusty’s, telling everybody?”
“She told my uncle that you’re home so you can think a few things over, and he called and told me not to bother you. Small town, remember?”
“Ugh.”
“So spill.”
“If you come here,” I say, “I’ll spill it all and feed you too.”
Food usually gets Ben’s complete attention. So I’m still pulling things out of the refrigerator when he runs up from the beach side of the house and bangs through the kitchen door, bringing the smell of salt air with him.
A loaf of Dutch crust bread toasted medium brown and buttered, a third of a pound of sliced Havarti cheese, a jar of bread-and-butter pickles, three oranges, half a package of Oreos, and a quart of milk later, he burps. Then he reaches for a stale cinnamon bun in a baggie on the counter.
“And you think it’s Owen Loney because . . . he wasn’t out on his trap lines yesterday morning?” Ben asks between bites.
“He had opportunity. Like my mom says, ‘Suspects have to have opportunity.’”
“Aliens have opportunity.”
“Shut up. He had a motive. Mom says suspects have to have a motive.”
“And his motive is?”
“Love. He mopey-dopey loves her. And she doesn’t love him back.”
“So, like, she won’t go out with him so he kidnaps her?”
I have to think about this for a second, but yes. That’s pretty much it. “He just flipped out. One day, he loved her so much he couldn’t take it anymore, and he went to her house and told her he wanted to marry her and she said, ‘Get out,’ and he went bonkers and kidnapped her to be his very own.”
“Like a caveman?”
“Uh huh. Like a caveman-lobsterman.”
“I don’t know, Q. It’s possible, I guess.”
“Well, you don’t think she ran away to save the whales, do you?” I cross my arms and dare him to disagree, which I know he won’t because he never agrees with his uncle.
“Yeah, my uncle told me that too.”
So I continue with my argument. “She was kidnapped, and the kidnapper came back and got some things for her—”
“And cleaned the house?” He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
“He didn’t clean the house so it would be clean, you genius. He cleaned so it would look like she went on a trip. But what he doesn’t know is that I saw the house after he took her but before he came back and cleaned it up.”
“Or maybe he does. Maybe he was lurking in the woods watching you and waiting until you left. Ooooooooooo.” He makes spooky fingers, which I slap down.
“Stop it. Be serious.”
“If it was Owen Loney,” Ben says, “he knows perfectly well you were there, because he was in the café talking to your dad when you ran home. You said so. Don’t you think your dad told him where you went?” He crosses his arms back at me. “Like I said, Quinnie, Maiden Rock has no secrets.”
“Well, now it does. Someone named Owen Loney has a big secret. He has everything a sheriff needs to arrest him: motive, opportunity, and means—his boat. I bet he took Ms. Stillford on his boat to an island—a place like Oar Island or Spectacle Island or Spruce Island—but you know, even smaller, more private. He’s probably hiding her in a fishing cabin.”
Ben bounces his foot against the table—thunk, thunk, thunk.
“Don’t do that. It’s annoying,” I say. But I can tell he’s thinking hard about what I said.
He looks up like something is dawning on him. “There’s someone else who has motive, opportunity, and means.”
“Who?”
Ben tips his head like I should know who he is talking about. I don’t.
“My Uncle John, that’s who.”
“What?”
“Okay,” Ben says. “First, well, I guess it’s pretty obvious—she left him at the church, and he still loves her—”
“They broke up.”
“They way more than broke up. You don’t like to think she’d do it, but she totally didn’t show up at the wedding.”
He is technically correct. Twenty-five years ago, everyone in Maiden Rock was in the church, and the lobster rolls and macaroni salad and cake were all set up in the basement dining hall, and people had to eat them even though there wasn’t a wedding so that the food wouldn’t go to waste. Dad said they sent the band home, though.
“I think she was being brave to not marry someone she didn’t love.”
“Whatever. He’s my uncle, and I can tell you, he’s still steamed.”
I pick up the milk carton and look in it. Drained. “Fine. Do you want juice?”
Ben rubs his stomach like he’s trying to decide. “Nah. But listen, he’s always saying little mean things about her when she’s not around.”
“Okay. Let’s say he has a motive.”
Ben gets up and starts to pace around the kitchen like he’s in court. “You know, he was late meeting me at school on Thursday, and when he did show up, his pickup was totally empty. Like, there was nothing in it. The usual seed, fertilizer, wire, tools—none of that.” He spins to face me and slams his hand on the table. “And the shell topper was on the pickup.”
“Okay,” I say. “That’s weird.”
“When I asked him about it, he said he cleaned the pickup and took it over to Downeast Truck to see what it was worth in trade. And it’s only two years old. He never trades in a truck that soon.”
I scrounge in the kitchen drawer for a pen and paper, without success.
“And last night he kept asking me if I’d heard anything about Blythe and if I’d talked to you. And, oh, he went out about eight o’clock last night for almost two hours. I waited up for him, and when he got in he was real cranky and told me to ‘Get to bed and stop asking questions,’ and when I asked him where he went, he said, ‘I’m not accountable to you, boy.’ I smelled beer on his breath too.”
I can’t find a darn pen but I’m becoming convinced Ben’s right. “Motive, means and opportunity.” I sink into a chair and put my face in my hands. The pictures forming in my brain are horrible. Ms. Stillford in the back of John Denby’s pickup with her hands and feet tied and maybe a bag over her head. John Denby carrying her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes from the pickup to—where? My mouth juices up like I might need to barf.
Ben is getting more and more wound up. “I thought maybe the state was talking about shutting down the nature center again and Uncle John was getting fired as director, because that’s usually what makes him go out for a beer. And then this morning, he left the house at 5:30 a.m., saying he was going to Gusty’s, and took the Subaru. Not the truck.” I look up, and he’s pointing at me. “And he’s the kind of guy who’d be quiet for years, then just go bonkers. Am I right? My uncle is a really strange guy.”
“And you’re not saying this because he’s crabby with you all the time?”
“My cross-country coach, Mr. Bisbee, is crabby all the time too, and I’m not saying it’s him.”
“Means, motive, and opportunity.” We repeat it at the same time.
“Just so you know,” Ben says, “they say that on CSI too. Your mom didn’t invent it.”
Now I’m thinking hard about Ben’s uncle. “He did say that thing about her being in the Save the Whales protest, about her being flighty.”
“I know. He’s trying to make everyone think she went away on her own. Especially your mom.”
“Do you think maybe your uncle John and Owen Loney kidnapped her together?”
He laughs. “No way. Those guys ha
te each other.” He stands up and groans. “I have to move. I feel like I have a watermelon in my gut. I think it was the cinnamon bun.”
“Or the jar of pickles and the quart of milk.”
So for the next two hours we stalk up and down the beach, arguing out scenarios, and getting soaked with sea spray. But we don’t come any closer to deciding if it’s Owen Loney or Ben’s uncle John, or where Ms. Stillford’s being hidden.
Then my eye caches sight of a boat speeding out of the channel, slamming into waves as it cuts past the convent.
“Look!” Ben points. “There goes Loney.”
“He’s heading out to sea—fast.” I look at my phone. It says 1:07 p.m. “Where’s he going at this time of day?”
“My uncle said his engine was broken. I guess it got fixed.”
“My dad said Owen Loney needed an odd part that would have to be ordered. Besides, here in Maiden Rock, nothing ever gets fixed that fast.” I flash back to a whole week last summer when Gusty’s old shake mixer died and we had no chocolate malts—even with Mom on the case. “If his engine was ever really broken.”
We watch as Owen Loney’s boat gets smaller on the horizon. “There are over four thousand islands off the coast of Maine,” Ben says.
“Yeah, but we’re only looking for one of them,” I yell over my shoulder as I run up the beach toward home. “Let’s grab a map.”
10
Ben studies a map of Maiden Rock and its coastline that my parents framed and hung in our dining room, while I’m in the kitchen trying to bring up Google Maps on my phone.
“There are mermaids on this map,” Ben calls out like this is a surprise.
“It’s from eighteen hundred something.” I stretch the screen with my fingertips. “There are over four thousand six hundred islands off the coast of Maine.”
“They’re waving at the fishermen. And what are these squiggle things?”
“They’re serpents. In those days, sailors were either lured onto the rocks by mermaids or eaten by big water snakes.” I walk into the dining room just as Ben is doing an all-over body shiver. “This is useless,” I say.
He’s still looking at the map. “For sure.”
“No, this.” I wave my phone. Google doesn’t even show the names of most of the islands. “We need a better map of the coast.”
We search the hall closet, kitchen drawer, and magazine pile in the living room and end up standing in front of Mom’s office door.
“Maybe there’s one in there,” Ben says but doesn’t step into the room.
I’m burning with the urge to search the three desks, but I don’t step forward either. “Yeah, maybe. But I think I’ll ask Dad.”
Ben shrugs. “Maybe we should ask Owen Loney for one.”
Ben goes home to the nature center with orders to spy on his uncle John, write down everything John Denby does, and text me with updates. I consider sneaking out to investigate the Lobster Pound while Owen Loney is gone, but Mom is due home any minute, and I have no idea what kind of mood she’ll be in, so I think maybe I’ll stay in my room.
I get my binoculars out of my desk and scan the ocean for Owen Loney’s boat. I imagine Ms. Stillford leaning over the side and signaling with her scarf. But mostly, I just spin my rock on the desktop and trace the letters on the Ouija board on my phone case while I wait for a text from Ben.
At about three o’clock, I hear the door open downstairs and noise in Mom’s office. I listen at my door until her footsteps are on the stairs, then I run back to my desk and bury my head in my laptop.
Tap. Tap. It’s a light, “I’m sorry” kind of tap, but I don’t answer.
The doorknob turns, and Mom says, “Quinnie. Can I come in?”
I keep my head down and don’t say anything because I know she’s coming in anyway.
“We need to talk about this,” she says.
I want to talk to her. I want to spin around and tell her about Owen Loney and John Denby having motive, means, and opportunity to kidnap Ms. Stillford. I want to tell her I paid attention when she talked about that sheriff stuff all these years and now I’m using it. But I don’t.
“Okay. I’ll start,” she says. I can tell she has a prepared speech. “I’ll speak first as the sheriff, then as your mother.” She clears her throat.
I turn around because I am very interested in what the sheriff has to say.
“Speaking as the sheriff, I reviewed the situation. I considered what you told me you saw at the house yesterday and what I saw myself this morning and what I know about Blythe, and I think . . .”
“Something is wrong, right?”
“No. I think that Blythe may have simply gone off on one of her causes like she did in the old days.”
“But, what about—”
“Wait, Quinnie. Hear me out. I know how much you love Blythe. But she’s got her little faults like we all have. Blythe . . . well, you see . . . she feels deeply about some things—like when she went on that protest walk on the boardwalk at Atlantic City. She just up and disappeared one day, and we didn’t know where she was until Abby Butterman saw her on TV wearing a whale costume and waving a sign.”
“If she was wearing a whale costume, how did Mrs. Butterman know it was her?”
“It was hot. She was carrying the head.”
This is all news to me.
“All I’m saying, Quinnie, is when she’s committed to a cause, she takes it to heart and can get so caught up in it that she does some rash things. She’s a wonderful person. Sometimes she’s a little flighty, that’s all.”
“Flighty! You’re just saying that because that’s what Ben’s uncle John said. He’s trying to convince you that she ran off. He’s trying to put you off his trail.”
“His trail? What trail?”
I grab the notes where I’ve listed all my facts. “Read this, Mom. I think you’ll agree that John Denby may have kidnapped Ms. Stillford.”
She waves her arms around like a maniac, and my papers flutter to the floor. “Oh my God, Quinnette. What is wrong with you? Now it’s John Denby? Why on earth would John Denby want to kidnap Blythe Stillford? Am I losing my mind, or have you lost yours?”
I scramble to pick up my papers. “Mom, please. Please, Mom. Look at this.”
“No. No. No. No. Who’s next? Your father? Me? Who hasn’t kidnapped Blythe Stillford?”
I am so overwhelmed by this time that I don’t know what to do or say. All that comes out is a weak, “I don’t think you or Dad did it.”
“Well, thanks for that, Quinn. That’s a relief.”
I try again. “It was for love!”
“What?”
I spit it out as fast as I can. “Ben’s uncle has a motive. He still loves her even though she walked out on the wedding. He has means: his Subaru and his pickup—that he just cleaned squeaky-clean. He has opportunity: he can go anywhere any time he wants because he works alone at the nature center.” And then I list the facts for Owen Loney.
Mom chews the inside of her cheek while she waits for me to finish.
“You’re accusing two well-respected men in our town of kidnapping. You say one of them abducted Blythe Stillford because he loves her. You say he took her forcibly from her home then went back and gathered her clothes and drugs and cleaned the kitchen. You say this man is hiding her on an island.”
“Uh huh.” Yes. She gets it!
“Can you tell me what this man hopes to accomplish?”
I try to think of the perfect sheriff’s answer. The one that will convince her. “To make her love him. That’s what.”
Mom’s face softens. I’m not sure if it means she believes me or she’s sad. I hope it means she’s going to tell me I’m right and help me find Ms. Stillford.
“How old are you now, Quinn?” It’s one of those questions she already knows the answer to. “You are thirteen, Quinn, and I am sorry to say, you don’t really know all there is to know about Blythe Stillford or Owen Loney or John Denby. And, honey, you
don’t really know love. No matter how much you love someone, you can’t force them to love you back. By kidnapping or any other way.”
“What if you’re a maniac psycho-killer lover?”
Then Mom does the worst thing she could do. She laughs. “Quinnie, I’m no criminal-profiling psychiatrist, but I’ve had plenty of crime investigation training. I’ve known these two men my whole life, and I don’t think either one of them is a maniac psycho-killer lover.”
I grab my hair like I want to pull it out. “Erhhhh!”
“Q—stop. I’m not saying there aren’t such people, but those types are generally loners. They have personal histories that are very specific. Owen and John don’t fit the profile. And I can’t see how love is a motive. It makes more sense that Blythe took off and forgot about school.”
“She wouldn’t forget about me, Mom.”
“Oh, honey.”
It hits me at that moment: I can’t count on Mom the Sheriff, Mom the Mayor, Mom the Real Estate Lady, or Mom the Postmaster to help me find Ms. Stillford. I am alone. Okay, not alone-alone. I have to do it myself—with Ben. Mom is wrong that Ms. Stillford is safe, and she is wrong about love. I do know about love. I know that if you love someone true enough and long enough and hard enough, they will love you back, even if they are treating you like a cousin right now.
“And Quinn,” Mom says with a sharper tone, “I don’t want any more accusations. I don’t want any sneaking around investigating anyone or anything. I don’t want any more interfering with Blythe’s life. Do you understand?”
“But—”
“No buts. No nothing. Do you understand?”
There is only one answer to this question that will set me free to search for Ms. Stillford. A simple, un-arguing yes, and she will leave, and I can get on with it.
“Yes.”
* * *
When Dad gets home, I stand at the top of the stairs and catch bits and pieces of Mom telling him all about my “overdramatizing.”
“Now, don’t you go overreacting,” Dad says.
“I do not overreact, Gus.”
“It’s odd . . . first day of school . . .”
The Maypop Kidnapping Page 5