“Hi ho!” she says. “Troubled weather night last night, eh?” She gives us a small, wrinkled smile.
“Troubled,” Ella agrees, as pleased as she can be, until the bad odor registers on her face. Cats. Cat pee. A meowing chorus from all directions. Sister Ethel shoos away the cats who are trying to wipe their whiskers on her skirt. Spiro meanders among them.
“Here we are.” Sister Rosie bustles through the door, nudging Sister Ethel aside. She carries two paper cups. “Autumn is in the air, don’t you think, girls? The chill always makes me crave hot cocoa.” She hands us each a drink. The sweet steam tickles my nose.
Cats keep arriving from every direction. At least thirty mill around the front yard. I look sideways at Ella. She’s alternately trying to sneak a peek through the open door and looking back up the drive for an escape path. In the garden, rusty tools with rotted wooden handles lean on a bent wire birdcage. A wheelbarrow is flipped over at a cockamamie angle with stacks of empty, dark green plastic flowerpots next to it.
“Aren’t you nice!” Sister Rosie twiddles her fingers in anticipation of the Gusty’s pie.
“Hot out of the oven, Sister,” I say, extending it. Sister Rosie reaches for the box with both hands. I don’t let go. “But—I have a couple questions.”
Sister Rosie drops her arms.
“It’s about separating the paper and the plastic, isn’t it?” says Sister Ethel. “Not throwing them in the bin together.”
“We know,” says Sister Rosie. “We need to say extra Hail Marys.”
By this time, the cats have wandered into the house.
A loud crash sounds from somewhere inside the convent—like a vase falling off a shelf and smashing to smithereens. All four of us jump. “Oh! Those naughties,” Sister Ethel says. “Rosie, go see to that mess. And shoo the cats out of the convent.” She turns back to me. “You can tell your mother that I’m monitoring Sister Rosie’s driving.”
“That’s not it, Sister,” I say.
Her dark eyes narrow. “The lights, then. Maybe in a week or so, we can cut back on the lights a bit.”
“That would be good, but I have another question.”
By this time, Sister Rosie has returned. She pushes her chubby face back into the conversation.
“Anything broken?” Ella asks.
“They knocked over a statue of Saint John the Baptist,” Rosie says. “Not to worry. Nothing that superglue can’t fix.”
“We got a letter from Ms. Stillford saying she’s in Canada.”
The sisters start clapping, which makes their black sleeves flap like bat wings. “Wonderful! Great,” Sister Rosie says.
“That’s a relief,” says Sister Ethel. “Thanks so much for letting us know. And thanks for the pie.”
Sister Rosie reaches for the pie box, but I hold it back.
“We’re not sure the letter is genuine,” I say. “We think Ms. Stillford was forced to write it, and I think she is trying to tell us something in the letter.”
The sisters look shocked.
“Sisters, I think she wants me to ask you about something.”
“Why us?” Sister Ethel asks.
“Have you talked to Ms. Stillford recently?” I ask.
The sisters look at each other as if puzzled by the question. Then Sister Ethel says, “Only about the fund-raiser.”
“Fund-raiser?” I didn’t expect this.
Sister Rosie smiles. “Right. Blythe helped us design a tea to sell—to raise money for the convent.”
This is all news to me.
Ella comes to life. “Herbal tea?”
“Yes, dear. A nice herbal tea,” says Sister Rosie. “We call it Sanctity Tea. ‘It’s not only for relaxing, it’s for giving.’ For. Giving. Forgiving. Get it?”
“That’s cool,” Ella says. “Where do you sell it?”
Sister Rosie beams and says, “Online.”
Okay, the two sisters are selling herbal tea on the Internet. It’s interesting news, but I don’t know how it helps me find Ms. Stillford.
“Did Ms. Stillford ever mention she had a nun for a relative?” I ask.
“A nun? No,” Sister Rosie says. “Well, maybe. Let me think. I do recall her mentioning a nun once.”
“I’m sure she’s fine, dear,” Sister Ethel says. “Blythe never tells a lie, not even a little snitch of one. If she says she’s in Canada, then she’s in Canada.” She pulls Sister Rosie back through the door.
“Good-bye, dears,” Sister Rosie calls out. The convent’s large wooden door whooshes shut with such force that a weathered shutter from an upstairs window comes loose and topples the wheelbarrow below. Ella and I both scream. Cats scatter into the woods. The single wheel of the overturned wheelbarrow spins with a wonky rrt . . . rrt . . . rrt.
It’s almost completely overcast now. A couple fearless cats continue to wander around the front of the convent. One of them starts snaking between my legs.
Suddenly, the door reopens. Sister Rosie reaches out and grabs the pie box from my hands.
“Bless you, dears,” she says, and she ducks back inside.
23
Ella and I are on our way to Loney’s Lobster Pound, neither of us talking, when Ella turns to me and says, “You lied.”
“What?” I never lie, I think. Oh, wait. Yes, I do. I’ve become a horrific liar.
“You said they were a little weird. There’s a difference between being a little weird and being . . . shut-the-front-door flakesters.”
“Kind of cool flakesters, though, don’t you think?” I say. “I mean, the whole selling-tea-on-the-Internet thing? I didn’t think they knew anything about the Internet.”
“Uh huh, and I am totally checking out that tea and telling all my friends in New York to buy some and support them.”
“I’m sure my mom has no idea they’re doing this. She’d probably find some reason why they shouldn’t.”
“Why would she care?” Ella says. “I thought she only cared about them recycling.”
“Recycling, speeding, turning off the lights at night. But mostly, she wants a clean, orderly town with a future. When the monsignor told my mom he was considering selling the convent, she really wanted to make that happen. I mean, she’s right. The convent is a wreck.”
“A cat dump.”
We thrash through the woods with me in the lead. “This way, Owen Loney won’t see us coming if he’s on his dock.”
A couple times, Ella says, “Slow down,” and I say, “Hurry up.”
We peek out of the woods across the street from Miss Wickham’s Bed & Breakfast. The winter shutters are in place, and all the rocking chairs are face down and lashed to the porch railings. I’m relieved to see there are no search teams around. We sprint over to the B&B’s porch and crouch behind the chair bunker.
“This is town,” I whisper. I point to each of the buildings. “That’s the yacht club. It’s closed for the winter . . .”
“Swanky,” says Ella. “Not exactly what you think of when you hear the word yacht.”
It’s true. The Maiden Rock Yacht Club is a three-story wooden warehouse with the paint mostly worn off and hooks, chains, and hoists swinging from a third-story window.
Inside, though, are thirty small sailing skiffs, bedded down for the winter. And when their bright white-and-marine-blue stripes set sail around the Pool with a class of eight-year-old Junior Skippers, it’s the happiest sight you’ll ever see. Ben and I crashed one of those skiffs into the dock more than once. I am about to tell Ella the story, but I stop. I realize I want to keep my Ben stories to myself.
“That’s Loney’s Lobster Pound.” I point to a gray building with a sturdy dock. A sign next to the door says:
MAIDEN ROCK POOLE LOBSTER POUND
LONEY LOBSTERMEN
PROPRIETORS SINCE 1918
Ella stretches her neck and takes it all in. Barrels of colored glass balls stand next to the door. A mountain of crookedly-stacked wood-and-mesh lobster traps fills the space b
etween the pound and the dock. Buoys with Loney’s distinctive green, yellow, and purple bands overflow from a bin next to the traps. Old truck tires crusted with salt are tied to the pillars that hold up the dock.
“Tires?” Ella asks.
“So the boat won’t hit the dock.”
The boat is gone, and Loney’s pickup sits in its usual spot, in front of the weathered screen door.
I pivot on my knees and point behind us. “There’s the grocery. It’s closed for the winter . . . and up there, the last building you can see is the post office. It’s closed, except when Mom’s there.”
I realize this porch is a near-perfect vantage point for the goings-on in the little town center.
“Let’s check out the lobster pound,” Ella urges.
“No! Owen Loney’s on his run, and he’ll be back any minute.”
We settle down on Miss Wickham’s porch, which shelters us from the wind. Ella picks at the fashion-frayed sleeve of her hoodie like she has something on her mind.
“Why are we tutored when Ben gets to go to real school?” she asks.
“His uncle won’t pay for private tutoring, and Ben wants to go out for team sports anyway.”
“Isn’t going to school with people—with guys—better than being stuck out here all winter?”
Hmmm. How can I explain this? Years of wonderful experiences with Ms. Stillford flash through my mind. I choke up a little bit. “I like it. I love Ms. Stillford. She’s a great teacher, and I hate . . . crowds of kids . . . and crappy school lunches . . . and mean girls and . . . my parents both work long hours . . . and it’s hard to get back and forth . . . and I had Zoe.”
“I don’t mind tons of kids. But not mean girls. Guys, I like. But not jerky guys.”
“You’ll like Ms. Stillford, you’ll see.”
“I’m going to be bored to death.”
“Don’t say death.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean it. Sorry. Sorry.”
We wait. Absolutely nothing happens for thirty-three minutes except we watch the gulls play around the dock. Finally, we hear a boat motoring through the channel into the Pool. We huddle together and watch through the porch railing as Owen Loney jockeys the lobster boat in a tight turn and inches it against the bumpers. Gulls on the pylons take to the air, screeching their annoyance.
I study him for signs of something unusual. I’ve known this man my whole life. He was almost like an uncle. Now he frightens me. He could be a maniac psycho-killer lover kidnapper.
“What does that say on the boat?” Ella pops her head up, and I yank her down.
“Blythe Spirit. That’s the name of the boat.”
She looks at me with wide-open eyes framed with what I now know is Elfin Forest Green shadow. “Blythe Spirit? As in Blythe Stillford Spirit?”
Of course this would surprise Ella. But the town’s had a long time to get used to it. It’s part of Owen Loney’s dedication to Ms. Stillford. Mom calls it “carrying a torch.” I don’t get that expression, but I get that he named the boat after her, which is the highest honor a fisherman can give someone.
Maybe it’s not dedication or carrying a torch—it’s obsession. He always offers her a ride. He always holds the door for her. He always brings her punch at the Fourth of July picnic. He plows her driveway after a snow. He shovels her walk. He fixes her flat tires.
“Okay, let’s get serious. What are his patterns?” Ella’s voice gets louder.
“Shhhh.” I put my finger to my lips. “His patterns?”
“My dad says criminals all have patterns they live by. Actually, everyone has patterns. You can catch a criminal by studying their regular daily movements, then looking for variations.”
“I already know that. That’s why we need to know if he was missing for eight hours to drive to Houlton and back on Saturday for the postmark.”
“If you’re so smart,” Ella says, “what’s he doing now? Is it in his pattern? And when will he leave so we can get on that boat and find some evidence?”
I peek at the boat. He’s swinging lobster-filled crates up onto the dock.
“He’ll take all the lobsters inside and dump them in the tanks, then he’ll clean the boat. After that, he’ll go to Gusty’s for lunch. Then he’ll come back here to wait for the restaurant buyers.”
“So we can snoop around while he’s at lunch?”
“And since Mom won’t be back from Rook River until three o’clock, we can go search Ms. Stillford’s too.”
Ella looks toward the pound and says, “Come on, Owen Loney, you nasty old kidnapper! Get a move on.”
24
Owen Loney takes twenty-seven minutes to finish unloading the lobsters, spray down the boat, and drive away.
I open the pound’s creaky screen door. Owen Loney never locks it. The smell of lobsters hits us in the face, and Ella gags. A long counter keeps customers away from the lobster tanks, but Ella and I can hear the clacking of claws against stainless steel. Handwritten signs advertise various sizes of lobster: 1 pound, 1 ¼ pound, 1 ½ pound, 1 ¾ pound, 2 pound, Higher.
We slip behind the counter. The lobsters squirm and spider-leg over each other.
“What’s with the red rubber bands?” Ella asks. “So they don’t snap you when you hold them?”
“They’re cannibals,” I say. “If they weren’t banded, they’d eat each other.”
Ella shivers. “Sick.”
The menu on the wall reads: Steamed/Boiled/Picked. Ask for price by the day.
Ella walks over to a wall with old-time photographs of men in fishing gear. Each has a small nameplate at the bottom. Every one of them has the last name Loney, but one in particular captures Ella’s interest: HASWELL LONEY, 1927−2006. Haswell stands in front of the pound, wearing rubber overalls and grinning with a mouth full of broken teeth.
“Ben’s uncle John says that Haswell was ‘a mean old devil,’” I tell her.
“I guess that explains how the family has a kidnapper in it,” Ella says.
“I guess.”
“Where does he sleep?”
I point toward the far corner where a small doorway leads to stairs. “Up there.”
I’ve never been up the stairs or even imagined what it would be like, but once Ella and I sprint to the top and look into the apartment, all I can say is, “Wow.”
“It looks like Captain Jack Sparrow lives here,” Ella says.
The room has a tiny kitchen in one corner and a bed in the other, along with hardwood floors, a massive braid rug, an oak table with a round top, hurricane lamps, a carved wooden pelican, a pipe stand, and a framed map of the coastline from 1936. Oh, and Owen Loney’s bookcase—mysteries. I pull one off the shelf and flip it over. Bracing and spectacular. Best nautical suspense novel of the year. And another: Heroism, madness, and savagery.
Ella and I look at each other and laugh nervously.
“This place is neater than I thought it would be,” I say.
Framed photographs crowd the top of the bookcase: Owen Loney and John Denby (and Ms. Stillford) in their high school senior class picture; Owen Loney with his parents and Ms. Stillford at the christening of the Blythe Spirit (Ms. Stillford holds the champagne bottle); Owen Loney on the Blythe Spirit, dressed as Santa Claus, tossing candy canes to me, Zoe, and Ben (Ms. Stillford stands next to us).
“This bedspread is serious work.” Ella fingers the edge of a patchwork quilt. I point to the initials embroidered in the corner: BS.
“Ms. Stillford made this quilt.”
“Do you think he stole it from her house?” Ella asks.
“Or maybe she gave to him . . . or made it for him,” I say. I’ve never seen it before. Maybe there’s a lot I don’t know about Ms. Stillford.
Ella opens the closet and leans over.
“What are you doing?” I say.
“I’m looking through the dirty clothes basket.”
I run to the window to be sure Owen Loney isn’t coming. We’ll never be able to explain what we
’re doing in his apartment, or worse, in his closet looking through his dirty clothes.
“Oh my gosh!” Ella springs up with a T-shirt in her hands. A dark, almost black spot stains the center—over the heart. “Blood.”
“Are you sure it’s not oil?” Not blood. Not blood.
“No. This looks like blood.”
“Smell it,” I say.
“I’m not going to smell it. You smell it. She’s your teacher.”
“Like I can recognize the smell of her blood. You’ve got glitter in your brain.” I grab the shirt and touch the spot. It’s dry. Of course it is. It has been days since he would have snatched Ms. Stillford. I scrape the edge of the stain with my fingernail. Flakes drift to the floor.
“Let’s take it with us,” Ella says and starts to roll it up.
“No! He’ll know someone is onto him and then he’ll do I-don’t-know-what to her.”
“Well, take a picture of it with your phone.”
I select three wrong apps before the camera comes up. “Hold it up by the window so you can tell it’s in this apartment,” I say.
“Hurry, hurry,” she says. “We have to search the boat.”
I don’t think more than thirty seconds pass before we are jumping onto the Blythe Spirit. Ella has no sea legs and lands on her butt in the first step. The boat lurches sideways and bumps against the dock. Ella’s shoes spew glittery sparkles on the planking.
“Grab the gunwale,” I yell.
“What’s the gunwale?” she yells back.
“It’s the railing, the edge, the ledge, the top of the little fence around the deck.” I decide to just grab it myself.
“Oh, the gunwale.”
There aren’t many places to search on a lobster boat—a few compartments, some chests, the cockpit. But Ella starts thrashing through everything she can find. I try to imagine where Owen Loney might stash any incriminating evidence. Then I see a rolled-up, lumpy wad of canvas.
It has something long and weighty inside of it, like a five-pound mallet. Ella takes it from me and starts to unwrap it. At the same time, we hear a car turning off Mile Stretch Road, heading in our direction at a good clip. It has to be Owen Loney, coming back from Gusty’s.
The Maypop Kidnapping Page 11