The Maypop Kidnapping

by C. M. Surrisi

  I feel her hand on my arm. “Rock stars? Which rock stars?”

  “Rock-ers, not stars.”

  Ben laughs.

  “What are their names?” she asks.

  “We don’t know,” Ben says. “They’re tattooed and wear rock band clothes. That’s all. I don’t think they’re even musicians.”

  “I call the big guy Skullfinger,” I say, “because he wears a skull ring.”

  “What are they doing here?” she asks.

  “Being obnoxious,” I say. “You’ll see. They love the lobster fries.”

  Ella shivers. “Lobster on fries. Yuck. I’ll just take the fries, please.”

  “It’s not lobster on fries. It’s fries you eat with lobster. Extra-crunchy with a bowl of melted butter with saffron and lime juice for dipping.” Ben sounds like Dad explaining the menu to summer people. “They’re really good.”

  “Whatevs,” she says. “Let’s go see these pseudo rock stars.”

  28

  My eyeballs bug out when we walk in Gusty’s and I see Mom sitting at a table with the rockers, showing them pictures of property for sale in Maiden Rock. Dad bangs around behind the counter, drying his hands and shooting negative vibes toward Mom’s real-estate presentation.

  Ella, Ben and I flop down at our table, and Dad brings over bottles of Moxie, glasses of ice, and a bowl of Cheese Nips.

  “Them?” I whisper.

  Dad has his back to her and peeks over his shoulder before he shakes his head ever so slightly. “Go figure.”

  Ella cranes her neck to see around Dad. “Who are they? Are they in a band?”

  “I guess you guys would have to tell me that. I don’t know much about bands these days.”

  Dad is right about that. When I asked him last year what song he wanted as a ring tone, he said “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” by the Rolling Stones. Like it was totally cool and I would be impressed. Then he said, “What? The Rolling Stones are one of the most influential bands in the history of rock music.” Groan. At least he didn’t claim that the Rolling Stones were the uncontested kings of rock ’n’ roll.

  Skullfinger looks at each page Mom gives him and shakes his head. Mom tries a few more. No. No. No. Then Skullfinger gestures out the window, toward the point, and says a lot of stuff like “that way” and “you’re not hearing me.” Finally, he sits back in his chair and tosses the pages on the table. The overhead light reflects off the gold cross dangling from his ear. His tone is demanding—like Mom should find him what he wants or he’ll talk to another real estate agent. She sits patiently and gives him her full attention.

  The earring is a tiny version of the cross the other guy, Stevie, wears around his neck. I pop the top on my Moxie and pour it over the ice. Fizz travels like a cloud over my hand.

  “What are we drinking?” Ella looks in my glass.

  “Moxie,” Ben and I say at the same time.

  Ben launches into everything-you-ever-wanted-to-know mode. “It’s the oldest soda in the United States. It’s from 1884. It’s, like, even older than ginger ale.”

  Ella snaps her tab and pours the sparkly soda. She watches it like it might be poison, then lifts the glass to her lips and takes the teeniest sip.

  “Ugh! It tastes like toothpaste,” she says. “I’ll take a coffee.”

  Dad, Ben, and I laugh.

  “Let me bring you guys some Gusty burgers and lobster fries,” Dad says.

  “I’ll take a burger but no lobster fries for me,” Ella wrinkles her nose.

  Clearly, she wasn’t paying attention when Ben explained what they were.

  Dad walks away wearily. He is not enjoying the afternoon.

  As we wait, I catch more snippets of the conversation between Skullfinger and Mom: “. . . That old joint . . . Premium oceanfront.” I begin to get it: he’s interested in the convent, and Mom’s trying to explain that it isn’t on the market. But she isn’t discouraging him either. She says things like, “I’ll contact the archdiocese and tell them there is an interested buyer.” Skullfinger likes this. Then I hear Mom say, “If it’s okay with the monsignor, I’ll get an appraiser out to determine a current value.” Skullfinger wants to “get in and take a look.” Mom tries to put him off a “day or so.”

  As the rockers pull the café door closed behind them, Skullfinger draws a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and pulls one out with his lips. Mom calls out, “I’ll get back to you as soon as I hear. Tomorrow morning. Yes, I’m sure, tomorrow morning.”

  I can tell she’s in real-estate dream state as she walks to our table.

  “What are you doing, Mom?”

  “I’m trying to improve Maiden Rock, that’s what I’m doing. They want to develop the property into condos.”

  “Those guys?” Ben’s eyebrows arch.

  “I knew they were real rock stars,” Ella says.

  “Who are they?” I ask.

  Mom pulls a paper out of her stack and reads, “John Bard.”

  “I never heard of any musician named John Bard,” Ben says.

  “Who said they were rock stars?” Mom asks.

  Dad arrives with the food and jumps into the conversation. “If those guys aren’t rock stars, where will they get the money to buy the convent and develop condos?”

  “What? I can’t believe you’re judging them by their appearance,” Mom says.

  Instead of joining the argument, I think cigarettes, necklace, earrings. What if these guys were the ones smoking cigarettes behind the Abbots? What if they weren’t lost and looking for Rook River? What if they were casing the empty houses along the coast? What if they’re not innocent real estate buyers or even buyers at all? What if they just want to get in the convent and see if there’s anything to steal, like Virgin Mary statues or golden chalices?

  Now my brain is on fire. What if they have something to do with Ms. Stillford’s being gone? And why isn’t Mom thinking the same thing? That was her theory—burglars!

  “Do they know you’re the sheriff?” I ask.

  “They called my Maiden Rock Realty line,” Mom says. “I had no reason to mention it.”

  “What about Ms. Stillford? Aren’t you going to search tomorrow?” I look at her like, I can’t believe you’re not putting this together!

  She calls me over to the other side of the room.

  “I took her lobster brooch to the jeweler in Rook River and had it appraised,” Mom whispers. “It’s worth twelve thousand dollars.” She looks at me like, Are you going to tell me this isn’t a robbery motive?

  I’m about to say the rockers may be the ones with the robbery motive when she cuts me off. “So I’m going to turn the investigation over to the Rook River Police and the state police and the FBI. They have the resources to expand the search beyond Maiden Rock.”

  I don’t believe this. Can’t she see what’s right in front of her? Is she that focused on a possible real estate deal?

  I look over at the table where Ben is showing Ella how to eat a lobster fry and she’s laughing at him.

  “Saffron,” Ben says. “Don’t they have saffron in New York City?” Ella responds by picking up a fry, making an exaggerated swish around the butter cup, and arcing it to her mouth. I check the window to see if the rockers’ Escalade is gone.

  Mom’s eyes follow mine.

  “What, Quinn? What is it?”

  I want to say something about the rockers being suspects, but I’m pretty sure that will get me another big lecture about staying out of the investigation. I calculate that she won’t be too surprised or upset if I casually ask about my original suspect. “Mom, did you interview Owen Loney?”

  “Yes. Yes, I did.”

  “And?”

  “And he’s worried sick about Blythe. The man’s a wreck. He wants me to ride on his boat up and down the coast with him looking for her. He wants me to call the FBI, the CIA, the NSA, and CSI. If he’s the one who kidnapped her, that’s pretty bizarre behavior.”

  Now I’m sure that telling her a
bout the bloody hook and the T-shirt would be useless. She’s made up her mind about him. And all of a sudden, I’m maybe changing mine a little too. That could have been dried ketchup.

  “Okay. I gotta go eat.” I turn away from her. I need to start investigating whether the rockers are robbers. I need to find proof. That’s what convinces sheriffs. Proof.

  I feel Mom’s hand on my shoulder. “Quinnie?”

  I wait.

  “I love you, Quinn. I know you love Blythe. We will find her. They will find her. They have the resources to find her. And I’m not giving up. I’m just broadening the search.”

  I walk to my table and plop down, but I can’t eat a single lobster fry.

  Ella, however, can’t stop eating them. Of course—first timers never can. But she finally gets to the Gusty burger and oohs and aahs her way through that.

  “You could totally make a zillion dollars with these in the city. People would go Whac-A-Mole over them.”

  “I need to go home,” I say.

  Ella looks at me with a sad face like she doesn’t want to leave the plate of lobster fries or Ben.

  I push back my chair, but not before Owen Loney bursts through the door and marches straight in our direction.

  29

  “This yours, girl?” Owen Loney says. He slides my phone across the table. Ella almost chokes on a fry.

  Dad quickly walks over. “Hi, Owen, what’s up?”

  Owen Loney’s face is as red as a boiled lobster. “Found that phone.”

  Dad looks at it, then at me. “Quinnie? Is that yours?

  No use denying it. “Yes. I lost it.”

  “On my boat,” Owen Loney says. “Where she had no business being.”

  I go for the closest to the truth. “I was showing Ella a lobster boat.”

  As soon as I say it, I realize how stupid it sounds. It’s not close enough.

  Owen Loney snorts.

  “Okay, let’s simmer down here,” Dad says.

  “I’ll simmer down when she brings back what she took,” Owen Loney says.

  “Quinnie? Did you take something from the Blythe Spirit?” Dad says.

  I can’t believe it. He’s not saying “Give me back my hook,” but I know what he wants. I turn to Ella for support. She’s slunk down in her chair.

  “She better bring it back,” Owen Loney barks.

  Give him back the incriminating evidence? No way. I completely forget that a minute ago I was considering the rockers as suspects. “Maybe Mr. Loney can explain why he was mentioned in Ms. Stillford’s letter?” I add a silent humph with my chin.

  “She was trying to send me a message,” he yells. “To save her!” Droplets of spit fly out of his mouth and land near the platter of lobster fries.

  “Or she was trying to tell Mom that you—”

  “Okay! Okay! Okay!” Dad steps in between our table and Owen Loney, putting his hand against Owen Loney’s chest and turning him around. As Owen Loney moves toward the door, he yells, “Fool girl!”

  “Just a kid,” Dad says as they go outside, “. . . loves Blythe . . . we’re all worried sick . . .”

  “Did you hear that?” I shout at Ella and Ben. My heart is pounding in my ears. “He thinks her letter is a message to him! That’s ridiculous.” I’m not sure why I’m so worked up. A few minutes ago, I was thinking of scratching him off the suspect list.

  Ben and Ella are looking at me with eyes the size of pie plates.

  Dad returns, shaking his head. “Quinnie—”

  “Don’t say anything.”

  “I’m not saying anything other than everybody’s upset about Blythe, but we can’t take it out on each other.”

  “You don’t know—”

  “You’re right,” Dad says. “I don’t know everything that’s going on, but I know this. You need to calm down. And you need to return whatever you took from Owen’s boat first thing tomorrow.” His right cheek is twitching, which I have only seen once before. (It involved a broken refrigerator and three days’ worth of spoiled crabmeat.) He takes a breath and says, “You and Mariella should head home now. You too, Ben.”

  Ella opens her mouth to say something, but Ben interrupts her. “She prefers Ella, like Ella Marvell.”

  Ella snaps, “I think I can tell him that myself.”

  “Fine, fine. Everybody’s a little on edge. You girls get going,” Dad says. Ben shrinks like a deflated balloon, gets up, zips his hoodie with a jerk, and leaves. Through the window, I see him take off running toward home.

  Before Ella and I are even out the door, Dad pulls out his phone. He’s calling Mom, for sure. What a mess.

  On the walk home, I can’t stop repeating every word Owen Loney said and every word I said.

  “That was crazy,” Ella says. “I couldn’t believe how you pounced on old Owen Loney. He was spitting mad.”

  “My mom won’t be as impressed as you are.”

  “So stay over at my house tonight.”

  * * *

  Mr. Philpotts smiles when Ella tells him I’m staying over.

  “Good. I’m being interviewed by the publisher of the Rook River Valley Advertiser over dinner in Rook River,” he says. “You girls can figure out something to eat, right?”

  “We just ate,” Ella says. “Gusty burgers and lobster fries.”

  “That’s sounds pretty down east, ayuh?” he says and laughs at himself. “Hey, do I sound like a Mainiac?”

  I almost hate to smack him down, but I do it for his own good. “Mainahs, not Mainiacs. And only really old guys who wear L.L.Bean hats with earflaps are allowed to say ayuh.”

  He considers this for a second, then says, “Thanks for the tip.”

  “I figured you didn’t want to sound like the summer people or anything.”

  When I call Mom to ask her if I can stay over at Ella’s, she says, “Fine,” and I can tell from the tone of her “fine” that she’s heard about the Owen Loney incident from Dad and she’s trying to keep a lid on her temper.

  * * *

  When Mr. Philpotts is gone, Ella leads me into her dad’s study.

  “I wonder what Ben’s doing,” I say. “He looked kind of bummed.”

  “That guy needs a time out. Really.”

  I shrug my shoulders like maybe, but I really mean maybe not.

  “What?” Ella says. “Do you like him?”

  I grab a magazine and flip through the pages. I didn’t expect a writer’s study to have stacks of bird magazines: Bird Watching, Bird Talk, Living Bird, and five pairs of binoculars. “Is your dad a bird-watcher?”

  “No. He’s writing a murder mystery about three women where one of them kills the others over who sees the most birds in a year. When he researches a novel he really gets into it. But you’re trying to change the subject.” Ella pulls the magazine from my hands and looks me eye to eye. “Tell the truth. I mean, you know, do you like-like Ben?”

  I think I am going to say “yes,” but instead what pops out is, “I’ve known him all my life.”

  She turns back to the bookshelf. “There is an endless supply of cute guys in New York, you know. You could come and visit me after we go back, if you want.”

  She sounds like Zoe. She thinks I only like Ben because he’s the only boy in town all year round. And maybe I should meet the guys in New York, but I don’t want to. I’m loyal to Ben. Of course, Ben doesn’t know this.

  Ella pulls some books off the shelf and flops onto the leather sofa. “I’m not saying he’s not cute—in a Mainah kind of way—it’s just that there are soooo many guys in the world who don’t answer your questions for you.”

  “He wasn’t being rude,” I say. And I wonder why I’m defending him to her. I’d be better off if she thought he was a creep. But he wasn’t being rude. He was being Ben, Mr. Walking Wikipedia.

  “Look at this.” Ella hands me a mystery novel.

  The cover has dark shadows, sharp angles, and the chalk outline of a body. The Hard-Boiled Boneyard.

  �
�What’s it about?”

  “It’s about a man who loves a woman, but she won’t love him back, so he bonks her on the head.”

  I get chills.

  “And this.” Ella hands me The Homely Heart. It has a torn valentine on the cover.

  “What’s this about?”

  “He pushes her off a bridge.”

  “Does your dad let you read these?

  “Are you kidding? No way. But I do anyway.” She climbs on a stool and reaches for another one. “And this. Dark Observer. He hangs around the investigation and he offers to help. He’s really nice to her family, but all the time he has her locked in his basement.”

  “Yuck. Don’t show me any more.”

  An old-fashioned clock on the shelf is ticking loud enough to echo in my head. Ella is reaching for another book when I stop her.

  “Wait. Listen. It might not be Owen Loney.”

  “What? Owen Loney totally did it,” she says. “If there’s a basement in that lobster pound, your teacher is in it.”

  “There’s no basement in the pound. And besides, he wants to take Mom searching up and down the coast with his boat and call the FBI.” I pause to get her full attention. “I think maybe it’s those rockers. I think they’re robbers.”

  “The rockers are robbers? And they kidnapped Ms. Stillford? Are you kidding? Have you lost your little Maine mind?”

  “Listen. Suppose the rockers knew Ms. Stillford had valuable jewelry, like her ruby lobster pin. And suppose they went to her house to steal it, and somehow she discovered them, and they kidnapped her to keep her quiet.” I feel a little like Mom with my supposes.

  “If they kidnapped her, why are they trying to buy property in Maiden Rock?

  “Maybe they don’t want to buy property. That’s an excuse to get into the convent and see what there is to steal.”

  “Yeah, but if they did something to Ms. Stillford, why aren’t they miles and miles from the scene of the crime?” She gathers the books and puts them back on the shelf in the exact right places. “And what about the bloody hook and the T-shirt?” Ella says.

  “It could have been a big fish that tried to jump in the boat, and he had to kill it.”

  Now I’m defending Owen Loney.