by Barbara Ross
“Did you ever hear Sonny was partnering with Peter?”
Chris looked up sharply. “Why do you ask?”
“Binder told me last night the feds and the Maine Drug Task Force agents believe Sonny was Peter’s partner.”
“Then yeah. I did hear rumors.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Chris spread his arms wide. “Julia, we had an agreement not to talk about what I did last summer. There was no way to tell you Sonny was doing the exact same thing.”
He had a point. Still, the secret stung. “How many times did Peter go to Canada after he took over from you?”
“Two, I think. Maybe three.”
“Did Sonny go with him?”
“Not that I ever heard. As far as I know, he met Peter’s boat somewhere at sea so Peter wasn’t the one bringing the goods in, in case he was being tracked. Sonny brought the medications into the harbor.”
That explained why Sonny had no unexplained overnight absences. It also supported the cops’ theory that Sonny brought the drugs in on the Abby.
“Did you ever hear anything about Peter and Sonny smuggling oxycodone?”
“No. I thought they were doing exactly what I’d done. Prescriptions for specific people who had them from a doctor. Period.”
“Did you ever hear there was anything weird about the prescriptions—bottles with odd labels, wrong medications, people getting sick?”
“No, I swear.”
My mind was still a muddle. I couldn’t make any of it fit. The prescriptions. The oxycodone. The phone call to Sonny. The poisoning of Mrs. Gus. The murder of David Thwing. “I don’t understand what happened.”
Chris shifted his weight on the banquette. “I think I do, at least some of it. It’s purely speculation based on what I’ve heard around town and what I’ve you’ve told me about the investigation.”
“Go ahead,” I said.
“Peter was in tough financial shape. Three little kids, a dependent mother-in-law. He saw a chance to expand his operation and bring in drugs that were wanted, but not prescribed. Oxycodone.”
“How would it work if he did that?”
“He’d have to find a supplier. It wouldn’t be hard. Maybe he’d track one down on his own, or maybe one of his potential buyers on this end would make the connection.”
“And the connection was Thwing.”
“Yes, and Thwing would change Peter’s entire operation. He’d no longer enter Canadian waters himself. He’d meet a larger ship at an agreed upon location at sea. Thwing must have persuaded Peter it was best to pick up everything from the same supplier. Drugs for his prescription customers, too. Most likely the drugs weren’t from Canada at all. Maybe they came through there, but were manufactured somewhere else. South or Central America, Europe, Africa, Asia. There’s a lot of money in drugs.”
“Why was Thwing on board the El Ay?” I asked.
“Thwing was probably introducing the supplier to Peter. Someone who needed Thwing to personally vouch for Peter and put up the money, before he’d deliver the drugs to him the first time.”
“I get that part. What I don’t understand is how Mrs. Gus got the bad medication. If Peter and Thwing were the only people on that boat, and they’re dead, who brought the drugs to town? There must have been a third person.”
“That’s where they think Sonny comes in,” Chris said.
I put my head in my hands. “Yes,” I admitted. “That’s what they’re saying.” My poor sister. I was sure Sonny hadn’t meant to hurt Mrs. Gus, but if he’d brought the tainted drugs into the harbor . . . I couldn’t bear to think about it. “But why would he do it? I get why you did what you did. Fetching prescriptions for people who couldn’t afford them might seem altruistic. But oxycodone? With a wife and daughter and new baby on the way, why take a risk like that? Sonny’s not well off, but with the clambake back on its feet, they have enough to get by.”
“I see what you mean.” Chris took my hand. “When I fell in love, I had to stop.”
I gripped Chris’s hand more tightly. “Now that all this has come up, about the drugs from Canada, will the cops come after you?”
“I don’t think so. There’s no evidence against me. I didn’t make any money or keep any drugs. They’re not going to catch me in the act, which was my worst nightmare, because I’ve given it up. I suppose one of my old customers could rat me out, but the cops have bigger fish to fry.”
“That’s a relief.” I let his hand go.
“That’s why I gave it up. I never wanted you to worry.”
Why hadn’t Sonny had the same consideration for my sister?
We sat silently, each absorbed in our own thoughts. Finally, I said, “What are you doing when you finish here?”
“I have to get to the marina as soon as the lunch rush is over. We’re taking the Dark Lady out of the water this afternoon. I want it done before the storm they’re predicting comes in.” We looked out the window at the steel-gray clouds sitting low in the sky.
The idea of the Dark Lady, the first place I’d ever spent the night with Chris, shrink-wrapped, sitting on a trailer in his driveway made me sad. Another marker of the season passing.
“You?” Chris asked.
“I have stuff to do,” I said.
Chris grinned. “Oh, yeah. Stuff. Be careful.”
One of the things I treasured most about Chris was he let me be me. In situations like this one, where it was obvious how determined I was, he said, “Be careful,” not “Don’t do it.” Which would have been a waste of breath anyway.
The clack of the kitchen door told us Genevieve was back. Early lunch customers would arrive soon.
He reached for my hand again. “Are we okay?”
I smiled. “We’re fine.”
Chapter 31
After I left Gus’s, I sat in the Caprice for a while. Four nights ago, Livvie had asked for my help because she believed Sonny was innocent. I’d believed it, too. Now I wasn’t so sure. I wasn’t interested in helping the police prove Sonny was Peter’s partner. Or was involved in Mrs. Gus’s poisoning, or the murder of David Thwing.
But I also found it unbelievable Sonny would be involved in a smuggling operation with Thwing, whom he hated. Or with oxycodone, especially given Kyle’s addiction. It didn’t make sense.
So how could Peter have possibly persuaded Sonny to go along with the venture? I thought the buoys Quentin had found might hold the key.
I drove all the way out to the end of Westclaw Point and bumped down Quentin’s driveway, which was really a pair of tracks, separated by a mound of grass. I was relieved to see his old wooden-sided station wagon parked at the end of the drive and, as I came across the deck, to see the Flittermouse bobbing at its dock.
I knocked at the sliding glass door that provided entry to the granite and glass fortress of a house. Quentin appeared from somewhere in the back and unlocked it. He didn’t invite me in, but instead stepped out onto the deck. It was a bit chilly for talking outside. Rough weather was coming.
“What brings you all the way out here?” Quentin asked.
“The buoys you found out by Coldport Island the day Thwing was murdered. They’re Peter’s,” I said.
“How do you know? I never got around to tracking down the license holder.”
“I was out with Sonny on the Abby yesterday and we hauled some of Peter’s traps.”
Quentin wrinkled his tanned brow. “You, out on the Abby, hauling traps?”
“It’s a long story. When you found the buoys, were there any others around?”
Quentin squinted, remembering. We both stood along the rail of his deck. He hadn’t asked me to sit down, and I doubt I could have contained my energy. “Yes, there were other buoys,” he said. “But they were attached to traps, not floating free. And they were different colors. Orange and bright blue.”
The Ramsey colors. “Thanks.” I turned to go.
“Hey, wait. Why does it matter?”
So
nny had called Peter a dub, a poor lobsterman. But lobstermen had another derisive term, “copycat.” A copycat had no lobstering instincts of his own, but placed his traps near a highliner’s, trying to horn in on his territory. If Peter had followed Bard hoping to find his traps, chances were he’d figured out Bard had an arrangement with the Coldporters. That knowledge could have been the leverage Peter used to get Sonny involved in the prescription-drug-running scheme in the first place. Or, Peter could have saved it for when he really thought he needed it—when he had to persuade Sonny to smuggle oxycodone.
I didn’t say any of this to Quentin. To him, I said, again, “Long story.”
He opened his mouth to protest, but seemed to think better of it. We said our good-byes and I walked to the end of the deck.
“What did you decide about the job?” Quentin called.
I turned around. “Nothing yet.” Though I was fast approaching the place where no decision was a decision. Same with the apartment over Gleason’s, if it wasn’t rented by now. And if we didn’t properly secure Windsholme soon, it would probably be destroyed by the winter weather and the option of restoring it would disappear. Why couldn’t I make decisions all of a sudden? I’d made them without looking back for years. Was I so worried about making the wrong decisions, I couldn’t make any decisions at all?
“The job’s not right for you,” Quentin said.
Alone in his polished granite monolith of a mansion, I often thought of Quentin as Batman. In fact, I suspected he cultivated it, naming his sailboat Flittermouse—the bat. He had rescued me once, I had to admit, by putting his money in the clambake. Quentin’s form of righting wrongs involved writing checks, not physical bravery.
I was tired of his interfering advice, and his withholding—the one-sidedness of our relationship that made my life fair game, while his was out of bounds. What kind of friendship was this? Quentin’s kind.
I lost my temper. “Since you’re the greatest living expert on what’s not right for me, would you mind telling me what is right? And bear in mind, we’re talking about what’s right for me, not what’s right for you. I can’t live like you do. No job. No relationship. A few months in one place and then gone. Empty house. Empty life. Not for me.”
Quentin went pale behind his tan and his jaw slackened. I had hurt him.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “That was uncalled for. I really need a friend right now. You’ve told me over and over what’s wrong for me. Please tell me, what’s right for me?”
Quentin raised his head and looked at me with such concern, I couldn’t doubt he was my friend. “I only mean, when it’s right, you’ll know it instantly. You won’t have to struggle so hard to decide.”
“Thanks,” I said. But what if nothing like that comes along?
I drove back to town. When I rang the bell at Bard’s house, he answered.
“Julia! Darlin’. Come in.”
Belle stood behind him, leaning on her walker. She looked gray and worn, like the life had gone out of her.
“Is Kyle here?” I asked.
“Hauling traps with Sonny today.”
Good. I wanted this conversation to be private.
Bard sat in his shiny recliner, Belle on the sofa, her walker parked nearby. I remained standing, feeling a little guilty about trying to intimidate two older people, both coping with significant physical issues.
“It’s time for you two to tell the truth,” I said.
I’d been pleased, but not surprised, to find them together. Bard’s house must have been where Belle fled after her fight with her daughter.
“I know you two are a couple.” I stated the obvious, gaining confidence as I spoke. “You both attend the eight a.m. PT sessions at the Busman’s Harbor Hospital on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, though you weren’t there this morning.”
“Belle didn’t feel up to it,” Bard confirmed. “This thing with Peter is really getting to her.”
Belle nodded her agreement.
“The two of you knew Peter was smuggling prescription drugs,” I continued.
Bard protested, but Belle said quietly, “Enough. This has gone far enough. A man is dead. My son-in-law is missing and all that’s left is to find his body. I’m here in this house, even though my daughter and grandchildren need me more than they ever have. I can’t go on keeping all these secrets.”
She bowed her head. The room was still. I waited for her to find the words.
Finally, she spoke. ”Peter took over picking up the prescriptions from your boyfriend.”
“How did he get involved with Thwing?”
“The prescriptions didn’t bring in any real money. Peter charged more than Chris did, but if he charged too much, his customers wouldn’t be saving money. It wouldn’t be worth the bother to get the drugs from Canada. My daughter convinced Peter to distribute the oxycodone.”
“Lorrie Ann was involved?” Much as I blamed Sonny for keeping his activities secret from Livvie, I had to admit his behavior was typical. Most lobstermen never would have talked to their wives about such things.
“Involved?” Belle said “She talked Peter into it. He was a nice man, but no backbone. Lorrie Ann always pushed him around.” Belle inhaled deeply. “I begged her to think about her little children, and the danger their father would be in. But she wouldn’t listen.” Belle looked into my eyes. “With this hip, I’m completely dependent on them. For a place to live, transportation. They even help me out financially. So I argued as long as I felt I could, but then I shut up.”
“But you told Bard.”
“Everything. Right here in this room. The day before all this happened.”
“Did Sonny know about the oxycodone?”
“No,” Belle answered. “Never. Lorrie Ann and Peter weren’t going to tell him, either. Sonny didn’t make the runs to Canada. He met Peter at sea somewhere with the Abby, picked up the prescriptions, and brought them into the harbor, in case the El Ay had been spotted by the authorities anywhere along the way.”
Exactly as Chris had described.
“The plan was for Sonny to meet them with the Abby, the way he had before,” Belle continued. “By that time, the oxycodone would be aboard the El Ay. Sonny would be angry, but Peter and Lorrie Ann were confident he’d play along.”
They would have relied on Peter’s long friendship with Sonny. And if that didn’t work, Peter would have threatened to reveal Bard’s arrangement with the Coldport co-op.
I turned to Bard. “So you tried to put a stop to it. You called Sonny from the PT waiting room. You disguised your voice and gave him that terrible message to make sure he would be too late to meet the El Ay.”
“I did not.” He spoke forcefully, but also forthrightly, looking me in the eye. I believed him.
I turned to Belle. “Then you made the call.” Her gravelly smoker’s voice would easily sound like a man’s. Especially since, after her first sentence was out, Sonny’s brain wouldn’t register anything except his fear.
“No, I didn’t, either.” She looked away from me, gazing into the kitchen. “But I would’ve if I’d thought of it. No point in two families being torn up by this.”
“Why didn’t you just tell Sonny what was going to happen?” I asked Bard.
He didn’t answer for a moment. Then he said, “I’d talked to Sonny about this prescription business in the past. Whenever I tried to reason with him, I’d get one sentence into it and he’d blow up. Even though he wasn’t crossing the border, he was bringing prescription drugs into this harbor in my boat. If he’d been caught, the Abby would have been confiscated. We’d fought about it before. I wouldn’t have gotten anywhere. You know how he is.”
Yes, I did. Stubborn as a mule. “After PT on the day of Thwing’s murder, you came home from the hospital. That’s when Sonny got here, right Bard?” When I first talked to him about Sonny’s visit, I’d thought Bard was lying. But the alibi he supplied was more important than ever. The police believed Thwing was killed befo
re noon. The more of that time period Sonny could account for, the better.
Bard shook his head. “You might as well know. I didn’t see Sonny that morning. We were late coming home from PT. Lorrie Ann never picked us up. We had to take a cab. When I helped Belle into her house, we discovered Lorrie Ann was gone. She’d left the kids with a neighbor and a note for her mother to retrieve them. Belle doesn’t move around so easily, so I went to get them and then stayed to help out.”
This was news. “Lorrie Ann wasn’t home Monday morning? Could she have been aboard the El Ay with Peter and Thwing?”
“If she was, how’d she get home?” Belle said. “Because she was home by one o’clock. No one else aboard the El Ay made it home that day.”
It was a good question. “Belle, you said you wanted this to be over. You two need to go to the police,” I said.
“It’s hearsay,” Bard shot back. “Conversations Belle overheard. For me, it’s hearsay once removed, since Belle told me.”
“I can’t do that to my grandchildren.” Tears spilled from Belle’s eyes. “They’ve already lost their father. They can’t lose their mother, too. Lorrie Ann is pushy and greedy, but I don’t believe she could’ve killed that man.”
“Then why tell me?”
“Please help us,” Belle pleaded. “Figure out what really happened and bring this to an end.”
We had the same goal, but I wasn’t sure I could. The only thing I could think to do was persuade Lorrie Ann to tell the authorities what she knew. But I wasn’t sure Belle would be happy with the outcome if I was successful.