by Davis, SJ
“Morning, Len,” Lena said, embracing him.
“Selene!” he said, breaking into a broad grin. “Welcome home. What are you doing around these parts?”
“A camp just listed with Big Moose Properties that I thought I’d check out. It’s April vacation week so I was free to make the drive on short notice.”
“Still looking, huh,” he said.
Lena nodded. “I got the insurance check from my dad’s policy so Alex and I can actually afford it. Not one of those places in Toe of the Boot, or anything,” she added hastily. “Something cheap. We’re thinking small and rustic.”
Annie glanced at the doorway. Her forehead creased. “Speak of the devil, where is Alex?”
“He had to meet his agent in the city so I’m on my own this time. Well, not completely…I brought Zephyr.”
“Just a girl and her faithful old dog, huh?” Lenny said, retreating toward the kitchen.
“Uh huh.”
“Tell me about the camp,” Annie said, turning back to Lena as she deposited a can of black olives into a plastic tub. “Where is it? Moosehead Lake? Wilson Pond?”
Lena shook her head. “South of here, actually. Down past Monson.”
“Dexter?”
“Not that far. Up beyond Blanchard on Breakneck Ridge. Blackwater Pond, to be specific…have you ever heard of it?”
“I know where Blanchard is,” Annie said. “There’s a farm that raises buffalo there. I took Jake’s niece to see them a couple of years ago. Blackwater Pond...” She shook her head. “What time are you headed up there?”
“One-thirty. Want to come?”
“I’d love to, but by one-thirty we’ll be packed. If you’d emailed me sooner I could have switched shifts, but it’s too late, now. We’re a little short-handed these days.”
The bell tinkled as the door opened and an old-timer in jeans and a blaze-orange sweatshirt entered the bar. Annie poured him a Bud draft and recited the specials. “You want the Bangor station, hon?” she asked, turning on the overhead television. The old man nodded and ordered fish and chips. Annie took the slip to the kitchen and returned to her place in front of Lena’s stool with a sigh. “You don’t want a job for the summer, do you?”
Lena shook her head. “I haven’t used a shaker since I left for New York. It’s been twelve years.”
Loading a glass with ice, Annie picked up two bottles, pouring deftly. “Bartending’s kind of like riding a bike,” she said, “it’s not something you forget. A splash of sour, another of lime, and you’ve got a margarita. See? It’s easy.”
Lena shook her head. “Can you imagine what Alex would say if I told him I’d resigned from Deer Run Academy to take a job tending bar?”
Annie chuckled. “I can, as a matter of fact.”
Down the bar, The Black Swan’s sole paying customer turned to them with his finger to his lips. “Shut your yappers, gals. I want to hear this.”
Lena swiveled to face the television as Annie upped the volume. A young man stared seriously from the screen, microphone in hand, poised to speak. His cameraman panned the scene around him and she recognized the main street of Corinna. The second town off the highway, Corinna lay directly across the route of back roads that led from I-95 to Greenville. She’d driven through it an hour before without noticing the crowd.
The camera shifted back to the reporter who cleared his throat and began his story. “Friends and family have gathered here in Corinna at the home of Aurora Nixon’s parents for a Vigil of Hope to mark the first anniversary of the young woman’s disappearance. Nixon, a 2010 graduate of UMaine’s School of Pharmacy, was living and working in Portland when she disappeared last April 17. In a subsequent search of the pharmacy where she worked, the theft of cash and a large amount of prescription drugs was discovered. Circumstantial evidence recovered at the scene links both Nixon and her high school boyfriend, Mark Grontlon, to the theft, but as of this day, neither he nor the missing woman has been formally charged.
“Grontlon, also a native of Corinna, continues to maintain his innocence in the wake of an extended police investigation. Nixon’s parents also deny their daughter’s involvement, insisting instead that she’s the victim of foul play.”
The reporter turned toward the crowd as the camera panned across the solemn faces standing before the modest home of the missing woman’s parents. When the camera shifted back, a photo of a pretty smiling redhead, dressed in a black graduation gown, appeared on the screen above an 800 number.
“Police have asked anyone who may have seen Aurora Nixon in the past year to call this number and ask to speak with Detective Jamison of the Portland Missing Persons Division.” The picture disappeared and the camera focused in on the faces of Aurora Nixon’s parents, a world weary couple in their early 50s.
“Without any new leads to their daughter’s whereabouts, John and Jackie Nixon maintain their hope that Aurora will return home alive and unharmed and that this show of love and support will serve to keep her memory foremost in the public’s thoughts and prayers.
“Live from Corinna, Maine, this is Byron Carlson, reporting for Channel 8 News.”
“She’s dead,” Annie said, turning down the volume.
The old-timer nodded. “Ayuh.”
Lena shook her head.
“Where is she, then? It’s been a whole year since she went missing.”
“She’s shacked up with some skanky guy, stoned out of her mind. Sooner or later she’ll turn herself in, begging forgiveness. They’ll put her on probation, send her off to Betty Ford, and pray for her recovery. She’ll emerge well-rested, praising the twelve-step program and Jesus Christ for her salvation.”
The old-timer shook his head. Annie laughed.
“Oprah will do an interview,” Lena continued. “She’ll sign a book deal, and MGM will pick up the film rights. Natalie Portman will play her in the movie and her boyfriend will be…Jude Law.”
Annie reached for the olives and tossed one across the bar. “You’ve been reading too many of Alex’s stories.”
“You’re probably right.” Lena stretched as she stood. “I’m out of here. Zephyr needs a walk before I head over to Big Moose Properties.”
“Where are you staying? Your dad’s place?”
“The Sled Inn. I shut pop’s house down after the funeral and the water’s still off.”
Annie frowned. “You should have called me. I’ve got plenty of room.” She pushed the phone across the bar. “Cancel the room. They’ll understand.”
Lena shook her head. “I hate to break it to you, Diana Janson, but you’ve got the most uncomfortable couch in the whole world. Thanks, but no thanks.”
“Come back around four-thirty then,” Annie said. “I’m off at five and we can catch up. I’ll want to hear all about the camp.” She plucked a check from the pile and tucked a pen behind her ear as two more customers took seats, then lowered her voice and bent closer. “I’ve got some news of my own, too.”
“What kind of news?” Lena said. “Don’t tell me you’re back with Jake again!”
The phone rang. The bartender picked it up on the second ring. “Black Swan…just a minute, okay?” She held the receiver to her chest, shaking her head. “I’ve got to take this, Lena.”
“But--.”
“Later, gator,” Annie said, nodding toward the door. “I’ll see you at four-thirty and good luck on Breakneck Ridge. I hope it’s perfect!”
Chapter 3.
Outside The Black Swan, the temperature had risen to sixty degrees. Lena stripped off her jacket and tossed it onto the passenger’s seat as she drove the short way to the Sled Inn where she checked in for the night. With a few minutes left to kill, she walked around the property tossing a tennis ball for Zephyr. The big retriever chased it with unrestrained enthusiasm, his golden fur reflecting the sunlight. By twelve o’clock, both she and the dog were limbered up from their long ride. Lena loaded him back into the Jeep and headed for Big Moose Properties on the far side of town.
“Good to see you again, Selene,” she said. “You brought the nice weather with you.”
Beckoning Lena inside, she indicated a chair and poured her a cup of coffee. “Before we get down to business, I want to tell you how sorry I was to hear about your father. I was at the funeral, of course, but I didn’t have a chance to speak with you.”
“Thank you,” Lena said. “I didn’t get to talk to half the people there. The whole town showed up.”
“Well, your father was well-respected and well-liked. We miss him around here.”
Lena blinked back tears while Marge shuffled through the papers on her desk.
“Let’s take a look at the information on the listing before we head out,” the realtor said, eyes averted while she handed Lena a copy of the listing data.
Lena steadied herself and perused the photocopy. The camp had been built in 1950 by the current owner, she read. It was owned land, not leased, purchased from Wild Heights Timber in 1973. The property tax payments were up to date. The exact size of the lot was 6.8 acres with 528 feet of waterfront and deeded access from the logging roads along the ridge. According to the listing info, it was owned by a man from Bangor and the asking price was $360,000.
“Why so cheap?” Lena asked. “With almost 7 acres, I’d have thought it would be priced much higher.”
“The old man’s in a retirement home and eager to unload it, from what I understand,” Marge said. “And, apparently, the place could use a good cleaning. Bernie Morris was up there taking pictures on Saturday and he says it’s pretty dirty.”
“Dirt can be dealt with,” Lena said. “It’s money that’s the issue.”
Marge smiled and shut the folder. “That’s what I thought you’d say. This is for you. Bring it along in case you think of any questions. Everything about the camp should be included on the listing sheet.” Pausing to refill her cup, she led the way to her truck. “Do you want to ride with me, or follow? If you bring your own car, you don’t have to leave when I do…it’s a long way up there, and 7 acres is a lot of land. You’ll probably want to take your time looking it over.”
Lena nodded. “I brought the dog, so I’ll drive.”
“Good.”
The realtor glanced at Lena’s feet, encased in duck boots that reached halfway up her shins and smiled. “I’m glad you came prepared. It’s bound to be messy up there. Bernie said there’s still snow on the ground and its mud season.”
“You don’t have to tell me about mud, Marge,” Lena said. “If there’s one thing I remember about Maine in the spring, it’s the mud.”
Marge Quimby laughed. “Don’t forget the black flies.”
Lena pulled out of the parking lot and headed south on Route 15 behind the realtor’s
Ford. She bypassed the turn-offs to Shirley and the Doughty Ponds and crossed the Appalachian Trail before pulling through the small town of Monson. On the far side of the quarter-mile strip, she followed Marge west. Five miles later, they descended a mile long hill that ended at a crossroads with a bridge that traversed the river. Blanchard Fire Station was painted on the face of a tidy white building to the right in bright red letters. Other than that, there was nothing to indicate that the small settlement was a true town.
Lena crossed the bridge slowly. Beneath her wheels, the Piscataquis River was raging, swollen with the spring melt-off from Breakneck Ridge. Again, she felt tears threaten. As a kid, she’d spent more hours than she could count along the banks of the Piscataquis. It had been first among her father’s favorite hunting grounds and remained a place that housed many fond memories for her, including that of claiming her first buck.
Marge waited while she caught up then turned right onto a hardscrabble road. She kept her speed slow at first, but picked it up again when they passed the sign that announced the beginning of Wild Heights Timber’s land. Lena caught a glimpse or two of the river as the road wound through the woods. Her tires spit gravel and left a trail of dust behind her. Two miles later, a sharp rise in elevation marked the road’s ascent to the top of the ridge.
At the summit Marge turned left onto the Foss Mountain Road, where the air temperature was noticeably cooler than that of the valley below. Lena followed her truck for another three miles past large tracts of logged land before taking a right onto a smaller road, barely discernible under its blanket of snow and ice. Forty yards in, their way was blocked by a metal gate. Marge parked the truck, inserted a key, and swung it open. “It’s not too much farther now,” she called back.
What had been a road quickly became a narrow trail overhung with trees, mainly spruce and pine. Deep ruts were carved in the semi-frozen mud where Bernie Morris’ truck had recently passed and Marge slowed as she negotiated her way deeper into the forest. Finally, her brake lights flashed and she turned into a shallow hollow and parked. Following suit, Lena shut off the Jeep’s engine, opened the hatch for Zephyr, and looked around.
“Where is it?” she asked.
The forest air was absolutely still; there was no sign of the cabin or the pond.
“Down here a spell,” the realtor said, pointing down an overgrown trail.
Lena joined her on what passed for the driveway, ducking under a limb and sidestepping a slushy puddle.
“This place won’t last long,” the real estate agent commented as they negotiated the path. “It’s a good thing you came right up.”
“Has anyone else been in to look at it?”
“As far as I know, you’re the second. Bernie brought a man up Saturday who seemed moderately interested, which is why I called to give you the heads up. Mr. Horton’s ready to move, and once a fair offer’s made, I’m sure it’ll go under contract. There are quite a few other people who’ve expressed interest as well. I’ve got two couples coming up next weekend and Janice Coleman, from Century 21, has some folks looking at it on Friday.”
“Even though it’s this far from Greenville?” Lena frowned. “I thought the main draw around here was still the big lake.”
“It’s the amount of property in addition to the water frontage that’s got them interested. Once you see beyond the logging on the ridge, it’s a beautiful area, and it’s still within an hour of Moosehead.”
The realtor skirted an ice-covered puddle, crunching on broken branches as she ducked beneath another limb. Overhead a crow cawed, its raucous cry ringing through the still air. “Of course there’s no electricity or cell phone service up here, but the camp’s not completely isolated which is a plus. There’s one other cabin across the pond, so there’s a neighbor somewhat nearby…at least for part of the year.”
“The driveway could use some work,” Lena observed.
Marge shrugged. “What do you expect for under half a million dollars?” She stopped and took a deep breath. “How far have we come, about 200 yards?”
Lena nodded.
“We should be just about there, then.” She rounded another corner and turned back, smiling. “I was right. It’s just ahead of us in the clearing.”
Lena drew alongside the realtor, exhaling audibly at the sight before her. Ahead and to her left sat the cabin, an old-fashioned camp built of logs, stacked horizontally on the first floor and vertically on the second. The area around it was clear-cut, with an outhouse situated 25 yards away in one direction and the water in the other. At the pond’s edge, a rickety-looking wooden dock stretched far into the water.
Across the expanse of breaking ice, the mountains rose, gently rounded and pine-covered. It was a picture-perfect setting. Lena stood for a long moment and took it in as a hawk soared above the tree line, swooping down to menace a red squirrel chattering above them.
“It’s stunning,” she said, finally
Marge dangled the key
like a carrot and started across the field. “Let’s check it out, shall we?”
Lena stood a moment more then hurried after her.
“Here goes,” the realtor said, inserting the key into the lock. “You ready?”
She nodded and the door swung open with a loud groan leaving her temporarily lost for words. The first to come to her was ‘cluttered’. The second was ‘filthy’. “It looks like the owner’s a bit of a packrat,” she said, diplomatically.
Marge Quimby was less tactful. “A packrat? More like a garbage man! My God, what a mess!”
She was right. At thirty by forty feet, the camp was larger than it looked from the outside, but it was hard for Lena to imagine it habitable. It was, quite literally, filled with garbage. Small mountains of plastic bags lined the floor and countertops. The April air was rancid in the heat of the unseasonably warm afternoon. Lena tried to visualize the place empty and pristine, but came up short. Virtually every available surface was covered with stuff.
“Well,” she said, “we came all the way up here…we might as well take a look.” Taking a deep breath, she stepped carefully over a black plastic bag and entered the building.
The entire first floor of the camp was an open living area. Gas appliances lined the back wall: a refrigerator, stove, and old-fashioned lights that were mounted on the walls at shoulder height. To one side, a large woodstove sat squarely within a river-stone fireplace, venting up the chimney. A narrow set of stairs was built into the wall opposite the stove, leading to the second floor where, she assumed, the bedrooms were located. She hesitated then wove her way through the sacks of trash to the foot of the stairs, taking them carefully, one at a time.
If possible, the second floor was worse than the first. Twin beds lined the walls of both rooms, stacked high with black plastic garbage bags. She jumped backward as a rat scampered beneath one of the beds with a nervous squeak. The place was worse than filthy; back in Stamford, it would have been condemned.
There was no getting around it, if she was to buy it, the camp would have to be gutted and thoroughly cleaned to be made habitable. As it was, she knew it would be a hard sell to Alex, who was less than enthusiastic about the prospect as it was.