“Wow. The killing of Mrs. Kohl seems to have affected everyone,” I said, hoping for some inside scoop.
“Yes. She sure had control of most of the wheels that turn on Acadia. There’s hopeful talk of Mr. Kohl stepping in and running the plant. But he has never loved the island like Mrs. Kohl did. Her roots are here, not his. And we had heard that Mrs. Kohl was considering closing the plant before she passed,” the captain replied. “So keeping it going is probably wishful thinking. She and her husband are also the largest shareholders of the boat company. We work for them. Or him now, I guess.” I found it interesting that the captain did not refer to Midge Kohl’s death as a murder, but rather seemed to think she had died of natural causes. He needed another nudge, I thought.
“Well, whoever killed her must be public enemy number one. I hope I figure out who that is before people take the law into their own hands.”
“Ha,” blurted the captain. “Good luck with that.” He did not sound very optimistic that I had any chance of success, I thought as the boat came to a soft landing at the dock. I’d show him, I thought as I buttoned my coat and prepared to disembark. “Three o’clock departure. Don’t be late, Deputy Bunker.” I assured him that I would see him for the return trip and stepped off the boat and headed up the ramp.
At the top of the dock I was greeted by none other than Manuel Rodrigues. His feet, clad in super-insulated Moon Boots, into which the tops of his pants were tucked, looked extremely out of proportion with his small frame.
“Good morning, Miss Bunker. Or is it Detective Bunker today?” he asked snidely. I was nervous that Manny had been tipped off about my visit that I had intended to be kept quiet. Nobody knew of this trip. Maybe the captain or mate had somehow dropped a dime when I wasn’t paying attention.
“I’m impressed. You have Googled me and learned that I was once a detective,” I said as I stopped at the top of the ramp, looking Manny square in the eye.
“Oh, it was easy,” Manny replied. “I came here from Dade County. All I had to do was make one call. I’m surprised that our paths never crossed in Miami before you got the boot.”
“Yeah, me too. Except that I was mostly drug enforcement. Not much to do with kiddy porn. You must know my friends in SVU.”
Manny shifted his weight nervously from oversized, puffy boot to oversized, puffy boot. Then said, “Yes, we do have a lot in common, don’t we? We left Florida at the same time. But I left on good behavior.”
“All right, let’s cut the crap,” I said as I followed Manny to a truck he had apparently backed down on the wharf. “You are here to turn yourself in! That must be because you know from your vast experience on the wrong side of the law that cooperation makes things easier for everyone.”
Manny climbed in behind the wheel of the truck, and before he closed the door, said, “I actually did not know you would be on the boat this morning. I’m here to pick up freight for the plant.” With this he slammed the door, and backed under the pallet that was now swinging from the end of the hydraulic winch at the very end of the dock. The mate lowered the pallet into the bed of the truck, secured the winch, and hustled back aboard the waiting boat. Lines were thrown and the boat jogged away, leaving me alone on the icy chute directly in front of a running truck with a not-so-nice guy whom I now suspected of murder at the wheel.
He rolled down his window, stuck his head out, and asked, “Need a lift?” The smugness in his voice and face left me cold. I declined the ride, promising to see him at the plant, knowing that I would be more comfortable using the Kohls’ Range Rover rather than accepting help from my prime suspect. “Suit yourself. See you there.” And with this, Manny hit the accelerator, spinning his wheels all the way up the sloped drive to the parking lot. It was obvious that Manny hadn’t mastered driving in the snow and ice as the truck fishtailed back and forth, nearly out of control before making the corner onto the main road.
I found the Range Rover right where I had left it. I brushed a fresh inch of snow from the windshield and mirrors. I climbed in and realized how cold it was. The seats were actually stiff, and the steering wheel was glazed with a thin coating of frost. I found the key under the mat, stuck it in the ignition and turned it with crossed fingers. The engine started right up and ran smoothly. I sat in the parking lot with the heat and defrost blowing until I sensed the slightest bit of warmth, then started toward the plant, where I planned to spend some time with Manny and searching for the area of the processing line that was set up like the background in the scandalous photos Deloris had since texted to my phone. I tensed up a bit as I passed the Proctors’ house. I knew Trudy was back home—probably sound asleep, I thought as I caught a whiff of wood smoke that curled from their chimney. I imagined that her parents would be happy to see her heading back to college. Even mom and dad must find it hard to like that child, I thought.
When I rounded the next corner, I saw that the road had not been plowed beyond the Proctors’ driveway. The only tire tracks were what I realized must be the coming and going of Manny in the ALP freight truck. Suddenly, the Range Rover’s engine began to cough a bit. I glanced down to see that the fuel gauge was on the big “E.” Damn, I thought as the engine chugged roughly.
I drove the now bucking vehicle along to a wide section of the road where I could pull off enough for another vehicle to pass. (That is, if anyone else was out.) The engine hiccuped and died. Oh great. I estimated that I was now halfway between the Proctors’ and ALP. There was no way was I going to ask Joan and Clark for help. I pumped the gas pedal a couple of times and prayed for a start. I preferred to not have a door slammed in my face this morning, I thought as I limped the Range Rover into the snowbank on my right before the engine stopped for the final time. I could easily walk to the ALP, and then hitch a ride or confiscate the company truck to transport my suspect back to the boat this afternoon. I was optimistic that he would come along peacefully once he came to realize the jig was up. Deloris had been thorough, and would have mentioned any violence in his criminal record, I thought as I slammed the door and started hiking down the road. The walk would do me good.
Once I got over the fact that I was traveling on foot, I actually enjoyed the brisk walk. The realization that any witness to my poor planning regarding gasoline was unlikely helped me to relax. And the below-zero temperature kept me moving. Snow-filled limbs of spruce trees hung heavily over the road on either side, shielding the ditches from glints of sunshine that danced through the shadows. Animal tracks, of which I know nothing, left three different and distinct patterns. Deer, rabbit, and squirrel? I wondered. The tracks were so precise, I imagined creatures skittering off into the woods just ahead of me. I approached an open field on my left where the tire tracks pulled off the road. Large, human footprints with an aggressive tread pattern surrounded the tire tracks on the off-road side. As there were only two sets of tire tracks—one coming and one going—and the footprints looked like they were made with Moon Boots, I reasoned that Manny must have stopped here on his way to the dock. But why?
I looked around for a telltale yellow spot, but the footprints left the tire tracks and headed into the open field. I decided to follow them, being careful to step into the packed-down tracks left by Manny, which made it easy to travel through the otherwise knee-deep snow. The footprints lead me through a beautiful, high wrought-iron gate that was marked with ornate black iron posts. Either side of the open gate that jutted above the snow looked like an elegant harp. If the iron craftsmanship hadn’t been so fancy, I supposed the gate would have looked more like a jail cell door. Once I entered through, I saw that I was in a cemetery. The tops of tombstones poked through the otherwise pristine white blanket like pale gray islands floating in milk. The footprints appeared to have been made by someone being respectful of the dead; circumnavigating the area and not intruding within the realm of actual graves. I stayed in the footprints to the far edge of the cemetery, where they stopped and lingered by what appeared to be very old tombstones that had b
een brushed clean of snow, enabling me to read names and dates. BUNKER. A chill ran from the base of my neck to my tailbone.
What could Manny have been up to, I wondered? Other than trying to freak me out, I couldn’t imagine why he might have stopped here at the Bunker family graveyard. Snow had been cleared from the faces of several stones, allowing me to read names, dates, and connections to one another until I found it. “Jane Bunker. December 16, 1844-April 09, 1935. Daughter of Percy Bunker and Eloise Lord.” I have no problem admitting that I was spooked. I took a deep breath with intentions of slowing my heart down. I could feel my own pulse as I looked around nervously and fought the impulse to scream or run. I knew that I had been named for my father’s great aunt, but that was the extent and depth of my knowledge of the Bunker family tree. Was someone watching me? If so, I had to control and manage my actions. I never imagined what feelings could be stirred by happening upon my own name on a grave marker. I took a minute to collect myself, then continued to brush snow and read engravings on stones marking my familial legacy, heritage, and even some obituary information. There, I thought, all calmed down. No reason to be frightened. Dead people never harmed anyone; only the living did.
I followed the footprints around the cemetery, weaving in and out of rows of tombstones and back to the road where Manny must have climbed back into the company truck. I tried to make sense of this bizarre side trip, and what reaction it was intended to produce. Manny couldn’t have known that I would run out of gas, could he? And he didn’t know me well enough to realize that I would most certainly follow his tracks into the Bunker cemetery, did he? Maybe this was a form of fun more than intimidation, I thought. The best explanation I could come up with was that Manny had intended for me to consider seeing my name on a gravestone as an omen of things to come. Well, I thought, I had news for him. Now that I had shaken the shock and disbelief, I realized that finding and exploring the Bunker family plot was something I should have planned to do. Doing so was perhaps the only way I would ever know anything about my roots, I thought. Short of asking questions of old-time residents of Acadia Island, which I would never do, the only way for me to glean insight into where and who I came from was to do research. And a great place to start was in the cemetery that was now behind me.
I would return in better weather, I thought as I quickened my pace. And I would return when doing so was not contingent upon solving a case of brutal murder. Deep within the crevices of my psyche lay an understanding that the notion of returning to Acadia on personal business would be to soothe what had been triggered at the sight of my name on a gravestone.
All thoughts of graves evaporated upon the doorstep of the plant as I let myself in. I knew the way to the processing floor, where I found Manny. He had changed from his Moon Boots to the knee-high rubber boots worn by his fellow ALP employees. He looked up from a clipboard where he appeared to be looking over a checklist and said, “What took you so long?”
“I decided to walk. And I visited the Bunker family graveyard for fun,” I said. Manny raised an eyebrow, but remained silent. “Is there somewhere we can talk?” Manny knew this was coming, yet was reluctant, as I expected he would be. He was annoyed. I was interrupting his workday. I was on to him. He was buying time, I thought, to work through his alibis and explanations. He indicated with a nod in the direction of the offices that I should follow him. I fell in behind him and felt many eyes on my back as we made our way through two busy processing lines manned by what I knew were ex-cons with a tenuous grip on a second chance at life; a second chance that they knew was slipping away. And my presence added grease to the skids.
I was a little surprised at the appearance of Mrs. Kohl’s workspace. It had been transformed into Manny’s office in the short amount of time since I’d last been here. The speed of the transformation suggested that this had been planned prior to the office being vacated via Mrs. Kohl’s death. He even had a desktop nameplate with “Manny Rodrigues” in an elegant font that contradicted its surroundings. I sat, at his request, across the handsome walnut desk while he got comfortable in a cushy office chair that fit nicely with the desk and other new furnishings.
“Wow. It didn’t take long for you to move in,” I said, hoping to provoke a response.
“You’ll be surprised to know that this has been in the works for some time,” Manny replied as he pulled off the rubber boots and stepped into dress shoes.
“Do you mean to say that Mrs. Kohl’s demise had been planned?” I asked, knowing this would put Manny on the edge of his seat, which it did. He placed his elbows on the desk and leaned into them, getting as close as he could with the large desk between us.
“No, that is not what I mean to say.”
“Well, you had better start filling me in. I have evidence linking you to Mrs. Kohl through some nasty email exchanges.”
“She was my boss. Why would I be anything but nice to her? I didn’t send anything nasty.”
“Maybe not. But you were at the very least on the receiving end of some photos that appeared to be within your wheelhouse of activity. And now I see how you may have benefited from her death, so there’s motive beyond what I already have. Do you have a new title? It sure looks like you have been promoted from foreman.”
“Evidence? Like what?” He snarled. I went through the list of what Deloris had been able to dig up from email correspondence. When I explained the threatening emails that he had sent to his boss that looked a lot like blackmail, he laughed. “You see, English is not my first language. Speaking, I am proficient. But in writing, I am really bad. I’m surprised anyone could make sense of my very poor grammar, spelling, and vocabulary. Maybe you translated my words conveniently for your purposes.”
“I don’t think so. Most people would find a phrase like ‘make you sweat’ threatening. No language barrier there,” I said.
“Sweat? I meant sweet. I always brought her homemade candies. Really, ask anyone.”
That was too easy, I thought. There was no way he could explain his way around the photos of someone having sex with Mrs. Kohl, and how clear it was that someone was using them to blackmail her. And that with his record, he was the most obvious guy. Even with two dozen other employees with similar records, Manny was the only one with a company email account, and ample access to the boss. Manny was well versed in denials and alibis, I was sure. I had to remind myself that he knew his way around legalities and technicalities. I should back up and slow things down. There was no sense tipping my hand.
“It was nice of you to visit my family’s burial ground this morning. Would you mind telling me why you were there, just minutes before I landed at the dock?” I asked.
Manny didn’t squirm. He didn’t even hesitate. Any hardened criminal can stay cool under the gun, I knew. “That was sheer coincidence. I have to say, that it was perfect, though. I mean I didn’t know you were coming. I didn’t know that I was in your family’s graveyard until I cleared snow from the first stone and saw the name Bunker. And I surely did not expect that you would track me like a dog on a scent. That all just fell into place.” He smiled and sat back in a more relaxed position. I prompted him again to answer my question as to why he had been in the Bunker cemetery. “Oh, that. Well, I am a graver.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s a graver?” I asked, skeptical that he could deliver any real explanation. That was Manny’s opening.
“I enjoy visiting cemeteries. It gives me a sense of the past and history of a place. And I record my pastime by doing stone rubbings,” he said.
“Rubbings?” I was skeptical, but was buying some time. I couldn’t help thinking of the tendency of murderers to revisit their killings by visiting graves. I wondered if spending time in any cemetery brought some vicarious thrill to someone who had killed.
“I place butcher paper over a stone and rub it with charcoal to record inscriptions and designs. Your ancestors…” I cut him off before he could report anything that might be about me. I wondered if rubbings co
uld have some likeness to souvenirs collected by murderers. A seasoned con artist like Manny had to be a quick thinker, I knew. He tried to convince me that he just happened to have a little time on his hands this morning before meeting the boat, and just happened to stumble upon the Bunker plot, and that I just happened to be on the boat. Pretty unlikely, I thought, and told him so.
“You expect me to believe that? Come on, Manny. You’ll have to do better than that. I don’t believe in that degree of coincidence—and neither will a judge and jury.” I did secretly admire his creativity, though. He may be quick to come up with alibis and justifications, but justice would prevail, I thought as I prepared to launch into my next tactic.
Before I could mention the sexy pictures that were found in his and every other ALP email account, there was a knock at the door. A woman in a white ALP jumpsuit stuck her head in and reported a problem on the processing line that needed Manny’s attention. “And there was a message on the main machine for Deputy Bunker to call Deloris as soon as possible,” she said, and ducked back out, closing the door behind her.
Manny stood to excuse himself, promising to return after he addressed whatever issue had arisen in the plant. He loosened his shoelaces and was back into the rubber boots. Opening a file cabinet, he retrieved a folder fat with pages, handed it to me, and told me to check it out. When he saw me looking at my phone, he insisted that I use his office phone, as there was no cell service on this side of Acadia Island. Whatever Deloris wanted would have to wait until I could use my cell, I thought. I assumed that Deloris would never try to contact me on the ALP line with anything that couldn’t wait for fear of jeopardizing my case. So I reasoned that whatever Deloris needed could not be urgent. Maybe I was paranoid, but if I had no privacy at home on the phone, I wouldn’t assume to have any here. On the outside chance that Deloris hadn’t considered the potential lack of privacy, and had critical information, I vowed to get back to her ASAP. It’s not like I could walk to the opposite side of the island to use my cell phone. Too far. Too cold. No, I would stay here and work on Manny until I arrested him, or he cleared himself, whichever came first. And whichever option tipped the scale at the time I needed to leave to catch the three o’clock boat would prompt my decision.
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