He cupped his hands and called out, “Mara, is that you on that fancy boat?”
“Sure is.” I called back. “This is my good friend Connor. We’re here for the memorial and get together. Where can we moor?”
Malicite pointed to a large white ball floating at the other edge of the harbor. “See that empty mooring way out theah? It’s a good spot. Go ahead an’ use it.”
Connor turned in the direction Malicite was pointing. “I see the mooring, but there’s no dinghy on it.”
“You head theah. I’ll row out.”
By the time we’d tied up to the mooring ball, Malicite had slid alongside. Connor stepped in first and sat center stern. I took the bow seat. Seated in the middle, the lobsterman pulled the oars with slow, practiced strokes.
“I appreciate your getting us,” I said.
“Macomek gets a bad rap sometimes,” he said. “Just tryin’ to set the record straight that we’re good folk out heah.”
As Connor and I walked over to the school he said, “Since we’re headin’ to a memorial for a murdered island lobsterman, I think what that Malicite fella said was pretty odd.”
“He was just trying to be helpful,” I answered. “Malicite’s terrific.” I told Connor about all the time the lobsterman had spent with me.
“Really? Sorry, but that’s suspicious too. Lobstermen are super busy people. Why’s he trying so hard to be nice to you?”
Connor had much more experience dealing with shifty people than I did, but it was hard to imagine that Malicite had ulterior motives. He was such a good guy, wasn’t he?
Since Macomek had no chapel, Buddy’s event took place in the school’s auditorium. Besides that good-sized open room, there wasn’t much else to the tiny white clapboard building except two small classrooms and a library that looked like a large closet. But the school’s setting on a hill with its expansive view of the sea was perfect for a memorial honoring a man devoted to the ocean. The day was fine for September, and every one of the auditorium’s windows was cranked wide open. Instead of organ music, we would listen to Macomek’s enduring song—waves smashing against the island’s granite underpinnings.
The mismatched wooden chairs neatly arranged in rows were already mostly taken when Connor and I walked into the room. It was quite a scene. Mothers were trying to control restless children who stood on chairs and looked around. Heads together, white-haired men and women were talking into one another’s ears. Since neither Connor nor I had known Buddy, we found seats in the back row. Before settling into my chair, I scanned the ones up front. Lester was leaning toward a younger man, hand on that person’s shoulder. I assume this was Lester’s son, Buddy’s father.
As a man wearing a suit and tie walked to the front of the gathering, the room became quiet.
“Good afternoon. I’m pastor Clyde Bickford from Saint George Episcopal Church. While I did not know Buddy Crawford, I have known his father, Todd Crawford, for a very long time. Over the years, Todd often talked about Buddy. So in that indirect way, I have come to know the younger man.”
Bickford went on to say the usual things about Buddy—he was a hard-working young man who loved the sea and should be remembered for his exceptional skill as a lobsterman and generosity toward his friends and family. The only part of the eulogy that hit home was when Bickford explained that Buddy wanted to be a lobsterman like his grandfather Lester. In fact, he said, Buddy’s real name was Lester. I could hear the old man’s sob all the way in the back row.
Lester, I promise you, I thought, I’ll find the bastard who did this to you and your namesake.
Two of Buddy’s high school friends lightened the mood a bit with a few funny stories, and Malicite, speaking for the island’s lobstermen, praised Buddy’s skill at lobstering.
“Buddy had only been on his own a couple years, but anyone could see he’d be a highliner. Buddy was smart and incredibly hard-working. The guy was always lookin’ to the future. How can I do this better, what’s happening with lobstering in Maine? Dictionary’s got a fancy word for folks like that—visionary. Buddy was one of those, a visionary.”
Malicite’s tribute was the first time I’d heard Buddy described in this way. I couldn’t help but wonder if Buddy’s farsighted tendencies had cost him his life.
At the end of the tribute, Buddy’s father announced that everyone was invited to Abby Burgess’s place for snacks and beers on the beach.
Connor and I trailed behind the group on our way over Abby’s beach. “What’d you think?” I asked.
“The only thing that struck me is what the lobsterman said. What was his name?”
“That’s Malicite.”
“Odd name. Anyways, in a place like this with so much tradition and history, is being visionary is a good thing? Visionaries can be ambitious people with highfalutin’ ideas. That might not sit well with some folks out here.”
“I wondered exactly that,” I said. “It’s funny, but Malicite’s a visionary too. He works on a NOAA program called eLobster and attaches a sensor to one of his traps. The sensor sends data about temperature, salinity—that type of thing—to NOAA scientists. Malicite can see the data as soon as his pulls the trap up. The project is pretty forward looking.”
“Interesting. Two forward-looking guys on one little island? Could be there was some competition between ’em.”
We stopped on the road in view of Abby’s house. “Connor,” I said. “how would I know? It’s so incredibly frustrating being in the dark about everyone out here.”
“Jus’ keep your eyes open, like I said. I assume you do know where I can take a leak in private?”
After Connor excused himself to find the bathroom, I wandered down to the beach and scanned the group. It was obvious that the get-together was not the usual rowdy, lobster-and-brew party on the beach. Islanders sat together in small groups quietly talking as they ate a mismatched assortment of chips, cookies, stuffed eggs, and the like. As much cola was drunk as beer. A half-dozen kids ran up and down the beach trailed by two mongrel dogs.
Beers in hand and apart from the others, Patty and Calvin shared a log above the high-tide line. Their behavior indicated that the two knew each other pretty well, but on a small island that wasn’t surprising. They both leaned forward, gesturing with their hands and shaking their heads. It looked like an intense conversation, and I couldn’t help wondering what they were talking about. Maybe Patty was angry that Tyler was still on the loose and nobody was looking for him. Maybe Calvin was pissed off because information about how Buddy died still hadn’t been released.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Richie and three other lobstermen walked the beach chugging beers. Snatches of their conversation—“There’s this babe” and “You gotta be friggin’ crazy”—told me they weren’t especially upset that Buddy was gone. I was about to look away when the men stopped walking and turned toward a cluster of bushes at the edge of the forest. Richie glanced to the side as the group scrambled up a sea-scoured bank and disappeared into the shadows. Squinting, I thought I saw someone tallish and thin. Interesting, but despite my curiosity about what or more likely who had gotten their attention, I wasn’t about to go after them to find out. It was time to get back to the party.
Abby was holding the hand of a young woman with waist-length brown hair. I walked closer and Abby waved me over.
“Mara, this is my daughter Angel. Angel, meet Mara Tusconi who stayed with me for a couple of days last week.”
Angel was a good half-foot taller than her mother. With her dark hair and height plus chestnut eyes, Angel looked nothing like Abby. She appeared drained and exhausted.
“I understand that you and Buddy were good friends,” I said. “I am so sorry for your loss.”
Blinking, Angel wiped tears from her eyes with both hands.
Abby reached into her pocket for a tissue. “Here you are, baby.” Abby turned to me again. “Angel was in the middle of nowhere on a camping trip. She just learned what happened
to Buddy yesterday.”
My hand went to my mouth. “Oh my god. You poor girl. Again, I’m so sorry. Abby, I’ll see you later. I’m sure you both have a lot to talk about.”
“Abby’s daughter Angel was Buddy’s girlfriend and she was away on a camping trip?” Connor asked.
Connor and I had left the get-together and decided to walk up to the harbor.
“That’s what Abby said. Why?”
He shrugged. “It’s one of those coincidence things. Girlfriend has gone nobody-really-knows-where when the boyfriend gets knocked off by an unknown person or persons.”
“Connor, I can’t imagine…”
“I’ve seen it all, Mara. It happens.”
“She was crying.”
“Could be a terrific actor.”
“Still. I mean, she’s Abby’s daughter.”
His non-answer hung in the air, and I had no idea what to do with it.
“Did you notice anything else?”
“Not much. Calvin—he’s that highliner I told you about—and Patty, Abby’s oldest daughter, were pretty deep in conversation away from anyone else. But they could have been talking about anything. Richie, a loud and obnoxious lobsterman, was marching down the beach with his buddies acting like they were at a Fourth of July party instead of a memorial get-together.”
“Wouldn’t know what to think about any of that,” he said.
“Wait. Those guys were walking along like I said, but something up in the bushes caught their attention. A guy, I’m pretty sure. They left the beach and climbed up there. After that, I couldn’t see them.”
“Now, that’s interesting,” Connor said. “Someone in the bushes must’ve called out to them. Could you see anything?”
I tried to recreate the scene in my mind’s eye. “The bushes were in the shadow of trees above them, but somebody was up there. Someone kind of tall.”
“Any idea who that might be?” Connor asked.
“The only person I can think of is Tyler. He’s tall and skinny. Tyler and Richie. What a pair.”
“You’re pretty sure that Buddy’s killer had help. Could be one of those guys.”
“Or a couple of them,” I said.
When we reached the harbor, I was surprised to see a long row of wooden crates bobbing in the water. Connected to one another by trap line, the crates formed a kind of floating walkway easily a hundred feet long.
I pointed at the crates. “What the heck is that?”
“Crates for the Maine Lobstah Boat Race. Between two wharfs, folks string togethah old wooden crates folks used to use for storin’ lobstahs. It’s called lobstah crate racin’. Somebody, kids I’d guess, mus’ be trainin’ for next yeah while the ocean’s still warmish.”
I stared at the crates. “You mean people run on top of the crates from one end to the other? My god, they must fall off all the time.”
“You got that right. If the crate runnah goes too slow, the crates sink, and down he goes. If they don’t get their foot in the middle of a crate, the thing tips sideways and throws ’em off.”
I envisaged shrieking kids wobbling off the grates and crashing into the water. “How many make it through the whole crate gantlet?”
“Less than one in ten,” I’d guess.”
“Connor, in all these years I’m embarrassed to say I’ve never watched a lobster boat race. What does it look like? The boats I mean.”
“It’s jus’ wild. Guys push those boats like you wouldn’t believe. Boats tipped up halfway out of the watah, speeds like forty knots.”
I did a quick translation. “Wow, nearly fifty miles an hour. Just regular lobster boats, right?”
“Some designs do bettah.” He scanned the harbor and pointed at Lucky Catch. “See that one theah?
“That boat belongs to Calvin Ives.”
Connor raised an eyebrow. “Does it now? Well, lobstahman Ives has one fine racin’ craft.”
“Doesn’t surprise me at all. Calvin is a very competitive guy.”
I looked at the sky as Connor checked his watch.
“Still want to wait ’til sunset?” he asked.
“Yeah. Hope that’s okay.”
“Sure. I’m gonna hang out aboard Money Pit an’ catch some shut-eye.” He winked. “Some crazy girl called me at five this morning.”
I picked a random dinghy on the beach, rowed Connor out to Money Pit, said I’d be back in two hours sharp, and returned the little boat to where I’d found it.
Abby absentmindedly ran her hand across the rock’s surface. We’d walked to the far end of her beach to get away from the group for a bit. The flat slab of granite still held some of the day’s warmth. “There’s an odd mood here on the island,” she said.
“Mood? Wouldn’t you expect that with what happened to Buddy?”
“Yes, but this is different. Hard to explain.”
I turned toward her. “Abby, let your mind work on that and tell me if something pops up, okay? Connor Doyle, the guy who ran me out here, is a former cop from Augusta. He’s trying to help me figure out who killed Buddy, and we’ve got somebody in mind. You know more than anyone about the people who live on Macomek—their fears, what makes them tick, and we need your insight.”
“Of course. Anything. Who…?”
“Wait. Let me go through my reasoning and see if you come to the same conclusion. There’s a brilliant female oceanographer at MOI named Betty. Wise old bird. She knows what I’m up to out here and she listed several human traits I should focus on—greed, money, and love. Does this make sense?”
“’Course it does. It’s human madness in one package.”
So, if you consider each trait, or all three, and think about who might have a reason to kill Buddy, does anyone in particular stand out?”
Abby closed her eyes and stayed that way so long I thought she might’ve fallen asleep sitting up. I was about to touch her shoulder when she popped her eyes open.
“It’s more complicated.”
My blank stare said I wasn’t with her.
“Take greed, for instance,” she said. “A person might desperately want something right now, like money. Their desperation drives them to do awful things. But what if the thing they want is in the future? It would be a lot harder for someone else to figure that out.”
“They want something in the future? Can you give me an example?”
“When I was a teenager, I wanted nothing more than to be a sternman, then a lobsterman. I was desperate for it but knew my father wouldn’t let me. ‘That’s man’s work,’ he’d say. The real reason, and deep down I understood this, was that he was afraid of losing me. I was his only daughter and looked a lot his sister who’d died from the plague—or what they thought was plague. Of course, I loved my father and wouldn’t have hurt him for the world. But that’s the kind of thing I’m talking about.”
I stared at the horizon. “Boy, you’d have to know a lot about a person to figure that out. I mean, who knew you wanted to be a lobsterman besides your dad?”
“Nobody. It’s not anything we talked about, but I was crazy about boats, all that. Dad must’ve guessed. Anyways, he never let on to a soul. It was my secret, that’ s all.”
Secret. The word hung in the air. Who on Macomek didn’t have secrets? I knew about Abby’s and Lester’s because she’d told me. I also guessed Lester loved her and the feeling was mutual. But every single one of them—Patty, Angel, Malicite, Calvin, Tyler, and the rest of the lobstermen and people in their families—harbored secrets passions, fears, and hatreds I’d never know anything about. Whether such feelings came from something that happened in the past or might happen in the future, those sentiments had been the basis for murder ever since humans had minds that could reason and scheme.
“Okay,” I said. “Think about people on the island who could have killed Buddy. It might have even been by mistake if they’d argued with him, for instance.”
She patted my hand. “Deah, you must know I’ve racked my brains wit
h that question.”
“You’ve no idea at all?”
“Not about the who. On the why, I’d say it’s got to do with family, maybe children or someone you love.”
Behind us, the crackle of footfalls startled me. Lester Crawford circled the rock and stood before us.
“Lester,” Abby said. That was it, just the man’s name. But the undertone, a mix of sadness and yearning, was there. What I heard was, “Isn’t it time?”
I stood. “Lester, that was a lovely memorial tribute to Buddy. I’m so sorry.…”
He touched my arm. “I do appreciate you comin’ way out heah again.”
I patted his hand, then smiled at Abby. “Nice to chat with you again. I caught a ride out here with a friend who doesn’t know a soul. I’d better go find him.”
On my way back to Abby’s house, I turned around. Shoulder to shoulder on the rock, Abby and Lester faced the sea and what lay beyond.
As I followed the path to higher ground, the words greed, love, money, passion, ambition, hate, past, and future swirled around in my brain. I’d felt so confident about the identity of Buddy’s killer. Now I wasn’t sure at all.
17
Connor waved back and knelt down on Money Pit’s bow to release her from the mooring. Hand over hand, I clambered down the wood ladder and stepped onto the gunwale as he came alongside.
We chugged to the harbor’s outskirts and drifted so nobody could hear us talk.
Out on the aft deck, Connor draped his arms over the coaming and leaned back. “Positive you want to do this? It’s just a hunch you’ve got.”
“Like I said, Connor, it’s more intuition than a hunch.”
He looked skyward. “Lord help us.”
“Isn’t there an Irish saying that a hunch is creativity trying to tell you something?”
“Could be. Okay, let’s go over this again. I’ll pass by his stern so Money Pit blocks the view. You step aboard his boat. I keep goin’ to jus’ beyond the habah. You slip into the wheelhouse where nobody can see you. You’ll try to find what you’re lookin’ for. That’ll take somethin’ like ten minutes. You’ll come back out on deck an’ signal me with the flashlight. That it?”
Secrets Haunt the Lobsters' Sea Page 16