by B. D. Smith
“Hi Anne, Hi Doug. Glad I caught you.” Ted greeted them. “I heard you were up at Bucks Cove where that fool from away crashed his patio boat. Does that mean that stupid boat race has been cancelled?”
“No such luck Ted.” Doug responded. “And it looks like they are expecting two hundred patio boats to descend on us for the race that weekend.”
“Not good, not good at all.” Ted mumbled as he pushed his thick glasses back in place. “Fuckin Kiwanis sold us out. And I’m not the only one who thinks so. There was no public meeting, no chance for anyone to object. People are pissed. We don’t get all that many summer weekends to enjoy the lake, and now they’re gonna shut it down for patio boat races? Patio boats? Whose lake is it anyway?”
“Ted, who’s pissed?” Doug asked.
“Oh, you know – people.” Ted answered evasively. “Still a few weeks until the race – lots of things could happen between now and then.”
With a smug grin he abruptly turned away, grabbed an abandoned shopping cart and headed back toward the entrance to Will’s. As Ted walked back in the store, Anne turned to Doug.
“Doug, did you notice the tattoo on the inside of his forearm?”
“No. What about it?”
“It looked like an outline of Sebec Lake. What’s that all about?”
“Oh, that,” Doug replied, looking concerned. “Not sure. Back when I was a kid if you were really into the Water Rat scene, lake tattoos were a way to show your dedication and commitment. Hard core pranksters would get the tattoos. Usually they would be pretty well hidden under clothes, but occasionally they’re right out where you can see them. Ted must have gotten that one recently. I don’t remember seeing it before.”
On the drive back to his place in Bowerbank Doug filled Anne in on the long local tradition of the Water Rats – their environmental stewardship interests and their pranking activities.
Anne’s response was quick.
“It sounds to me like the Water Rats, or maybe some radicalized Water Rat alumni like Ted, might be behind the recent spate of incidents. The untied boats at Merrill’s Marina, the problems at Bear Point Marina, the floating log we hit, and Nigel’s Bucks Cove mishap would all appear to fit comfortably within the Water Rats prank profile. But the torching of John Eastman’s boats and boathouse seems a bit out of character, and the killing of Robertson and Eastman would be quite extreme – don’t you think?”
Doug nodded and replied.
“If Water Rats or their alumni are responsible it’s going to be really difficult to track them down. There’s no membership list, no centralized authority structure, no meetings or blogs or anything, as far as I know. Pranks were usually conceived and carried out by one person or a few individuals, on their own. Part of the fun was the anonymous nature of the pranks and the subsequent slowly spreading accounts of what had transpired – the offhand acknowledgement months later at a party, or the floating of unsubstantiated rumors of who had pulled off a particular attack.”
“So, what’s our next step?” Asked Anne.
“Our next step, lover, is to get home and feed our hungry dog.” Doug answered. “Then I can pour you a glass of wine, we can start thinking about dinner, and I will call a few people who might have some insights and some leads for us.”
14.
The next morning, after taking Jack the dog for his daily walk, followed by a leisurely breakfast – Anne’s “eyeballs” concoction of soft-boiled eggs, arugula, blueberries, blackberries, chunks of bacon and toast, and a little olive oil, Doug and Anne headed into Dover-Foxcroft. They had just crossed the dam in Sebec Village and were headed up the hill past the Reading Room and old post office when Anne’s phone rang. Jack Walker’s name appeared on the screen.
“Hi Jack. What’s Up?”
“Where are you? Is Doug with you?”
“Yes. We’re just passing through Sebec Village, heading into town.”
“You and Doug were going to follow up on interviewing Ximena Lapointe, right?”
“Yes. I called yesterday and got bumped to her answering machine. Why?”
“Well, she’s available for interviewing now. Someone ran her over with a boat early this morning – she’s banged up pretty bad and being worked on now at the Mayo emergency room in town.”
Ximena had been moved to a private room and given a mild sedative by the time they arrived at the hospital. The emergency room physician who had treated her was waiting to brief them.
“What the hell’s going on out on the lake? This is the second serious boating casualty we’ve gotten in the last two days. Fortunately, this one isn’t as bad as yesterday. Ximena doesn’t remember anything that happened, so she won’t be much help, I’m afraid. You can’t see her right now, but this afternoon would be possible.” The doctor paused, and Anne jumped in with a question.
“Who brought her in?”
“A couple of men showed up with her about an hour ago. The two had been fishing early this morning in the South Cove, by Peaks-Kenny State Park. They saw the whole incident and were able to get to her quickly. Fortunately, she had some sort of a yellow buoy tied to a strap around her waist, and it kept her afloat until they got to her. She was breathing but unconscious when pulled out of the water. They bundled her into their truck and by the time they got here she had regained consciousness. She’s pretty beat up and has a mild concussion. That should resolve in a day or two. Otherwise she has a bunch of bruises, and I stitched up several lacerations on her ass from where she was grazed by the boat’s prop when it went over her.”
Doug handed the doctor his card with contact information.
“Thanks doc. I’ll check back in this afternoon to see if she’s up for an interview. How about the two men who found her. Are they still around?”
The doctor fished around in the pocket of his white coat and pulled out a scrap of paper.
“They headed back over to Greeleys Landing to do some more fishing. Here’s the phone number of one of them – Kevin Laland. He said to call him, and they can meet you back at the marina.”
Anne made the call and the two fishermen were waiting for them when they arrived at the marina. Laland, a trim man of perhaps sixty, with an easy smile, introduced himself and his nephew, who looked to be in his early twenties.
“Detective Bateman, Investigator Quinn, I’m Kevin Laland. This is my nephew Andrew. How’s Ximena?”
“She’s got a concussion and lacerations, but thanks to you two she should be back on her feet in a few days. Kevin, I’m pretty sure I should recognize you, but can’t remember from where.”
Anne answered before Laland had a chance to respond.
“Kevin delivers your mail Doug. You’ve probably seen him a hundred times up on Bowerbank Road in his red Honda Element. Looks like you might need to brush up on your detective skills.”
Laland and his nephew joined Anne in chuckling at Doug’s expense, and Kevin, speaking in a calm scholarly voice, started right in on an account of their rescue of Ximena that morning.
“We were on the west side of the South Cove, over among the scattering of large boulders, casting for bass. We’d been there for maybe a half hour and not having much luck. It was maybe eight o’clock when we heard a boat at low speed, and saw an eighteen-foot Lund with red sides, close to the shore on the east side of the cove, heading toward the beach at Peaks-Kenny. I didn’t pay much attention to it until it suddenly turned west toward us and really picked up speed. That’s when I noticed the yellow float directly in the path of the Lund. I couldn’t figure out what the yellow thing was at first, then saw the swimmer right by it.”
Anne interrupted Kevin’s narrative.
“Did it lo
ok like the boat deliberately targeted the swimmer?”
“No question about it.” Andrew answered. “And it was going quite fast when it ran right over her. We could hear the thump when it hit her.”
“Did you get a look at who was in the boat?” Doug asked.
“Not really.” Kevin replied. “The sun was pretty low on the horizon and we were looking right into it. There was one person in the boat, standing at the wheel, and all we could see was a black silhouette. I’d say maybe six feet tall, thin – dark clothes, maybe a hoodie – hard to tell. After the Lund ran over the swimmer it turned north and sped off around the point, heading east back toward the narrows. One of the boulders blocked our view of the boat at that point, and anyway, we were focused on the person in the water.”
“Was she conscious when you pulled her into your boat? Did she say anything?”
“She was unconscious but breathing when we got to her,” Kevin replied. “There was a lot of blood in the water and her swimsuit was shredded. I recognized her right away and realized she was probably doing a training swim for the YMCA’s upcoming triathlon. She did well last year, certainly posted a much better time than I did, and I’ve seen her cycling and running pretty frequently lately on my mail route. Lots of open water swimmers use the yellow floats like the one Ximena had attached with a strap around her waist. They wear them to alert boaters to their presence, so they won’t get run over. This time it did just the opposite – it helped someone locate her and run her down.”
Doug turned to Andrew.
“What did you see?”
“I didn’t recognize Ximena right away, but I think I know the boat that hit her. It belongs to the people who bought the old cottage that was owned by either the Peaks or the Kenny’s – I forget which family. It’s the one on the south shore not too far after you round the point toward the narrows. It’s the one that has the big stone blocks protecting their boat slip.”
Kevin offered to ferry them over to see if the boat Andrew had identified was at its mooring, and twenty minutes later they pulled up next to a red-sided Lund outboard. High above them, unnoticed, a drone had followed their trip over from the marina and watched as they checked out the boat. The outboard engine was warm to the touch and the windshield still had a scattering of water droplets, indicating the boat had recently been used. Anne walked up to check on the cottage – a large turn of the century shingled landmark, and found it locked up tight with no indication of recent occupancy.
“Nobody’s home Doug. It looks like somebody took advantage of the owners being away and borrowed their boat to run down Ximena.”
“I doubt we’ll find anything, but I’ll call Augusta and have the evidence response team go over the boat,” Doug replied. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Doug called the ERT number when they were on their way back to town and was surprised to learn that Peter Martell, commander of the evidence response team, was already in Dover-Foxcroft. He had taken a few days annual leave, but no one in Augusta knew why he was in Dover-Foxcroft.
“I bet I know,” Anne responded with a snort when Doug told her. “He’s up here to see Katie.”
Anne called Katie, who was working a shift at Allie Oops, and her suspicion was confirmed. When Peter came on the line Doug was able to cajole him into checking out the suspect boat right away. Peter always carried some of his basic gear, including a fingerprint kit, in the trunk of his car, and Kevin and Andrew, who were still at the marina, agreed to ferry him back over to the Lund. Before she hung up, Katie asked Anne and Doug to stop by Allie Oops. She had something serious to discuss, she said, but wouldn’t say more.
When Doug and Anne arrived at Allie Oops they stopped briefly to talk with Peter, who was just leaving to check out the Lund as they walked in the front door. Then they joined Katie, who was having a quick lunch in a back booth. The bar was mostly empty, but Katie still kept her voice low.
“You guys know that Louise Binford and I were a couple for several months. We split up because it became clear to me that she was a pathological liar, and she got tired of me calling her fantasies into question. What I didn’t say was that I’m still pretty uneasy about her and what she might do. I freaked when she showed up in town again for this Patio Boat race. So far, I’ve been able to stay off her radar. But if she finds out that Peter and I have really hit it off, she might come after us.”
“Why?” Anne asked.
“I’m no psychiatrist, so I can’t give you a sound medical diagnosis. But based on what I saw when I lived with her, I’d say that Lou Binford is, in technical terms, batshit insane. She moves back and forth between reality and a fantasy world. A lot of the time she seems fine – outgoing and a bit aggressive, but outwardly normal. And then out of the blue she will spin these elaborate fantasies and start telling me about all the people who are laughing at her behind her back – people who have wronged her or abandoned her. She’s paranoid and talks a lot about settling scores with people for perceived wrongs. At the time I tried very hard to make her believe that it was her that dumped me, and she seemed to accept that. But she could easily change her mind if she sees that Peter and I are a couple and gets it into her head that we’re laughing at her.”
“Do you want us to talk to her?” Doug asked.
“Jesus no, Doug. That wouldn’t help. It would only make things worse. That’s not why I’m telling you this stuff. It’s about what happened to Ximena. From what Lou told me late one night last fall after way too many margaritas, she was furious at how Ximena behaved toward her when she was up here working on the serial killer case. She was pretty vague about what happened, but my guess is that she tried to seduce Ximena, who always seemed solidly cisgender to me, and Ximena must have blown her off. I tried asking Lou about it again a few weeks after she first mentioned it, and she wouldn’t say anything, just smiled and said all that would be taken care of.”
“You think she might be behind the boat attack on Ximena?” Anne asked.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Maybe it isn’t her, but it’s worth looking into. And Peter said I needed to tell you two what my suspicions were.”
“He’s right,” Anne replied. “And we’re definitely going to follow this up.”
“Peter also wants me to come down to Augusta and stay with him until you guys sort this all out. He’s concerned I might be at risk. What do you guys think?”
“That’s a good idea Katie,” Doug said. “I trust Peter to keep you safe, and maybe you can smooth out his rough edges a bit while you’re down there.”
Katie smiled in relief and pumped her fist.
“I’m halfway out the door. As soon as Peter gets back, I’ll pack a bag and we’ll be on our way south.”
“What now?” Anne asked as they left Allie Oops and turned up the alley that led to the parking lot in the back. Doug paused, squinted as he briefly looked up at the narrow slice of sky that was visible between the buildings on either side of the alley.
“Don’t look up Anne, but I think we are being watched by a drone. It seems that Lou Binford may be monitoring more that patio boats.”
Once they were in Doug’s Cherokee, he continued.
“I don’t know all that much about Binford, other than what we know from her work on the serial killer case back a few years ago. But I think Tom Richard might have information about her time in the military, and why she later left the state police. I’ll check with him. For now, let’s go slow and careful, and not give her any indication of our suspicions while we see if there’s any hard evidence we can work with. Her fingerprints on the Lund that ran over Ximena would be nice, for example. First thing we need to do, though, is to try to allay any concerns she might have about us focusing on her. It’s not a good sign that she’s track
ing us with a drone.”
Louise Binford sat in front of a large video monitor at the Greeleys Landing race command center, watching the feed from the drone high over Dover-Foxcroft that showed Anne and Doug exiting the parking lot behind Allie Oops and appearing to head her way. She didn’t turn when she heard Anne and Doug come through the front door of the roller rink a quarter of an hour later, but smiled and stood up as they approached.
“Greetings, officers of the law. What can I do you for?”
“Well, we’re hoping you can help us with something,” Doug began. “There was a serious boat accident over by Peaks-Kenny State Park this morning. We’re hoping you might have captured it if you had any drones up over the South Cove at the time.”
“No, I don’t think so. I got in a little late this morning – car trouble, and have been going over footage from poor Nigel’s crash, so didn’t have any drones running this morning. But I can check with my new intern, Rebecca Hull, she might have had something up over the South Cove. She’s at lunch right now.”
“That would be great,” Anne replied. “Can you also check to see if you have any footage just east of the South Cove, by the Peaks-Kenny cottage. We think there’s a boat there that was involved in the accident. We already got a lucky break on that – one of the guys from our evidence response team was in town, and is checking out the boat now. But any video would be excellent.”
