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khaki bell-bottoms looked quite flashy among the white over black topped with hairnets. Like a marble thrown into the gears of a machine, I zigged and zagged abruptly to stay out of the way while snapping a few pictures. Through an unmarked exit, I stepped from the cool fluorescence of the inner plant into the warm sunlight of the wharf. Extending from the back of the plant was a very large plastic duct about two feet in diameter. This was the gurry chute, from which spilled gallons upon gallons of bloody and gut-filled liquid with its unique stench into the harbor. Good thing I’m not working for the EPA, I thought as I backed away from the gory mess. “Watch yourself, dear,” the man controlling the hydraulic winch warned as a crate of lobster brushed the top of my head, parting my hair. I apologized for being in the way and moved into the path of an oncoming forklift laden with boxes marked frozen mackerel. The forklift driver hit the brakes, sending his cargo to the pavement, where box tops flew and hundreds of mackerel stiff with frost skidded, attempting one last splash.
“Oh, I am so sorry,” I again apologized. I stooped to collect the mackerel that had come to rest around my feet. The driver cheerfully began repacking his load, forbidding my help. I gladly stepped aside, and within minutes the frozen mackerel were again boxed and en route. I marveled at the pace and productivity of all that went on around me. It was a sweatshop environment—I wondered why the employees appeared so happy. These people may have been at a loss when confronted with a dead body, I thought, but they were certainly handy with dead fish.
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Having completed the tour with minimal necessary measurements, notes, and photographs of Turners’ Fish Plant, I had more than I needed to file a report. I wondered if I would be asked to investigate the scene of Dow’s death. Probably wishful thinking on my part. Although I agreed with Cal Dunham’s opinion that no suit would be filed with regard to a wrongful death, as there were no known beneficiaries, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was being swept under the rug. The state police officer, also a member of the Dunham family, had assured me that there would be no autopsy, since they suspected no foul play, and only a routine toxicology report would be done, as required by state law.
That report, everyone concurred, would show only what they already knew: Nick Dow was a lush. But the degree to which his skull had been smashed indicated, to me at least, a very long fall before hitting bottom. I could not buy it. Something was wrong here.
Ducking around a corner to the edge of a parking area, I placed a call to my boss, Mr. Dubois, who was quick to remind me that I was no longer a criminal investigator. I disliked having to report to a boss after so many years of being trusted with much more responsibility, and I understood that the boss was uncomfortable with me as well. It seemed that upper management had drawn straws, and Mr. Dubois had chosen the short one. He was stuck with me. Since Ginny Turner had requested the presence of an insurance representative, he had said that this was an opportunity to update the file as well as to inspect the plant operation for OSHA requirements. That a body had been discovered just as I had s l i p k n o t
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arrived to perform a survey was not a calling or a sign, he said.
In fact, he was adamant that the death was none of my concern. He went on to explain that Ginny, whose original intention in calling the insurance agency had been to increase the value of the plant’s policy, had called again early this morning, when the body was discovered, to cover her ass and avoid any financial outlay. I heeded his warning that Ginny would not be pleased with the resulting list of required upgrades to bring her business into compliance with new, stringent regulations. These changes, costly to the plant owners, would protect the insurance company in potential future claims. And “we” had been hired and paid by the insurance company, he scolded. According to protocol, Turners’
would be given one month to make all necessary changes or risk being dropped from insurance coverage. This development was not news I was eager to deliver to the Ginny Turner I had come to know thus far, but I had my marching orders.
After claiming a low cell phone battery, I almost hung up on Mr. Dubois as he continued to lecture me.
The boss was probably right, I reasoned. I was no longer a criminal investigator. That part of my life had been left down south. Perhaps the right thing to do was to notify the state police with my doubts. They would likely send a detective to investigate, and I could be a Good Samaritan. I had all the photographs of the scene, and I was sure that Cal would co-operate by answering any questions. I quickly dialed Information and was connected to the state police. Following three automatic voice prompts, I was greeted by a human being who claimed to be the detective whose territory included
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Green Haven. I launched into what I considered a profes-sional courtesy call, but the chief detective cut me off rudely.
“Yeah. Right. I heard all about it at six a.m. Some drunk fell off a dock and drowned. What do you want from me?”
“I believe an autopsy will show the cause of death was not drowning. The victim’s skull was fractured to a degree that indicates something more than a fall,” I said. Following a pause I felt was required to add some credibility, I went on, “I just moved here from Miami, where I was employed as a criminal investigator for over twenty years.”
“How long have you been in Maine?”
“Three days.”
“Green Haven ain’t Cabot Cove, and you’re not Angela Lansbury. Are we done?”
“I can supply pictures of the corpse. Won’t you at least send someone here to do some preliminaries?”
“Lady, the last time I sent a unit to Green Haven, the car ended up in the clam flats. Your new neighbors don’t take kindly to law enforcement, so unless I get a call from someone more established, a drunk fell in the water . . .” The line went dead, leaving me to believe he had hung up on me. Well, at least I had tried. I could now resume my menial tasks with a clear conscience, even as the mystery nagged.
I looked up and into the window of the office that I imagined enjoyed a panoramic view of the wharf and thorough-fare. There sat Ginny Turner, phone pressed to her ear, just as Cal had described. I decided it might be prudent to give her a heads-up before presenting her with a long, expensive list of to-dos that would soon be on its way to her insurance s l i p k n o t
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provider. So, up the external stairs I went. At the top of the stairs, I let myself through a heavy wooden door into what appeared to be a waiting area. Two chairs upholstered in the
“harvest gold” that was fashionable in the 1970s straddled a low table littered with issues of National Fisherman magazine and many thin copies of The Working Waterfront.
Although the entrance to the inner sanctum was closed, Ginny’s voice flowed with the stream of daylight through the gaps between door and jamb. As I raised a fist to rap on the door, a headline glared and caught my eye from the glossy June National Fisherman: green haven, maine, weighs in on new cod regulations—page 37. Curious, I dropped my clenched hand and sat to read and wait, thereby not interrupting Ginny, who sounded very busy. As I took a seat, my buttocks forced air from the vinyl-covered chair, resulting in a faint flapping between the top of the cushion and the backs of my thighs. I held my breath, anticipating a blast of immediate verbal wrath from the other side of the door. But the haggling over the price of salt persisted, so I relaxed and flipped through the magazine to page 37.
I skimmed the editor’s note at the top of the page, which explained the venue for what appeared to be a series of letters written by Green Haven fishermen in response to an article in the previous issue entitled “The Expense of Saving Fish.”
Reading through the letters, I quickly learned of the common thread.
I could see both sides of the debate. I sympathized with the fishermen, who were so heavily regulated and trying to make a living.
And I understood the environmentalists’ concern for
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dwindling fish stocks. I detested groups like Greenpeace, which always seemed to target the wrong enemy. On the other hand, I winced at the sense of entitlement expressed by many fishermen. Didn’t everyone have to cope with government interference? Blah, blah, blah, I thought as I read more of the usual rhetoric. As I didn’t yet have anyone to kibitz with, I knew I would keep all opinions to myself as I read the final letter, airing the only opposing view.
It was written by one claiming to be a longtime deckhand who had served aboard much of Green Haven’s cod-fishing fleet. He had, according to his letter, witnessed the near-annihilation of the species and had been privy to blatant disregard of laws and outright cheating among the various captains and boat owners driven by greed. He had seen the senseless killing of tens of thousands of immature fish for the harvesting of those few marketable. The letter was passionate and well written, making it weighty and credible. I froze at the signature: It had been composed by none other than Nick Dow. Dow hadn’t made many friends with this letter, I thought. Not along the waterfront, anyway.
As I sat and waited for Ginny to give the phone a break, I surmised that if there were to be a murder investigation, this letter would be considered a piece of evidence. It must have pissed off a lot of Green Haven residents who depended on the commercial harvesting of fish for their income. But could a letter drive someone to murder? Perhaps it had been forged to frame Dow and put him in harm’s way. Well, none of this was my concern. I was a marine safety consultant and insur-s l i p k n o t
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ance investigator, not a criminal investigator. Murder was no longer in my repertoire. I could now sleep at night. But I closed the magazine and slipped it into my messenger bag.
Old habits die hard.
From the other side of the door came the slamming down of the phone’s receiver. Before I could collect myself and approach to knock, I heard a rapid and, I sensed, frantic and agitated dialing. Only five digits—a local call. I sat back once again and waited for Ginny to complete this call before I delivered my preliminary findings of the plant’s safety features.
“Hello. This is Diane from Scudder Investments. Is Blaine Hamilton there, please?” Fascinated with Ginny’s disguising her voice as well as her identity to the party on the other end, I nearly fell out of the chair, straining to get my ear closer to the door. Wasn’t Blaine Hamilton a primary player at last night’s now infamous town meeting? If I remembered correctly, he was the primary proponent of the construction of the offshore wind farm.
My landlords, Alice and Henry Vickerson, had encouraged me to attend the meeting, which they’d said could lead to a defining decision for my new hometown. They had warned me that the wind farm proposal was a bitterly fought battle currently dividing Green Haven’s community. Even with their warnings, I was surprised at the amount of anger demonstrated in the small town’s public forum. I had never imagined the meeting would turn into a near-brawl instigated by the town drunk, who was now dead. The corpse, I was certain, had sported a button with a slogan that appeared to
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be in support of the offshore power generation, in spite of what I’d witnessed as his boisterous opposition at the meeting. Had the button been pinned to his sweatshirt after his death? Ginny Turner was the one who had found the body.
And now she was carrying on a secret conversation with Hamilton, who I gathered had the most to gain by pushing through the project.
The tiny town keeps on shrinking, I thought. Ginny’s physical appearance denied the most logical conclusion—an illicit affair. I held my breath through an endless pause indicating that Ginny had been placed on hold. As she continued with a greeting in her own voice, just above a whisper, the door at the foot of the stairs burst open, letting in Cal Dunham and all of the noise of a busy working dock.
Cal stood in the doorway, calling orders to a man in a diesel truck whose engine rumbled, annoyingly drowning out any information I might have overheard. The door banged closed behind Cal, who climbed the stairs purposefully while leafing through a handful of loose pink pages that I assumed were orders or receipts or something of that nature. Cal nearly tripped over my feet in the small alcove, then greeted me with the familiarity and warmth of an old friend and ally.
“Any leads yet?” he asked playfully.
“Not looking for any. Accidental death, right?”
“Right. Someone accidentally bashed Nick’s head in,” Cal said as he twisted the knob of Ginny’s office door.
“I’m on it,” I confided.
“I know.” Cal opened the door wide and dropped the pink sheets in the middle of a cluttered desk, behind which s l i p k n o t
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sat his boss, who was no longer on the phone. “Almost one thousand pounds short,” he reported to Ginny. “How could we lose ten crates of lobster?”
“Arrrrr! We didn’t lose them! We’ve been ripped off,”
yelled the fat lady as she slammed a fleshy fist into the middle of her desk, upsetting a box of gaily colored paper clips that pattered like sleet on frozen grass as they fell. “Maybe I’ll hire a security guard. Who do you know?”
Cal thought for a few seconds before responding with a slight smile, “Clydie’s looking to sign back on.”
“That halfwit! I wouldn’t hire him to guard seagull crap!”
Ginny sounded disgusted with Cal’s attempt at humor.
“You’ll have trouble hiring anyone in their right mind, with dead bodies washing ashore here and all. The insurance gal’s here to see you.” Cal left the door open and smiled and nodded to me as he left. I was even less eager to speak with the seething mound of irate female than I had been before.
Cal descended the stairs carefully and vanished into the bustle and bright sunlight.
“Come right in, dear,” Ginny said, her voice softer than I had experienced thus far. I entered the small office, which was positively bulging with desk and woman. A straight-backed wooden chair beside the desk reminded me of one I had occupied in the principal’s office on more than one occasion during my elementary education. Ginny offered the chair with the sweep of a very large arm whose flabby mass, beneath a tight short sleeve, continued to move long after the arm itself had stopped. I collected a few of the multicolored paper clips from the small seat where they had landed during Ginny’s fit,
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returned them to their cardboard home, and perched myself precariously on the chair’s edge.
“Poor Nick Dow. But who called you?” she asked suspiciously.
“Actually, no one called. I’m here to survey your property.
You requested an increase in value, so a new survey needs to be submitted along with your application,” I explained.
“Oh! Well, that’s fine! Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
Ginny offered with forced sincerity.
Following a brief and contentious discussion of what I had found regarding the plant’s substandard safety features and changes necessary to meet OSHA requirements, Ginny Turner was ready to explode. Each item on the preliminary list worked to turn up the pressure within the core of this bloated lady. Each time Ginny slammed the desktop, the fleshy heel of her hand picked up another paper clip that clung to her sweaty skin. Pink and purple paper clips went unnoticed by Ginny and were joined by blue and yellow in con-secutive desk poundings. Though I have never been the type to be intimidated, I was somewhat entertained by the the-atrics. “Mrs. Turner, I am just doing my job. Don’t you want to provide a safe working environment for your employees?”
“My employees are lucky to have jobs! OSHA shut down the sardine factory and displaced over fifty of this town’s hardworking folks who never realized they were earning paychecks in a death trap until some city slicker like you came along and
put them out of work.” The fist went down again.
“You don’t provide your employees with minimal safety equipment, basic first aid, or even protective working apparel.”
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“Apparel,” Ginny sputtered. “Some of these people don’t have indoor plumbing!”
“You could be put out of business by a single personal-injury victim with a good attorney,” I reasoned.
“Attorney, schmirney!” Ginny was nearly breathing fire from her fully risen yeast-dough lips. “We don’t operate like that in Green Haven. We take care of our problems without invoking the law.”
I took a deep breath. “So I’ve noticed.” I felt my eyebrows disappear beneath my bangs.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
I was pleased to realize that this insurance gig was, at least for the moment, more fun than I had anticipated. Feeling my exit cue had come, I rose to my feet and turned on a heel toward the door. “You’ll be hearing from me,” I promised over my shoulder with a tone that implied “I’ll be watching you.”
As I closed the door behind me, something (I assumed a stapler) crashed into the other side with enough force to have been hurled by Roger Clemens. Certainly enough force, I noted, to have put a pretty good dent in my skull had that been the intention.
3
it was such a glorious sunny day that the strain in the back of my neck caused by confrontation—not to mention the mysterious death—could be soothed with a little massage from Mother Nature, I thought. Taking one last look around, I wandered to the far end of the longest pier jutting from the bustle of the plant’s nucleus. A solitary loon paddled by as effortlessly as a decoy adrift in the slight breeze, seemingly oblivious to the many herring gulls swooping, darting, and squawking overhead.
Working docks that ringed the harbor like spokes on a wheel were alive with activity. A stern trawler—which I assumed was one of the dozen or so boats engaging in the codfish battle that I had been hearing about—threw lines from splintered pilings at the dock closest to where I stood. Backing down with a plume of black smoke that quickly dissipated to a colorless exhaust, distorting the landscape I viewed through it, the boat turned and headed to sea. New homes that otherwise gleamed in fresh white paint and pristine cedar decks appeared lackluster through the boat’s heavy s l i p k n o t
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