Alisoun spoke up. “This is Chase Peterson. He’s a friend of mine. He’s…well, he’d better explain.”
“I work for the state of Maine, ma’am. Normally, with these little dust-ups over trap-pulling, we’d let the Marine Patrol handle it. But as you know, the whole fuel-oil business complicates matters. I was asked to poke around and see if I could figure out what’s going on.” He seemed casual, rocking gently on his heels, his thumbs hooked into his jeans pockets. But there was something in the set of his jaw and the clarity of his eyes that made Ginny want to rely on him.
She shot a questioning glance at Alisoun. Did she know her new friend well enough to rely on Alisoun’s judgement of this man?
“I trust him,” Alisoun said without elaboration. “I told him what we saw last night.”
“And he talked to me about Bill,” John put in. His voice trembled when he spoke his husband’s name.
Chase held out a photo ID card proclaiming him to be an official representative of the State of Maine Fisheries Regulatory Commission, which didn’t seem to have much to do with the situation at hand. “Ms. Brent, I was at Murphy’s on Thursday night, and I saw you go back to pay your bill. I was impressed. I wasn’t so impressed you were with Fred Thompson.”
“I wasn’t with him,” she protested. “He bought me a beer and got me out of the brawl, that’s all.”
Peterson laughed, and suddenly, she liked him a lot. “I know. Now I know. But Fred’s a person of interest, so I’m afraid you were a person of interest, too—”
“You were the one in my room last night!”
He grinned and raised his hands in surrender. “I confess. My apologies. Just doing my job. How did you know?”
She leaned in and sniffed. “Yep. Aftershave? Does Linc use the same one?”
“That’s one detail I’ve never checked. But never mind that now. Will you help me? You seem to have found something I missed.”
After a long pause to marshal her thoughts, she said, “This is how I see it. Bill Thompson notices Linc loading his traps onto the Sosumy. I don’t know where this happened or when, but he draws a sketch of it. Maybe he doesn’t even realize what he’s seeing. Hasn’t anyone ever come up with a photo of Fred’s boat with Linc’s traps on it?”
Chase shook his head. “You’d think someone would have, wouldn’t you? But those in the know might be too afraid to get involved, and those who don’t know, well, they wouldn’t know what they were seeing.”
“Anyway, let’s assume the original draft is still in Bill’s sketch pad. I didn’t make anything of it until John showed me the notes Bill wrote on the back page. Bill was planning to turn the sketch into a watercolor—that’s what those color names mean, John. They refer to a particular brand of watercolor paints—cerulean, cobalt, viridian, turquoise, ultramarine. Maybe he even goes to look at Fred’s boat to refresh his memory, refine his lines.”
“He did,” John exclaimed. “He said Fred chased him away. And I didn’t think anything of it, since those two will argue about anything. I should have asked him, I should have—”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” she interrupted.
John wouldn’t let go of it. “But he told me he was trying to get them to stop the feud over the oil business. He told me he wanted them to work things out without all this personal pettiness. You know, like grown-up businessmen.” His voice cracked, and he wiped a tear from his cheek.
“No way that was gonna happen,” Chase said. “But we’ll get to that in a bit. Go on, Ginny.”
She took a deep breath. “I don’t know for sure, but I think Linc found out about the watercolor on Thursday, the day I arrived. What if he was out in his boat, saw Bill out wherever he was, and stopped to say hello? Would he do something like that, John?”
“Linc? Sure. He loves to watch artists work. He can’t draw or paint to save his life, but he does sincerely love art.”
“And then, when he saw what Bill was working on…” She kept her voice deliberately gentle, hoping to ease the shock.
John swore. “Linc hurt Bill? I’ll kill him, I swear I will—”
Chase put a hand on his arm. “We don’t know that yet, and we may never know it. Go on, Ginny. What makes you think he had advance knowledge of Bill’s death?”
“Because right after he heard about Bill being missing, on the phone just after I got here, he was making a little speech about what a great artist Bill was and so on. Like a eulogy. As if he knew Bill was dead. I’m so sorry, John.” She left her hand on his arm as she continued. “I would’ve expected the head of an art show to be worrying about things having to do with the show, like how to handle the publicity or what to do about Bill’s space, not about preparing a memorial. It was as if he’d already gone through that part.”
Chase gave a sharp nod. “Makes sense, Ginny. How does it tie in with the boat chase?”
“I think, after he…did whatever he did, when Bill was in the water, Linc ripped the page out of the sketchpad. He showed it to Fred as blackmail to leave his traps alone and maybe to leave his business alone. Bill always cuts his sketches out, he doesn’t tear them. You can see how he does it, here.” She pointed to the neatly cut strips of perforated paper left where pages had been removed. “And this morning, Linc had a piece of sketch paper with ragged edges. Maybe it was the watercolor. When I was on the pier Friday at noontime, I overheard an argument about contracts and trouble, and Fred was there. And someone, I’m not sure who, warned someone else off his lobster pots.”
They all chewed on that for a moment. “That would explain why we saw Fred chasing Linc last night,” Alisoun suggested. “Trying to get that watercolor back. But why was LaFlamme with him?”
“We’ll get to that in a minute.” Chase looked at Ginny. “Anything else?”
“Yesterday, Fred was trying to get into Bill’s things at the show. He actually managed to find the sketchpad before Damon stopped him. He said he wanted to see the picture Bill was making of his boat.”
“Ah. That ties that up nicely.”
“But it’s just a few lobster traps. What’s the worst that could happen?” Ginny objected.
Alisoun snorted. “People have been killed over lobster pots.”
“And there’s more to it,” Chase added. “I’m working for Fisheries, but my real job is with the Utilities Commission.”
“Fuel oil?” John asked. He was swaying with fatigue, but intent on the discussion.
He confirmed it with a nod. “Fred Thompson Oil had a lot of trouble meeting its contracts last winter. A bunch of customers pulled out of their prepay contracts, which he was relying on to pay his suppliers. Some companies do that, and it’s legal if they pay it forward—this year’s contracts for this year’s bills. But Fred has done it the other way around for years, using this year’s income to pay last year’s bills. It caught up to him this spring. He was applying to the Commission for, shall we say, considerations to reduce his collateral so he could keep his business going. We heard he was putting pressure on the WBOCoop to let him take over some of their contracts.”
Ginny whistled. “That bad? Bad enough to lose his license? But would this tiff about lobster traps be enough to put the kibosh on his application?”
“We take our lobster fishing very seriously,” Alisoun pronounced.
“What was in that watercolor, John? Do you know?” Ginny wondered if Bill shared his process with his partner. Many artists preferred to work in private, only showing the completed works.
The bereaved man caught his breath and frowned, his eyes going vague as if to call up the sketch in his mind. “What I saw was Fred’s boat with Linc’s traps on it. He hadn’t put Linc in the picture yet, and I don’t know if he was going to. I think he was, as a way to get him and Fred to see reason. They were both at fault, at least in this part of it.”
A troupe of about twenty, a large family judging by the mix of ages and the similarities in their faces, interrupted their conference, and they stepped aside t
o let them pass. One of the younger kids waved and called, “Hi, UPS guy!”
John returned the wave with a strained smile, but as soon as the group was gone, his face turned haunted again. “I can understand why Bill would try to settle the feud. He’s just that kind of guy. Even though he can’t—couldn’t—stand his cousin, well, they’re still cousins, and family is family. Then there is the art connection with Linc. He’s been good to Bill and to a lot of artists, helping them get their work out to the public. What I don’t understand is why anyone would hurt him.” His voice hitched again, and he squeezed his lips tight.
“I’m guessing here, John, but I think Linc wanted to use the picture to blackmail Fred—back off or I’ll show this where it’ll do the most good. Bill wanted to finish it so he could use it to convince both of them to behave. It was brave of him, even if it probably wouldn’t have worked. Chase, you said we didn’t have to worry about Fred. Can you tell us why?”
He consulted the ground at his feet, then looked up at them with a twinkle in his eyes. “Because he’s in custody. LaFlamme arrested him late last night on drug-running charges.”
The stunned silence that greeted this announcement struck Ginny as hilarious, and she struggled to stop a giggle from escaping her lips. “Well, that’s one way to pay off your debts,” she commented, and that set all of them roaring. Even John managed a wan smile, though tears threatened to fall. When Ginny finally caught her breath, she wiped her eyes. “What I find hardest to believe is that LaFlamme caught him. Didn’t you call him a dim bulb just last night, Alisoun?”
The photographer nodded, the last chuckle burbling up. “Yeah, I never thought he’d have the nerve. What did you call him, Ginny? A dog with a bone.”
Chase smiled happily. “Yes, that was a bonus. LaFlamme has had his eye on Fred for a long time, and he finally found the evidence last night. After Linc slipped around a rock that Fred’s bigger boat couldn’t approach as easily, the Sosumy chugged back to harbor. LaFlamme poked around below decks and found a pretty little surprise tucked away in the galley. He’d suspected Fred for a while, and when Fred asked him to go along to chase down Linc on the blackmail thing, he was only too happy to agree. The Feds are here now to take him off our hands. Looks like the WBOCoop will stay in business.”
“But what about Linc Shattuck?” Two anger spots appeared on John’s cheekbones. “Where is he, and when will you charge him with murdering my husband?”
“Marine Patrol is out looking for him right now,” Chase told him. “John, please, don’t do anything rash. We don’t actually have proof he killed Bill. Let us do our job, right?”
Alisoun patted John’s shoulder. “It would be better if you went home now, John, where you can do your mourning in peace while the pros do their jobs.”
“But the police won’t release his b-body,” John stuttered. Unshed tears glimmered in his eyes.
“It won’t be long,” Ginny said soothingly. “Go be with your brother and the others who loved Bill. Trust me, they need you as much as you need them. Let me get Damon to drive you.”
John protested a little more, but in the end, agreed to go home and let his family help with the funeral arrangements. Chase offered business cards all around and requested they call should they come across any new information. Ginny offered to stay at Bill’s booth until another docent could be found, though she still hoped she could leave for her own home soon.
As she headed back to the booth, ready to relieve Damon of his duties, Alisoun fell into step beside her. “Marine Patrol has big boats,” she commented.
“All the better to fight crime with, m’dear.”
“Linc has a little boat. A glorified row boat, really.”
“So?”
Alisoun bumped her shoulder against Ginny. “Little boats can get into some places the big ones can’t.”
“Good for them.” Ginny longed for the weekend to end. So much for a relaxing break from her normal routine at home. Though, to be honest, the food had been fabulous.
“I have a little boat that can go places the big ones can’t. It’s quieter, too, and I know a lot of nooks and crannies most people don’t. One advantage of working at the Refuge is I get to go places where the public isn’t allowed.”
Ginny stopped in her tracks. “If you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, the answer is no. No, no, and no. I’m not going out in anybody’s boat to look for someone who might be a murderer. Not in my job description. No way.”
Alisoun strolled on a bit, forcing Ginny to follow. “I think I know where he might be,” she hinted. “It’s not far, but it’s hard to find if you don’t know where you’re going. And there are some tricky sand shoals in the approach.”
“You’re not making me feel any more cooperative.”
“Marine Patrol will never find him.”
“Then you go tell them about it and take them there. Seriously, Alisoun, no.”
They walked on in strained silence. Ginny wondered if she had permanently alienated her and regretted it. But a manhunt on the water was asking too much.
Beside her, Alisoun let out a breath. “Thing is, I’m going, and I’d really like your company. But I’ll understand if you really don’t want to go.”
Ginny stopped walking and turned to face her. “I really don’t want to go, and that’s not fair. I can’t let you put yourself in danger, Alisoun. Please don’t do it.”
“Another thing is, it’s not far, but by the time I get hold of Patrol, explain it all, and they get themselves together and out there, the tide will be out. They’d get stranded. I know the channels, and I can get there. I’d need you on the camera, though, Ginny. You did such a good job last night.”
Despite herself, Ginny was tempted. To see a problem through to the end—that was part of her success in business, though she often counseled others to take a safer course. If it were anyone but Alisoun, whose sailing skills she trusted and whose respect she desired, she would not have wavered. Besides, she wanted to make sure John Hixenheiser wouldn’t do something stupid on his own. She gave in. “Oh, all right! Let’s do it.”
Chapter Ten
They were making way against the slack outgoing tide, heading up the narrow river to the Rachel Carson National Wildlife Refuge, and the Effen-Stop’s engine chuffed alarmingly. If she looked over the side, Ginny could see clear to the bottom, only a couple feet below. Alisoun perused the channel ahead, letting Ginny hold the camera. “Take pictures of anything you find interesting,” she suggested.
Everything would’ve been interesting—the sea grasses and crabs, the little fish darting among them, birds floating on the waves—if they’d been on a normal expedition. The channel narrowed and tall marsh reeds closed in on either side. They were in the National Refuge now, so the only signs of human life were a few markers, one or two nesting boxes, and the remains of a broken-down shack. The only sounds were the rustle of the reeds in the wind, a few bird calls, and the slap of water against the hull. Ginny wondered if there was enough room in the channel to turn the boat around. “What are we looking for?”
“Linc’s boat, most likely. It wasn’t in his slip, and I’ve seen him heading in here before. It’s not legal, but sometimes the locals sneak in to have a beer and drop a line. Just around this bend there’s a bit of shade.”
A few scraggly trees provided the shade. There was also a boat, floating lazily on its tether to a dead tree in the marsh. It certainly looked like Linc’s old relic, as Alisoun had called it. Ginny read the registration number on the stern and matched it to her memory of Linc’s number. No doubt about it, this was his boat. Only a single lobster trap sat on its prow.
“Now what…” The question died on her lips. As they came alongside, the silvery hair of Linc Shattuck appeared above the gunwale.
“Go away,” he yelled. “Leave me alone.”
“Can’t do that, Linc,” Ginny called back. “Everyone is worried about you.” Well, not everyone, and not worried, exactly,
but a lot of people sure wanted to talk to him.
He rose, his torso showing now. He still wore the elegant white shirt she’d last seen him in, but his tie was missing and a smear of oil marred his left sleeve and front. Ginny ignored those details, because right now, her gaze was fixed on the sleek, black handgun in his right hand. For the first time in her life, she understood the phrase “her blood ran cold.”
“A bit late for that,” Linc scoffed. “I’m ruined. There’s nothing left.”
The Effen-Stop sidled closer to Linc’s boat. The keel grated on the rocky bottom of the inlet. He raised his gun, and Alisoun cut the motor. She tossed a weight over the side to hold the boat in place. “I’ll stay here,” she said, raising a placating hand. “We just want to talk to you.”
He got all the way to his feet and braced himself against the gentle rocking. “Not much to say, Alisoun. It’s all here, anyway.” He touched his shirt pocket, where the tip of an envelope protruded.
Ginny extended her hand. “Just tell us about it, Linc. Did you kill Bill?”
“I didn’t mean to,” he wailed. He covered his eyes and tapped his head with the barrel of the gun. “I just hit him, and he fell into the water. I thought…he’s a good swimmer, he’ll get back in the boat. But he didn’t move, he just floated… Oh, God, I didn’t mean to kill him!”
She gulped and took a firm hold on her nerves. “Well, he’s dead, Linc, and you’re responsible. It’s time to—”
“I don’t want to go to jail!”
“Nobody does. But running away won’t solve anything.” She focused her attention on him. Her words didn’t matter; she just had to keep him from doing something stupid. Again.
He wavered, and the gun drooped. “You don’t know, you don’t know everything…”
Behind her, Alisoun was murmuring into her radio, giving directions. “You’ll need a Zodiac to get up Salt Meadow gorge. The tide’s full out, so you might have to wait a bit. I’m rubbing rocks myself.” The response was too full of static for Ginny to understand. Alisoun added some nautical jargon, then said, “Out.” She joined Ginny at the bow.
Oil & Water Page 7
