Stay Hidden

by Paul Doiron

  She looked exactly like Ariel Evans.

  18

  The crowd parted as she stepped onto the gravel-strewn wharf. It’s not every day you see a ghost.

  The blond woman was observant enough to notice the curiosity and unease she provoked, but she kept her head down and moved forward with purpose. She wore a blue cap emblazoned with the insignia of the Navy SEALs. She carried a messenger bag across her lithe body. Her outfit was a mismatch of expensive outdoor brands: Arc’teryx parka, Patagonia pants, Salomon boots. Everything had been scuffed, snagged, and stained, as if from use in the field.

  Nat Pillsbury had gone utterly still. It was as if he’d gazed into Medusa’s face and been turned into a stone statue. His wife, clutching her baby, had an expression of pure horror.

  While everyone else backed off, I started toward the dead woman’s doppelgänger. A chorus of whispers rose up behind me.

  “Is she the sister?”

  “Must be.”

  “Were they twins or something?”

  “How’d she get here so fast?”

  It was a good question. DeFord had said he was unable to locate Ariel Evans’s sister, Miranda, and to the best of my knowledge, the media still hadn’t caught wind of the story. The only possible explanation, I thought, was that this poor woman had come to Maquoit to visit her sister, and now here she was, not knowing that Ariel was lying on a steel autopsy table while the state medical examiner stood over her corpse with a bone saw.

  She paused, looking around as if a driver might be holding up a cardboard sign with her name on it.

  “Ms. Evans?” I said.

  “Yes…”

  I noticed that her plump lips were chapped, and there were bags under her teal-blue eyes.

  “I’m Mike Bowditch. I’m an investigator with the Maine Warden Service.”

  “What’s going on here? How do all of these people know who I am?” She had a pleasant voice and enunciated her syllables with the crispness of a trained actor. “And why do they seem so freaked out?”

  “I can explain, but this isn’t the place for it. Do you have more bags coming off the boat?”

  “A black Patagonia duffel. And a canvas tote.”

  “I’ll grab them for you. We’ll have privacy in my truck to talk about what’s happened.”

  Now that the initial surprise had begun to wear off, she studied me through narrowed eyelids.

  “Why were you waiting for me? I only got into Logan last night.”

  She resembled her sister, but they were by no means twins. They had the same honey-gold hair. But Ariel’s was a pale, delicate, indoors kind of beauty, while her sister’s features had a weathered hardness.

  One of the ferry’s brawny mates came out carrying a waterproof duffel in one hand, and in the other, for balance, a tote loaded with liquor bottles. I took them from him. The duffel was incredibly heavy, and the bag of booze wasn’t much lighter. She had brought a whole bar, it seemed.

  Despite the fog, Miranda Evans put on a pair of sunglasses as if to shield herself from the invasive stares. “Which is your vehicle?”

  “The tan Datsun.”

  She stopped abruptly. “I’d like to see your badge and identification.”

  I put down her bags and produced both of the items she’d requested. She raised her sunglasses to examine the badge and compared my face to the photograph on my ID card. “Your hair looked better shorter.”

  “I agree.”

  The small woman lifted the heavy duffel using her legs and swung it into the bed of the truck. The prospect of getting mud or grease on her luggage seemed not to trouble her at all. She did, however, set the liquor tote inside the cab to keep the bottles from breaking. The laptop bag she clutched to her chest.

  She made a quick survey of the vehicle as I slid behind the wheel. Her attentiveness to detail reminded me of myself, I realized. It was unusual that I met someone with situational awareness comparable to my own.

  “So am I supposed to call you warden or investigator or what?” she asked in her crisp, lovely voice.

  “Mike is fine.” I breathed in deeply to prepare myself. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  “Did my cottage burn down or something?” There was a strained lightness to her tone.

  “Your cottage?”

  “The one I’m renting. Or did my hermit die while I was stuck in Ukraine?” Her smile revealed perfectly white teeth. “Oh, I know. The Nazis learned I was coming out here. Have I gotten more death threats?”

  The realization landed like a punch. “You’re Ariel Evans.”

  Her laugh was musical. “Why are you surprised? You were waiting for me to get off the boat.”

  My tongue seemed like a dead thing in my mouth.

  “Who did you think I was?” she asked, her amusement vanishing.

  Someone began rapping excitedly at my truck window. It was Andrew Radcliffe. He was repeating my name, asking me to roll down the window, saying it was urgent. Now I remembered. The constable had gotten a phone call from the terminal in Bass Harbor minutes before the Muskie docked. The message had puzzled him.

  I focused my full attention on the woman beside me.

  Physically she seemed composed, but when she spoke, I could hear a fresh tremor in her voice. “What exactly is going on here, Warden?”

  “Ms. Evans. Your sister, Miranda, is dead.”

  You would have thought I’d slapped her across the eyes. “When? Where?”

  “She was shot to death yesterday morning in the backyard of the cottage you’re renting. It was initially reported as a deer-hunting incident.”

  “Miranda was on Maquoit?”

  “For the past month she’s been out here, pretending she was you.”

  I had delivered my share of death notifications. I’d seen people laugh in disbelief, as if surely I must be delivering a bad joke. I’d watched a few go catatonic. I’d been present when knees had given way, and I’d had to catch a slumping body in my arms. Once I’d witnessed a mother whose toddler had drowned let out an animalistic wail that was the most chilling sound I’d ever heard.

  What I’d never seen was Ariel’s response to the news of her sister’s death. She began pummeling the dashboard, not slapping it, not striking it, but punching the plastic with the ferocity one might use against a mugger. Seconds later, she leapt from the truck. She stood silently with her hands tightened into fists and her head back, glaring up at the white ceiling of fog.

  As I pursued her, I felt Andrew Radcliffe tug on my arm. “I got a call from the ferry office. This woman with you—”

  “I know, Andrew.” I peeled his fingers off my sleeve. “I know who she is.”

  The constable hung back, afraid to approach the petrified woman. Not that I could blame him.

  Softly I said, “Ms. Evans, I know this is a shock.”

  “A shock?” Her eyes had that fierceness I remembered from her less flattering photos. “It’s not a shock. I’ve been waiting for this news most of life. I’ve always known it was coming. But here? Here? The Chateau Marmont or the Hotel Chelsea, I figured. But an island in Maine?” Her head tilted upward again to the heavens. “Miranda, you fucking bitch. You got me good, little sister.”

  “I think it would be best if we got back into the truck,” I said, aware of the eyes upon us.

  “Let them gawk. I’m used to it.”

  I presumed she was speaking of her fame. “You must have so many questions.”

  “My little sister was killed by a hunter on an island she couldn’t have found on a map. Why would I have questions?”

  Obviously, Miranda had found Maquoit. She’d not only located it but had come here with a fake ID and a stolen credit card with the intention of impersonating her famous sister. But to what possible end?

  Before I could form another sentence, Ariel said, “I want to see her body.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible. It was taken back to the mainland yesterday for an autopsy.”

/>   She rubbed her tired eyes. “I take it you don’t know who killed her?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I started my career on the crime beat in Chicago. I know what cops say to the family when they’ve collared the perp. You said she was shot in the backyard of my cottage?”

  “She was hanging laundry.”

  She snorted. “Really? I bet that was a first for Miranda. It was intentional, though? The shooting?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I know my sister, Detective. What did you say your name was again?”

  “Mike Bowditch. And actually, I am a warden investigator.”

  “In Maine they let game wardens handle murder investigations?”

  “I’m currently being assisted by a detective from the Maine State Police. He had to return to the mainland briefly. If evidence begins to point toward the killing being intentional, then he’ll become the primary.”

  “The primary. I haven’t heard that lingo since my days with the Trib.”

  After the initial excitement, the work of loading the Muskie had started up again, although more than a few of the islanders continued to sneak glances in the direction of my borrowed truck. Pillsbury still hadn’t moved. His wife stood behind him, incandescent with rage. So she had known of the affair? Of course, she’d known. This was an island, as bottled up and suffocating as a killing jar.

  Hiram Reed was now standing shoulder to shoulder with Nat Pillsbury. They were friends, I realized. You could see it in the way that Reed kept looking doggishly up at the taller man, waiting for cues from him. Hiram had probably been Nat’s sidekick from childhood. He was still his sidekick.

  “She was pretending to be me again,” Ariel said almost with sadness. “That’s why all these people are staring at me like I have three eyes. They thought Miranda was me. And now they know she wasn’t.”

  “So she did it before?”

  “Oh, yes. It was how she got her kicks, one of the many ways.”

  “Ms. Evans—”

  “Call me Ariel, please. I’d like to reclaim my name.”

  “Ariel, I think it would be best if you got back on the ferry and returned to the mainland. I can arrange to have someone meet you in Bass Harbor, possibly the state police detective I mentioned. There’s nothing for you here now.”

  “You don’t want to question me?”

  “I do want to question you. But the boat only runs once a week this time of year. I understand that this is your first visit to Maquoit?”

  “Our parents brought Miranda and me here when we were girls. They were visiting wealthy friends who had a ‘summer cottage’ on the island. I still remember the name, Westerly. Like something out of a Daphne du Maurier novel.”

  “But you haven’t visited Maquoit recently? You don’t know anyone who lives out here?”

  “I emailed and spoke with the woman who rented me the house. But if you’re asking if I have any connections here, I don’t. It was one of the things that drew me to this island. I’m one of those people who always wants to go someplace I’ve never been before.”

  “Then you really don’t have any reason to stay. And I assume there will be funeral arrangements.…”

  Her face became hard. “You’re afraid that if I stay, I’m going to get in your way?”

  “I’d rather not have to worry about your safety.”

  “My safety? You understand that everything you’re saying makes me want to stay even more?”

  I caught sight of the boat captain striding around the wharf with the air of someone eager to make his exit. “Excuse me for a minute, please.”

  I sprinted down the dock until I reached the gangway. “Captain!”

  He was a sturdy man with curly hair like the polls of a sheep. I flashed my badge and explained that I needed five minutes to persuade Ariel Evans to return with him.

  “Why, of course I can hold off! That girl just found out her sis is dead? Why, she must be hysterical with grief. The poor thing isn’t thinking clearly.”

  The old chauvinist couldn’t have been further from the truth.

  I let it go because I had an emergency call to make.

  I was fortunate to reach DeFord, who had been on his way to meet with the commissioner. Unlike the ferry captain, he listened closely and carefully until I’d finished describing the bizarre situation.

  “She’s absolutely determined to stay?” he asked.

  “In general she strikes me as someone who isn’t easily budged.”

  “God, what a fiasco this thing’s become. It’s not your fault, Mike, but you’re the only one who can clean it up.”

  “If she does change her mind, is there a chance Charley can bring her back when he drops off Klesko tomorrow?”

  “That depends on the weather.”

  “What should I do with her in the meantime?”

  “Take her someplace warm and safe. Go slow in questioning her. We’ve spent the past day learning what we could about Ariel Evans. But we don’t know anything at all about her sister, Miranda.”

  “There’s something you can do for me on your end,” I said. “A woman named Jenny Pillsbury is on the ferry heading back to Bass Harbor. Could you consult with Klesko and arrange for a state police detective to meet her? Her husband was the one having an affair with Miranda Evans.”

  The captain paused to process this information. “Do you consider this Pillsbury woman to be a suspect?”

  “She has an alibi, but I don’t want her to slip away without being interviewed. Steve will know where his colleague should focus his questioning.”

  “Every time I speak with you, Mike, I get the feeling that you’ve already concluded this was murder. If that’s the case, we need to let Klesko take over. The law is clear about where our job ends.”

  “Give me until the end of the day. I’ll know more by then.”

  “Until the end of the day.”

  As I made my way back to the truck, which was conspicuously alone now that the others had taken their deliveries off the dock, I saw that Ariel was on her phone. When she noticed me approaching, she abruptly ended her conversation. I wondered whom she had been speaking with but understood that I was in no position to pry.

  I stood with the driver’s door open, my head bent to peer inside the cab. “I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind.”

  “Legally, you can’t make me leave.”

  The ferry gave a blast of its horn to signal its imminent departure. “It’s too late anyway.”

  I slid behind the wheel. In the rearview mirror I saw the Muskie drifting into the mist.

  “So where are we going to continue our conversation?” she asked. “Is there a police station? No, there wouldn’t be. And if it’s just you, it’s not like you’d have a formal command post.”

  Truth was, I had no idea where to take her for an interview. Maquoit had no municipal office, as it was unincorporated as a township. Maybe the library had a room that Beryl would let me use?

  Before I could settle on a location, Ariel said, “Take me to Gull Cottage.”

  “That’s not a good idea.”

  “I want to see it. Besides, I’m the one who signed the rental agreement and paid the rent.”

  “I’m not sure that would be wise.”

  “I presume it’s not an active crime scene anymore. Which means you have no grounds to keep me out of the place. If you’d like to hear my side of what happened, you’ll take me to Gull Cottage.”

  19

  The little Datsun handled the potholed roads better than I would have expected. The frame might have been disintegrating, but the new transmission had given the old engine some pep. Blackington must have replaced the shock absorbers, too.

  “I’d like to begin at the beginning,” I said. “I have a lot of questions about your sister and what she was doing here.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to wait until we get to the cottage. You’re not the only one trying to process th
is, you know.”

  “Of course. I understand.”

  Her relative calmness, after that initial outburst, had disconcerted me. The Warden Service chaplain had once told me that grief manifests itself differently in every person. Ariel Evans seemed to be dealing with the body blow of her sister’s death through self-willed nonchalance.

  I expected we might make the rest of the trip in silence. But after we left the village center, we passed a moth-gray building with a mansard roof at the edge of the orchard. A sign identified the place as the Cider House B&B and said it was closed for the season.

  “I think I remember that inn!” Ariel sat upright. “Maybe I’m thinking of the John Irving novel. Or the movie with Tobey McGuire and Michael Caine.”

  “Never saw it.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not really into movies.”

  She snorted again. “Because you’re a rugged outdoorsman. I’ve known men like you. Most of them were phonies. What about The Great Impostor? Tony Curtis? Did you ever see that one?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “If I ever write a memoir about my sister, that should be my title. Not that Miranda was particularly great at anything except blowing up my life. She was an expert at setting bombs for me to trip.”

  “She seemed to be a talented artist.”

  “How did you—?” But Ariel had already arrived at the answer. “You must have found her sketch pad when you searched the cottage. Did you find her stash, too?”

  “No, we didn’t. How bad was her drug addiction?”

  “Didn’t you know? I’m the one with all the addictions. According to the tabloids, I’m the New York Times bestselling author with the thousand-dollar-a-day cocaine habit.”

  “Except it was really Miranda.”

  “People saw her in clubs snorting coke, and the papers fabulated the rest, as they are wont to do.”

  I also had been on the receiving end of unfair and inaccurate news stories. I could have told her that. But I remained silent.

  “Listen to me,” she said after a long pause. “When did I become such a self-hating reporter? I was such an idealist in J-school and during my first years working in newsrooms. It wasn’t until I became famous and found myself on the receiving end of the press that I understood what Janet Malcolm meant about journalism being morally indefensible.”