by Barbara Ross
In a back corner of the dining room, a group of lobstermen gathered around several tables they’d pushed together. They were young and old, but mainly middle-aged. In an era when most fishing was done from giant boats owned by giant corporations, lobstermen were the small businessmen of the sea. I recognized all of them by sight. They looked like they might have been members of the Busman’s Harbor Chamber of Commerce. In fact, several of them were.
Sonny’s dad, Bard Ramsey, was there, his arm in a blue sling held against his chest by Velcro. Bard sat at the head of the table, appropriate to his status as a highliner, the most highly skilled and successful lobsterman in our harbor. When he spotted me, he raised his good hand in a salute. “Howdy, darlin’. Coffees all round.”
Farther down, along one of the crowded sides of the table, sat Sonny’s younger brother, Kyle. All three Ramsey men shared the same big, barrel-chested build and bright orange hair, though Bard’s had turned white and fell in long tight waves to below his ears, unlike his sons’ buzz cuts. Kyle had been in town all summer working as his father’s sternman, but in the busy tourist season, we hadn’t crossed paths. I was shocked by how thin he was and how scruffy he looked. A torn pocket hung from his ill-fitting blue-and-black-checked shirt. He didn’t acknowledge me and I didn’t call attention to myself. His expression was serious and sad, but then, it wasn’t a happy group. The men looked worn and worried. I didn’t want to intrude as I filled their coffee cups.
Sonny wasn’t at the long table, which didn’t surprise me. Just because the Coast Guard had called off the civilian part of the search didn’t mean Sonny would stop looking.
“It’s those Coldporters, for sure,” a young man with a powerful build and long brown hair said. “I say we go over there—”
“Go over there and what? Those cops are already asking questions. If we retaliate, best to do it on the water,” another man interjected.
“The water’s crawling with Coast Guard and Marine Patrol,” said a man with a long beard flecked with gray. “The harbormaster’s working double shifts. It’s like the parking lot at Target on Black Friday out there. I’ll be lucky if their propellers don’t cut my buoy lines, much less those Coldporters.”
“So what? We ignore this? Face facts. Poor Pete Murray is dead. He’s one of our own. It can’t go unanswered,” the first lobsterman responded.
Bard lifted his good hand off the table, and one by one, the others stopped talking. “We do nothing,” he said, “until we have a better idea of what’s happened. Then we’ll assess.”
The others muttered their assent, though the young man who’d spoken first looked distinctly unhappy.
I’d hovered as long as I dared. I backed away from the table, coffee carafe in hand. The finality of Bard’s pronouncement had caused them to fall into silence. None of them had mentioned the death of David Thwing. He wasn’t one of theirs.
But it seemed to me the presence of Thwing on the boat was the strangest part of the story.
Even on a day when there was so much to talk about, the restaurant was empty by 1:30. The working people of Busman’s Harbor didn’t have time to dally. As I wiped the last table clean, Lieutenant Jerry Binder and Sergeant Tom Flynn of the Maine State Police Major Crimes Unit came down the stairs that led into the restaurant.
“Ms. Snowden, you’re not the person I expected to see here. Do you work for Gus now?” Binder said when he spotted me.
My relationship with Binder had been up and down. On the one hand, in the spring and summer, I’d helped him solve two murders. On the other, during the first investigation, he’d ignored me, and during the second, he’d used and misled me. Nonetheless, in August, we’d parted in a grudging truce. I thought he was a good cop. I wasn’t sure what he thought of me.
“We’re filling in for Gus,” I explained. “His wife is sick.”
“We?”
I looked behind me at the kitchen, which was spotless and empty. The click of the back door told me Chris had let himself out. He was not a fan of Binder and Flynn. I couldn’t really blame him. They’d once arrested him for a murder he hadn’t committed.
“Do you gentleman want something to eat?”
“It looks like you’ve closed up shop.”
“If we keep it simple, I can probably rustle something up.”
I stepped into Gus’s walk-in refrigerator to sort out what we might have. I didn’t want to reheat the grill. “Cheese sandwiches?” I called. It wasn’t much, but it would get them through to the next meal.
Binder had a ski-slope nose, large brown eyes, and a bald head surrounded by a sandy brown fringe. He was average height and slender, and wore a tweed sports coat and a simple gold wedding ring. I knew from our previous time together he was a devoted husband and doting father to two young boys.
His partner, Flynn, was compact and broad-shouldered. He removed his jacket as he sat down, and his biceps and chest muscles were visible under his dark blue tailored shirt. I didn’t know him as well as I knew Binder. He had an aversion to chitchat. His haircut said ex-military, and his accent was New England, but not Maine. Rhode Island, maybe.
“Sure,” Binder answered for both of them. As I expected, Binder wanted lots of cheese, mayo, and mustard, and no lettuce or tomato. Sergeant Flynn of the toned, gym-rat body wanted all the veggies I could find, little cheese, no mayo.
“What brings you to town?” I asked. Binder and Flynn worked out of the state police office in Maine’s capital, Augusta, an hour away. The Major Crimes Unit investigated homicides, child abuse and suspicious deaths for every city and town in Maine, except Portland and Bangor, which were large enough to have their own detectives.
While Flynn bit into his sandwich, Binder answered, “David Thwing.”
“Isn’t he a problem for the Coast Guard?”
“Peter Murray’s a problem for the Coast Guard. At least for the moment. Thwing was murdered.” He let that sink in. Murdered. I couldn’t claim to be surprised. It was obvious something had gone terribly wrong on the El Ay. Was it murder-suicide? Peter killed Thwing and jumped overboard? I couldn’t imagine it. Peter was a passive, cheery man who never had a bad word for anyone. Besides, what relationship could he possibly have had with Thwing, and what could his motive have been?
“I understand you’re the one who called the Coast Guard,” Binder said.
“I saw the El Ay floating in the channel between Morrow Island and Westclaw Point. It was drifting, didn’t look right.”
“You were where at the time?”
“The beach on the island.” They were all too familiar with the island due to the murder that had occurred there in the spring.
“Did you see anything at all? Any other boats?”
I didn’t have to think about it. “There was no one else visible on the water when I got to the beach.”
“I understand David Thwing was planning a business to compete with yours,” Binder said.
So they knew that already. How long had they been in town?
“That’s correct,” I answered.
“I also understand your brother-in-law, Sonny Ramsey, was rather vocal in his opposition.”
Where was this going? I didn’t like the sound of it. “You’d best ask Sonny about that.”
Flynn grunted. Sonny hadn’t been exactly forthcoming with the police in their previous investigations. “We tried. Your sister says he’s out on his father’s boat, looking for Murray.”
“Then he is.”
“Civilian boats have been called off from the search.”
“That wouldn’t stop Sonny.”
Binder couldn’t argue with that. He knew from personal experience Sonny didn’t respond well to authority figures. “Officer Dawes tells us you saw Mr. Thwing on the town pier yesterday morning,” he said.
“I did. He was inspecting his new sign and ticket booth.”
“Anyone else around?”
“Not a soul.” Earlier that morning, the pier had been crowded with seni
or citizens waiting for their bus trip, but they’d left by the time I talked to Thwing.
Binder wiped his mouth with his napkin and stood. “Thank you. This has been helpful. What do we owe Gus?”
“A five will cover it,” I answered.
Flynn stood up, too. “We’ll need a formal statement. You spotted the empty boat and you may have been the last person aside from his killer to see Thwing alive. Come by the station when you’re finished here.”
I nodded. I’d be happy to have that over with. “One thing I don’t get though. If Thwing was pulled under the boat by the trapline, how do you know he was murdered?”
Binder dropped his voice almost to a whisper, though we were alone in the restaurant. “We’re awaiting more from the medical examiner, but Thwing was bashed in the head before he went overboard. We think whoever did it tossed the body in the water to get rid of it and didn’t know he got tangled in the lines.”
I wasn’t shocked. If Peter Murray had been under that boat, I would have believed it was an accident, but David Thwing? Clearly there was more to the story. I finished cleaning the tables. David Thwing was murdered, I thought with every swipe of the cloth. Murdered, murdered, murdered. And my brother-in-law was lying to his wife about something, but what?
Chapter 8
As soon as Binder and Flynn left, I dialed my cell phone. “Prawk, prawk, prawk, prawk.” I made chicken noises into the phone.
“Very funny,” Chris responded, without a trace of laughter in his voice. “I’m not afraid of those guys. I’m afraid of what I might do or say if I’m around them too long.”
“Prawk, prawk. My point, exactly.”
“Besides, I got a call for a taxi pickup at the train station in Brunswick. I have just enough time to get back to the cabin, switch my truck for my cab, and get there.” The drive to Brunswick was forty-five minutes each way.
“Okay. Drive safely. I love you.” It had taken me too long to say those words. Now I used them whenever I could.
“Love you, too.”
I drove my car the few blocks from Gus’s to Mom’s house. Once again, my mother’s car wasn’t in her garage.
“Mom?” In the kitchen, the sink was empty. A single teacup and a luncheon plate sat in the drain board. “Mom!” The parlor was picked up. Upstairs, her bed was neatly made.
I would have been a lot more concerned if the place had been messy. My mother always left the house as if she might have to entertain visiting dignitaries on a moment’s notice. I tried to remember the last time I’d seen her. The day before yesterday, I was certain.
Her car was gone, so she wasn’t across the street at the Snuggles Inn. I remembered belatedly that Vee and Fee were out of town on their seniors’ trip until later that afternoon in any case. Mom’s cell went straight to voice mail. “Mom, call me when you get this, will you?”
I went out on the front porch and stood wondering what to do. I wasn’t worried about my mom, but I had a strange feeling of dislocation. Peter Murray was missing. Gus hadn’t been in his accustomed place behind the counter at his restaurant all day. There were no pies. And now this.
My cell phone rang. Livvie. She didn’t even say hello. “Sonny’s back in the harbor. The cops asked him to go straight to the station to give his statement. Not to even come home and shower first.”
“On my way there.”
I left a note on the kitchen table for Mom—Please call me as soon as you get in!—and ran out the door. I didn’t think there was really any issue with my mother. She was a grown woman. I hadn’t seen her for a couple of days, which normally wouldn’t be cause for alarm.
As I hurried the two short blocks to the police station, I realized that my mother had never really been on her own. She’d married my dad right out of college, and during my dad’s illness and for a long time afterward, Livvie, Sonny, and Page had practically lived at her house. Since the spring, I had actually lived there. The last five weeks when I’d been living on Morrow Island were the first time Mom had been alone twenty-four hours a day in almost thirty-five years.
As usual, Binder and Flynn had commandeered the multipurpose room at Busman’s Harbor’s ugly brick fire department-town offices-police complex for their investigation. When I entered the station, the door to their room was closed, but I could hear Sonny’s booming voice coming from inside. I couldn’t pick out the words, but I could tell he was protesting. I smiled at the civilian receptionist and sat on the bench across from her.
I didn’t have to wait long. The door to the conference room flew open and Sonny stomped out. He rushed through the outside door into the parking lot. I followed.
“Sonny, wait!”
He wheeled around, his hands on his hips. He smelled of bait and salt water. “What?” he demanded.
“What do you mean, what? What happened? What did they want? Are you okay?”
His posture softened a bit, and some of the bright red color drained from his freckled face. “I’m fine, just on edge. I hate that building and I hate being questioned by those guys.” Sonny and the state police detectives were a mutual antagonizaton society. “They were following up on what Lorrie Ann said on the dock yesterday. That I was supposed to help Peter on his boat.”
This was the crux of the matter. I gestured to Sonny that we should move away from the station house into the parking lot. He shuffled to the end of the sidewalk and planted himself. “Say what you’ve got to say,” he said. “I have to go back to the marina to get my truck, and I’m not following you all over creation.”
“Sonny, why were you too late to meet Peter yesterday? I want the truth.”
Sonny squinted at me. “Did your sister put you up to this?”
“Yes, my poor, pregnant baby sister, your wife, whom you’ve upset terribly by lying, put me up to this.”
The remark hit home. Sonny deflated like a pricked balloon. Hurting Livvie was more than he could bear. “I’d finished breakfast at Gus’s and was on my way to meet Peter at the marina when I got a call on my cell from Busman’s Harbor Hospital.” He stopped, visibly upset. “They said Livvie was in the hospital, having a miscarriage. They said her life was in danger. I needed to get to the hospital right away.”
“What!”
“I know.” He paused for a moment to let me absorb what he’d said. “I turned around and drove like a bat out of hell. But when I got to the emergency room, Livvie wasn’t there. I was frantic. The nice girl at the desk tried to find Livvie. She called everywhere in the hospital—OB/GYN, Surgery, Recovery. Nothing. She called Livvie’s doctor’s office in the hospital annex, but her doctor was performing a caesarian on someone else and her receptionist wasn’t in yet. Finally, I got a hold of myself and tried Livvie’s cell. She picked up right away. She was at home, safe and sound.”
Sonny was breathing heavily by the time he finished the story. The phony phone call had terrified him. My brother-in-law was deeply in love with his wife, adored his only child, and was as excited about the baby to come as I’d ever seen him.
“What did you do then?”
“I went home, just to make sure.” After a scare like that, Sonny would have needed to see Livvie in the flesh to believe she was okay.
“I didn’t go inside. I was still upset and I knew Livvie would be able to tell something was wrong. So I parked on the street and waited until I caught a glimpse of her working in the kitchen.” He exhaled loudly, blowing away the tension. “You see why I can’t tell her, don’t you?”
I did. Sonny had lied to Livvie to shield her from the upsetting nature of the phone call. “Did you tell Binder and Flynn about the call?”
“Told them. Showed them my phone. Gave them permission to look at my phone records.” Sonny pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his lobsterman’s overalls and showed me the recent calls list. The three digits after the area code on the most recent incoming call were indeed, the Busman’s Harbor Hospital exchange.
“Do you recognize the last four numbers?”
“Nope. I tried calling the number several times while I was frantic in the ER, but there was no answer. The girl at the desk in the emergency room tried it, too.”
“Who do you think would play such a terrible trick on you? Was it a man or a woman?”
“I was so panicked and I could barely hear the voice, but it I think it was a man. I forget who he said he was. Something official.”
“And you didn’t recognize the voice?”
“C’mon, Julia. Of course not.”
“Then what did you do, after you checked on Livvie at home?”
“I went back to the marina, but I’d missed Peter. I tried to raise him on the radio, to apologize for being so late, but got no answer. I didn’t think anything of it. I figured he was pissed at me and he’d come around. So I went by my dad’s to see if he wanted me to haul his traps.”
“What time was it when you got to the marina?”
“Not sure.” Sonny looked up at the sun. “It was before ten, because I got to my dad’s house around ten.”
“Then what happened?”
“Julia, I just went through this with the cops.”
“Humor me.”
I figured he still hoped to persuade me not to tell Livvie about the phone call, so he did. “Nothing. I took Dad’s boat out.”
“Did you talk to anyone on the radio while you were at sea?”
“I never turned it on.”
Really ? Most lobstermen kept up a constant, jokey conversation with the other boats from their harbor within radio range. It was a way to stave off loneliness, and maybe gain a little intelligence about where they placed their traps and how well they were doing. It seemed especially odd that Sonny had kept his radio off on a day when he’d hoped to communicate with Peter Murray. And during a time when hostilities with Coldport Island were so high, it seemed dangerous to be disconnected from the other men from our harbor.
