by Paul Doiron
The name caused Beryl to catch her breath. “It was just a physical thing. They were having sex. Miranda was a very sexual person. Some people give off that vibe. I’m not even into girls, but I could feel it. She used her desirability to toy with people and get what she wanted.” A sudden blush started spreading up her throat. “That’s just an impression I got.”
“What about for Pillsbury? Did he consider it to be just a physical thing, too?”
Beryl began batting the pack of cigarettes back and forth between her hands. “Why don’t you ask him?”
“What’s your opinion of Nat Pillsbury? Your personal opinion?”
She gazed at me through slitted eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Do you like him? Dislike him? Did you caution Miranda against falling under his magic spell?”
“The only magical thing about Nat Pillsbury is his cock.”
There it was: Beryl had had sex with him, too. “He was sleeping with you before Miranda arrived,” I stated with such authority that she couldn’t equivocate. “That’s why you’ve been avoiding me, isn’t it? You were afraid you’d give yourself away under questioning.”
She glanced off into a shadowy corner as if someone might have been hiding there. She was furiously trying to think of a retraction. But it was no use.
“There was very little sleeping involved,” she finally admitted.
“Did Jenny Pillsbury know about you and Nat?”
“I’m pretty sure she had suspicions, but that was all.”
I kept pressing. “To your knowledge, did Jenny know about his affair with Miranda?”
Beryl made a searching examination of the bookshelves behind me. “I don’t think so.”
“From what I’ve heard, most of the island knew or suspected. Nat was openly attentive to her at the Trap House.”
“I don’t go to the Trap House. I don’t like to be groped.”
“But Miranda went.”
“Only with Nat. Nobody messes with him. Not even the Washburns.”
“I heard that Jenny Pillsbury is a Washburn.”
Beryl gave me that slitted look again. “Who told you that?”
“Does it matter?”
Her sly smile returned. “I wouldn’t want to get on her bad side. I’ll say that much.”
“How did you feel when Nat threw you over for Miranda?”
“Hurt.”
“That’s all?”
“I mean, I couldn’t blame him. She was so gorgeous and full of life. And I’m just this drab, boring person. Redheads are supposed to be fiery and passionate.”
“Is it true that Jenny was the schoolteacher on Maquoit before you?”
“For eight years. Jenny started young, even younger than me. There are people on the island, Kenneth Crowley for instance. Jenny will say, ‘I had him in school,’ and it’s hard to imagine because she seems so young and he’s almost a man.”
“Teenaged boys sometimes have crushes on their teachers.”
Beryl shrugged off the suggestion and returned her cigarette pack to her pocket. “I’ve admitted that Nat and I were having sex, and I’ve told you why I couldn’t have possibly killed Miranda Evans. Isn’t that enough? You might not consider interrogation a form of torture, but I do.”
“We’re almost done. But I need you to answer my next questions with complete honesty.”
“I’ve been answering your questions with complete honesty.”
“How does Hiram Reed fit into all this?”
Her shoulders tightened. “I don’t understand the question.”
“Hiram and Nat are best friends. But how do he and Jenny get along? He’s a Reed, and she’s a Washburn. Their families are feuding.”
“It’s not the Montagues and the Capulets out here!” Beryl caught her breath again and took a moment to gather her wits. “They seem to get along fine. They both grew up here. The lobster war is a thing between the old men. Hopefully, it will die when they do.”
I returned my pen and notebook to my coat pocket to give her the impression we were nearing the end of the interview. I wanted her to let her guard down. “What about you and Hiram? How do you get along?”
Her smile was altogether affectionate. “He hit on me when I first came to the island, but I wasn’t into him that way. But he seems used to rejection. He hasn’t had the easiest life. His brother was his father’s favorite from what everyone tells me. He’s had problems with drugs and alcohol, as I’m sure you know’”
“I get the sense you care for him.”
“Hiram used to come into the library a lot. You wouldn’t guess it, but he’s a big-time reader. Science fiction and fantasy mostly. Medieval history. And he was here for meetings twice a week.”
“Alcoholics Anonymous meetings?”
‘Oh, shit. I wasn’t supposed to say that. I haven’t seen as much of him lately. He’s been going through a tough stretch.”
“How so?”
“I wouldn’t want to be Harmon’s son, would you?”
In some ways, I had been.
“Is there anything you’d like to ask me?” I said by way of conclusion. “I can’t promise to answer, but I’ll do my best.”
It was a ploy to tease out additional information from an unwilling witness. Cons who had been in and out of jail recognized the trap for what it was, but law-abiding citizens often gave themselves away by surrendering to their curiosity.
“What does all this gossip stuff matter—about Nat and Miranda—if it was all an accident? You’re upsetting a lot of good people who had nothing to do with her death. Why aren’t you focusing on the hunters?”
I reached for my notebook again. “If I showed you a list of deer hunters on the island, would you be able to direct me to the ones I should focus on?”
“No,” she admitted.
The chair scraped across the floor as I rose to my feet. “Thank you, Beryl. You’ve been extremely helpful.”
“I have?”
“I hope you feel better.”
She eagerly escorted me to the door. Winter moths were holding an aerial dance around the globed porch light. I buttoned up my coat while Beryl shivered on the doorstep.
“I never used to hate fog until I came here,” she said. “I used to think it was romantic.”
“Places can change you.”
Without another word, she closed the door. I heard the bolt slam shut. Then the light went out.
32
The Trap House had no sign. The long, rambling warehouse was built atop a wharf that stood on stilts above the ink-black harbor. Like its neighbors, it was armored with wet gray shingles that reminded me of scales from some prehistoric leviathan. A dozen trucks, many of which I recognized, were parked in its lot.
I could hear country music coming through the cracks in the walls. Maine lobstermen fancied themselves cowboys of the sea. They identified as hard-bitten individualists unafraid to settle their own scores. In their minds they lived by codes of rough justice that had been abandoned by a weak and civilized society. The truth was, the men who clung to these beliefs weren’t outlaws. They were thugs.
But if I was going to find any of the hunters on my list, there was no better place to look.
Inside the body-warmed building, the drinkers were seated around four picnic tables, and a sort of bar was at the back of the room. What light there was came from caged incandescent bulbs hanging on hooks and strung together with heavy-duty extension cords. Drafts carried the aromas of tobacco in its various manifestations: cigarette, cigar, and pipe. The sourness of spilled beer rose from the floorboards. Above all other odors was an unmistakable fishiness that had seeped into the wood over decades of housing bait barrels.
Every face in the room turned in my direction as I entered. I counted fourteen of them. Not a single one was female. Not a single one was friendly.
Harmon Reed occupied the place of honor nearest the potbellied stove. He shared his table with some of his retainers from Graffam’s store, in
cluding Chum McNulty and Pete Shattuck, as well as an underaged Kenneth Crowley, and Andrew Radcliffe. The old-money constable looked as at home in this crowd as a rabbit at a rattlesnake convention.
Crowley sprang to his feet at the sight of me. Then Harmon hissed something at him, and the young man returned to the bench. The harbormaster beckoned me to join his party.
A new song started up through the wall-mounted speakers: “Angry All the Time” by Tim McGraw. An appropriate choice for these alcohol-abusing hotheads.
“Warden Bowditch!” said Harmon. “I told the boys you’d be strolling in any minute or two.”
“Have you figured me out that quickly, Mr. Reed?”
“Sit down and have a drink with us.” He lifted a gallon bottle of Captain Morgan’s spiced rum to show me what was on offer. Some of his hangers-on looked droopy, sweaty, if not half in the bag. But Harmon was an advertisement for moderated drinking.
“If you know me so well, you know I have to decline your offer of a drink. I’m surprised to see you here, Mr. Crowley. Tell me, which one of these adults gave you that adult beverage?”
“Not a word, Kenneth,” said Reed.
I turned my attention to Radcliffe. He had a can of Moxie soda in front of him, the only nonalcoholic beverage in sight. “I didn’t expect to see you either, Constable.”
Harmon patted Andrew’s shoulder. “Poor Andy here has been getting phone calls all afternoon. Maquoit was all over the news tonight, it seems. What’s the farthest place you got a call from?”
“Sydney, Australia.” Radcliffe had the defeated air of someone accustomed to being teased.
The harbormaster refused to let up. “Andy says some of those fine journalists will be coming out here tomorrow to interview us quaint and colorful islanders. Now, we were wondering, Warden, is there an open season on reporters? And if so, what’s the bag limit?”
A boat engine roared to life in the harbor.
Harmon’s head spun around toward the windows at the far end of the warehouse. “Who the hell is that going out in this thick of fog?”
“Sounds like Nat Pillsbury,” said a hatchet-faced man seated near the window.
Reed used his powerful arms to raise himself from the table. His comrades followed him to the back wall, as did I. Fog-fuzzed lights were faintly visible moving through the harbor.
“What’s Nat doing?” asked Radcliffe.
“Going to America, I’d say,” said Kenneth Crowley, obviously inebriated.
It was island slang for the mainland.
The departing lobsterboat was far louder than most. I remembered having seen a forty-footer moored in the harbor the day before, seemingly the largest craft in the Maquoit fishing fleet. It had a slate-colored bow and twin engines. Sea Hag was the name painted on the transom.
“Serves him right if he runs into a ledge,” said Chum.
“He should’ve told me he was going out tonight,” said Reed, venting his spleen. “I’m the goddamned harbormaster.”
“You know how Nat is,” said Andrew Radcliffe. “He does what he does.”
Reed glowered at the constable. Then, with no warning whatsoever, the old man stepped up onto the bench of the nearest picnic table and ascended to the top. It was probably the only time he had ever loomed above the heads of the men in the room.
“Shut off that damned music!”
Someone pulled a plug, and all conversation ceased with the same abruptness.
“Now everyone here knows what happened over to Gull Cottage yesterday,” Reed all but shouted. “Some fool hunter shot that girl who called herself Ariel Evans. Turns out she wasn’t who she pretended to be. But that’s neither here nor there. The girl’s still dead, and now her sister is out here stirring up trouble. From what I hear, the fake-news peddlers are on their way, too. You all remember the last time those lying sons of bitches took an interest in our private business.”
Chum McNulty muttered a few words. To my ear they sounded like “When you shot Eli.”
Reed must not have heard him. “Now, so far, the person who shot that girl hasn’t been man enough to step forward. You all recognize the warden investigator here even if you haven’t made his acquaintance yet. I assured him that the guilty party needed some time to come to his senses. I gave him my word that the person responsible would do the right thing because, I said, I know my people. But so far that cowardly individual hasn’t seen fit to admit what he’s done. That individual is making me look like a fool to Warden Bowditch. Worse than that, he’s making you all look like fools, like no one on this island can be trusted.”
“Why does it have to be one of us?” some brave, drunken soul asked from the back of the room. “What about Eli and Rud? Or the rest of the Washburns. Has he talked to them?”
“I am still conducting interviews,” I said.
“I don’t give three shits about Eli and Rudyard Washburn!” said Harmon to the crowd. “I’m talking right now to the people in this room. And here’s what I’m saying: ‘If it comes out that one of you killed the Evans girl, and you didn’t say nothing when you had the chance, then so help me God, I will strike down on you with fire and fury like you’ve never seen. Forget being scared of what the law might do. You should be shitting your britches about what I will do!”
Just then, the door yawned open, and Ariel Evans stumbled in. She’d put on her Arc’teryx parka, zippered to the throat, and tied her hair in a long braid. The slackness of the muscles in her face told me that she was hammered. How in the world had she managed to ride her bicycle all the way to the village?
She began to clap. “Nice speech!”
Murmurs came from every darkened corner. The harbormaster hopped directly from the tabletop to the floor. Nimble, for an old coot.
I crossed the room, one step ahead of Harmon. “Ariel, you shouldn’t be here.”
“My sister was invited, but I’m not? What the fuck? I’m the real Ariel!”
Reed came up behind me, close enough that I could feel his body heat and smell the rum on his breath. “You have my condolences, Miss Evans, for the loss of your sister.”
“You must be Harmon! That was an awesome speech. Bloody Shakespearean, as my late father might say.”
“Come on, Ariel.” I reached for her wrist, but she shook me off.
“No! I want to see who did it.” She addressed the room again. “Don’t be shy! Which one of you killed my little sister?”
“Get her out of here, Warden,” Harmon huffed in my ear.
“I plan to.”
“Come on, Ariel, let’s get out of here. Trust me. This is not a place you want to be.” I reached for her arm, but this time she punched my chest.
“I’ve been in a lot worse bars than this one.”
Just then, Harmon Reed cocked his head like a sheepdog that has heard a wolf howl in the distance. I became aware of trucks approaching. I recognized the unique tenor of their souped-up engines.
“What’s going on now?” asked Ariel.
“Please stay here.” I searched for Radcliffe’s face in the crowd. “Watch her for me, Andrew!”
From his expression you would have thought I’d asked him to care for my pet lioness.
I was one of the last men out the door. Two burgundy trucks were idling, side by side, with their super-bright halogen lights carving out an illuminated arena in which Harmon Reed stood, unblinking. Two shadows detached themselves from the darkness beyond the pickups. It was the Washburns.
33
The brothers advanced into the overlapping arcs made by the headlights of their vehicles. The nearly identical fishermen were dressed as they’d been the day before: in black anoraks, jeans, and heavy boots. Their nearly bald skulls were as white as condor eggs.
Harmon had his hands already balled into fists. “What are you boys doing here? You know you’re banned from this establishment.”
“Saw the news,” stammered Eli Washburn. “Wanted to see…”
“The dead woman,” said
Rudyard.
Someone pushed into the small of my back. It was, inevitably, Ariel. I should have known Radcliffe couldn’t control her. “Here I am, you fucking Nazis!”
How did she know that the Washburns were white supremacists?
Eli smirked. “Ain’t she…”
Rudyard said, “Pretty!”
I grabbed Ariel as she surged toward them. It took a lot of strength to prevent her from attacking the Washburns.
“Let me go!”
I saw Radcliffe frozen with fear in the doorway. I called to him once again. “Constable, can you help me out here, please?”
The lights of the trucks made everyone look pale and bloodless. It sucked the life from people’s faces. We had all become vampires.
“You need to leave now,” I said to the brothers. “I’m a Maine game warden, and I’m telling you to leave.”
“Or what?”
Unbelievable. The Washburns knew I was an armed law enforcement officer, and they were still ready to rumble. I released Ariel into Radcliffe’s grasp and pushed my way down the ramp until I stood shoulder to shoulder with Harmon Reed. I made sure both my badge and sidearm were visible.
“I’m investigating a homicide. In fact, you two boys are at the top of my list. I’ll be visiting you soon.”
Eli said with a sneer, “We didn’t…”
Rudyard said, “Shoot no one.”
I kept my hand close to the grip of my service weapon. “I think I’m going to need more than your word on that.”
Eli said, “Big bad…”
Rudyard said, “Game warden!”
Eli stepped close enough for me to tell by the smell of his breath that he’d eaten lobster for supper. He was two inches taller than I was, but most of his height was his legs.
“Are you reaching for my gun, Eli?” I said. “What does it look like to you, Harmon?”
“Looks like he’s reaching for your gun, Warden. Don’t it, boys?”
I heard murmurs of assent behind me.
Eli blinked and stepped back.
But his brother wasn’t done with the taunting. “Hey, Harmon … where’s Hiram? Don’t … see him.”
