Shiver Hitch

by Linda Greenlaw

  The truck’s driver continued to menace my travel by blaring the horn and tapping my rear bumper. I was extremely nervous when I crossed the causeway between Great and Little Berry Islands, as there was nowhere to go, no shoulder onto which I could be forced, just frigid saltwater. And Deloris was in no condition to either fight or take flight. My only option was to keep driving and hope to keep the Duster on the narrow road. The truck’s high beams lit up choppy seas that lapped either side of the one-lane road that twisted and turned between Little Berry Island and the road to Ellsworth. I was pushing the Duster as fast as I dared, and feared sliding off into the ocean. There was no time to fumble for my cell phone, and Deloris was out of it. I had a feeling that if I stopped and confronted the driver, I would be facing the barrel of a loaded gun for the second time today. I had the clichéd white knuckles, and my heart was pounding. I didn’t dare stop at the intersection of The Peninsula Road and Ellsworth Road, so I skidded around the corner as fast as I could, nearly losing control and just missing a ditch where we would have been a captive audience for the bastard behind us.

  The Duster fishtailed back and forth wildly as I fought the urge to scream. As I regained control of the Duster, I watched the truck stop and do a three-point turn in the intersection; heading back down The Peninsula. My heart slowed to normal and I relaxed my grip on the steering wheel. I assumed that the escort was the locals’ way of saying goodbye and good riddance. I didn’t discourage easily. It would take more than aggravated road rage to keep me from returning to the formidable Peninsula. But my return trip would be on my own terms, and would have to wait until Mrs. Kohl’s murderer was behind bars.

  I had many years of experience with the most unsavory neighborhoods in Miami where most law enforcement officers would not enter. Liberty City was the worst. The residents of Liberty City worked very hard to maintain their bad reputation. The distinction they held for the highest crime rate was indeed earned, and they liked it that way. When the cops are scared, the bad guys triumph. Hoodlums can do whatever they want without fear of being arrested. I sensed that The Peninsula enjoyed a similar dynamic, making it the perfect place to conduct illegal activity. The remote nature of the outer islands, like Acadia, kept the police at bay. Places like The Peninsula were readily accessible, so they had to use fear and intimidation to keep law-abiding citizens quiet and out of the way. The driver of the truck that had just harassed me would no doubt be boasting about his exploits by now, I thought as I entered the lot for emergency room parking at Ellsworth Medical Center. And anyone who didn’t cotton to the terrorizing of innocents had better shut up, or risk becoming the target of abuse themselves.

  I shook Deloris awake and said, “I am going to get some help and a wheelchair.” She nodded and winced in pain. When I returned with both, she was on her cell with Jackie, apologizing and explaining that she had fallen through a ceiling. There was no mention of dangling from a beam without strength enough to pull herself back up and avoid falling.

  “I was being chased by men with guns! When I crashed through the floor and landed below, they left me for dead. I crawled back to the main road where I was able to flag down Jane,” she lied to save her own ego. I would go along with that, I thought. No harm. “Yes, I am going to be fine. Come to the hospital, and I’ll send Jane home.” I took that as my cue to leave, and did so after Deloris promised to call me with a list of her damages and schedule for treatment and return back to the department.

  It was 11:30—well beyond my new Maine bedtime. I yawned, stretched, and walked around the Duster to inspect the rear end that had been hit several times. Except for minor dents and scratches, there wasn’t much to see. The trunk still opened and closed. The entire length of the passenger side was scraped and dented. I would not get it repaired, I thought as I once again climbed behind the wheel and started for home. I had minimal insurance on the car, and didn’t want my premium to go up. I would rather drive a battered vehicle than spend the money. Besides, the Duster was so old, fixing it up would be like putting the proverbial lipstick on a pig, I thought. Maybe the scratches and dents would add to my car’s character. This last thought made me realize how exhausted I was. I called the sheriff at his home and filled him in on all that had transpired. He said that he would head to the hospital and stay with Deloris until she could be examined and injuries were diagnosed and treated. We agreed to regroup early in the morning.

  I climbed the stairs to my apartment slowly. There was a sheet of paper on the outside of my door on which the Vickersons had written a series of time-stamped notes. I tore the note from the door and took it in with me to read from the comfort of an overstuffed chair. I kicked off my boots, and read. It appeared that Mrs. and Mr. V had taken turns trudging up to leave notes. The first one had been written at 6:00 this evening, and there was one left at every thirty-minute interval until 10:30. The comments and questions ranged from one word to full paragraphs, depending on who was writing.

  Mr. V was a man of few words, so he preferred bullets to his wife’s creative, literary prowess. The gist of the notations was primarily the question, where was I? Dinner was ready at 7:30. The mussel soufflé was marvelous. There were leftovers if I hadn’t eaten. They were concerned at 8:00. Worried at 8:30. Suspicious at 9:00. Theorizing at 9:30. Mad at 10:00. And hoped to see me in the morning at 10:30. I laughed as I got ready for bed. Henry and Alice Vickerson had become the parents I never had. I knew they would be very good to Wally as well. I had been distracted from my search for an appropriate home for him, but would resume when things quieted down. I knew time was getting short to make arrangements.

  The bed was cold. I shivered and pulled the blankets under my chin tightly. Just as I was drifting off, I heard the tune “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.” I thought it might be a dream, and ignored it. It started again and stopped. Who would be calling a dead person’s phone, I wondered? And who would be calling so late? I sprung out of bed and dug through my bag to retrieve Mrs. Kohl’s phone. There were five missed calls, all from the same number and all placed after ten this evening. I dialed the number from which the missed calls had come using my house phone. I had a suspicion, and thought I recognized the voice as it answered with a hesitant, “Hello?”

  “Trudy?”

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  SEVEN

  The phone went dead. She had hung up on me, which was not surprising. Evidence was mounting, and what had originally been a hunch had developed to a strong possibility for Trudy being responsible for Mrs. Kohl’s death. I surmised that Trudy was now getting nervous in the wake of this morning’s newspaper article declaring arson, and needed to find Mrs. Kohl’s phone to destroy all incriminating correspondence. It appeared that she had been calling it and listening for the ring, as she had not left any messages. She was too late in her phone search, I thought smugly as I turned it off and tucked it away for safe keeping. I could try calling her again, but that might be counterproductive, I thought. At this point, Trudy only knew that Mrs. Kohl’s phone had been unanswered. She didn’t know where it was or who had it, if anyone. She had no idea that the autopsy indicated foul play. I doubted that she had heard enough of my voice last night to recognize it as mine. And she only knew me as an insurance investigator. She had no clue that I would be conducting an investigation into the murder that I was confident she had committed. I had investigated many murders that had never been solved. Cold cases were frustrating and extremely upsetting, especially when the killer is known but can’t be proven. Trudy was an amateur. This case would be a cakewalk. But first I needed some sleep.

  Waking before daylight, I had slept soundly and was feeling refreshed. I had a lot to do before heading out to Acadia Island. I also understood the importance of getting back to the island soon. Time spent here in Green Haven increased the time for tracks to be covered, alibis to be created, evidence to be destroyed, and stories to be perfected. I would arrange a boat ride with Cal. The mail boat was too public, I thought. I would not alert t
he Proctors of my trip until the last possible minute. Forewarned is forearmed. It would be to the benefit of the investigation, I thought, to catch them off guard, and not allow them time to concoct justification for the evidence I already had. My gut was that Joan and Clark would not believe that their daughter could be capable of murder. They would defend her in spite of any evidence I could gather. That’s what parents do. I would be walking a tenuous line, needing their help and support as the only connection I had with the Island, and my only transportation once I landed ashore there. We would not part as friends, I knew, as I had intentions of having enough evidence to arrest Trudy and bring her back to Green Haven with me on my return trip. Once in custody and at the station, I could likely get her confession quickly and without most of the brutal tactics sometimes employed to force hardened criminals to talk. I did not anticipate questioning Trudy in her own environment, as that would be too comfortable for her.

  I needed to slow my cart down and let the horse take the lead, I realized. The first thing I needed to do was to obtain a search warrant for the Proctors’ home and vehicles. I could easily do so by calling the on-duty judge at the Hancock County Courthouse or asking the sheriff to obtain the warrant for me. I had been issued search warrants over the phone before without problems. But knowing the lack of service on Acadia, it would be wise to get the warrant lined up prior to boarding a boat. Once I had Trudy’s phone and other electronic devices, I would have reasonable cause for her arrest simply from the history showing that she had called Mrs. Kohl’s phone several times last night. I would either make a warrantless arrest, or detain Trudy for forty-eight hours, giving me time to find probable cause to justify the formal charges. I dialed the sheriff’s office number. He was an early bird.

  The sheriff had been at the hospital with Deloris and Jackie until quite late. Deloris had been X-rayed and CT-scanned. Results showed both of her heels had been broken by the impact of her fall. One heel was in need of only a cast, but the other required surgery, in which the orthopedist had used screws to piece the badly fractured calcaneus together, the sheriff reported. She would go home today, he said. And she was already complaining about missing work. The sheriff had agreed to allow Deloris to transfer all incoming calls to her home phone where she could dispatch. And he also agreed to speak with me about getting Deloris involved in some way from home in whatever I had going on. “Our girl will need physical therapy for several months. She’ll go stir crazy if we don’t give her projects to work on,” he said.

  “Yes, but how much can she do from home?” I asked. “I was looking forward to having her assist in the Kohl investigation, but now she can’t do any legwork.”

  “You will be surprised. There’s a lot you don’t know about Deloris. She had a career in computer science before she decided to join the enforcement team. She’s a Tier Three analyst,” he boasted. I knew this as the top of the line in computer forensic support, and was impressed. I had never gotten certification, and knew how valuable her skills would be to me in the cyber aspect of the Kohl case. Deloris would be able to seize evidence and do forensic analyses and data recovery in the likely event that the killer had sabotaged any electronic link to evidence. I was excited to think of the work I could get done with my own, personal, digital investigative analyst, or DIVA, as the tech junkies were referred to.

  On the topic of the search warrant, the sheriff lamented the fact that Deloris was not back in action, as she was apparently the go-to gal for just about everything that the sheriff needed done. He agreed to get the warrant himself and deliver it to me so I could get moving on the search and arrest if justified, or detainment if more time was needed to gather probable cause to arrest Trudy Proctor. And in light of the distance and travel factor to and from Acadia Island, I knew that I would need every last second to get her to the station, allow her to obtain counsel, and interrogate until she confessed. The sheriff agreed to meet me in Green Haven with the search warrant later that morning. I would find Cal at the café and hire him to take me back to Acadia.

  I never imagined that I would consider twenty-seven degrees “warm.” But relative to the daily temperatures I had endured so far this February, this morning was “nice.” I unzipped my coat as I walked from the Duster to the café. The sun, just above the horizon, cast a long shadow along the sidewalk, which had apparently been cleared for the first time this month. I could smell the coffee and hot, greasy, home-fried potatoes as I passed the kitchen’s outside ventilation duct. I realized I had acclimated to the winter weather, noticing that I didn’t even have a hat on this morning. My blood had thickened, as I was promised it would, back when all I could do was complain and shiver. And that wasn’t the only thing that had thickened. My waistline had expanded nearly a whole size. That was due to the café, I knew. I had consumed far too many muffins. My breakfasts in Miami usually consisted of Cuban coffee and a piece of fruit. I had been craving fresh fruit all winter here in Green Haven, where a strawberry is quite exotic. I’d do anything for a mango, lychee, or avocado, I thought as I entered and was greeted by Audrey’s usual “Hi, girlfriend!” I waved to Audrey and acknowledged the presence of Marlena and Marilyn as I passed the table where they enjoyed plates full of eggs and pancakes. The figures of both gals were probably a result of their daily breakfasts, I thought. I wondered if I would take the same shape with another ten years. I hoped not.

  Cal was in his usual position, perched on his usual stool at the counter and hiding behind his usual newspaper. When I took the stool beside him, he slowly and deliberately creased the paper and dropped it beside his place mat. He took the glasses from his head, folded them, and tucked them into the pocket of a blue button-up collared shirt. “Don’t let me interrupt your reading,” I said as I pulled my coat off my shoulders and tucked it between my legs and the cushioned stool top to keep the sleeves from hitting the floor.

  “Okay” was all Cal said as he donned his reading glasses, picked up the paper, and turned to the sports page. Audrey splashed coffee into a mug and set it in front of me. I pretended to look at the menu printed on the place mat. I had memorized it long ago, and knew that I would end up with an English muffin.

  “What’s up, Janey? Anything fun going on today? Any dead bodies on your schedule?” Audrey teased.

  “Well, I came in to grab a bite to eat and to ask Cal for a ride back to Acadia.”

  “I can help with the bite to eat,” she said. “Whatcha havin’?”

  “Do you have any fruit?” I asked optimistically.

  “Oh no. You’re on the fruit kick again.” She rolled her eyes. “The only fruits here are Marlena and Marilyn. But that’s not what you have in mind, is it?” She spoke loudly enough for the mentioned gals to turn their attention from their breakfasts and wait for my response.

  “I’m just checking. I thought you might have something with which to make a fruit cup. I’m craving a piece of fresh fruit.”

  “Welcome to Down East Maine!” Audrey laughed. “This is the end of the road for the produce truck. I’ll see what we have, but don’t get your hopes up.” The last time Audrey had made the effort to serve me fruit, she had placed a banana on a plate. And the time before that, it was an orange that I had to peel myself. The only other sign of fruit that I had seen served in the café since November was a maraschino cherry used to enhance the sliced orange garnish on a slab of grilled ham. July and August were all about blueberries. They were included in most orders in one form or another. And September and October featured apples. And that was it for the local fruit scene, I had learned. I had assumed that if I kept asking for fruit, Audrey would eventually procure a melon or something. I realized how mistaken I was when she appeared with a bowl of canned fruit cocktail and served it to me.

  “There you go! The date on the can says it’s expired. But not that long ago.”

  “Great,” I said in a tone that I hoped she would take as less than enthusiastic. “I’ll have an English muffin, too.”

  “Whoa! R
eally going all out this morning, girlfriend. Did you get a promotion?” And off she hustled to serve breakfast and insults to other customers, leaving me to speak with Cal.

  I pushed the bowl of what I suspected could be rancid fruit to the side and cleared my throat. “I’m ready to interrupt now.”

  “When do you want to go?” Cal asked, lowering but not putting the paper down.

  Lowering my voice to a whisper, I said, “I am just waiting for a search warrant. I hope to meet the sheriff at the dock as soon as possible.”

  “Meet you aboard Sea Pigeon in an hour?” Cal suggested. I agreed that one hour should work, and was relieved that Cal had not asked questions. I couldn’t risk anyone overhearing that I was bound to Acadia Island with a search warrant. Word traveled too quickly here. I knew that news of foul play in the death of Mrs. Kohl had not yet bled into the café, otherwise Audrey would have been all over me with questions and theories.

  Audrey returned with a toasted English muffin and a pot of coffee with which she topped off my mug. She said that she had questions if I had time to chat. I confirmed that I had no time, wishing to avoid her disappointment. She ridiculed my tight-lipped adherence to protocol when she asked about the Kohl investigation. “Oh, fine. Then I won’t tell you about the perfect place I found for Wally.” And she quickly disappeared through the swinging doors and into the kitchen where everyone could hear her barking orders at this month’s short-order cook. I had learned that the cooks who worked with Audrey were given a thirty-day trial, at the end of which they tended to leave on their own accord, or be fired. I waited for Audrey to burst back through the doors. I had dropped the ball yesterday, due to work, on researching accommodations for my brother. I really wanted to hear what Audrey was talking about.