As I ate my breakfast, Audrey breezed back and forth several times, making eye contact only. She knew I wanted to speak with her, and was having fun avoiding me. After Audrey had cleared their dishes and handed them a slip, Marlena and Marilyn approached. “Audrey mentioned that you might be looking to rent a room for your kid brother,” Marlena began. “We have an efficiency that is quite exceptional.”
“What I need is quite affordable.” I took a deep breath and continued. “Thank you so much, but I can’t imagine what rents are like in Green Haven in the summer.” Now Audrey was within earshot, and clearly tuned in on our conversation. “I’m sure your apartment is very nice, though.”
“We’d like it if you would come and look at it,” Marilyn chimed in. “It’s really a sweet place, and we would be open to working something out within your budget to get someone in there year-round.”
Now Audrey swooped in. “Yeah, Janey, you can work something out with these girls. Wouldn’t I like to be a fly on the wall,” she continued. “Or maybe not.”
“You are so rude!” Both women whispered harshly. Cal wisely saw this as his cue to exit, and confirmed that he would warm up the boat and wait for me at the dock.
“Hey, just trying to be helpful.” Audrey was delighted to have embarrassed the women. “Am I not the one who suggested that you speak with Janey? And Janey, didn’t I just tell you that I had found the perfect situation for you? Oh, I mean your brother of course.”
I now faced the women, intentionally putting my back to Audrey. “Okay. I have a pretty intense schedule for the next couple of days. But I would love to see your place.”
“Oh, now this could be interesting,” Audrey said gleefully. “The cheapest, oh excuse me, the most frugal person in town possibly renting from the two most … shall we say entrepreneurial?” she asked as she tapped my shoulder. “Watch out, Janey! They sell tickets for the tour of their house.”
“Don’t you have tables to wait on?” I asked.
“Yes. And I will leave the three of you to negotiate terms. Ta ta.” And off she went, lightly prancing around the café, clearly tickled with herself. The women agreed to show me their efficiency at my earliest convenience. I placed some money on the counter and followed them to the door. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t dooooo,” Audrey advised in her singsong, teasing voice that we were all too well acquainted with.
“She is such a smart-ass,” Marilyn said to Marlena, who held the door for her. “If there was any other option for breakfast…” We all laughed, knowing that we shared a deep affection for Audrey in spite of her compulsion to be the wise guy. She never meant any harm, even though some of her comments could be hurtful if taken in the vein in which they were not intended. “I am looking forward to the end of Clyde Leeman’s banishment,” she said and smiled.
As we walked to our respective vehicles, the gals filled me in on the “sordid details” of their rental unit, which they said had never been rented nor lived in. It had been built as a mother-in-law apartment by the previous owners of the property, and was attached to the main house by a breezeway with doors on each end. It was one bedroom, a galley-style kitchen, a full bath, and a sitting room that included a large flat-screen television and “the best view in Green Haven.” I admitted that it sounded like an ideal spot for Wally, and mentioned that I couldn’t afford the rates of the facilities in Ellsworth. I was happy to have another option. Marilyn said that they were confident we could figure out something that would work for all of us, as they really wanted someone to live in the unit, which had been empty since construction. “Of course your brother will have to look after the cats for us,” sighed Marlena as we parted ways.
“I think Wally would enjoy that,” I said as I waved and climbed into the Duster. As I drove, I put the thought of Wally’s residence on hold, knowing that I needed to concentrate on the urgent matter of getting to Acadia, making an arrest, and returning with the killer before sunset. I knew this schedule was optimistic. I stopped on top of Hutchins Hill, which the locals referred to as “the phone booth” for its amazing cell reception regardless of wireless carrier. I called the sheriff and learned that he was en route to Green Haven, and expected to arrive in twenty minutes with the signed search warrant in hand. I gave him instructions to Cal’s boat, and agreed to meet him there for a quick handoff before cast-off.
Twenty minutes was just enough time to run home and leave a note for the Vickersons. They would no doubt be very upset if I left without a trace, as they liked to know my whereabouts at all times, claiming that this information was for my own safety, and not at all to satisfy their curiosity. I pulled in, and left the car running while I bolted up to my apartment and found the note they had left me the night before.
In the interest of time, rather than finding a new sheet of paper, I simply answered their note from last night—line by line. Dinner was ready at 7:30. Sorry I missed it! The mussel soufflé was marvelous. I am sure it was! There were leftovers if I hadn’t eaten. I grabbed a bite in Ellsworth. They were concerned at 8:00. Everything is fine. Worried at 8:30. I am really sorry that I worried you. Suspicious at 9:00. I had to work late. Theorizing at 9:30. I always appreciate your concern, and will call you the next time I am out late. Mad at 10:00. You have every right to be angry. And hoped to see me in the morning at 10:30. I am off to Acadia Island this morning and will see you this evening. Official sheriff’s office business. Lots to tell you. I added this last tidbit to soothe their hurt feelings and feed their imaginations. I would, and always did, confide in my landlords, like I imagined I would do with parents if I had ever had any worthy of confidence. I never told them anything that would be harmful if blabbed, but just enough to let them feel that they were in the know, and thus had a leg up on the rest of the busybodies.
I checked the contents of my bag with the list I kept glued to its inside flap. Satisfied that I had what I needed, or actually items that I would not need (like a box of ammunition for my weapon, fingerprint kit, handcuffs, a canister of tear gas, a Taser with a full charge, a handheld VHF radio with a full charge, a signaling mirror, a jackknife, a compass, a headlamp, a twenty-foot length of paracord, a cell phone charger, a box of wooden matches, and a package of peanut butter crackers), I taped the note on the Vickersons’ door and headed to the dock where I found the sheriff and Cal waiting patiently on the float next to Sea Pigeon. I had decided against calling the Proctors on Acadia Island for a ride or assistance in any way once I arrived. Doing so would have been a heads-up in the wrong direction, I thought. I could walk the short distance to their home, and go from there to ALP where I would investigate and confiscate as needed. I was thankful for the relatively warm weather.
The sheriff handed me the search warrant, and said that he would be checking on Deloris and would get her set up to work from home as soon as was reasonable following her discharge from the hospital. Until then, I was to call his personal cell phone if I needed or wanted to contact him. I agreed to call him at noon with a status report, and stepped over the wash rail and onto the deck of the boat. The sheriff quickly cast the bow and stern lines and wished me luck as Cal put the engine in gear and pulled away from the float. It was interesting, I thought, that nearly everyone with whom I had come in contact with since moving to Green Haven knew how to move around boats and docks. They all knew how to handle lines, get in and out of dinghies, row, run outboard motors, tie knots … Even those with no real firsthand experience aboard commercial boats had knowledge of nautical things and spoke the language. I guessed it was part of the birthright of the locals. The sheriff, I had learned, grew up working the stern of his father’s lobster boat. And daily conversation at the café included details of who was offshore, whose boat needed what for repairs, launching dates, lobster prices, etc. It was nice, I thought, that the entire community understood and appreciated the heritage and tradition of the fabric of their town, and specifically what lobster fishing meant to the local economy.
Before I knew it, we
were rounding a high headland on our port side and entering Acadia Island’s inner harbor. I felt a slight rush of excitement and anticipation for what might transpire here today. If all went well, I would be heading back to Green Haven with my prime suspect and enough evidence to get a confession or conviction in the absence of one. The Sea Pigeon nudged the dock gently and Cal reached to wrap a line around a cleat. “Want me to wait here for you?” he asked.
“I wish it would be that easy,” I answered. “But I’d like for you to come back for me later. I want to avoid public transportation today as I intend to return to Green Haven with a suspect, and don’t need the rumors to fly prematurely.”
Cal understood and was happy to leave and return at 2:45 that afternoon. If for some reason he wasn’t there, I could jump on the mail boat at 3:00 and call the sheriff from the dock in South Haven for a ride to the department, where we could question or process Trudy Proctor depending upon how things progressed between now and 2:45. I hopped onto the float, and watched as the Sea Pigeon scooted around the shore and out of sight. I took a deep breath and started up the ramp and toward what I knew would be an eventful day.
At approximately 8:30 a.m., I rapped on the Proctors’ front door with authority. The door opened and Joan invited me in. She asked me to join her in the kitchen, but I remained just inside the door. She was not surprised to see me again after the newspaper article stating that the Kohls’ house had been intentionally torched. It was obvious to me that she had no knowledge of the autopsy that indicated that Mrs. Kohl had been murdered, and that her body had been placed in the house and burned in an attempt to mislead all. I wondered whether she reasoned the death of Mrs. Kohl was accidental or incidental in light of the arson finding.
“Yes, I am back to do some investigating into the arson case. I have a search warrant and will need access to Mrs. Kohl’s car and office, assuming she kept one at ALP.” I figured that would be the best place to start. No sense forcing my own hand and stunting the growth of any information I might get freely from the talkative Joan. “I’ll also need to take another look around the fire scene,” I added as Joan got her coat. “When I was here the other day, I wasn’t looking at this as a crime.”
“I am happy to help. I’ll drive you to the plant, and introduce you to the general manager, who might cooperate with you on that end,” Joan said calmly. “The place gives me the creeps with all the ex-convicts who have done who knows what. I wouldn’t put it past any one of them to burn a house down. Some of them are convicted arsonists, you know.” Although I hadn’t yet looked at rap sheets, I was not surprised to learn that arsonists would be eligible for this relocation opportunity. I reminded myself that I was looking for a murderer. And it was unlikely that someone capable of first-degree murder would have been released and allowed this opportunity to start fresh. I followed Joan out to the driveway and climbed into the passenger side as she continued. “The Kohls’ Range Rover is back at ALP again, stored until summer. The town tows vehicles that are left at the dock too long. Too hard to plow around them. I’m sure Mr. Kohl would allow you the use of it to carry out the investigation. I know he’s anxious to get to the bottom of who set their house on fire, and the unfortunate death of his wife,” she suggested. Something in her tone made me take notice. Of what, I wasn’t sure. “He is still out of the country. Can you believe it? Well, their relationship was a strange one.”
The bumpy ride in the Jeep was quick. Now that she was not driving a hearse, Joan was not shy about the gas pedal. She chatted until we opened the door to the main entrance of ALP. Before I stepped in, I took a long look around the parking area and surrounding grounds, and asked, “No protesters today?”
“She’s still sleeping,” Joan answered quietly, as if embarrassed. I nodded and followed Joan through a short corridor and into a large room that bustled with workers who appeared to be quite content with their tasks. “Prepping, cooking, cooling, picking, and packing,” Joan said, pointing an index finger at a different workstation with each word until she had covered the entire room. “We all attended the grand opening and got the nickel tour. At that time we didn’t know that we were getting a boatload of rejects and perverts,” she confided. “And now they outnumber us!” The place smelled of disinfectant and sanitizing agents that one would naturally associate with seafood processing. “I feel filthy when I leave this place,” Joan noted as she stepped around a shallow puddle. The plant was very clean, so it was clear that Joan’s feeling had nothing to do with dirt or grime.
A man in uniform approached and introduced himself as Manny; he asked how he could help us. Joan quickly said, “This is Detective Jane Bunker. She has come from the mainland to find and arrest whoever torched your boss’s house, and obviously felt that this was the most logical place to start.”
If Manny was insulted, he didn’t let on. A long silence followed. Joan turned to me and said, “You know where the key to the Range Rover is. I’ll be at the house if you need anything. Otherwise, I’ll see you at the dock. You are leaving on the late boat, right?”
“I made other arrangements. But I will be back at your place later. I need to speak with your husband and daughter,” I said.
“Okay,” she said with a questioning look. “Clark is working at the Kohls’, starting to clean up the mess. You’ll see him over there, I’m sure.”
I thanked Joan and she disappeared. I suspected that she would run home and jump in a hot shower. The fact that her husband may be inadvertently disturbing the crime scene in the name of cleaning up at the Kohls’ house made me nervous. I didn’t need much time at the plant, though.
“Manny, thank you for your cooperation. I need access to Mrs. Kohl’s office,” I stated. Manny motioned for me to follow behind him, which I did. I tried to chat, but got nothing more than a nod or a shrug from my guide. I asked who was in charge. Manny indicated that he was until one of the absentee owners arrived. Manny knew how to receive orders, process, pack, and ship both live and value-added product, so he could run the show until payday, when he assumed the plant would shut down if there were no checks available. Apparently Mrs. Kohl had been solely responsible for payroll. And nobody wants to work for nothing. So if checks were not received on Friday, everyone would walk off the job—forcing a closure until things were rectified.
Manny parted thick plastic strips that formed a doorway, allowing me to pass through before him and into a walk-in cooler. He led me through the cooler to the other end, and through another plastic barrier where we stepped into a “boot dip mat” to disinfect our shoes before entering the next area, which was full of a briny-smelling steam. Half a dozen employees tended to the cooking, never looking up from their jobs. Ex-cons knew to avoid eye contact, and could no doubt sniff out law enforcement even through the strong aromas of steamed shellfish and chemical cleaning agents. We transited the room filled with giant, stainless-steel vats heated by large propane burners, stepped into another boot disinfecting pool, through a stainless-steel door and into a corridor. There were four doors, all marked with block letters: OFFICE, RESTROOM, STORAGE, and EXIT.
Manny said that with the exception of the storage room that had a combination lock on it, the other three doors were unlocked, and he excused himself to return to work. I asked him to please unlock the storage area, which he did. I asked if he was aware of anyone who might want to do harm to Mrs. Kohl.
“It could have been any of us,” he replied as he turned to leave.
This was not at all helpful. What I was hoping for was some eyewitness account of a bad scene between Trudy and the deceased. Surely they had words and confrontation if the texts were any indication. Trudy’s picketing on the sacred ground of Mrs. Kohl’s pet project here at ALP must have led to something. Oh well. I already had enough evidence to detain Trudy for questioning. I couldn’t expect help from people who had probably learned the hard way not to be snitches.
I couldn’t help but wonder what felony Manny had been convicted of. I had been around ma
ny ex-cons, and had learned that although the stigma attached was unfair in some cases, most suffered from mental anguish and emotional trauma known as institutionalized personality disorders. Must make for an interesting work environment. Most ex-felons’ psyches are a complicated mess resulting from the usual deprivations of imprisonment, chronic helplessness in the face of authority, and antisocial defenses stemming from dealing with the predatory inmate milieu. It’s no wonder there is such a high rate of recidivism, especially with addictions, I thought. And what an opportunity for a second chance these employees of ALP have here on Acadia, I thought as I opened the door marked STORAGE.
I switched on the fluorescent lights. The room was filled with various items, all neatly organized on labeled shelves. The floor under the shelves was lined with canisters of refrigerants used to charge compressors for coolers and freezers. There were gauges, leak detectors, thermometers, special compressor oils, spare bearings, and other miscellaneous items used to maintain refrigeration systems. There were rolls of bubble wrap, broken-down boxes, and tape guns. There were many rolls of colored plastic tape, all organized by color and width, and boxes of clear plastic bags of several sizes marked in pounds and ounces that I assumed were used to package seafood product. There were pumps, hoses, and filters for the live tanks. And there were boxes with Chinese characters on them—identical to the one I had confiscated from the two thugs. One of the boxes had a tape gun resting on top of it. A closer inspection revealed that all of the boxes had been opened and resealed using a clear tape rather than the original brown carton tape that the supplier had used. Maybe ALP was reusing the boxes after the chemicals were emptied out, I thought. I cut open one of the boxes, revealing the same vacuum-packed pouches of white powder that I now understood was used to enhance the quality of seafood shipped to China and reduce shrinkage in weight attributed to water loss. Satisfied that all was on the up and up, I moved to Mrs. Kohl’s office. I made a mental note of how strange it seemed that the storage area was kept locked while Mrs. Kohl’s office was wide open.
Shiver Hitch Page 13
