Shiver Hitch

by Linda Greenlaw

  I ran the distance back to the far end of the beaten path, and traced my own steps through the deep snow back to the Rover. Back within the safety of the Range Rover, I caught my breath and gathered my thoughts before leaving the edge of the forest. I had always had an innate sense of knowing when I was being watched. Now, I felt very much alone. As I added things up, I realized that the killers had not seen me, and that I had been overly paranoid. Better than dead, I thought. Now what?

  I really needed backup if I wanted to chase down men with shotguns on their own turf who seemed to have no issue with firing lethal shots. And unless murder was a common occurrence on Acadia Island, what I had just witnessed must be directly related to Mrs. Kohl’s demise. This case had snowballed, I thought as I looked at my cell phone—no service. If I wanted to stick to my game plan, I didn’t have time to pursue the truck. It might be a while before anyone would miss someone enough to become suspicious and report them missing. Even though my gut said that this shooting was directly connected to the murder of Mrs. Kohl, I had to abort the chase and get back to business. I reluctantly resolved that by now, the shooters could have discarded the body and the murder weapon. I glanced at the time, and refocused my priorities.

  Cal was scheduled to pick me up at three, and I needed to question the Proctors and get Trudy off the island before anyone got wind of the fact that I was on to her. If Trudy had accomplices, which I was now gaining confidence that she must, they might try to shut her up—for good. If the killing had been a conspiracy, the college kid who was naïve enough to leave cyber evidence would be the weak link. Now Trudy Proctor was not only a suspect, but perhaps needed to be placed in protective custody.

  The slow drive through the snow and back onto the road tested my patience. I gripped the steering wheel so tight that my hands grew white and started to get numb. Back on the main road I drove for a few miles, noting two plowed drives that the truck could have taken, and finally knew that I was at a huge and distinct disadvantage regarding investigating this new twist. I again reminded myself that my priority was getting to the bottom of Mrs. Kohl’s murder. And I needed to get a move on.

  Just before reaching the Proctors’ driveway, my phone beeped with a voice message. It was the sheriff. The lab had identified the plastic that had melted and was embedded in Mrs. Kohl’s wrist (that I had mistakenly assumed was an awareness bracelet) as “poly bag tape.” According to the message, this was a specialized tape used to seal poly bags that are commonly used in food-processing operations. I had seen many rolls of this tape in the storage area to ALP! The sheriff suggested that Mrs. Kohl’s wrists had been bound with the tape prior to boiling—“sort of like a large lobster band,” he said, referring to the rubber bands that are used to keep lobsters’ claws closed so they can’t clamp onto someone while handling, or injure other lobsters once captured and in a crate. I cringed at the image. Trudy certainly had not acted alone. It would take more than a 120-pound girl to overpower and bind the hands of a much larger and stronger woman, and get her into a pot of boiling water. Whoever had helped, and possibly planned the murder, might now be looking to cover more tracks. Mrs. Kohl’s hands must have been bound prior to being killed. Why bother after she was dead and couldn’t put up a fight? The plot was certainly thickening, I thought as I pulled into the Proctors’ driveway behind their Jeep Cherokee. I had to get Trudy off Acadia Island without spilling any details—or any more blood.

  It was 1:30 p.m. when I knocked on the Proctors’ front door. Joan and Clark were at the kitchen table eating a late lunch and listening to a marine weather forecast. “Come in, Jane,” Joan called out. “Want a bowl of chowder? It’s supposed to get nasty out there.”

  “No, thank you,” I said, knowing that being served lunch was not part of my future with this family. And today’s activities hadn’t done much in the way of producing an appetite. “But I will sit with you. I have questions, and hope you can help.”

  “Certainly! Did you round up any suspects at the plant? You’ll probably leave with a full boat,” she added as she dumped oyster crackers into a bowl of creamy-looking, delicious-smelling steaming chowder. “Fresh halibut. You sure you won’t have any?”

  I thanked her and turned down the invitation again. “Clark, what can you tell me about the fire that I don’t already know? Who first discovered it? Who alerted you? That sort of thing,” I tried to make it sound like routine questioning, so he wouldn’t clam up.

  He replied that he heard the church bell and drove to the fire department, where others gathered quickly. But no one had asked who rang the bell in the chaos of getting the truck and pumps running. “Once the bell is rung, the girls start the phone chain to let everyone know there’s an emergency. But I have no idea who rang the bell. Is that important?” he asked.

  “Well, it’s protocol to find out who reported a fire, especially in the case of arson,” I answered. “And it would be helpful to know who last saw or spoke with Mrs. Kohl. Any thoughts on that?”

  “We wouldn’t have any idea, would we, dear,” Clark said, including his wife in his answer. He blew on a spoonful of chowder to cool it before slurping. He swallowed and smacked his lips in satisfaction. “But I would bet it was one of her employees. She spent most of her time at ALP. Not much of a socialite. Other than me and Joan, nobody was allowed in her home.”

  “And we were only over there for caretaking,” Joan qualified this for her husband. “You know, snow removal, cleaning, lawn mowing. Stuff like that.”

  “And never without a schedule set by Mrs. Kohl. She did not welcome surprise visitors. She sent us a schedule of duties she wanted performed and a detailed schedule of when she expected them done. She was a stickler. Printed out our schedules weekly—one for me and one for Joan. We always joked about punching the clock when on Mrs. Kohl’s time.”

  “Did anyone else receive printed work schedules,” I asked.

  “Not that I know of,” answered Joan. “She relied on us to hire anything done that needed doing that we couldn’t do ourselves. She didn’t care who did it, as long as it got done on her schedule. She liked her privacy, and expected us to protect and respect it.”

  “Did she have security cameras or an alarm system at the house?”

  “No. She was adamant about not having them. We suggested getting them when the convicts started moving in,” Joan replied. “But the Kohls thought being on Acadia meant not having to lock doors. And it used to.”

  “Is your daughter home? I need to ask her some questions, too. I noticed she was outside the plant when we were there the other day. Maybe she saw or heard something.”

  “She’s in her bedroom. But she doesn’t know anything,” Joan answered. “If she did, she would have told us.” A voice squawked on the VHF radio. Joan answered, “Come in, Skip.”

  “Hi, Joan. Weather report is lousy. Supposed to get brutal cold and blow forty-five out of the northeast. I’m canceling the late trip this afternoon. Can you spread the word?” My heart sank as I realized that the incoming weather might cause Cal to cancel as well, leaving me on Acadia without a way off—with my suspect and at least another killer and accomplice—until the next morning.

  “Will do. See you in the morning?” She asked of the voice in the radio that I realized belonged to the captain of the mail boat.

  “Roger that!”

  Joan placed the radio in the middle of the table. She looked at me and said, “Well, I guess you are stranded until tomorrow. We have a spare room and lots of chowder.”

  “Oh, thank you. But I have a ride coming for me at three. Would you please ask Trudy to come down and speak with me? It’s important that I cover all the bases, and I am running short on time.” Joan reluctantly got up from the table and went up the stairs, leaving me alone with her husband, who was intent on his lunch. “Do you know who drives a rusted-out, green pickup with a gray hood and one orange door? And no muffler?”

  “That describes half of the vehicles out here.” He laughed. “
But sounds like it might be Roy Knight. He’s the only real local employed at the plant, other than me. He helps with maintenance. What did he do?”

  “Oh nothing really,” I lied. “I heard the truck before I saw it, that’s all. Interesting paint job.”

  “One hundred percent custom,” was all he said, before polishing off his bowl of chowder and excusing himself to get back to work. He yelled up the stairs to Joan, pulled on a coat, and headed out. “Have a safe ride back ashore,” he said flatly. As he shut the door behind him, Joan and Trudy appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Trudy once again looked like she had just crawled out of bed.

  I stood and extended a hand to Trudy. “Hi, Trudy. We met the other day. I’m Deputy Sheriff Jane Bunker, here on behalf of the Hancock County Sheriff’s Department.” Pushing by me, and ignoring my hand, she plunked herself in a chair and yawned. “I am not going to beat around the bush. I am here investigating the death of Midge Kohl, and have reason to believe that you might be involved in some way.” She looked at me defiantly, grabbed a handful of oyster crackers, and started popping them into her mouth one at a time. I could not tell her that I was concerned for her safety, as doing so might end up tipping off the others who were involved. Better that they think Trudy is taking the fall for them, I thought.

  “Are you for real?” she asked. “I have no intention of helping you. I couldn’t care less about Midge Kohl. And I have nothing more to say.” Her mother looked stricken, and was unusually quiet.

  “I have a warrant to search your house. I would like to start in Trudy’s bedroom,” I said.

  “Yeah, knock yourself out,” Trudy said rudely.

  Trudy followed me up the stairs to an open door. The room was a bit disheveled. I knew it was her bedroom when I saw a poster that asked “Would you eat your dog?” I unplugged the laptop computer and cell phone, putting the phone in my coat pocket and computer under my arm. I found a box of PETA propaganda pins, identical to the one that was stuck through the voodoo doll in Mrs. Kohl’s coat pocket. And I found a single sock that I assumed was the mate to the one the doll had been made with.

  “Really? You are taking my sock? This is a joke,” Trudy said with a laugh that seemed a little nervous. “I refuse to help you. I won’t answer a single question.”

  “Well, silence is one of your rights,” I said. “But this will be easier with your cooperation.” Although I had enough evidence to place her under arrest, I decided to not do so in her parents’ home. I recited the Miranda warning and, instead, informed Trudy that I was taking her ashore with me for questioning. She shrugged and sighed.

  “You are arresting her?” Joan asked. “For what? She is allowed to peacefully protest!”

  Trudy pushed her wrists toward me as if offering them for handcuffs. She smiled awkwardly, which threw me off a bit. Strange gal, I thought. “No, I don’t need to cuff you if you are coming along without resisting. Why don’t you pack a bag.” Trudy rolled her eyes, seemingly disappointed about not being handcuffed.

  “You are not taking my daughter out in this weather! Didn’t you just hear that the mail boat has canceled?” Joan cried. “Do we need to get an attorney?”

  “That would be a good idea,” I answered honestly. “I can detain Trudy for questioning for up to forty-eight hours without charging her.”

  “Charging her for what? I need to get Clark. He will be so upset!” Joan seemed paralyzed. She did not want to leave Trudy here with me. And she wanted to go find her husband. She sat and put her head on the table next to half a bowl of chowder and cried. When Trudy came down the stairs with a backpack, Joan started again. “Trudy, you are not leaving this house! And that’s final!”

  “Mother, this is none of your business. I will call you from jail. I am going to jail, right?” she asked optimistically. “And I do not need a lawyer.” She was so anxious to be arrested and thrown in jail that she led me to the Range Rover. Her mother was distraught, which was not a surprise. “This is actually pretty stupid,” Trudy muttered as we entered the parking lot at the dock. “What a waste of taxpayers’ dollars. What exactly am I suspected of doing? Do you think I play with matches?”

  I was relieved to find Cal aboard Sea Pigeon at the float. I parked the Rover, packed everything tightly into my bag, and asked Trudy to follow me to the boat, which she did, maintaining her right to silence. The wind had picked up, and the temperature had dropped significantly. I handed my bag to Cal and climbed aboard right behind Trudy. We stepped into the heated cabin and out of the wind. Cal said, “The forecast is calling for thirty-five knots out of the northeast. You sure you want to do this? It’s gonna be sloppy.”

  “I’m good to go if you are,” I answered, knowing that Cal would never take unnecessary risks, and that he had been on the water all of his life. I trusted his judgment implicitly.

  “We can handle thirty-five all right. But we will be pounding into it the whole way. It’ll be uncomfortable, not dangerous. Hope you don’t get seasick,” he directed to Trudy, who gave him a disgusted look. Cal cast off the single line he had secured to the float, and off we went. I was relieved to be officially off the island with my suspect in custody. I sat next to Trudy on a bench seat on the port side of the small cabin and started making a mental list of things to do when we hit Green Haven. Still without cell service, I knew that my list would start with calling the sheriff as soon as we were within range. Trudy sure was a cool customer, I thought. Most people capable of premeditated murder are not easily shaken, I knew. As soon as I had her in the interrogation seat, I knew she would crack. She was tough right now, but that would change after a few hours of questions and no food or sleep. She would be singing like the proverbial bird before sunrise tomorrow morning, I thought.

  Sea Pigeon slipped through the calm water of Acadia Island’s inner harbor as smoothly as a fish. I struggled with the fact that I had witnessed a killing that would likely be a link to the murder of Mrs. Kohl, and regretted that I couldn’t stay on Acadia to investigate further and make the connection. I had pictures that would hopefully reveal who I had seen drag a corpse through the snow and place it in a truck. I still believed that the first two shots had been fired in hopes of distracting or scaring me away so that the killer could proceed with a plan without being caught. I must have struck a nerve at some point in my travels today. I would have to bring backup with me on my next trip. By then, I would have a firm understanding of the whole scenario. Trudy was the key to that, I knew.

  When we rounded the headland and entered the bay, Sea Pigeon bucked slightly with each wave that met her directly on her stem. Within five minutes, we were taking spray that quickly formed ice on the forward windows, and Cal had to pull the throttle back a little. When the wind increased from a whisper to a whistle, Cal said, “Well, we’ve got the full thirty-five.” I stood and clenched the dash with both hands to steady myself in the wheelhouse, which was starting to bounce. When I looked at Trudy, she was staring at her feet. I watched as her face grew pale and sweaty. I asked if she needed some air. She shook her head and threw daggers with her eyes.

  At sunset, the wind and tide worked against each other, making steep waves that slammed the Sea Pigeon’s bow and sent green water over the housetop. Cal pulled the throttle back to just above an idle. He was now navigating with the electronics due to the thick ice that obliterated the view through the windshield windows. As the wind increased from a howl to a screech, Trudy’s complexion went from pale to green.

  “It must be blowing fifty. Damned weatherman,” Cal said. Trudy placed a hand over her mouth. Her cheeks bulged. I grabbed a trash can and placed it between her feet. She used it loudly. At this juncture, I was thankful that I had not eaten any fish chowder. Every time the boat went up on a sea, my feet left the deck briefly. I softened my knees to absorb the violent pounding and was working hard to remain upright. Sea Pigeon was getting pummeled by waves that crashed high on her bow and cascaded over the housetop and down her wash rails. We were thrashing wild
ly. Yet the bullying sea was not the greatest concern; the ice was. When a vessel “makes ice,” it tends to get very top heavy as the ice forms only above the waterline. I knew this not firsthand, but from reading, as my sea time had been in warmer climes. Cal asked me to take the wheel while he opened the door and stuck his head out to inspect the rigging for ice. “Just keep her bow into the wind,” he said calmly. The wind helped the door close with gusto, startling Trudy from her trancelike state to hysteria. Trudy was no longer playing Joe Cool. Cal looked at me and shrugged as he took the wheel again. “We’re halfway home. She’s loaded up with ice. No good. I’ll tuck up in the lee of Squirrel Island and wait it out. We’ll be comfortable there.”

  I agreed, even though I understood that Cal wasn’t asking my opinion. It was the right thing to do, and the only sensible option. We wallowed, pounded, shook, and shimmied for another fifteen minutes, then slowly got out of the wind. I wondered how this turn of events might affect my interrogation and ability to prosecute. Would this violent weather and our presence in it be considered a form of excessive force, or a violation of Trudy’s rights? Could the decision to leave Acadia arguably be police brutality through psychological intimidation? None of that would matter if I could just get Trudy to confess. But would her confession be deemed coerced because of the storm and her seasickness? There was nothing I could do about that now, I thought.