“She looks and smells terrible,” he said after I closed the door. I explained that Trudy had been deathly seasick, and that she had insisted on the cuffs. “Oh good. Then she will really appreciate the orange jumpsuit,” he laughed. “I’ll let the attorney know to be at the station by eleven. That’ll give you a chance to freshen up a bit before we start.” I thanked him and hustled back down the ramp to find Cal shutting down and cleaning Sea Pigeon.
My offer to help clean the wheelhouse was enthusiastically accepted. We worked together swabbing the interior deck until it shined. I apologized to Cal for Trudy’s behavior; he acknowledged that she was indeed quite a pill. “See you at the café?” I asked before we parted ways at the top of the ramp. Cal agreed that he needed coffee and breakfast, but that it would be after a shower and a nap. “Good, I’ll see you at ten. We can settle up then, too.” Cal commented that this particular ride would be expensive.
I realized I had grown numb with exhaustion when I noticed that I was not sensing the cold as I normally would. I scraped frost from the Duster’s windshield and climbed behind the wheel, where I marveled at the amount of fog that formed every time I exhaled. The locals referred to this phenomena as “seeing your breath,” which was sort of strange but accurately descriptive. Scientifically, I knew it had more to do with dew point than it did with air temperature. The small, short-lived clouds of vapor that disappear as quickly as they form usually made me shiver. But not this morning. Tired and hungry trumped cold, I thought as I drove home and parked the Duster in its usual spot in the Vickersons’ neatly plowed dooryard. I felt as though I was dragging myself up the stairs to my apartment in slow motion. I knew that Henry and Alice could react strongly to being wakened too early, so I was as quiet as I could be. I certainly didn’t want or need to bear the brunt of what could be hostility caused by lack of sleep coupled with the fact that I hadn’t physically been seen by them since … I was so tired, I couldn’t think. No note on my door indicated that the landlords were really annoyed with me, I thought. Or, maybe I was being oversensitive and reading too much into it. That has always been my prime symptom of sleep deprivation.
Hot water pounded the back of my neck in the shower. I may have dozed off for a split second and was jarred awake by a bar of soap thumping the bottom of the tub when I dropped it. I didn’t even bother picking it up. Right now the only thing I cared about was getting a bit of sleep. I pulled a nightgown over my head and crashed into bed. But sleep came neither quickly nor easily. I was on the verge of cracking a murder case. Lists ran through my head. I fact-checked like some people count sheep. I planned and scheduled in my mind until I was comfortable that I had not missed anything. I had a number of tasks for Deloris to tackle—the most urgent being attempting to recover data from the flash drive I had found. I would meet Cal and get breakfast. I had accumulated a few pieces of evidence that needed to go to the lab—shotgun shells, blood and hair samples from the shooting scene, a sock, and a sock doll. I would meet the sheriff and get Trudy’s statement, which would result in yet another trip to Acadia to apprehend Roy Knight as well as others who were involved in Mrs. Kohl’s death, plus the shooting of someone yet to be identified, and the arson of the Kohls’ home. I was haunted by the fact that I had nearly witnessed a murder, and could have had the shooter red-handed if I had known that I would need backup when I ventured to Acadia. I suspected that the victim of the shotgun blast was someone who had witnessed or possibly participated in the crimes, and needed to be done away with to protect secrets.
Although I hadn’t logged much in the way of actual sleep, I woke up refreshed, invigorated, and ready to dive into the beginning of the end of the Kohl case. Before doing so, I would check in with the Vickersons. After all, it was 9:30, and thus late enough to be considered “civil.” I threw on clean clothes, grabbed my things, and dashed down the stairs. I banged twice on their door, and barged in. “Well, look what the tide left,” remarked Mr. V from his seat at the kitchen table.
“What do you know!” Mrs. V said with a hint of excitement in her voice. I suspected that they both wanted to lecture me about the common courtesy of communicating. But they were both genuinely happy to see me, as I was them. “I would say that you’re a sight for sore eyes, but you look dreadful, dear. Where have you been?”
I laughed to think how bad I must look for Mrs. V to mention it. I realized that I had gone to bed with my hair wet from the shower, and hadn’t looked in the mirror before leaving my place. “I plan to wear a hat today,” I joked as I tried to flatten some of the bumps of hair on the top of my head. “I have been to Acadia Island,” I said as I accepted the cup of coffee that Alice offered. I sat at my place and gave my landlords the abbreviated version of my activities since our last visit. True to form, they bombarded me with questions, most of which I either didn’t know the answer to or couldn’t divulge the information they wanted. My insistence that I couldn’t tell them what they wanted to know never stopped them from asking.
“So, what have you two been up to?” I asked to switch their focus from my investigation.
I could tell something was up. The Vickersons shared a look and a grin. “Oh, nothing really,” replied Alice. “Nothing as interesting as being shipwrecked with a murderess.”
“Not shipwrecked, just delayed by weather. And she is just a suspect at this point.”
“Tomato, tomahhhto,” quipped Henry. “You’ll have her singing like a bird before sunset.”
“I hope so,” I said as I got up to leave. “If that’s the way it goes, I’ll see you tonight for dinner!”
“We wish you the best of luck! But we will not be home until late this evening. We have an appointment in Bangor and Henry is going to wine and dine me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”
“You bet, darling.”
I had never known the Vickersons to go to Bangor unless it was a doctor’s appointment. So I assumed that Mrs. V, who proudly suffers from a number of ailments of which I am normally privy to, needed a checkup or was due for a treatment of some kind. “Is everything okay?” I asked as I sat back down.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” said Mrs. V quite convincingly. “You have enough on your plate. Now scoot. Go on. Get out of here and grill that girl until she pleads for mercy.” I had never known Alice to not want to discuss whatever medical issue she might be experiencing or imagining. Her avoidance of the topic made me nervous. I knew I had to leave to keep my schedule, but was reluctant to do so. The Vickersons were like family to me. They were what I thought normal parents would be like. They offered advice and nurtured. And they even scolded me when I needed it. “Really, you need to go. We can discuss our appointment later.”
I thanked them for the coffee, apologized for worrying them, and wished them luck with whatever they were dealing with. I pulled a wool hat on to plaster my renegade hair down, and I left feeling badly. I didn’t really care about my appearance. Vanity took a backseat to productivity. I did care about what might be going on with Mrs. V. She had never shooed me off before. In fact, I usually had to tear myself away in mid-conversation. If I thought of the Vickersons as family, why didn’t I treat them that way? The fact that my work always came first had been the terminating issue with every relationship I had ever screwed up. Be it boyfriend, gal pal, or fiancé, I had always been accused of “not being there” when needed. I used work as an excuse for emotional avoidance on all levels, and had finally come to realize that I had never had a healthy, balanced relationship of any type. Friendships had come and gone. I did nothing to cultivate nor maintain them. Close friends finally gave up trying when I would not meet them anywhere near halfway in the effort. Everything was on my schedule. I missed weddings, baby showers, birthday parties, and funerals in the name of my career. I had vowed to change that; starting fresh with a move to Maine.
I counted my friends in my head, and came up with two. Cal and Audrey were good friends who expected little from me. Expecting little from me so as not to be disappoi
nted was a strange basis for friendship, I realized, and made me feel even worse. Well, I would be better about relationships after I dealt with this murder case, I thought as I drove to the café. I would have more time to be a friend when the criminals on Acadia Island were taken care of. Justice had to come before relationships.
Cal was in his usual position at the counter. One hand gripped a coffee mug and the other held the newspaper. I was amazed at his appearance—clean-shaven and well-rested. He confessed to having a catnap, and declared that was all he needed to fully recharge his batteries. “That, and caffeine and nicotine,” he said, patting the pack of cigarettes in his breast pocket. He quickly produced an invoice for three hundred dollars for his services, hoping that the amount would discourage me from hiring him in the future. I wrote the check and promised to not call on him again unless absolutely necessary. I spoke softly, and explained that I would be heading back out to Acadia after I got Trudy’s written confession, and that I would be happy to take the mail boat out of South Haven. As soon as Audrey observed me whispering to Cal, she became very attentive.
“Whispering’s lying. Lying’s a sin. When you get to heaven, they won’t let you in,” Audrey recited playfully as she filled our coffee cups. She clearly expected nothing from me, and was not disappointed, which solidified our friendship in my warped definition. “It’s also considered rude.” Fully admonished, I apologized, and told her that Cal and I were discussing business and didn’t want the entire café to know that Cal was on the county’s payroll. “The entire café is already aware of seventy-five percent of your recent activities, and the remaining twenty-five percent is being fabricated as we speak,” she said nodding to a table where a couple sat with their heads nearly touching each other as they spoke at a decibel level imperceptible to us. They turned their eyes toward us; embarrassed to be caught looking, they jerked their heads away. “Knock, knock, knocking on heaven’s dooooooor,” Audrey punctuated her point with the song. “Everyone in town monitors the VHF,” she advised. “They started whispering the second you came through the door. Prior to your entrance, it was like an episode of People’s Court. They have probably selected the jury already. Of course the other possibility is that they want to inquire about your hairdresser.” My right hand flew to my head and pressed down the now matted cowlicks that had grown like horns during my short rest. “Wow. Yeah, that’s a lot better,” Audrey said, rolling her eyes.
“I need some food,” I said, unwilling to acknowledge the fact that I probably looked ridiculous with knots of hair standing up every which way. Each time I patted a spot down, I felt it spring back into the unwanted shape.
“Your private captain has already taken care of that for you. Coming right up!” A shout from the kitchen signaled Audrey to scurry through the swinging doors to grab whatever Cal had thoughtfully ordered in anticipation of my arrival, which he had come to learn was always punctual. Audrey was back before I was done telling Cal how much I appreciated him. “Look at those eggs!” Audrey exclaimed as she placed a plate of fried eggs, bacon, and home-fried potatoes in front of me. “Cooked to perfection.… And Cal is certainly a man who knows how to treat a lady. Judging from the size of that breakfast, I’d say the two of you had quite a night!”
“Don’t you dare go there, Aud,” I said sternly. The last thing Cal needed was a rumor of monkey business with me, I thought. “It’s one thing to tease me about Marilyn and Marlena, but Cal is a married man whose wife doesn’t deserve that type of untruth.”
“Who was teasing?” And off she went again, making wisecracks as she cleared plates, took orders, poured coffee, and served meals. I was too embarrassed to look at Cal, so I fiddled with unwrapping my silverware, which was rolled up in a white paper napkin. And Cal was too much of a gentleman to acknowledge that he had heard or comprehended what Audrey had implied. I quickly forgot about Audrey’s needling and dug into breakfast while Cal flipped to the sports page of the newspaper. Audrey was right about one thing: The eggs were amazing. In fact the entire breakfast, although simple fare, was quite delicious. I vowed to splurge on a full breakfast at least once a week as I dabbed egg yolk with a corner of homemade, buttery, rye toast. I hadn’t really developed a taste for home-fried potatoes. Grits are to Florida what fried potatoes are to Maine, I thought as I squeezed ketchup on them. These small chunks of starch, brown and crispy, were part and parcel of every meal served at the café and every eating establishment in the state of Maine from what I could tell. They can’t be very healthy, I thought as I speared half a dozen chunks onto my fork. But neither was the bacon that I enjoyed.
I polished off the entire meal in record time. I wiped my mouth with the napkin, balled it up in my fist and tossed it onto my empty plate. I checked my wristwatch and announced that I had to run. I thanked Cal for breakfast to which he replied, “It’s the least I could do after last night.” Then he winked at me.
Much to my dismay, Audrey heard and witnessed Cal’s antics. She doubled over in laughter, which drew the attention of all diners. As I left, Audrey called out, “Wait till Marilyn and Marlena get wind of this! Peyton Place has nothing on us!” I pulled the wool cap over my ears, this time in an attempt to subdue the voices from inside the café rather than the renegade curls on my head. I never imagined that I would be counting the days in anticipation of the end of Clyde Leeman’s banishment. As soon as I put the Duster’s transmission into drive, I cleared all shenanigans from my mind. It was time for seriousness. Twenty minutes later I was rolling into the Hancock County Sheriff’s Department, with fifteen minutes to spare before the eleven a.m. interrogation of Trudy Proctor. Prompt as usual.
I found the sheriff at Deloris’s desk in the lobby, fumbling through a file cabinet. “I can’t wait for her to get back here,” he said of the convalescing secretary/dispatcher. “Her friend Jackie is coming by to grab work for her to do at home. And the phone company has diverted all calls to the station to their home number.”
I quickly gathered the items from my bag that needed Deloris’s expertise—namely the damaged flash drive—and asked the sheriff to add them to whatever he was sending to her.
“Miss Proctor is in the conference room with her attorney. Let’s give them another fifteen minutes, shall we?” I agreed that this was good, and was happy to have time to gather my police-issued tape recorder and a fresh yellow pad. The sheriff reported that Deloris was doing well, and would be returning to the job in a wheelchair in a few days, which reminded me of my quest to get to the bottom of the chemicals from China and whatever drug-related scheme was being woven around and through them. All in good time, I thought. This murder investigation would be a cake walk. I would pass all information and evidence to the DA for a slam dunk.
Islanders might be self-policed, and somewhat lawless, but that meant that they had little to no experience in my realm of legal work. They were overconfident, and thus sloppy. Living in their own secluded world, they were not accustomed to being held responsible and accountable for things they might not even perceive as illegal. Islanders had lived for generations without any official police presence. They took care of trouble in their own island way. And islanders had cultivated and maintained a reputation for abusing law officials who dared step foot on their beloved and barbaric haven, resulting in few visits from the law. That is, until I intruded. What a ridiculous situation to subject ex-convicts to, I thought. Islanders were relaxed in their protective bubble within which they did whatever they chose without consequence. I was ready to burst that bubble, exposing many degrees of criminal activity, at the top of which was cold-blooded murder. Justice would prevail. I was certainly getting myself pumped up for Trudy, I thought as I entered the conference room at 11:15.
I was not at all surprised to see that Trudy was represented by a female attorney. I imagined that finding a female attorney in Down East Maine had been an effort. I introduced myself to the young, smart-looking woman, and said good morning to Trudy, who looked overwhelmed and agitated. When
I removed my hat and sat down across the table from them, neither woman could look me in the eye as they were both distracted by my hair. It made me a bit self-conscious. The sheriff joined us, sitting at the end of the long table and stating that he was in attendance to act as a witness only, and that this was my show.
I started the tape recorder, stated the date and time, my name and title, and purpose of the conference. I began the conversation by explaining that I had placed Trudy under arrest for her involvement in the murder and botched cover-up of Midge Kohl.
Trudy’s attorney responded with, “I understand that my client has been placed under arrest, she is here to cooperate.”
I have always understood that cooperation means that alibis have been rehearsed and will be forthcoming. But in this case, I was hoping for real cooperation in the form of a full confession.
“Let’s start with what you meant when you stated that things had gotten out of control,” I said. “And you also said that you acted alone and that you got caught up in something, which indicates that you may not be the Lone Ranger after all.” I waited through a minute of silence before continuing. “Are you protecting someone?” I asked, knowing that this would get a response.
Trudy took a deep breath and looked at her attorney. The woman advised her client to remain calm and tell the truth—the whole story. Her attorney assured Trudy that everything was going to be fine, and that she would be heading home to Acadia this afternoon. I doubted that.
Shiver Hitch Page 17
