Bimini Twist Page 10

  “Oh sure, Larry. He probably responded to be sure he wasn’t dreaming. This insurance money will be life changing for them,” she said as a matter of fact.

  “Them?” I asked.

  “Larry Vigue is Ron’s ex-wife’s husband. Confusing, isn’t it?”

  Not really, I thought to myself as some of the pieces of the puzzle snapped into place. The ramming had not been part of any territorial war waged by fishermen competing for the same fishing grounds. It was about money. If I had understood Liza correctly, Larry Vigue’s wife was the beneficiary to both life and property insurances. Judging from their home, I imagined that the life insurance policy alone was substantial. “I’m sure you can contest the divorce decree and receive at least a percentage of the money,” I said. “You do have a home to support and a son to raise.”

  “I’ll be fine. But thank you for your concern. I was disowned in name only. My family paid off Ron’s boat and gave us this place. They have an education fund for Bradley.”

  I waited as Liza shed more tears. She was such a dainty crier, I thought. I wondered if this was a skill taught at finishing school. “I’m sure Ron’s death is a loss to the whole community. He is from North East Harbor originally?” I asked, thinking I would need to rally support for Ron and raise questions about Larry Vigue if murder charges were brought.

  “Oh, yeah. Ron was fifth generation here. Born and raised. Because of his marriage to me, and my money, Ron faced a lot of jealousy from the fishing community. Some of the guys didn’t appreciate that he was catching lobsters when he didn’t really need to fish for his living. They saw this as taking food from their tables. But he loved being on the water.”

  “I can see that,” I said. I had experienced similar feelings in law enforcement, and imagined it was human nature to be envious and resent someone who shared your work who didn’t need the job. I realized that I had been at Liza’s place for longer than I had anticipated. I needed to digest everything Liza had told me. I needed to make some phone calls. I wasn’t sure how to bow out gracefully and leave the grieving widow alone.

  The phone rang. Liza checked the caller ID and said, “It’s my mother. Please excuse me.” This may have been my cue to leave. But I now wanted to listen to this end of the conversation, so I remained seated. I nodded and smiled, making it clear that I was fine with her taking the call. “Mom? Oh Mom, I can’t believe he’s gone.” There was a short silence while she listened. “Bradley is taking it better than I am.” Another brief silence as Liza wiped tears and nodded in agreement to whatever she was being told. “I wanted to call you and Daddy. The insurance lady is here now, but will be leaving. Please come over. I need you.”

  There was now no mistaking the fact that I should go. When Liza hung up, I handed her my card and insisted that she call me if there was anything she needed from the insurance company. I considered telling her what I knew about the ramming and what I now knew was a case of murder. But Liza was so emotional now that I thought it would be best to speak with both the sheriff and Mr. Dubois, both of whom might not be happy with me for not telling them everything earlier. Liza surprised me with a hug. I was happy to know that her parents were coming to be with her.

  I showed myself to the door and found Bradley sitting on the top granite step. He tossed a baseball into a mitt over and over with great force. “You take care, okay?” I said when he looked up as I stepped by him.

  “We’ll be fine,” he said sadly. “Thank you for coming to see my mother.” I believed that they would be fine.

  As I drove away, I wondered how learning that his father had been a murder victim might affect Bradley. Liza had mentioned that there was embarrassment and shame in running onto ledges in your familiar grounds. Would there be vindication in knowing that Ron had been intentionally rammed? The sinking was no accident. And the heart attack was just a delayed result that was intended at the hands of Larry Vigue, in my opinion. Or might a murder case make things harder on Bradley and Liza? Maybe word of foul play would make it more difficult to find closure on the loss of husband and father, I thought. An investigation and trial surrounding murder allegations would drive them to seek justice rather than find comfort and peace.

  The pending date with Pete tomorrow night just got more interesting, I thought. To be fair, I would let him know what I knew right after hello—assuming the party was still on and that he would be there. I imagined the show would go on, given that the Alfonds, according to Liza, had not approved of Ron, and had in fact been estranged from her for twelve years. And the Alfonds hosting the party were Liza’s aunt and uncle, according to what I gathered. And if Liza happened to mention my visit to Pete, I imagined he would want to see me to get the scoop on what I might be thinking. Pete was the only surviving witness to the ramming, other than me, of course.

  My law-enforcement soul could not allow Larry Vigue to get away with murder, I thought as I made my way back toward Ellsworth where I had a date with a mountain of paperwork. That mountain had just grown with this morning’s visit to Ron Thomas’s widow and what she had divulged regarding the beneficiary of the insurance. I now had solid motive in the case against Larry Vigue. He was done, I thought. All I needed to do was get my case in order. Any judge would issue an arrest warrant. And I would happily serve that warrant, cuff him, and toss him in jail to await formal charges, arraignment, and trial. This was a slam dunk, I thought.

  My cell phone rang, interrupting my thoughts of bringing a murderer to justice. “Hey Deloris,” I answered. “Wow, do I have a lot to tell you.”

  “Save it, girlfriend,” she said quickly and firmly. “I just picked up a call to the Coast Guard on the scanner about a lobster boat. Insight was reported to be found going around in circles with nobody aboard.”

  SIX

  It took a minute for this statement to become visual and sink in. A boat found going in circles with nobody on board was never a good thing. It nearly always meant that someone was in the water, having fallen, slipped, or been pulled overboard accidently. Yesterday, Pete had told me that Larry always fished alone. But I also knew that there might be people looking to even the score following the death of Ron Thomas. And I assumed that the only people who knew about the ramming were Pete Alfond and myself. Was this tit for tat? Or was this another scheme in the territorial lobster war? Maybe someone had stolen Insight and set her off in a circle offshore as a warning to Larry Vigue. I mulled over the possibilities. Again, this might be a situation that had me straddling my two jobs—marine insurance and law enforcement.

  “Hey, did you get that?” asked Deloris. “Did I lose you?”

  “Yeah, I’m still here,” I said. “I was just processing. And pulling off the road. Who made the call to the Coast Guard?”

  “I don’t know. Sounded like a pleasure boater. Very formal with the radio call. I called the Southwest Harbor Coast Guard station. They responded to the radio call. The dispatcher in Southwest told me that they have sent a boat out to investigate.”

  “Well, if nobody had been aboard to look around, there’s a chance that the captain is there on the deck, or down below,” I reasoned. “I have heard of cases when a sailor has been hit in the head with the boom and knocked unconscious, and has not necessarily gone overboard. And there are many cases of cardiac arrest at sea. And there have been times when someone has a mechanical problem that causes them to go below or into the engine compartment,” I said, realizing that I was thinking out loud. “I know of two cases where solo mariners were pinned or tangled in the engine compartment, boats were found going around in circles with nobody at the helm, and both times they were rescued and their lives saved.”

  “Is this the marine insurance gal talking? Or the gal who doesn’t want to think about escalating violence and the possibility of a certain potential love interest’s involvement?” Deloris was perceptive. And I didn’t know the answer to that question, so I sat silently mulling.

  I had shared everything with Deloris yesterday. Although sh
e was indeed in the loop regarding events, she was certainly exaggerating things on the emotional side. I sat and pondered my next move. I had nothing other than paperwork planned for the rest of the day. I was free to drive to Bar Harbor, if I could justify doing so. Perhaps I should wait for the Coast Guard to get back to Deloris with their findings, I thought. On the other hand, if someone had retaliated for Ron’s death at the hands of Larry Vigue, it was always best to get on scene as quickly as possible. Time is not on my side, as opposed to what the Rolling Stones had to say about it.

  “Are you still there?” asked Deloris.

  “Yes. I want to get to Bar Harbor to ask some questions in the event that Larry Vigue is missing. I can get a jump on the background investigation and hopefully find that it is a waste of time when he turns up at home or aboard his boat.”

  “In light of everything that happened yesterday, I would call this protocol follow-up on the ramming,” Deloris said. “Who else knows about that?”

  “I haven’t told anyone. But I don’t know who Pete Alfond may have confided in,” I said. “Hey, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. This could be purely coincidental.”

  “Right.” Deloris sounded very skeptical. “Call it karma.”

  “For now, I will.” Before I signed off, I asked Deloris to send me anything she could find in the way of home address, phone numbers, and the like for Larry Vigue. In the interest of getting back on the road, I decided to share all new information I had gleaned from my visit to Liza Thomas with my coworker later. “I’ll check in with you when I know more. In the meantime, let me know if you hear back from the Coast Guard.”

  “Aye, aye,” was Deloris’s way of letting me know that I was being too bossy. Although in reality, I was her superior officer, Deloris was an equal in every way. Her talents with cyber forensics were invaluable to me. Deloris had great intuition. “And,” Deloris blurted a little louder now, “I already know about all of the family intertwinings that you must have just learned of. Another example of what we call the family wreath in Down East Maine.”

  “Yes, let’s compare notes later. It will be noon by the time I get to Bar Harbor. I need to get underway.” Her title of dispatcher for the Hancock County Sheriff’s Department was a complete undersell, I thought as I laid my phone on the seat beside me and got back on the road. I was quite interested in knowing what else Deloris had been able to dig up on the connections between the Alfonds, in-laws, and outlaws. For now I was compelled to get to the bottom of the status of my homicide suspect, Larry Vigue. I hadn’t determined yet whether the appropriate charge was attempted murder or gross negligence manslaughter, so I was very hopeful to find Captain Vigue alive and well and able to be charged.

  By now, I thought, Mr. Dubois had learned that my visit to Liza Thomas was out of the false assumption that the widow was beneficiary of the insurance, which is normally the case. I wondered if I would be asked to pay a visit to Ron Thomas’s ex-wife. Now that would be twisted, I thought. Especially with the knowledge that the ex is Larry Vigue’s present wife. Or could she now be his widow? Maybe I would be meeting Mrs. Vigue soon, I thought as I struggled in stop-and-go traffic that plagued the route to Bar Harbor. I worked to stop the blur of possible scenarios from whizzing in my head as I slowly picked my way to the waterfront.

  Luck was with me as I whipped the Duster into a parking spot just vacated. A dense layer of fog smothered the view of the outer islands. But the inner harbor was crystal clear. I hustled through the small park and toward the docks where I recognized Ragged But Right. Two uniformed officers stood on the float adjacent to Pete’s boat and spoke to him over the rail as he stood at the helm. Pete was dressed in the typical orange bib overalls and rubber boots worn by most commercial fishermen. Pete looked relieved to see me as I walked down the ramp made steep by low tide. “Here’s the deputy sheriff now,” he said and motioned to me. The men, who I could now see were members of the Maine Marine Patrol, turned and nodded solemn hellos. Pete introduced us and said, “I imagine you heard the news of Ron’s death and the abandoned boat, right?”

  “Yes, I think I am up to speed. I came down to follow up on Insight and her captain. They are both part of an active investigation,” I said. “Any sign of him yet?” I asked. “And where is the boat? I’ll need to get aboard before anything is disturbed.”

  “The boat has been towed to the Coast Guard station,” Pete replied. “They have not located Larry. I was just in from delivering the pilot to a ship moored in the fog, and getting ready to go haul my traps, when these guys asked me for assistance. The Marine Patrol would normally start by hauling Larry’s gear. The theory is that he got wound up when setting out a trawl and went overboard with it. That does happen,” Pete said skeptically. “But I’m not buying it.”

  “Well,” said one of the uniformed officers, “there are two ways to prove that Larry is not on the bottom with his traps. One is to find him alive. The other is to haul his gear and not find his body tangled in it. He isn’t home. His wife says that he left before daylight to go fishing. His truck is here in the lot, and his boat was found circling unmanned.”

  “Has anyone started hauling his traps?” I asked.

  “They want me to,” Pete said. “But I think it will be a terrible waste of time. Larry Vigue has been fishing his entire life—alone—and he is one tough guy. If anything, he’s playing games.”

  “We’d normally haul the gear ourselves,” said the officer. “But our patrol boat is on the hard getting repairs and will not launch again until tomorrow. And Pete has a chart plotter that is compatible to receive the info card from the victim’s GPS.”

  Pete opened his hand and displayed the microchip that had apparently been given to him by the officers. I was somewhat familiar with marine electronics from years of being on- and offshore in Biscayne Bay between summer jobs on fishing boats and later in my career. I did a stint at sea in the distant wake of Nixon’s “War on Drugs” that was forever being waged, and found myself appreciating my nautical know-how in many investigations.

  “I’m here on behalf of Hancock County,” I said. “I’m able to go with you to check Mr. Vigue’s gear.” This was met with appreciation from the Marine Patrol officers. I wasn’t sure whether I had volunteered for the sheriff’s department or for personal reasons. It didn’t matter. The gear needed to be checked for a body in spite of Pete’s opinion that this was a wild-goose chase instigated by Larry Vigue. And, I reminded myself, I needed to follow up on what I thought was my responsibility to find a homicide suspect—dead or alive.

  “What the hell,” Pete said in a conciliatory tone. “It’s a nice day for a boat ride.”

  The Marine Patrol officers thanked us as I climbed over the rail and onto the deck of Ragged But Right. One of the officers handed Pete and me each a business card and instructed us to call with updates of any kind. Pete started untying the boat, and before I could coil and stow the stern line, we were off the float and headed toward the fringe of the heavy blanket of fog.

  As we crept along through the no-wake zone that encompassed the inner harbor and mooring field, Pete fiddled with the microchip, flipping it between his thumb and index finger. I couldn’t help but notice that the boat’s electronics had not yet been fired up. The dash directly in front of the helm was filled with black boxes with glass display fronts. I could tell from the labeling of buttons, knobs, and switches that Ragged But Right was equipped with fine marine electronics that included a GPS chart plotter (electronic chart), a radar, a depth sounder, and a VHF radio that was mounted over the captain’s chair. “How far to his traps?” I asked, breaking the silence.

  “Not far,” he replied as he popped open the small drawer-style slot on the side of the black, rectangular piece of electronic equipment that I knew as a chart plotter and slid the SIM card in. As he waited for the information to load, Pete switched his radar from standby to transmit, lighting up the radar’s monitor screen with bright green concentric circles in which I knew we w
ere the bull’s-eye. The sweep, or radius, went around in a clockwise rotation like the second hand on a wristwatch—but faster—leaving behind images of boats, landmass, and navigational buoys on the monitor. Now we could “see” through the fog, I thought and relaxed as we approached the wall of murkiness.

  As the boat’s bow punched a hole in the leading edge of the thick gray vapor, Pete changed the range on the radar with the push of a knob, expanding the captured pings of images out to a full mile. Looking over the bow was senseless. I couldn’t see beyond the small wake pushed ahead of us as we ran just over an idle for safety reasons. I watched the radar as land withdrew from the bottom edge of the circular display. In my past life, I had navigated with radar at night. But fog had not been an issue in South Florida. Pete was obviously comfortable running in the fog, I thought as he pushed up the throttle a bit.

  Pete manipulated the chart plotter while I watched in amazement at the technological advancements made to marine electronics in recent years. The chart plotter consisted of a large screen that displayed the navigational chart and our position on it. We appeared as a boat icon, the bow facing in the direction we were traveling. Dotted lines I knew as “bread crumbs” marked the history of the boat’s travels. In this case, as the GPS was reading the card from Insight, we were looking at our present course and speed on the chart, and seeing where Larry had been. Pete scanned through the menu and found how to show only the recorded information from today’s date, including marks Larry had put on the plotter to record where his lobster traps were placed. “This makes it easy,” I said.

  “Yes, I assume that this was his course line leaving Bar Harbor this morning,” he said as he pointed at the dotted line we were now following. “We’ll just stay on this line until we find where the boat went in circles. Then we can haul whatever gear he has marked in the vicinity.” Pete changed the range on the plotter to include a larger area. He placed a finger on the screen. “Looks like he started hauling at Bay Ledge, and used these symbols for the traps he fished today,” he suggested of the string of red triangles that were scattered along the bread crumbs marking his travels. “I apologize for my pessimism,” Pete said. “I have known Larry all of my life, and staging his own death is not a stretch. I don’t know whether I want to find him or not. And I am thankful to have you aboard.”