Fisherman's Bend Page 12
The car grew quiet, leaving us with our individual thoughts. Mine focused mainly on the view of the town of Southwest Harbor through the car windows. Southwest is unlike Green Haven or Cobble Harbor in that it’s a well-known tourist destination, as is Bar Harbor, which is on the same island as Southwest. And just about everyone on planet Earth who has heard of the State of Maine associates it with Bar Harbor, pronounced without the “r”s. Funny, I had never imagined a hearse traveling at greater than a turtle’s pace. Through the years, I had been stuck directly behind the hearse in many a motorcade for a fallen comrade and shudder to think that I actually complained about the lack of speed and looked at my wristwatch constantly. One of the vows I took when I left Miami was to deep-six the watch, which I had done with the idealistic notion that a timepiece would have no value if I had no schedule to keep. Little did I know that I would indeed have a schedule. But I would have had no trouble keeping it this afternoon. Someone was in a hurry. The doctor or the coroner—or maybe both.
From the inside of the hearse looking out, the surroundings seemed to be flashing by at great velocity. I noticed a number of inns and B and Bs, now restored to funky, retro antiquity, one of the signs of a flourishing gay community. I remembered when the same transformation took hold in South Beach. Defunct businesses and dilapidated buildings suddenly came to life with a definite flair and tastefulness that was not exclusive to the gay community, but certainly was a hallmark of it. Everything was beautiful until the place started attracting more and more of the fast-lane crowd. Yes, I thought, this was the way South Miami looked twenty years ago. I hoped that Southwest Harbor could stop the wheels of change right here, before the straight fashionistas moved in.
Happily, there wasn’t any evidence of fashionistas yet. Plaid flannel billowed around bodies that had not been near a gym; bodies that paused in the doorways and parking lots of the small restaurants and gift shops that lined the road on the way out of town. The storefront windows of a boutique we passed did not display clinging synthetics designed to accentuate runway-ready figures. Nope: Denim, cotton, and wool were the fabrics on hand—practical, functional, comfortable—and “high-end, modest conservative” was yet again the look in vogue this season, and all of the store’s mannequins were dressed accordingly. The people I saw were draped in and covered by, rather than poured into and scantily clad by, their clothes. The wardrobe boss in Southwest Harbor liked colors other than black.
At the heart of the town, the quintessential New England church stood with perfect posture, stark in its whiteness and with a pencil-sharp steeple that cast a long shadow; the tip of the shadow pointed directly to the small cemetery next door. My mother would have regarded that as a sign from God. Yes, I thought, we’re all heading there whether we enter through the front doors or not. But some of us have work to do first. For a period in my life, my mother was a member of what I fondly referred to as “the religion of the month club.” She’d dress my brother and me up in our best clothes and drag us to whatever institution promised that it would save us all. The first sermon in our new religion was always like spring for my mother: an awakening of possibilities. The next service was summer, in that we were all made aware of the hard work we had to do to save our souls, a kind of religious “make hay while the sun shines.” Fall, also known as visit number three, found my mother disillusioned, and winter, visit four, brought total discontentment. Four visits each church—that was the routine. I knew it well. Fortunately my mother didn’t believe in giving money to the church, because we never had any to spare—not even for Jesus. It was a shame my mother was never able to find what she was looking for. I watched the cemetery disappear down the right side of the hearse.
The coroner had turned on the car’s radio, and we listened to the usual gung ho, over-the-top enthusiasm of a local announcer between sets of oldies. When we made a hard left turn off Route 1, I began to recognize the road. It was the one that led to Cobble Harbor; we were close to my disembarkation point. I was aware that the coroner was not from Cobble Harbor, and so assumed correctly that he wasn’t familiar with local politics. So it was understandable that the coroner never asked the doctor his opinion of the aquaculture project’s possible role in the disappearance of Parker and the murder of the unidentified man riding with us. Not wanting to step on the coroner’s toes but eager to hear what the doctor thought, I interrupted America’s “A Horse with No Name.” (And how dare they put a song from the seventies on an oldies channel, anyway?) “What’s your take on the oyster farm, Doc?”
“That’s a real can of worms,” he said. “My personal opinion is that it would be good to have some industry in town other than lobster, and most of us are opposed to going after more tourist traffic. But the fishing families, Anglo and Indian alike, are dead set against losing the area proposed. It’s the only thing the Anglos and Indians agree on. They both see aquaculture as a step toward losing their heritage—part of which is the fight between them for fishing rights.”
“Do you think either side is capable of murder?” I asked. There was that red paint on the corpse. And I again recalled George Paul’s phrase “the Red Paint People.”
“No. Gear wars have escalated in the past to the point of sabotage and threats, but no one has ever gotten physical beyond a punch in the nose. The proposed area for the oyster farm has been closed to fishing since the last battle over rights, because the state saw the potential for things to get out of hand. It was like two kids fighting over a toy—if you can’t share, we’ll take it away. Amazingly enough, both sides preferred that to dividing it equally.”
“But what about the degree of anger over this particular project? I mean, sure, the fishermen will get only so violent when fighting with one another over who gets exclusive fishing rights, but don’t people get way more riled in opposition to a force from the outside?”
“If you are asking whether I think the man behind us was killed in the battle over aquaculture, I have no idea. I can only tell you that he isn’t a local. I’m the only doctor in town. If that man had lived in Cobble Harbor, I’d know him.” The hearse pulled into the parking lot, where there were many cars and trucks, the Duster among them. The doctor held the door while I slid out, creepy sleeping bag in hand, and bid both men thanks and goodbye. They urged me to be in touch should I need any information I thought they could provide and drove off. My first move was to the Duster; I wanted to stow the sleeping bag and retrieve my cell phone and notebook. Once I had these things, I headed toward the dock, where I could see the Eva B. She was there just as Evan Alley had promised she’d be. As I walked, I stared at the cell phone’s display screen, hoping for enough of a signal to call Dane Stevens and inform him that we were still missing Parker Alley’s body. The appearance of three bars had me digging in my pocket for his number. The battery life indicator showed a deathbed’s gasp worth of juice remaining. I dialed and hoped. When I got no answer, I left a message with the surprising news and asked for a callback. At least they would learn they needed to keep looking the minute Dane picked up his messages.
My first mission aboard the Eva B. was to find the bait iron. I searched the entire work space, but found nothing resembling a tool with which a man could spear a fish and thread it onto the bait line in a lobster trap. There was a chance it could be stowed below. I opened the door exposing the forward compartment. Empty, completely empty—not only was there no bait iron, there was also no sign of the abundant shipping supplies I had seen two days ago. Boxes, insulation, tape, labels—not there; even the cooler that held the gel packs was gone.
10
EITHER PARKER ALLEY WAS a neat freak, or some folks had gone out of their way to scrub every inch of his boat. Under the wash rails, where you can usually find some remnants of bait, blood, mud, or one of the many grassy seaweeds that come up from the bottom on lobster traps, the fiberglass looked fresh out of the mold. One of the first lessons I had learned in criminal investigation was not to let a big reverse faze me. Of course,
I needed to remind myself of this throughout my career and now. The fact that the Eva B. had been either burglarized or cleaned up could be a clue itself that could help me solve the Parker Alley mystery—maybe even a more significant clue than any I might have found if nothing had been taken or scrubbed away. Suddenly, I had the chilling feeling that someone was watching me. Possibly paranoia, I thought as I went about my business. Another lesson I had learned long ago was never to let on that you are aware of being watched. I put the eerie sensation of being seen through binoculars out of my head, and hoped that whatever surveillance device was trained on me—if any—was not the crosshaired sighting mechanism of a gun.
It was hard to believe that someone could have come aboard right under the Coast Guard’s nose without being noticed and steal stacks of white, insulated FedEx boxes and all of the accompanying supplies. Although there was the possibility that brother Evan had taken the missing supplies for his personal use, or had the thought to begin emptying the boat knowing that Lillian would be putting it on the market, it just didn’t seem likely; I guessed, rather, that they had been jettisoned for some reason en route from Southwest to Cobble Harbor. It’s a strange and unexplainable personal quirk, but when I think I am being watched, I guard my thoughts closely as if the surveillance could penetrate my skull and read my mind. Again, reminding myself of how foolish this was, I continued in both thought and action. It wasn’t like I had uncovered anything yet that should make me nervous. But the sensation of being watched from afar was enough to make me keep studying the boat. Why would someone be watching if nothing on the craft was suspect?
It’s traditionally the stern man’s job to clean up the boat, I thought, as I lifted hatches and inspected compartments. And the stern man is quite often the son or daughter of the captain. I wondered whether Jason had been fishing with his father right before he overdosed. And I wondered if anyone was with Parker the day he disappeared. Everyone, including Cal and me, had assumed that Parker had been alone aboard his boat. But I’m not sure why we all assumed that. Certainly if anyone else had been aboard, they would have been reported missing, too. The doctor was of the opinion that Parker was the high-liner in the area, but that would be impossible unless he frequently had help. I knew from my varied experience aboard commercial boats that top producers have topnotch help, and no one lobstering alone, no matter how good, can keep pace with a good two-man team. Keeping this in mind, I assumed that Parker Alley would usually have at least one stern man, and may have even employed two to keep up a rapid pace with the traps coming aboard and the lobsters to be measured and banded. Although I hadn’t done a thorough inspection of the Eva B. when Cal put me aboard the other day, Cal had pointed out that she was too clean to have been hauling traps when the fisherman went missing. I had been so emotionally invested in the possibility that a man might be struggling for his life, and so flabbergasted that no one appeared to be concerned, that I scarcely took note of the condition of the boat.
The parts of the Eva B. that showed signs of fishing activity—the plates of the hydraulic hauler that pinch the line between them as it turns, the block through which the line travels from the water to the hauler, and the hauling patch, which is a thick piece of fiberglass on the hull where the traps sometimes bump when they are hauled from the surface—all appeared to have some wear. But, I thought, not enough to suggest that Parker Alley was a hard-charger and top producer. Productivity is always a function of a combination of factors, the most important of which is effort. The more traps a man hauls, the more lobsters he will catch. There are the old-school guys who will claim to fish smarter, and catch more pounds per trap, than the men who just bull through the gear—hauling and dumping, as they say. But at the end of the season, it’s always the guys who handle the greatest number of traps who come out on top financially, in spite of bigger overhead. I knew that the majority of the inshore fleet worked a season that ran from May through December, so if that schedule held in Cobble Harbor, it stood to reason that Parker Alley was not fresh out of the boatyard but well into the season. I couldn’t say exactly what was amiss, but felt that things didn’t add up. The major thing bothering me was the too-clean boat.
By the time I had surveyed the engine compartment, steering gear, rudder post, through-hull fittings, bilges, battery connections, stuffing box, bilge pump, alarms, twelve-volt electrical system, fuel manifold, and engine exhaust, my suspicion that someone had done a destroy-the-evidence bleaching had dwindled. It was clear that Parker maintained his boat to the nth degree. Grease fittings were wiped clean, the bilge sparkled, and the battery terminals were immaculate. The tools were well organized and wrenches gleamed; even the grease gun, which in every boat I’ve ever been on causes you to shudder before you grab it, was spotless. Anyone who kept a clean grease gun would certainly not allow blood or bait to remain in any corner or crevice. If someone had come aboard to steal things for resale, they would certainly have taken tools and left shipping supplies behind, I thought. A little disappointed not to find a smoking gun, I had to admit that I normally tended to read too much into everything. Perhaps I was even imagining being watched. If I was here doing a straight survey for insurance, and not looking for clues, I might not feel as though someone were spying on me.
The Eva B.’s safety equipment was more than adequate and beyond the legal minimum standards. Two portable chemical fire extinguishers were in good serviceable condition and inspection tags were up to date. Four life jackets and two survival/immersion suits were USCG approved and in excellent condition. The Coast Guard–required ring buoy, properly marked with the vessel’s name and strips of reflective tape, was hung with a neatly coiled piece of braided line that was secured with a fisherman’s bend to the orange life ring, ready to heave to a man overboard. Visual distress signals (flares and orange smoke) were stowed in a watertight box, and the first-aid kit was first rate. Check, check, check, I thought as I went through the surveyor’s list. Parker Alley was, indeed, a neat freak. By the looks of all the safety gear and first-aid items, he had in mind to stay alive in the face of any problems that might come his way while offshore. As I walked to my car, I couldn’t help thinking about Jason Alley and wondering about Parker’s state of mind following his son’s death. I also couldn’t help thinking that the sensation of being the subject of surveillance was stronger now, as if I were closer to the source.
Thoughts of father and son occupied me all the way to Ellsworth, where I drove the Duster for gas. Sure, I thought, as I pumped fuel worth its weight in gold into the dusty tank, the loss of a child has to be horrifically tough—it’s ruined many a person and destroys most marriages faced with it. But I had never seen it result in suicide, if that’s what this was. I have handled more cases involving the death of a child than I can count, and the parents were always wrecked. You’d expect nothing less. But I always had a sense that they would find some way to go on with some semblance of their lives. And I think that most of them did. I’m sure that there were suicides later; but I never saw one within the first week. Were family ties that much stronger here? Was premature death that much more unusual here than in Miami? But why would that matter? When it’s your son or your daughter, what do statistics mean to you?
I went back and forth and back and forth in my mind from what I knew, but just didn’t see Parker Alley taking his own life from grief. I wanted very badly to connect death of son and subsequent disappearance of father, but couldn’t build a theory on so few facts and such scarce evidence. The only concrete things I had were an OD’d kid, an unidentified corpse, and a missing fisherman. Still, a son and father perishing in such a short time frame: There had to be some connection. I’ve never bought stock in coincidence, and I couldn’t buy it now.
As I turned south and headed down the homestretch for Green Haven, I made a mental list of what I needed to do the next day. I did have a few things to follow up on that could lead somewhere. Perhaps the medical examiner’s office would have an ID sooner than the coro
ner anticipated. That would be my first call, I thought. I had an appointment with Lillian Alley that I was most looking forward to. Mother of dead son and wife of missing man—Lillian was my most important contact. I needed to call or track down Willard Kelley to ask about the report of his stolen boat, Spartacus. I hoped that I would hear from Dane Stevens regarding the message I left on his phone, but if I didn’t, I would have to get in touch with him even if it meant using the Coast Guard to radio him. I would need to call Cal tonight when I got home to see if he would be available to taxi me aboard Sea Pigeon back to Cobble Harbor. This last thought came when I glanced at the fuel gauge and wished I had sprung for another gallon or two.
Dusk bloomed slow and high in the sky, and fell like a dark curtain onto a horizon that finally lost its red glow of footlights as the curtain met the stage. I have always loved this time of day. Not quite dark enough for headlights; everything was soft, but would soon stiffen into a sludge that could not be penetrated without them. My favorite hour is celebrated each and every day in Key West, I recalled. Mallory Square saluted every sunset in grand style—tourists would come from far and near to watch the sun go down, the same sun that they could observe from their homes for free. Key West had cornered the market on sunset and it was a thriving business. True Mainers don’t celebrate the end of daylight. They’re more inclined to appreciate sunrise. Switching on the lights, I realized that the days were indeed getting shorter and knew that the decreased daylight cut into the lobstermen’s profits—as it’s illegal to haul traps after dark. Yes, fishermen must curse this time of day.
I could see headlights at a distance behind me in the rearview mirror. They seemed to be gaining on me at a rapid clip. I drove slowly, since the road was so winding and still relatively unfamiliar to me. I had heard the locals complaining of “summer drivers” who held them up by observing the speed limit, and sped up a bit as it was clear that the driver of the truck now on my bumper was impatient. I vowed to register the Duster and get Maine plates before venturing out of town again. The driver followed ridiculously close; I imagined that he was irritated and cursing the out-of-stater in front of him. I increased my speed to fifty-five—ten miles an hour over the posted limit. Still the lights were too close to my bumper for my comfort. At sixty-five miles per hour, I was getting nervous. Probably a couple of teenagers feeling their oats, I thought. I had heard the screeching of tires night after night on the hill outside my apartment and had seen the swirling black rubber street art. I pressed the accelerator to the floor when I was on a straightaway. The lights in my mirror went to high, nearly blinding me. I was unable to increase the space between the two bumpers as I approached a sharp turn that I had to slow down for. The trailing vehicle gently nudged the back of the Duster, backed off a few feet, then rammed against my bumper again. Not cool.