Bimini Twist Read online

  “Yes, ma’am, probably teenagers hacking around and got in trouble. Or maybe an elderly sailboater. It’s tough for some people to get back aboard a boat after they go over. Especially if there’s no ladder.” The young Coastie conveyed a fairly light attitude about the gravity of this situation. And he was probably right. Most often with a Mayday call to the Coast Guard, it involves novices to boating. They tend to overreact, which was sure better than the alternative, I thought. “Well, I guess I can go finish my dinner. Maybe I can scoff an extra dessert now that the guys are out on a mission.”

  Food! Wow, was I hungry. I was not needed here, I knew. “Okay, thanks again. I’ll be leaving now,” I said as I gave him a half wave and started toward the parking lot. Many people might question my thoughts and growing focus on dinner. In light of today’s activities revisited from behind the Duster’s steering wheel, perhaps my stomach should not have entered the picture. But it did. Yes, I had visited a widow who had lost the love of her life to what she believed was cardiac arrest facilitated by his boat sinking. Yes, I was one of only two witnesses to the malicious attempted murder that I believed brought on the death of her husband, Ron Thomas. Yes, I had helped pull a corpse from the ocean and transport it ashore. Yes, the corpse was my homicide suspect. Yes, my suspect was the husband of the ramming victim’s ex-wife. Yes, my single and long awaited romantic interest was involved and very much connected to my investigations, both insurance- and deputy-wise. The fact that my tally of today’s activities did not include lunch was now the most prominent item on the list. Gnawing doesn’t even come close to this degree of hunger, I thought as I pulled into the Vickersons’ yard. This hunger was tearing big bites, like a shark.

  I would be remiss, I thought as I climbed the stairs to my apartment, to not mentally note my schedule, which included following up on missing people. Bianca Chiriac and Franklin Avery had been pushed to a back burner. I defended my conscience by reminding myself that their whereabouts were actually known. They were aboard The Princess of the Seas. They were both adults, and seemingly not wanting to be found. I had hired Cal to take me to the clambake tomorrow, where they should be making a last memory of a three-day tryst that would end on Saturday morning when Franklin would disembark from his internship with the cruise liner company and from his secret fling. I had a lot of things to sort out, I thought as I dropped my jacket and bag into a chair and bolted back down over the stairs.

  “Hello,” I called out as I entered the Vickersons’ home. “What’s for dinner? I’m starving.”

  “Janey! Come right in!” Mrs. V was always very enthusiastic with her welcome greeting, which made me feel good about becoming such a fixture at her dinner table. “Henry is pouring our second round, so you have some catching up to do.”

  “The usual?” Mr. V asked as I plunked myself down into “my” chair in the living room.

  “Yes, please.” I almost laughed with the realization that I had become so predictable. At the café it was the least expensive item, and here it was Scotch on the rocks. “Where’s Wally?”

  “Walter has a date this evening—dinner and a show,” Mr. V said in a casual manner in which one might think that this was not actually noteworthy. I knew he was looking for an audience response. And I gave him what he was looking for.

  “A date? With whom?”

  “I don’t think he said,” replied Mr. V, knowing this would really get my hackles up. “Why? Are you nervous?” He was teasing me, and I knew it. But I just had to know where my brother was and with whom.

  “Call me curious.”

  “Curiosity killed the cat.” He smiled. It was clear that Mr. V was really enjoying this.

  “And you’re smiling like a Cheshire cat,” I replied, knowing that I was falling into my landlord’s word game that used to drive me nuts.

  “That’s because you’re like a cat on a hot tin roof!”

  I paused, unable to snap back with anything appropriate. Mrs. V entered with a plate of smoked mussels and rescued my end of the game with, “Walter is the cat’s pajamas, isn’t he?” Then she winked at me and added, “There’s more than one way to skin a cat. I score two for that,” she said proudly.

  “Well, I’m not ready to let the cat out of the bag,” defended her doting husband. Then he looked at me and asked, “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” With that he raised two fingers in the air and mouthed, “Two.”

  “Look at him,” Mrs. V insisted. “He’s smiling like the Cheshire cat.”

  “Copycat! That has already been played, dear. Game over. I win,” Mr. V said satisfiedly as he held his drink up in a cheers to himself. “Ooooh, what’s the dipping sauce?” he asked of the small bowl nestled among the mussels on the platter that his wife now held for him to sample.

  “Whole grain mustard, sour cream, maple syrup, lemon juice, and fresh tarragon,” she recited as she passed the platter to me. “How was your day, Jane?”

  “Hectic, as usual,” I said as I plucked a mussel between my thumb and index finger, dredged it through the dipping sauce, and popped it in my mouth. Mrs. V always waited patiently and expectantly for a review of whatever morsel she had offered. I chewed and savored the delicate smoke flavor that melded so well with the zesty lemon and mustard.

  “Too much maple?” she asked.

  “Not at all,” I said. “Perfectly delicious.” I grabbed two more mussels before Mrs. V set the platter on the table between her husband and me. The Scotch and the smoked mussels tamed my growling stomach. I relaxed into the easy chair. “I think it’s wonderful that Wally has a social life. And it’s totally appropriate that he keeps it private. I certainly would never share relationship and dating details with anyone.” Now I was the one smiling with delight, as I knew that my landlords were insanely nosy when it came to my life.

  “Foul! That’s just unfair,” whined Mrs. V. “Just because Henry’s a grinch, doesn’t mean you should keep things from me.” She turned and gave her husband a look. “I wouldn’t exactly call Walter’s evening a date. And dinner and a show is a stretch. Come clean, dear,” she advised her husband.

  “Oh, okay, spoilsport. Walter is at the church potluck with the Old Maids.”

  “Marlena and Marilyn have taken a real liking to your brother,” said Mrs. V. “As has the entire town. He is indeed the darling of Green Haven.” We all could agree on that, I thought as I sipped my drink quietly. We enjoyed a little chitchat until Mrs. V declared it time for dinner and asked us to move our conversation to the table. Although I am not a multitasker, I was able to hold up my end of the dinner conversation with work in the back of my mind.

  Dinner was nothing short of spectacular. Tonight’s mussel entrée had an Asian flair. The coconut milk base infused with ginger, lemon grass, fresh lime, and a dab of red curry paste was simply delicious. The mainstay ingredient, mussels in their shells sprinkled with chopped scallions, was served over plain white rice. I polished off a healthy portion and excused myself from the table before I yawned. Although Wally hadn’t come home, I knew he was in good hands with Marlena and Marilyn. “Thanks for dinner,” I said as I stood to leave. “And give Wally a hug good night for me.”

  “Yes, you get a good night’s sleep,” Mrs. V advised. “You have a date tomorrow night!”

  “Yeah, God knows I need all the beauty sleep I can get,” I answered with a wry smile as I closed the door behind me and scrambled through the Lobster Trappe, ducking my head to avoid bumping the gift shop’s hanging inventory.

  Before diving into bed, I gave my phone the obligatory check, noting that I had missed two calls while dining. I listened to the first message, which was from Anika, the roommate of the missing Romanian girl. “Hi, Deputy Bunker. There is still no word from Bianca. Are you still looking for her? I am really scared. You said to call. Here I am. Please call me back.” Rather than call, I chose to text Anika.

  Hi Anika. I am following up on a solid lead tomorrow, and will let you know. I am not worried about Bianca. Ther
e is evidence that she is fine.

  A text came back faster than I could imagine. Is there anything I can do in the meantime? I can’t stand just waiting.

  If you have access to a copy machine, you can put up posters around town. That might be premature, but it never hurts to get the word out. I thought this might indeed be unnecessary. But, I reasoned, it would serve as a lesson to Bianca when she returned to Bar Harbor to find how she caused such worry.

  Okay, thank you.

  The second message was from the sheriff asking me to please call him ASAP. There was no way I could put him off with a text, I thought. So I called him. “Hi, Jane. Thanks for getting back to me. I got a disturbing update from Earl Smith at the Academy. The cruise line company that owns Princess of the Seas is now reporting that Franklin Avery is missing from the ship.”

  EIGHT

  I woke up completely disoriented. I lay on my back and gazed at the ceiling over my bed as it swirled and slowly came into focus. I’m not sure what this says about me psychologically, but if this were a Rorschach test, the knots, rings, and grains in the pine boards looked like knots, rings, and grains to me. No matter how hard I tried, I could not make out a bunny or a clown anywhere. I yawned and stretched and thought that perhaps I hadn’t needed that second Scotch last night. Mr. V was notorious for his generous pour.

  As I gained clarity, I thought about the conversation with the sheriff that I’d had just before bed. It seemed that the missing persons cases (yes, two of them) were reemerging when I had hoped to focus on the hows and whys of double deaths—Ron Thomas and Larry Vigue—which I found more challenging and mysterious. I shook myself to a higher level of alertness and hopped out of bed and into the shower where I recounted the scant details of last night’s conversation with the sheriff.

  “That is all I know,” the sheriff had insisted when I questioned the reported disappearance of Franklin Avery.

  “Who reported him missing?” I asked.

  “Someone from the cruise line company office called the Academy hoping he had shown up there,” he said. “Earl Smith called me last night hoping that you would reopen the investigation.”

  “Well, I have made arrangements to attend a clambake tomorrow that is part of The Princess of the Seas’ itinerary. I had hoped to find both Franklin and Bianca there rather than waiting for the ship to land in Rockland on Saturday morning,” I recalled assuring the sheriff last night.

  The sheriff had seemed satisfied that I was following up on this vague information. In light of our working theory that had not been discredited, there was no sense of urgency. Everyone still believed that Franklin and Bianca were shacking up: she as a stowaway, and he as an officer-in-training who had been led astray. I imagined that now even Franklin’s shipmates had grown weary of the situation. Enough is enough, right?

  I checked my cell phone to confirm that the texts that I had sent to Deloris last night had gone through. They had. I had sent her two pictures: one of the AIS unit on Insight with a note asking her to research and to let me know the unit’s capabilities and typical use aboard commercial fishing vessels, and the other of the series of numbers Larry had recorded in his logbook yesterday with a note asking Deloris to decipher what significance they had to lobster fishing. Deloris had responded with her usual, “Aye aye.” So I knew she had received them and was on it. I would catch up with Deloris at the station this morning, I thought as I mentally scheduled my day.

  The empty refrigerator placed breakfast at the café first on the list of things to do. I would run to the sheriff’s station and organize my long-neglected paperwork, and then meet Cal at 10:30 a.m. as planned for a ride to Great Duck Island where I would check out my very first clambake in the name of business. In the back of my mind was the fact that I still needed to find something to wear to the Alfonds’ Summer Solstice Soiree. I had a date tonight—again, in the name of business. The sheriff had insisted that I go on behalf of Hancock County’s finest. Otherwise I had not intended to attend, I lied to myself.

  I was dressed and out the door in time to witness first light as it crept over the eastern horizon. The air was crisp and warmed slightly as the colors of sunrise glowed and transformed dawn to day. I marveled at my present living situation. What had I done to deserve this? The natural beauty was inspiring. My landlords had become family. I loved the work I was doing. My brother was thriving. All that was missing, I thought as I tore myself away from the truly awesome view over the bay, was a life partner. But, I reminded myself as I drove to the café, I had gained hope recently in the form of Pete Alfond. I sort of hated myself for allowing this thought. And I would never express it out loud. For God’s sake, I scolded myself, I barely knew the man.

  Nothing like a little romantic intrigue to brighten up one’s disposition, I thought as I suppressed the bounce in my step from the Duster to the café. I would put on my game face before entering, as I knew that Audrey would notice and call me out for being “giddy.” True to form, Audrey did not disappoint. “Good morning, girlfriend!” she called as I grabbed my usual stool at the counter. “You are absolutely glowing! Must be the rush of excitement about your big night. Did you buy a dress?”

  “Nope. How about some scrambled eggs?” I asked, knowing that the out-of-character splurge would distract Audrey from grilling me on my wardrobe. I knew that I would face the same questions and disgust at my answers from Deloris this morning, so was somewhat braced and prepared to be mildly insulted.

  “Oh, then you must be borrowing something from your landlord, right? Vintage is in style. She must still have her prom dress from 1910. And I know that the smell of mothballs drives men crazy.” I almost laughed, but didn’t want to encourage more of this. “You are friggin’ kidding me. You have a much-needed date tonight and you are thinking about eggs? Get real!”

  “I don’t need a date,” I defended.

  “Oh, believe me. You do. Ask anyone.”

  I lifted both shoulders and raised my hands with palms up in my most exaggerated shrug and looked around the café. “If you had any customers this morning I would.”

  “Yes, and if you had a man in your bed, you would not be the first customer every morning. Look, Janey.” Audrey was now pleading. “You have been in Green Haven for over a year, and you’re still playing the happily single role. You need to put yourself out there, and…” The lecture that I had heard many times before was suddenly interrupted by the clanging of the cowbells that hung on the door.

  “Ah, saved by the bell!” I said and smiled as I turned to see who had done me the favor. It was Clyde Leeman.

  “You did say dumbbell, didn’t you?” Audrey rolled her eyes and exhaled audibly in what I knew was borderline revulsion for Clyde Leeman, Green Haven’s very own village idiot.

  I was genuinely happy to see Clyde this morning and knew his presence was an opportunity to get the young, sassy Audrey off my back. When Clyde was in the mix, he took all the heat. I had come to know that whatever hat Clyde was wearing on any particular day dictated who he was. This morning, he would be a cowboy. “Good morning, Clydie,” I said as I patted the stool next to me, inviting him to join me at the counter. “Saddle up, amigo.” I could, I reasoned, put up with Clyde’s nonsense for a few minutes if it meant not discussing my love life.

  Audrey, who is always on her game and usually miles ahead of everyone, saw what I was attempting and turned it around, hitting me where it hurt most. “Deputy Bunker is fixin’ to buy your breakfast! What’ll you have, pardner? Sky’s the limit, right, Janey?”

  My stomach turned with the thought of shelling out some large sum of cash. Clyde was stunned (and so was I!). When it finally sunk in that he had actually been welcomed by me, and was in fact being treated by me, he tipped his Stetson politely and said, “Much obliged, ma’am.”

  I was now forced to go along with the gag, and preferred breakfast with cowboy Clyde to being berated by Audrey for my lack of style and total void of life outside of work. In short, I understo
od that Audrey found me marginally boring. But she did like me, and her intentions were good. We were friends, I reminded myself as Clyde stepped up his charade. “I’ve got a hankerin’ for cackleberries. Fetch me a plate plumb full of ’em, lassie. And grab me a mug of that belly wash.”

  Audrey plunked a steaming cup of black coffee in front of Clydie and disappeared to the kitchen where I could hear her snickering while placing our orders of the most expensive combo on the menu. “Two times four, over easy. Drag the spuds through the garden. Loaded cakes. Double meat and rye.” This was going to cost me a fortune! I felt sweat beading up on my forehead as I tried to remember how much cash was in my wallet.

  The only thing more painful than wasting money on breakfast was listening to Clyde. By the time our platters arrived (with a flourish, I might add), I had exhausted every bit of cowboy lingo in my repertoire. However, the same could not be said of my breakfast companion and waitress. By the time Clydie had polished off his mountain of food, I had heard all the highfalutins, lookie yonders, reckons, ifins, and fixins I could stand. “Them was mighty fine vittles,” Clyde said, smiling. “I’m full as a tick.”

  I could not recall a single time that Clyde had not been ordered to leave the café before even ordering breakfast, never mind eating it. Audrey usually had no patience with him, but was clearly delighted to put me through this. Audrey’s end of the western jargon had devolved to things like, “You’re jawin’ me to death,” and “Your brain cavity wouldn’t make a drinkin’ cup for a canary,” and my favorite, “You couldn’t teach a hen to cluck.” The beautiful thing about Clyde Leeman, in my opinion, is that he does not know when he is being insulted. When she couldn’t take anymore, she pointed at the door and said, “Vamoose.” When Clyde appeared to be forming some argument for staying, she got stern and said, “Get along, little doggie.”