Bimini Twist Read online

  Clyde reluctantly stood and placed his Stetson back on his head. As he had been banished from the café many times, he must have realized that he was pushing his luck with Audrey. But he would never go without a parting shot. “You’re as ornery as a mama bear with a sore teat.”

  Understanding that he had now crossed a line, Clyde thanked me for breakfast. He hitched up his pants by his wide leather belt, and sidled toward the door with his legs bowed in his best cowboy walk after advising me, “Keep your powder dry.”

  Audrey stood with her hands on her hips and did her usual eye roll of disgust. “And that, girlfriend, is why you should be taking your date with Pete Alfond very seriously. Clyde is the only bachelor I’m aware of in Green Haven.”

  “He’s harmless,” I said, defending Clyde, sort of.

  “Harmless? He kills me,” Audrey said. “I was actually relieved that he didn’t show up in his buccaneer hat today. Customers question all the arrs.” I joined Audrey in a much-needed giggle. Then she made the rounds through the now filling-up restaurant. When she passed by me she slid the check onto my place mat with a wink. Although I had really enjoyed the huge breakfast, I was extremely nervous about paying for it. Sure, I could afford it. But it was like a psychosis with me. Audrey had dubbed my apparent underspending disorder, “Pennypinchingitis.”

  I took a deep breath and flipped the check over. Audrey had charged me only for my usual biscuit and coffee. She had also written, “You are an amazing woman. Have fun tonight!” This gesture was so kind and unexpected, I didn’t know how to react. I wanted to thank her. But I was a little embarrassed. Return kindness with kindness, I thought. I swallowed hard and I left Audrey a 25 percent tip. To be truthful, I again didn’t have correct change and wanted to get away without further discussion about my romantic future. I literally dashed out the door while Audrey was making coffee with her back to me.

  * * *

  It was almost 7:00 a.m. when I hit the road for Ellsworth. I figured that I could spend approximately two and a half hours catching up on paperwork and anything Deloris had for me before I had to head back to meet Cal for the boat ride out to Great Duck Island. I would call Earl Smith at Dirigo Academy in hopes of getting a few details on the renewed missing status of his cadet, Franklin Avery. It was shaping up to be a glorious day. I was looking forward to a few things; namely, a boat ride with my pal Cal, checking out an authentic Maine clambake, and seeing Pete Alfond this evening. As I drove, I mentally went through my closet looking for something special to wear this evening for my date. By the time I shuffled through the hangers from end to end, I was wishing I had heeded the advice of Audrey and Deloris to buy something. But that seemed so wasteful when I have perfectly good clothes literally hanging around waiting to be worn. Well, I acquiesced, it’s too late now to go shopping. I’ll make do.

  As I entered Hancock County Sheriff’s Department, I was greeted by Deloris. She sat at the main desk and peered over her glasses at me. Before she could speak, I said, “Yes, I have a great outfit for tonight.”

  “Not that I’m questioning your fashion sense, but can you describe it to me?” I took a breath and tried to imagine what I might wear. Before I could come up with anything, Deloris spoke up again. “Just as I suspected. You don’t have a clue, do you?”

  “The only clues I need are those that might line up with missing people and dead people,” I said, impressed with my quick comeback. “What were you able to find?”

  “Okay, but don’t blame me when you join Marilyn and Marlena as the third old maid.” Deloris pushed her glasses higher onto her nose and focused on one of her laptops. “Let’s start with your most recent requests—the AIS unit aboard Insight, and the series of numbers scrawled in the captain’s log. The FA-150 is a transponder that is basically a piece of safety equipment. It transmits and receives data in real time, including position and speed and course over ground. The data is specific to the boat and includes the ship’s name and hailing port.”

  “In light of the ramming incident, I didn’t think Larry Vigue was that safety conscious. I guess that won’t tell us much,” I said.

  “Not so fast, girlfriend,” Deloris advised. “I was able to find the history of what Larry Vigue’s AIS had recorded the last two days that he was aboard his boat. It appears that he rendezvoused with none other than The Princess of the Seas yesterday just prior to his boat going in circles.”

  “Okay, now I’m interested. Just two ships passing coincidentally, or is there more?” I asked.

  “The series of numbers that you photographed and texted me are loran bearings. The local fishermen use loran bearings instead of latitude and longitude in navigating and setting gear.”

  “And?”

  “And, the bearings that Larry Vigue recorded in his log are the exact position where the AIS shows Insight visiting The Princess. The recorded data from the cruise ship’s AIS confirms that the two vessels shared that position for about fifteen minutes.”

  “Okay. When Pete and I were looking for Larry, we were following the track left on his chart plotter. It appeared that he steamed away from his traps, then returned to haul again, which is when he went overboard,” I said as I tried to put pieces together. “I wonder why he got together with The Princess.”

  “That’s your department,” Deloris answered, although I was merely thinking out loud.

  “Well, I will get to the bottom of that today at the clambake. I’ll question the captain and see what he has to say. I hadn’t thought there was a connection between the missing kids and the ramming and subsequent death and homicide cases. But maybe there is something there.” I rubbed the corners of my jaw with both hands as I fought the urge to clench and grind my teeth. I was suddenly getting nerved up about what Bianca and the now missing Franklin might know about Ron Thomas and Larry Vigue. “Probably a stretch,” I conceded as Deloris continued to work on two laptops at the same time.

  “Yes, that would be too easy,” Deloris said. “I’ve been digging through the marriage and divorce records and all insurances held in the Vigue and Thomas names. It seems that Liza divulged to you the complete and honest story. Larry Vigue’s widow is indeed Ron Thomas’s ex-wife. And she is the sole beneficiary to all property and life insurance payouts.”

  “That makes her the prime suspect,” I said. “But I’m not sure what I suspect her of. That’s a problem that may start to unravel when I join the festivities at the clambake. I really need to find Bianca and Franklin—now more than ever.” As love, revenge, and money are the three most prominent motives for all crimes, I knew that I would be seeking out Ron Thomas’s ex and Larry Vigue’s widow soon after the funeral service. It made it easy that they were one and the same, I thought as I excused myself to start writing up the long-neglected reports.

  As I shut my office door, I heard the phone at the main desk ringing. Unfortunate, I thought, with all of the skill and talent possessed by Deloris in the way of cyber forensics and research, that the bulk of her duties here at the station involved answering the phone and dispatching. I realized that until I started as deputy here, Deloris must have been grossly underutilized. The sheriff was aware of her talents, but never really pursued cases that required more than writing a summons or doing some smooth negotiating over the phone. The sheriff, I knew, was a tad lazy. He was liked and respected by all of the county. Especially the criminals! He kept the peace. And I suppose that was generally what the position required until I upset the balance by actually fighting crime. This thought brought me back to silently bemoaning the fact that I had been asked to put my drug-busting self on vacation until the end of tourist season. The fact that the county sheriff was an elected position spoke to his likability. And also forecast that I would never get that promotion.

  I realized that all of this going through my head was a way of procrastinating. I sighed audibly and got busy, starting with my trip to Bar Harbor to follow up on the call about the missing girl—Bianca Chiriac. I had barely typed the date i
nto the electronic form on my monitor when Deloris rapped on the door, opened it enough to stick her head in, and said, “I received a call on the Find Bianca tip line.”

  “The what?” I asked, confused.

  “It’s news to me, too. The caller claims to have seen a picture of Bianca on a poster in Bar Harbor and says this number was listed to call with any sightings or information. Some guy they call The Wharf Rat claims to have some information that might be related.” I had forgotten about the brief encounter with The Rat. “He doesn’t have a cell, and called from the only pay phone in the area. He said that you would know how to find him.” Deloris paused for a few seconds, then asked, “When did we start putting up missing-person posters?”

  “We didn’t. Bianca’s friend wanted to do something to help. I thought she was just bugging me for information. I didn’t think she would actually do anything, so I told her to beat the bushes.”

  “The Wharf Rat sounded like he knew something. But how credible is someone with that name?” Deloris asked, skeptically.

  “I was led to believe he’s a bum, and my first impression was not a good one. Maybe he needs a little attention. I’ll find him next time I go to Bar Harbor if I don’t find Bianca today at the clambake.”

  This seemed to satisfy Deloris, who excused herself to return to her post, leaving me to the much-dreaded reports. Time escaped before I got caught up. I quickly and happily shut down the office and bolted for the Duster, yelling a goodbye to Deloris as I hustled by. “Have a wonderful time tonight,” she reminded me. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” I wondered briefly what Deloris would not do. More importantly, what would I do? Would there be opportunity to do or not do? I forced images from my mind as I drove just over the speed limit. There was no point in allowing myself to indulge in a daydream, I thought. Time would tell what might transpire between Pete Alfond and me. I secretly hoped, but did not dare to admit that I wanted to get to know Pete. My gut told me he was, at the very least, a viable option. Or were those butterflies driven by work-related anxiety?

  I had just enough time to get to the dock in Green Haven by 10:30, which was the time I had agreed to meet Cal for my ride out to Great Duck Island. When I pulled into a vacant parking spot above the dock, I could see exhaust coming from the stack of Sea Pigeon. As I locked up the Duster I could hear the low rumble of the boat’s diesel engine as it idled, waiting patiently for me to climb aboard and cast off the lines. I slung my messenger-style seabag over my head and pushed my right arm through the strap, allowing the bag to rest on my right side. I scampered down the ramp and was greeted by Cal, who was starting up the boat’s electronics. “We’d best plan to leave Great Duck by three o’clock. I’ve been warned that you’ll need some time to get dolled up for your date.”

  “Let me guess. Audrey?”

  “Among others.” Cal smiled and nodded to me to cast off the stern line as he unleashed the Sea Pigeon’s bowline from a piling. Cal wound the boat’s wheel hard to starboard and pushed the gearshift into forward, sending the stern to port and away from the float. He shoved the gearshift into reverse and gave three short blasts of the boat’s electric horn, indicating that he was using stern propulsion. Backing away from the dock, Cal spun the steering wheel hard to port, put the engine in forward, and watched as the boat’s starboard port quarter just cleared the float.

  As Cal maneuvered between moorings, I stepped out of the cockpit and into the wheelhouse. I placed my bag on the bench-style seat against the aft house enclosure and joined him at the helm. Cal drifted up to a dinghy tethered to a mooring, gaffed the pennant, untied the dinghy’s painter, and secured it to a ring on the Sea Pigeon’s transom. Taking the dinghy in tow, he said, “We’ll need to get ashore. No dock on Great Duck.” I nodded in understanding. Although it was flat calm, I held the forward dash with both hands, mostly out of habit, and gazed over the bow as Green Haven Harbor’s east and west sides faded and disappeared from the periphery. I knew Cal to enjoy silence, so I did the same.

  The course to Great Duck Island was dotted with islands as green and wild as they come, I thought. I noticed a couple of crude dwellings and a makeshift dock on one island. I watched as it passed by the portside windows and wondered how difficult construction must have been on these islands protected by a forbidding, ragged coastline. Protected or imprisoned, I wondered. I imagined either could be accurate, depending on the circumstances of one’s residing there. My own mother, for instance, felt she had been held hostage by Acadia Island, a victim of island-ness, not islanders. On the other hand, I thought, I had come to know people indigenous to islands from Florida to Maine whose entire identities were defined by and embodied in their island homes. To them, “islander” was the most coveted descriptor of any that could be attributed. As if reading my mind, Cal broke the lull. “My wife is from Swan’s. Been in Green Haven since 1967, and it’s still not her home.” This required no comment, so I remained silent.

  Thirty minutes into the ride, Cal pointed at a long, low landmass over the bow. A large white ship lay in the foreground. It was The Princess. Ten minutes later the mass had gained clarity. And we could see that the cruise ship was anchored off the island at a safe distance. Maneuvering by the ship, Cal swung the Sea Pigeon into an opening in treacherous ledges that reminded me of jagged teeth. Granite gave way to a peaceful, bowl-shaped cove spattered with moorings. Several small boats and a few bigger ones bobbed ever so slightly, tethered by their bows to moorings marked with orange poly balls. Cal threw the engine into neutral and picked a mooring pennant off the surface of the water and ran it up to the bow where he placed it firmly onto a rugged bit. Back at the helm, he turned off the electronics and shut down the engine. “You buying lunch?” Cal asked.

  “Of course,” I replied. “I can expense it.” Thank God, I thought as I imagined how costly a meal might be here in this remote setting where there were no options for food other than what a ticket for the clambake provided. I hadn’t planned to eat. I had planned to ask some questions and possibly get aboard The Princess. But who am I to deny Cal lunch? And this was my first real clambake. I should have the full experience, I thought. I’d enjoy fresh lobster, clams, and all the fixings on Hancock County’s tab. And it would be good to mix with the crowd that I could see all along the shore of the cove. Sticking out as a law enforcement officer is not always the most productive tactic for investigative work.

  Cal climbed into the dinghy and motioned for me to take the seat in the stern, allowing him to row from the middle seat. As Cal rowed, his back to the scene on the shore, I couldn’t help thinking about lunch. What I knew about clambakes wasn’t all that appetizing. I recalled my single acting experience. I was a reluctant chorus member in my high school’s rendition of Carousel, in which the lyrics of some number regaled the eating of lobster at the clambake … We slit ’em down the back and peppered ’em good, and doused ’em in melted butter. Then we tore away the claws and cracked ’em with our teeth ’cause we weren’t in the mood to putter. Proof that Rodgers and Hammerstein were indeed carnivores. (Hey, my participation in that performance fulfilled my entire arts requirement!)

  I enjoyed being rowed ashore. There is simply nothing as primitive and peaceful in the world as rowing a boat in calm water. Cal dipped, pulled, and returned the oars in perfect cadence to propel the dinghy silently except for the squeak of wooden oars in locks. I could see several dinghies high and dry—having been dragged onto a short patch of gravel beach. Cal steered toward the same beach, peeking over his right shoulder every few strokes. People were strewn throughout the cove, some in pairs and others in clusters. They sat on grass above the high-water mark, or on flat ledges and overturned dinghies. “Wow,” I said. “There are more people here than I expected.” Cal nodded. Soon the bow of the dinghy grazed the beach and came to a stop. Cal boated the oars, and climbed over the bow and onto dry ground without getting his feet wet. He motioned for me to do the same. I helped him pull the dinghy out of the water as he not
ed that the tide was low so he would keep an eye on things while I did my job.

  Before I left the beach, a woman approached and welcomed us to Great Duck Island’s famous clambake. She asked if we would be eating, and sold me two tickets for fifty bucks. I handed one ticket to Cal, and told him I would meet him back at the dinghy where I would join him for the seafood feast. “First, I’ll make rounds and ask questions,” I said. “I would like to find crew members of The Princess. Someone will spill the beans about the missing kids. I would prefer to not go to Rockland tomorrow if possible.”

  I started by walking around the cove and checking everything out. I figured that eventually I would be greeted by some friendly and talkative guy or gal who would strike up a conversation, as the gift of gab was not mine. All I hoped to achieve was getting confirmation that Bianca and Frankie were indeed being young and irresponsible. And once the lost were found, I could concentrate on the deaths of Ron Thomas and Larry Vigue, I thought as I wandered upon the cooking area where several galvanized washtubs sat on hot coals.

  A man in a white uniform approached me. I immediately recognized him as the ship’s steward whom I had met the other day when Pete delivered the pilot to The Princess. “Hello, Deputy,” he called out as he stopped and stood with his hands crossed at his chest. “We meet again. You here for a lobster and clams?”

  “No, this isn’t a social event for me,” I started. “I am still looking for the Romanian girl. And since I saw you last, another missing person has been reported—Franklin Avery. He is finishing up a cadet shipping stint aboard The Princess. I have reason to believe that both of them are aboard the ship and would like permission to get aboard to search.”

  “I think I explained that a search is not possible. Legally, you are not welcome. I can’t believe you are wasting so much time and money looking for those who may not want to be found.”

  “Recent reports indicate the possibility of foul play. I just want to wrap this up. Have you seen Frank or Bianca?”