Bimini Twist Read online

  “If I push the throttle up, maybe forty-five minutes. You’re paying for the fuel.” Cal glanced over his right shoulder and pulled hard with the left oar as he boated the right one. The dinghy glided perfectly against the side of the boat. “Hop out.”

  I stood, holding the gunwale with both hands, and swung my right leg over and into the cockpit of Cal’s boat. Once I was fully aboard, Cal tossed the bitter end of the dinghy’s painter onto the deck and climbed aboard himself. Cal tied the painter into the ring bolt on the transom, and then walked the starboard wash rail to the bow where he cast off the mooring pennant and quickly returned to the helm. “Bar Harbor?” he asked.

  “Please.” And off we went—a lot faster than I was accustomed to going aboard Cal’s boat. “Where have you been hiding this power?” I asked teasingly.

  “Good to have, ain’t it? I like to be home and at the dinner table by four thirty. And I haven’t forgotten about your date.” Cal took a good look at me, shook his head and said, “If she had another hundred, I’d use it.” I knew he was referring to RPMs, and making a not-too-subtle comment about my appearance and the necessity to travel quickly to allow maximum time for some magical transformation from uptight, straitlaced Deputy Bunker to sexy, eligible, and desirable.

  “I guess it would take more than just another hundred,” I chuckled. And I knew that by not denying my date or the need to look as good as I could for it, I was confessing my anticipation to see Pete tonight. I was fine with this unspoken admission to Cal as I knew he would never divulge a confidence and was not inclined to gossip. In fact, Cal would likely never mention my date again. He would not question me, or even wonder how it went, unlike Audrey, Deloris, and my landlords. The remainder of the ride was spent in silent reverie sporadically interrupted by the reality of my job.

  I took note of the absence of Ragged But Right in the harbor, or on a mooring. Pete must have gotten delayed, I thought. I certainly wanted to get out of here before running into him yet again. We had left on such a sweet note. No sense risking dampening that with another chance encounter before our big date. I spotted The Wharf Rat before we landed at the commercial float. He sat on the pier and tossed a mackerel jig out lazily, jigged it a few times, then slowly reeled it back in. He repeated this several times as we secured Sea Pigeon to the float. He was keenly aware of our presence, I knew. But he never glanced our way. Instead, he remained focused on fishing. I asked Cal to wait for me, and made my way up the ramp and onto the pier.

  “I guess you got my message,” the man, in need of a shave, said.

  “Yes, I did. And you must know something that you thought relevant to the missing Romanian girl,” I said.

  “Is there a reward?” he asked.

  “How about doing the right thing?”

  He shrugged and sighed. “Maybe I didn’t see anything after all.”

  “How about I buy you a meal?”

  “How about a rack of beer and a pack of butts?”

  “How about a cheeseburger?”

  “Fuck the cheeseburger.”

  “Just as I suspected,” I said disgustedly. “That’s the problem with a tip line. Every idiot in Bar Harbor is calling with useless information,” I lied. “And everyone wants something in return. Well, you’re out of luck, pal. And sadly, so is Bianca Chiriac. Why don’t you go crawl back into your hole, Rat.” I turned on my heel and headed back toward the ramp.

  “Wait,” he called after me. “I’m not just any idiot. I’m the Rat. I see everything. Fuck you and your cheeseburger.”

  Now I was mad. Nothing makes me crazier than waste, be it time or money. And I had just squandered both by hiring Cal to bring me here to listen to this kook. I walked back to the man and put my finger on his chest. “You’re a bum. You hang around the dock trying to look tough. But you’re not tough. You’re a punk looking for attention. I am searching for a good girl—a hardworking girl who is going to make something of herself—with no help from anyone. She’s here all alone, from another country. Now that’s what I call tough.”

  “The bitch didn’t look too tough the other night when she was so wasted they carried her aboard the pilot boat.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just a punk lookin’ for attention,” he said, mocking me.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this when I met you Wednesday?”

  “Because you didn’t ask. You were amused by me—like I’m some kind of freak or something. Oh, look at the poor white trash hanging around the dock. He’s filthy. He’s ignorant. He couldn’t possible help me in any way.”

  “I did not ask, you’re right. But I never had those thoughts about you,” I said truthfully. If he knew the facts surrounding my upbringing, he’d realize that we were kindred spirits. “If you really saw something, you need to tell me right now. And all you get for your trouble is a bit of self-respect and integrity.”

  “Well, whoop-de-fuckin’-do. Okay, just to show that I am an honorable man,” he said indignantly, “I saw the girl on the posters. She was wasted—real bad. I didn’t think too much of it, ’cause it happens all the time with cruisers. They can’t hold their liquor. Normally they get poured into a launch and taken back to the ship. But the last launch had already run, so I guess the pilot boat was the only option.” Now I was somewhat stunned, but not certain whether or not I could believe him. I knew from years of experience with tip lines that the vast majority of calls are hoaxes, often well-meaning citizens who want in on the action. “Why don’t you ask your boyfriend?” he asked flippantly. The Rat’s black eyes pierced mine like lasers.

  “Oh, I will. And when I find out that you’re a liar, I’ll be back to arrest you for making a false statement and obstruction of justice.” The Rat had just tipped his hand in my mind by making it personal with the boyfriend comment. If he had real information, he would be more forthcoming and would keep it factual.

  “I expect you’ll be back to buy me a fuckin’ cheeseburger.”

  I shook my head and left The Rat casting and reeling his jig back and forth. He had enjoyed toying with me. People like him would go out of their way to mislead law enforcement or any person of authority, I knew. And he had no idea, I was sure, how he had struck a nerve by bringing Pete into his fabricated “tip.” Or maybe he did, and that was the point. I would certainly let Pete know that he does not have a friend in The Rat. Now, if he had placed someone else at the helm of the boat delivering a drunk girl, I would be taking his statement with some degree of seriousness. Someone like Larry Vigue. The thought of Larry Vigue set the normal string of dominoes in motion, tumbling into Ron Thomas and freshening my annoyance at the valuable time I was passing looking for missing people when I really wanted to resolve a homicide case.

  “False alarm,” I said to Cal as I stepped back aboard Sea Pigeon.

  “Wild-goose chase?” he suggested while loosening a line that held the boat to the float, shoving off with a gaff and pulling away.

  “Wild Rat chase,” I said, and knew that Cal neither needed nor wanted any explanation. “Home, James. And don’t spare the horses!” I said, quoting some old movie cliché in an attempt to lighten my own mood, which was teetering on anger and fully immersed in frustration. Happily, we managed to get out of Bar Harbor without running into Pete. And at least this trip could serve as fodder for conversation tonight, I thought. Most men like to hear about police work, I knew from experience. And often boyfriends got very involved in my cases—to the point of getting angry when I held back information. And Pete had been on the fringe, if not near the core, of everything I had going on with both my insurance and deputy assignments. So we would likely have plenty to talk about.

  At four o’clock, I was slinging my bag over my shoulder and climbing off the Sea Pigeon back in Green Haven. Cal quickly secured his boat and followed me up the ramp with the full lobster dinner for his wife. I thanked him for his assistance, told him I would see him in the morning at the café to settle up, and wis
hed him a good night.

  I may have driven a little above the speed limit on my way home from the dock. But I was excited about the first, actual date that I would have since I could remember. Pete was such a catch! I badly wanted to give this my best shot. And, I told myself, if it didn’t work out romantically, I had lost nothing and perhaps gained some perspective. As much as I was looking forward to tonight, I had to understand that this was something I did indeed need. Although I would never admit it to Audrey, Deloris, or Mr. and Mrs. V. I would, as urged by those who care about me, put myself out there. I glanced at my own reflection in the Duster’s rearview mirror and gasped. I had a lot of work to do.

  To say that I am not a clotheshorse is an understatement of grand proportion. As I charged up the stairs to my apartment, I was dreading the closet search and praying for a miracle. My prayers were answered by Mrs. V, my personal, earthbound God. Hung on the outside of my closet door was the most classic black cocktail dress I could ever imagine wearing. And on the floor below it was a pair of simple yet elegant flats. I found the note on my bed. “Found this little number in my wardrobe. Never worn. I’m too old! Have a wonderful night, and we’ll expect a full report tomorrow.” It was signed by all three: Mrs. V, Mr. V, and Walter.

  The dress fairy had saved me, I thought as I showered and shampooed. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and wondered about makeup. To use or not to use—that was the question. I owned eye shadow, mascara, and lipstick. But I never used them, so was a little nervous about doing it correctly. Go natural, or go all out and face the possibility of looking like a clown? I blew my hair out poker straight and liked the refined appearance it gave me. My cheeks had great color from my day at the clambake, I thought. I summoned the courage to brush on a bit of mascara. Then I opted for a lightly tinted lip gloss, forgoing the deep red that I had purchased on a whim and had not been brave enough to experiment with. I tried out a couple of smiles in the mirror, and preferred the shy, non-teeth-baring to the confident, toothy beam. I wanted sultry, not spicy.

  I could have spent more time practicing looks in the mirror, but knew that I needed to hustle. Suddenly the summer solstice—the longest day of the year—had grown short. I took a deep breath and pulled the dress over my head and stepped into the flats. Pure magic. I stood admiring my full-length reflection in the picture window. The dress did more than extenuate, it created and exaggerated what was not there in the way of contours as the jersey-spandex blend hugged and clung. The square neckline needed no necklace. Thin straps crisscrossed over the open back. The pencil skirt’s hem fell at the knee and was slit thigh high on one side. My appearance bolstered my flagging confidence that this date was a good idea. Oh, those last-minute second thoughts! I exhaled and braced myself to leave the apartment. For such a successful gal, I sure was wavering now. I grabbed the sleek, black clutch that Mrs. V had thoughtfully left to complete my ensemble, packed it with my phone and wallet, and scurried in the most unladylike way to the Duster.

  I felt the three noses pressed against the window, watching as I drove out. I had to admire the restraint they exercised by not whistling, snapping pictures, or cheering. Probably in shock, I laughed as I got on the road.

  Although I had never entered the Alfonds’ gated driveway, I knew exactly where it was. I guessed that everyone did, because it was frequently used as a landmark when giving directions. Everywhere of note in Green Haven was some number of rights or lefts after the sign for Bold Sound, which marked the entrance to the Alfond estate. I forced my right foot to ease up on the accelerator. I was anxious but needed to relax. Fashionably late was not in my repertoire. In fact I had always been a chronic early bird, to the point of absolute panic when faced with the possibility of being tardy. I saw the gate. It was 5:45. I needed to arrive at 6:00. I passed by the Bold Sound sign and turned around in someone’s driveway. I passed the gate again. I wanted to be greeted by Pete, and not seem overly anxious. Being the first to arrive might spell desperation, I thought. I found a wide shoulder to pull off onto. I needed to kill about ten minutes.

  I parked and fumbled for my phone. I saw that I had missed a text message from Deloris asking me to call her ASAP. I knew she would never miss an opportunity to coach me on this date and provide a pep talk. I could not deny her the pleasure, I thought. And besides, I needed to kill a few more minutes. “Hi Deloris. You’ll be proud of me,” I said. “I am literally around the corner from the soiree, and I am even wearing makeup.”

  “Hi Jane. I don’t want to be a wet blanket. And there’s nothing you can do about this tonight, so enjoy your date. But the sheriff thought you should know that Franklin Avery is no longer missing. He was found clinging to a lobster trap buoy. He’s dead.”

  TEN

  “Hello? You still there, Jane?”

  “Yes, I’m here. Just … wow, I don’t know … um, geez.” I felt a lump forming in my throat and gulped hard in an attempt to swallow what might otherwise result in tears. Although words had stalled, my mind was racing. The lady in the purple hat had seen something after all. Had Franklin fallen, jumped, or been pushed? “Cause of death?” I asked.

  “Initial report looks to have been exposure. The parents have requested an autopsy.”

  The human anatomy cannot withstand overnight submersion in water—especially with temperatures in the sixties as in the Gulf of Maine and surrounding bays. “When was he discovered and by whom?” I asked.

  “A lobsterman out of Bass Harbor spotted him on his way in from the fishing grounds late this afternoon. The report I have states that it appeared that the victim had tied himself to a lobster trap buoy. So he must have been alive when he went overboard,” Deloris reasoned. “And get this,” she emphasized, ensuring that she had my full attention. “First responders in Bass Harbor who transported the corpse to the morgue have suggested suicide. They found a business card in the victim’s pocket for substance abuse and grief counseling—Peter Alfond.”

  “Oh my God,” I whispered. I didn’t know what this meant, but would find out. Had Pete met with Franklin? Or had he left cards aboard when transporting the pilot? Or had someone else given Franklin the card out of concern for him? There must be a logical explanation, I thought. If I hadn’t just learned that Pete was a counselor today at the clambake, I would likely have responded to this bombshell in a manner more in line with what Deloris may have anticipated.

  “Should make for an interesting date,” Deloris again prodded. “The sheriff just wanted you to be aware, and knows that you are going to meet the ship when it arrives in Rockland tomorrow morning. Now you have yet another reason to get aboard.”

  “I’ll need a search warrant.”

  “Done. It’s on your desk and ready for you to pick up when you come by in the morning. Now you had better get to the party. I’m on standby if you need anything—just call.”

  There was a noted lack of “Have fun” from Deloris as she knew that I would now be consumed with work—even at the risk of fumbling this opportunity with the greatest guy I had met since moving to Maine. I disconnected from Deloris and pulled onto the road, heading the short distance to the soiree. Although I had not met Franklin Avery, I felt a real sadness for his passing, more than the usual job-related stuff. By all accounts, Franklin was a good boy with a promising future. I couldn’t help feeling an intensified concern for Bianca now. How would she be implicated in Franklin’s death? And would she be forthcoming and helpful in the event that he had taken his own life? And had the Averys and Franklin’s fiancée been informed of his secret relationship with the Romanian girl? This could get ugly, fast, I thought as I turned into the gate to Bold Sound.

  I barely noticed what would normally have taken my breath away in scenery. As I parked, I wondered how I would fill Pete in on the sad news about Franklin. I climbed out of the Duster at exactly 6:00 p.m., leaving my cell behind to ensure that I would not be distracted by incoming texts from nosy friends. My mood was now somber with the news of Franklin Avery, and I y
earned for someone to talk to. I needed to lay out all that had happened in the past three days, and kick some theories around—a sounding board. Pete would be perfect as he already understood a lot of the background information, I thought as I tried to concentrate on the surroundings. I smoothed my dress, ran a hand through my hair, and took a breath of fresh confidence to bolster my entrance into what I assumed was a world with which I was somewhat unfamiliar. I was happy to not be wearing heels when I navigated the slate walkway to the granite steps that led to the front door, which was wide open and attended by a male servant in a white uniform.

  “Good evening … Ms.?” I was greeted by the very formal yet friendly man.

  “Hi. Jane Bunker,” I responded with a smile.

  “Welcome to Bold Sound, Ms. Bunker,” he said as he quickly scanned the list of invited guests he held on a clipboard. “The Alfonds are so happy that you could join them in their thirty-fourth annual celebration of the summer solstice.”

  “Thank you. I’m happy to be here. I’m meeting someone—Pete Alfond. Is it all right if I wait here in the foyer for him?” I asked politely.

  “Of course,” he smiled and motioned for me to come over the threshold, inside and out of the way of the next arriving guests whom he greeted by name. I stood in a vantage point to see who was coming up the walkway. And I planned to have my back to the door when Pete arrived, feigning admiration for the maritime art that filled all available wall space. I certainly didn’t want to appear to be waiting with the hired help, I thought. I wanted to come off as cool, yet enthusiastic, and wasn’t sure how to strike that balance. I shifted my weight from foot to foot and changed my pose slightly every few seconds, trying to achieve my most attractive profile. Guests passed and disappeared through swinging doors, and laughter and conversation levels rose as the crowd grew.