Bimini Twist Page 17

  Guests continued to arrive, mostly coupled up, as I waited anxiously and nervously for my date. I wanted to check the time, but thought that would project impatience. When the flow of arriving guests slowed to a trickle, I had a sudden panic that Pete had arrived before me and was waiting inside. I fell in behind two couples who appeared to be traveling together, and followed them from the foyer through the full-length mahogany swinging doors that revealed a grand ballroom.

  The right side of the large room was lined with a long and fully stocked bar that had six tending stations. No waiting for drinks, I thought. I bellied up to the bar and ordered a glass of pinot noir. It was served in a huge glass with a very long and lean stem—real crystal. I noted the extensive menu of single malt Scotches, and thought I’d wait to sample one of those with Pete. I strolled, sipping my wine. The opposite end of the room was wide open to a remarkable patio and view of the ocean. Most of the ballroom was filled with tables that seated groups of eight. Food was scattered throughout. There was a carving station with rare roast beef and pork tenderloin and turkey. My mouth watered. But I would wait for Pete before digging in. There was a pasta station, an enormous smoked seafood platter, and a table with every vegetable known to man, all brilliantly displayed. There was an ice sculpture of a boat that served as an elaborate raw bar where a man in a pristine white apron shucked oysters. I made the rounds, inspecting and admiring every person and morsel of food. I had never seen anything like this. And I didn’t see my date anywhere. My mind tiptoed around thoughts of Franklin Avery.

  Pete must have been running late, I thought as I ambled around the perimeter of the outside deck, admiring both the air and the view. People were friendly, always saying “Hello,” but not engaging me beyond “Nice night” or “Great party.” I didn’t recognize anyone, which did not surprise me as I did not mingle or socialize outside of my small and comfortable circles within the café and home. I began feeling a bit awkward when I realized that I had not seen anyone in attendance who appeared to be alone.

  I found a quiet corner from where I could watch the partying crowd. I was overcome with sadness when I found myself wondering about Franklin Avery’s death. Wrapping up what had seemed to be a benign case had certainly taken an unexpected and dramatic turn. All along I had assumed that I would simply embarrass Franklin and Bianca by letting them know that they had not been good at keeping their relationship under the radar. Franklin could have stuck to his “extended work duties” excuse to soothe his parents and girlfriend, I thought. And there’s always the excuse of the dead cell phone with no charger that I was certain Bianca would rely on to cover her irresponsibility. But now that scenario was impossible. What was assumed to have begun as an innocent love affair had become tragic and sad, which should have put my dismal, present situation into perspective.

  I spotted a couple whom I assumed must be the hosts—Mr. and Mrs. Arnold Alfond. They were working the crowd, making their way to personally greet every guest. As they approached, I stuck out my hand and introduced myself. “Of course! Deputy Bunker, we are so pleased to meet you!” exclaimed Mrs. Alfond. I was hoping for her to mention that her nephew had told her all about me. But it was clear that Pete had not mentioned me. I understood that doing so would have been a bit premature. Men are typically slower than women in sharing news of potential relationships, I reasoned.

  “And we are delighted to know of your brilliant work on behalf of the sheriff’s department. Our guests can relax—we are joined by Hancock County’s finest, I’m sure,” said Mr. Alfond with a chuckle that put me off slightly. He quickly released my hand and was on to the next greeting before I could even thank them for including me. I would have much preferred making their acquaintance on the arm of their nephew, I thought as I watched and listened to people as they milled and made small talk. I wondered if I should have been insulted by Mr. Alfond’s somewhat snide tone. No, I resolved. He probably meant it sincerely. No need to have a thin skin. That, coupled with my ineptitude for socializing with the elite, would only add to my discomfort.

  Where was Pete? I was getting tired of posing to make the best impression upon his first sight of me. And my anxiety was growing in need of hashing through the events that had resulted in what I assumed must be one of the deadliest three days in Hancock County’s history. This was exhausting, I thought as I decided to check the foyer again. What if the greeter hadn’t told Pete that I was here and inside? He might be waiting and thinking that I was late. But he was not. And the greeter was now wishing the first departing guests a good night. “Excuse me,” I said, getting the attention of the greeter. “Have you seen Pete Alfond?”

  “No, I am sorry, I have not. His is one of only three names on the list that I did not check off.”

  “With whom would I check to ask if he has called and left a message?”

  “That would be me. And I am sorry. He has not.”

  “I guess I shouldn’t be worried. He’s a grown man, right?” I tried to hide my disappointment. “I’ll grab a bite to eat and wait a little longer before giving up on him. Maybe he had car trouble.”

  “Perhaps,” said the greeter, skeptically.

  I felt myself shrink—literally. All of the anticipation for a fun and possibly romantic date had decanted from my puffed-up psyche, leaving me flat. I hardly tasted the food. The platters were now looking sparse and the ice sculpture was quickly receding. I plucked a shrimp cocktail from a pool of melted cargo space. There was no sense prolonging this any more than I already had. I placed my empty glass on the bar and hit the swinging doors.

  “You look lovely tonight, Ms. Bunker,” said the greeter. “I am sorry that you have been stood up. His loss.”

  Although this was meant to comfort me, his kind words humiliated me. Was it that obvious that I had been stood up? I felt that I had been made a fool of. Waiting and primping and posing and posturing and practicing smiles and looks. And imagining the sweet nothings to be whispered. I had been denied the shoulder I needed to lean on and the non-judgmental ear I needed to talk to as I worked through my present caseload. I was crushed. I was an idiot for allowing myself the indulgence in this fantasy. How had I managed to build Pete, whom I admittedly knew nothing about, into Mr. Right? And how would I answer the questions from Audrey, Deloris, and my “family” when they asked about my date? I climbed into the Duster and slammed the door hard enough to create a cloud of road dust that billowed in the headlights of the last cars to leave. I opened my phone to check the time, knowing that this would only verify what a dolt I had been to wait all night for a no-show.

  I had a text message from a number that I did not recognize. I opened it and read, Work late. Later. P. This incensed me. I didn’t even rate a full sentence.

  Two possibilities crossed my mind. One: Pete had succumbed to second thoughts about a date with me. And Two: Pete had learned of the death of Franklin Avery and was actually performing emergency counseling to whoever was in need. His absence may have been a combination of both, I realized as I remained parked on Alfond property, unwilling to go home and face the interrogation that awaited me. Maybe Pete wanted to back out, and given the opportunity to use work as an excuse, realized that I of all people would understand. But, I thought, Pete knew that Franklin Avery was the subject of one on my missing persons investigations. What about my work? Didn’t Pete at least think enough of me professionally to inform me of Franklin’s tragic turning up? I checked the time of the text. It had been sent, or at least received, at 6:07.

  It was just past eight o’clock, and the light of day was beginning to dwindle to dusk. I couldn’t sit in the Duster all night, and I couldn’t bring myself to go home. The Vickersons were night owls, and Wally would be up with them until they retired, which wouldn’t be until after the eleven o’clock news. The only emotion I was experiencing now that was stronger than rejection was self-loathing. I had put my work aside for a man. I had somehow neglected to pursue reports of missing people in the dogged fashion in which I
had always prided myself. If I had forced my way aboard The Princess of the Seas when I’d had opportunity (twice!), I might have been able to talk sense to Franklin and Bianca. Certainly whatever had gotten to Franklin, whether it was his own conscience, a fatal misstep, or a shipboard enemy, could possibly have been averted. I would never know, and I would always feel a tad responsible. No, this was not the first, or even second time that I’d assumed an inkling of personal responsibility for the loss of a subject during an active investigation. And although I knew this went with the territory, it did nothing to soothe my growing angst. I clasped my hands in my lap and closed my eyes in a brief prayer. I begged my God for the emotional and professional wherewithal to simply do my job. And with that, I twisted the Duster’s ignition key and resolved to get to work. I had some catching up to do.

  I needed to start back at the beginning, I thought as I drove. I would retrace my steps tonight, staying up all night if needed. And I would be in Rockland by daylight to greet The Princess when she arrived in port. My first stop would be the Bar Harbor Inn and Resort. I would find Bianca’s roommate, Anika, who had made the initial call to report Bianca missing and who had since plastered the town with posters pleading for help. Everyone had believed that Franklin and Bianca were involved in an innocent love affair. What if everyone had been mistaken? If I hadn’t been blinded by my own prospects of love, I might have found them prior to Franklin’s death. I vowed to banish all thoughts of Peter Alfond and anything remotely personal from my head, returning to all business after the short sabbatical.

  As luck would have it, this was the right time of night to be driving to Bar Harbor. Traffic was light, and I made the trip in thirty minutes. I pulled into the Bar Harbor Inn and Resort, and was greeted by the same valet I had met on Wednesday. I knew the drill, so handed him my keys without question. “Leave them on the tire?” he asked. I nodded and walked directly to the basement-level entrance used by employees only.

  The door was kept ajar with a plastic jug of water. I noted that the door would otherwise automatically lock from the inside. There was a motion-detecting spotlight, but no sign of any security camera. A large tin can filled with cigarette butts indicated this was the employee smoking area. I let myself in and found the laundry room bustling with activity. As soon as I was spotted, work and chatter slowed to a pace that allowed the employees to appear busy, but to also watch and listen to what this intrusion might mean. Anika emerged from behind an ironing board and said, “Detective Bunker?”

  “Yes, hi Anika. I am here following up with you on Bianca. I assume you have still not heard from her,” I started. “But have you thought of anything else that you may have not told me that might help?”

  “No, nothing. I put up the posters like you said.”

  “Yes, we did receive one tip that did not pan out. But I am going over that again tonight,” I said.

  “You are working undercover on this?” Anika questioned as she checked out my dress and shoes. She scowled and added, “Or did you just stop in for dinner and remember that we are missing our friend.” She sounded fairly frustrated, which I understood. The longer Bianca was missing, the less likely it was that she would ever surface. This was a cold statistic of which I assumed Anika was aware.

  “I am doing everything I can to locate your friend.”

  “Oh, like going to clambakes and parties? Did you think you would find Bianca hanging out with rich people?”

  There was no use defending myself, I knew from past experience. When citizens on the fringe of an investigation are frustrated, law enforcement seemingly does nothing right. Everyone who watches police dramas on television is an armchair detective. I asked permission to search her living quarters. Anika agreed, giving me the unit number and confirming that the door was unlocked in case Bianca came back without her key. “If anything at all comes to mind, let me know,” I said as I turned to make my exit. “You never know what might help. Nothing is too small or insignificant.”

  I knew from what Deloris had told me that the vast majority of service employees in tourist destinations in Maine are working on J-1 visas. As J-1 visas were limited in numbers issued, I also knew that there were many job openings that locals would not lower themselves to fill, preferring to be unemployed. That must make for some tension, I thought as I found the path to the employee barracks I recalled were referred to as the UN. I would speak to some local Bar Harbor residents to learn about possible bad attitudes and resentments that may have been acted on. Most areas that enjoyed tourist trade also had seasonal residents. There was usually friction between the wealthy summer folks and the year-rounders. But the immigrant workforce was yet another faction that was an angle worth exploring, I thought. I imagined that in some cases, immigrant workers might be the darlings of local business owners and wealthy summer residents looking to be pampered and served, which may be another sore spot chafing on locals prone to being disgruntled about life in general. With all of this in mind, I was still leaning toward an innocent, albeit sad, resolution to this case.

  I let myself in at the housing unit shared by Anika and Bianca. It looked exactly like what I would have expected to see in a room shared by young women. There were two beds, two nightstands, two dressers with three drawers each, and two mirrors. Both beds were made neatly, and things were basically organized. Drawers of both dressers were stuffed with clothes. Nightstand drawers held personal mail, handwritten in a language foreign to me. The single bathroom was the exception to doubles on everything else. The vanity was full of beauty and maintenance products typical of nineteen- and twenty-year-old women. Makeup, hair, nails, hygiene, acne; they had it covered. I found no prescription drugs. I checked under the beds and between the mattresses and box springs. I found no sign of anything even remotely illicit.

  On the top of the dresser I assumed was Anika’s by the family picture in which she appeared, there was a yellow legal pad with notes printed in blue ink. It looked like Anika was keeping a timeline of events since Bianca’s disappearance. The list was short, but well documented with dates and times. I ran my finger down the numbered list and stalled on the last line—“207-347-6645—Counselor.” I hoped I was wrong when I opened my phone and checked the last text message. My stomach knotted when I saw that the number belonged to Pete Alfond. I snapped a picture of the list and let myself out, leaving the door unlocked as instructed by Anika.

  I walked quickly back to my car, found the key over the driver’s-side back tire, and started toward the waterfront. I finally allowed the ugly thought to surface. Pete Alfond was just too involved at every step of every move I had made since the initial trip here on Wednesday. I couldn’t ignore it any longer. I couldn’t justify his Johnny-on-the-spot presence any more. I could not rationalize that it was normal in small towns to have a single person emerge at every part of a multi-faceted case. I could no longer explain or excuse or make alibis for Pete Alfond. I recalled that his name had been handwritten on the police report of the missing woman last year—nearly a year to the date of Bianca’s disappearance. Pete had taken me to witness the ramming and sinking of Elizabeth, never mentioning that the victim, now dead, was his brother-in-law. He had taken me to haul the suspect’s traps, finding his corpse mysteriously tied to the line with a perfect clove hitch. He had been at the clambake. The Wharf Rat had implicated the pilot boat in delivering an intoxicated Bianca to The Princess. His business card had been found in the deceased Franklin Avery’s pocket. And now his name was on Anika’s list. Pete knew that I would be out of circulation tonight, as I was at a party. Too many coincidences to be considered anything but prime suspect. Pete was involved in, if not directly responsible for, a lot of things that had “happened,” I surmised as I entered the center of Bar Harbor.

  I parked and walked toward the waterfront, hoping to find The Rat. The restaurants that lined Main Street served late diners as shops swept up and flipped signs from “OPEN” to “CLOSED.” It was now dark, and the park was deserted. I sensed be
ing watched, and brushed it off as paranoia. Headlights lit up the wharf area as a vehicle circled into the lot between me and the dock. The vehicle stopped and I saw a flash of a lighter followed by the red glow of a cigarette. I approached and found it was the cabbie I had met. I recalled that his name was Dudley and that he and his wife, Dolly, owned and operated Tag Team Taxi. His presence here was fortuitous, I thought.

  “Good evening,” I called through the open window of the Subaru wagon.

  “Hello there!” the cabbie said pleasantly. “Looking for a ride? I can accommodate you after I pick up a fare due here in five minutes. Where are you headed?”

  “I’m Deputy Bunker. We met on Wednesday. Remember me? I am following up on the missing Romanian woman,” I reminded him as I realized that he met a lot of people.

  “Oh, of course! I almost didn’t recognize you—all dolled up like that. You working undercover?” he asked, but not sarcastically as Anika had.

  “No, just happened to be on my way from an event, and thought I’d swing back through here to see if I had missed something. You’re working late tonight,” I said, secretly relieved to have company as this area was a little creepy after dark. Too many shadows and hiding places, I thought.

  “You too! Usually the only one here at night is a kid they call The Wharf Rat. He’s a sneaky guy. I don’t trust him and always tell Dolly to keep her distance.” He quickly snuffed out the cigarette against the outside of his car door and said, “Jesus, don’t tell Dolly I’m smoking! She’ll have a fit.”

  “Who are you waiting for?” I asked, more out of conversation than for an investigative motive.

  “The ship’s pilot. A new cruise ship came in a while ago, I guess. I just made my last trip back and forth to the airport for the night. Last flight out to Boston just left. I’ll be late home and dinner will be cold. But it’s part of the job,” he said with a smile and patted his big belly.