Bimini Twist Read online

  I supposed this was confirmation that Pete had indeed been working late. But I couldn’t believe he didn’t have a firm schedule of duties with the ship’s pilot, or couldn’t find a replacement for tonight’s transport if it had come up unexpectedly. There was no way I wanted to see Pete, or be seen by him. “Well, I’ll see if I can find The Rat. Have a nice night,” I said and waved a quick goodbye.

  “Yeah, The Rat sure lurks around. He must see and hear a lot of things that don’t need hearing or seeing. You might find him at the service entrance of one of the restaurants. The cooks feed him in exchange for deliveries. I just don’t trust the kid. Makes me nervous. You be careful.”

  I heeded the advice, and shared a distrust of The Rat with the cabbie. But I wasn’t ready to go searching back alleys for the guy who may well be receiving handouts; not yet. Instead, I found a dark park bench from which I could see and not be seen from the dock. Street- and floodlights were blocked by the roof of a gazebo strategically shielding me in blackness. I waited patiently as the summer air cooled and left its mark in goosebumps on my exposed calves and upper arms. When I heard the faint humming of an outboard motor, I strained to see through the dark. As the motor grew louder, running lights came into view and approached the commercial fishing section of floats. Two figures stepped from the boat to the float. I could not see faces in the distance—they could have been any two average-size men. The only thing I knew was that the boat was not Pete’s. It appeared to be one of the launches. It left the float and disappeared into the ink-black night as the two figures made their way up the ramp and into the idling taxi.

  I watched the cab until its taillights faded out of sight. I walked, trying to stay in the shadows cast by surrounding trees, down toward the ramp that fed the working floats where many skiffs and dinghies were tied, resting like horses at a hitching post. I stopped and hid behind a Dumpster to ensure that I was alone before proceeding. The launch’s stern light had dissipated into the murky backdrop of the inner harbor. I listened as the gurgling of the outboard motor grew faint in the distance and finally stopped as it reached whatever cruise ship had arrived tonight. It was a breathless night, totally silent and motionless save the slight lapping of the incoming tide. I checked the entrance to the parking lot above me for any sign of activity, and was certain that the lot was completely empty. I couldn’t shake the eerie feeling of being watched. But I couldn’t stay behind the Dumpster until daylight, either.

  My plan, which was being reformulated continuously, was to commandeer a dinghy and row out to see if Ragged But Right was on a mooring. While I am sure that some might see this as a scorned woman thing, I was dead set on Pete Alfond as a suspect now. I hoped to get aboard his boat and have a look around. I would check his chart plotter for travel outside of what I knew about already, and see what could be connected to the recorded courses and positions of The Princess and Insight. I made a mental note to ask Deloris to look into any AIS information, and expected that I would learn that I had been played by Pete.

  But Pete was good, I thought as I walked quickly and quietly down the ramp to the dinghy float. He had sucked me in with his charm. And now that I had been chewed and spit out, I was wise to him. Pete had been conveniently at every scene to intervene under the guise of assistance. He had orchestrated my whereabouts this evening by ensuring that I would be at his family’s Summer Solstice Soiree. I wondered what evil activity he had been engaged in tonight that required that I would be off duty. He had gone out of his way to discredit The Wharf Rat, and now I understood why. The Rat was a witness. And as soon as I inspected and got what I needed aboard Ragged But Right, I would track down The Rat. I would gladly ply him with the requested rack of beer and pack of butts to nail Pete Alfond.

  I stood and scrutinized the many skiffs and small rowing boats that hung like a cluster of grapes from the designated finger float. A floodlight from the dock shone down, lighting up my options. The stench of rotten bait permeated the area. The small boats belonged to fishermen who were less than meticulous about their appearance or fragrance, I thought. Although outboards were numerous, I would be stealthier in a rowboat. I picked one that appeared to be cleaner and a bit more stable than some of the other tea-cup alternatives. I chased the painter hand over hand to where the end was tethered to a wooden tie-down, unlashed the line, and carefully stepped into the dinghy. I sat on the middle seat facing aft, flipped oarlocks into position, and slid the oars into them as I drifted out and away from the float where the spot I had left was quickly filled by the remaining dinghies, a bit less jammed now.

  Although the oars were not a matched set, I pulled and quickly found a comfortable rhythm. I thought about what an odd sight I was, rowing this stinky misfit of a boat while wearing a cocktail dress. I pushed the image from my mind, and vowed to get home for a wardrobe change before heading to Rockland. As soon as I escaped the floodlight, my eyes adjusted and I was able to see boats all around me on moorings. The chill in the air was warmed by the exercise. I circled the mooring field, looking for Pete’s boat, stopping occasionally to just drift quietly. There was no sign of Ragged But Right. I wondered where else Pete might tie up, or whether he had returned from the clambake. I would ask The Rat, I thought as I continued to pull and glide. The Rat had the waterfront under constant surveillance, I knew. Maybe that explained why I felt that I had eyes on me tonight, I reasoned. I rowed by an empty mooring and saw the lettering on the poly ball—“P. ALFOND.” That answered part of my question, I thought. The boat was not here, and so, I reasoned, neither was her captain.

  As I returned to the dinghy float, I thought about asking Deloris to track Pete’s cell phone. Ping triangulation from various cell towers was not extremely accurate, I knew. But it would be helpful. I would also request that Deloris get records of Pete’s recent banking activity. Deloris could easily hack into email and other social media accounts for evidence that would perhaps connect Pete to three deaths, I thought as I nosed the bow of the dinghy between the sterns of two skiffs. It was too late to call her now, I knew. But I would have time behind the Duster’s windshield tomorrow morning to place that call. I scrambled over the bow of the rowboat back onto the dinghy float and secured the painter. I figured that I would look around for The Rat on my way out of town, and get home for a nap and a shower before hitting the road and the case again in the morning.

  Halfway up the ramp connecting float to dock, something caught the corner of my eye. I stopped and peered down below the ramp. My breath caught in my chest. In the seaweed, just at the edge of the water, was a body lying facedown. I could clearly make out the back of a head and a bright red T-shirt. I looked around and saw that the only way to get to the body other than jumping from the ramp was to go ashore and make my way down to it. I sprang into action, running to the top of the ramp at full speed. I sprinted the length of the dock and hurdled a guardrail, landing on grass adjacent to the ramp. I scrambled down a steep embankment and onto the beach where I slipped and fell on seaweed-covered rocks. I twisted an ankle and skinned a shin on barnacles. I lost a shoe in the mud before making it to the body.

  I grabbed the victim by his armpits and dragged him out of the water. I turned him over and started CPR before even feeling for a pulse. When I put my fingers on his carotid artery, I focused on his face. It was The Wharf Rat. And he had no pulse. I assumed there was nobody within earshot, but started yelling as loudly as I could for help while I continued to work hard on the limp body—trying desperately to pump some life back into it. My cry for help was answered in the form of feet pounding pavement and then slopping and sloshing through the weed and muck toward me from behind. I kept working and yelled, “Call nine-one-one.”

  A shadow hulked over me. I heard a grunt and a swish. Then everything went black.

  ELEVEN

  The tide had come in around me when I came to. Like waking from a very sound, drug-induced sleep, I was disoriented to a degree that bewildered me. The side of my head throbbed. I slowly ro
lled onto my stomach and crawled higher on the shore to get out of the water. I sat and felt my right temple. I was not surprised to feel a huge contusion over my ear. My hand became sticky with what I assumed must be blood. I looked around, trying to decipher what I can only describe as a dull kaleidoscope that swirled lackadaisically until the scene gradually stabilized. The confusion of one bare foot and one black flat slowly cleared, and everything came back to me. I had been trying to revive The Rat when someone whacked me from behind, leaving me for dead and for the tide to claim.

  I stood unsteadily and looked around for The Rat, whom I presumed was already dead when I had started CPR. I shivered and shook from cold and trauma, but forced myself to stumble along the beach at the high-water mark, searching for the body of the Wharf Rat. I gave up, knowing that it was too late for him but wishing that I had the corpse, mainly to substantiate what would certainly sound like a crazy story. I combed the surrounding area for whatever had been used as the weapon to clout me. But darkness made that impossible. I would have to come back in daylight. And with help. I would search at low tide. I would have Deloris contact the State Police to send a diver to explore the ocean floor as far out as someone might be able to throw an object heavy enough to kill a person. Or, I reminded myself, to nearly kill a person. Or, I thought, to kill a person of normal skull thickness.

  I hobbled up the steep embankment and through the park to my car. The Duster was one thing I could count on, I thought as I climbed behind the wheel, locking all four doors. From the safety of my trusted vehicle, I gathered my thoughts. I started the engine and cranked the heat. Then I checked my phone for the time and learned that it was 1:30 a.m. I figured that I must have been unconscious for over an hour, which made sense with the distance the tide had come in from where I had dragged The Rat prior to being knocked out. Whoever wanted The Rat dead was willing to kill me, too. I suspected that I was onto something big—much bigger than missing kids and territorial wars waged amid and among local lobster fishermen. Although I knew that money was always a motive for murder, I couldn’t tie Bianca and Franklin into a motive of insurance fraud, benefitting from the death of Ron Thomas or Larry Vigue. No, this was something much bigger.

  The Duster’s fan began to blow warm air. My head ached severely. I switched on the interior light and tilted the rearview mirror to inspect the damage above my temple. I parted my hair, which was sticky and clumped together from blood, with both hands. A deep gash and large hematoma had trickled and left a trail of dried blood at the corner of my eye and along my jawbone. The laceration had crusted over now, so there was no need for stitches, I convinced myself. There was a possibility of a linear fracture of my skull, and the likelihood of a concussion. I had always been good at self-diagnoses. No need to waste time and money on a hospital visit, I thought as I got my wits about me. I was now thinking clearly. I was safe to drive home.

  I recalled the feeling of being watched when I had arrived in Bar Harbor earlier, and pondered the possibility that whoever had tried to kill me might still have an eye on me. If so, they might try to do me in again. I had to call Deloris, just in case something more happened before I got out of town. I dialed and got her voice mail. I hung up without leaving a message, believing that leaving an accurate one was not a good idea, and would be difficult to do in the short time before getting automatically disconnected. Where would I start? Better yet, where would I end? I ran through a rehearsal in my head, knowing that Deloris would call me when she realized she had missed my call. “Hi. I was stood up by my date, then knocked on the head and left for dead in Bar Harbor where The Wharf Rat was killed and whose body disappeared while I was unconscious. Oh, and I lost a shoe.”

  That eerie feeling of being in someone’s crosshairs stayed with me like a haunting refrain from a song of which the lyrics remain just below the surface of memory—teasingly frustrating. I drove Main Street slowly enough to consider the trip a tour, peering into every black storefront and examining each access to the alleys between shops from within the safety of the Duster. I glanced into the rearview mirror periodically, but saw nothing. Once I turned onto Route 1 I relaxed my grip on the steering wheel and thought about a plan of action.

  I obviously needed to report the death of The Wharf Rat. God, I didn’t even know his real name! And I needed to go back to Bar Harbor to interrogate Peter Alfond. First I would have Deloris pull every trick from her overstuffed bag to find every single morsel of Pete’s past. I needed connections and correspondence with Ron Thomas, Larry Vigue, the harbor pilot, and the administration of the cruise line company that owned Princess of the Seas. I needed every electronic device, every bank record, and receipts for every transaction on Pete’s record since before the girl was reported missing last year. I needed to know about any possible connection or counseling Pete may have done with Franklin Avery and Bianca Chiriac. I needed information about The Rat. Who was he? And where was he? I knew that making murder cases usually required a body. I needed the preliminary autopsy findings for Larry Vigue. The chance of his death being accidental was now nil, I knew. And what about Franklin Avery? I needed that autopsy, too.

  By the time I entered Green Haven, my list of things to do and to ask Deloris to do was enormous. And time was short. I would not waste time and energy scolding myself for being sucked in by the charming Pete Alfond. I would not rehash every bad relationship in my past. I would not relive the times when my personal and professional lives had become intertwined, to the degradation of both. There will be plenty of time for introspection and self-loathing when Pete is behind bars, I thought. Only then would I consider myself vindicated for this silly, half-baked dalliance with my now prime suspect. Sadly, this would not be the first time that my feelings had been misplaced. And this would not be the first prospective significant other to land on the wrong side of the cell door. The most critical thing, right now, was for me to locate Bianca Chiriac. If she was still alive, she would be key to putting the puzzle together. And in light of the number of deaths involved in the two cases of which I was now convinced were one, her minutes were numbered. Whether Bianca was involved in whatever scheme I was ferociously tackling or just more collateral damage, it was crucial that I find her.

  I couldn’t help but think about the growing possibility that drugs were at the root of all that had transpired since Wednesday. It may have been a result of the bump on my head, but I actually laughed out loud when I realized that I might be on the brink of busting open a large international drug-running ring while I was supposed to be hands-off until the end of tourist season. This little missing person case had sure escalated, I thought as I switched off the headlights before pulling into the Vickersons’ yard. No need chancing waking them or Wally, I thought. My appearance would frighten them, and I didn’t have time to explain.

  As I climbed out of the car, my cell phone rang. Seeing that it was Deloris, I answered it before the second ring. “Hey, thanks for getting back to me,” I said.

  “I figured that you must have had one hell of a date to be calling me at one thirty! What’s the matter?”

  I cut her off with some chilling facts that included The Rat’s death, his missing body, and my close call. I somehow avoided mentioning the humiliation of having been jilted by my date, but assumed that Deloris deduced that from the subject of the research project I gave her, titled Peter Alfond. “I have to stop by the office to grab the search warrant for The Princess of the Seas,” I said. “What are the chances that you’ll have anything for me by six?”

  “I’ll have everything worth having. I’ll be at my desk in ten minutes. See you at six.”

  “And I’ll need a warrant for the arrest of Pete Alfond.”

  “No chance of that by six,” Deloris said. “But I may be able to give it to you verbally later in the morning. Do you have evidence?”

  “Purely circumstantial. I’m betting on that to change in Rockland.” I let Deloris go, as I knew she would need every available minute between now and six o
’clock to adeptly scour every resource.

  I crept into and through the gift shop below my apartment, using the light of my cell phone to avoid upsetting any of the many displays that crowded the Lobster Trappe. I needed to grab some ice from the Vickersons’ freezer for my head, I thought as I tiptoed through their door and into the kitchen. I opened the freezer and found a bag of peas—perfect for the swelling, I thought. And better late than never, I knew. I closed the freezer and turned to leave when I met my brother, Wally, face to face. “What are you doing up?” I whispered, deflecting what was surely coming in the way of questions about what I was doing up, and relieved that it was dark enough to hide my injury.

  “I am having milk and cookies. Are you hungry?” Wally said in his usual quiet voice.

  “No, I’m just tired.”

  “Why are you eating peas?”

  “Oh, I’m not eating them. I have a headache and thought these might help,” I muttered somewhat truthfully. I consciously turned so that Wally was seeing only my left side.

  “How was your date with the rich man?” he asked, parroting what I knew he had been told by the landlords or Audrey.

  “Interesting. How was your date with Marilyn and Marlena?”

  “It was fun. But we didn’t have dessert because the lady who made the cupcakes is always sick. Even red velvet isn’t worth whatever germs she is spreading.” I could hear Marlena’s tone and attitude in Wally’ voice.

  I fought off a giggle and said, “Okay. I’m heading to bed. Good night.”

  As I moved closer, Wally bowed his head in expectation of the usual kiss on his forehead. “Where is your other shoe?”

  “I think I lost it.”