Bimini Twist Page 2

  The seasonal shops that lined Main Street were getting their annual sprucing up. Shutters were opened and windows were cleaned. Porches and railings were painted and repaired as needed. Signs were freshened and flags were displayed. Food shacks boasted “The Best Lobster Roll in Maine” and “Fresh Blueberry Pie,” surely the staples of the Maine food scene during tourist season. “Help Wanted” was a common theme among the seasonal signage. Picnic tables appeared where snowmobile trailers had been. Mailboxes that had taken the brunt of careless plow drivers were shored up. The inventory at the General Store had changed from ice fishing gear, rock salt, and shovels to mackerel jigs, sun block, and T-shirts touting all of the glories of Vacationland. As I left Green Haven proper and swerved my way across the snakelike causeway to the mainland, I thought how nicely I had settled in here. I am happy, I thought to myself as I drove the final ten minutes to work.

  As July Fourth approached, the traffic in Ellsworth would become heavy and parking spaces hard to find. Fortunately, I had a place reserved with a sign that read “Hancock County Deputy Sheriff” right in front of the station. I swung the Duster into my dedicated slot and hustled to and through the front door where I was greeted by Deloris, the dispatcher. Actually, to refer to Deloris as a dispatcher was doing her a disservice, I knew. Deloris had proven herself invaluable in electronic forensics and reconstruction and was adept in researching and navigating all of the Federal and State websites and systems for any and all investigative information needed to assist me in my pursuit of justice. (Hacker is a term that I save for those on the wrong side of the law).

  Deloris had just recently returned to work from a long stint at home where she convalesced from broken heels suffered in the line of duty. Although she longed to be more hands-on, we wouldn’t have that conversation until she was fully healed (no pun intended). And until that time, she would remain at a desk and assist where I was weakest. Yin and yang. Deloris was the perfect partner, I thought as I stopped at her desk to get the early scoop on what was on the docket for this morning. “I see you made the front page, again.” Deloris smiled and handed me a newspaper that she had neatly folded to display a single headline and article. “Hancock County Sheriff’s Department Strikes Again,” she read as I focused on the subheading: “Two New York City men arrested on charges of trafficking heroin and crack cocaine.”

  “They never get it right,” I said as I placed the paper on top of a pile of folders in front of Deloris. “I arrested three people. Two men and one woman.”

  “You’re averaging a bust a week!” Deloris held up a hand for a high five, which I was happy to reciprocate, and I accepted the congratulations. “You’re killing it.”

  “Unfortunately, the frequency of arrests made is a statement of how rampant the drugs and thugs are, rather than a true testament to my police work. But I am killing it, aren’t I?” Stamping out illegal drugs that were chalking up deaths due to overdose at a history-making rate had been my mission since taking on the position of deputy sheriff. It was what I had done in my past life in Miami, and was perhaps the one thing that I was passionate about.

  “Yes, indeed. Now, if you can squeeze your swelled head through the door, the sheriff is waiting for us in his office,” Deloris said with a grin as she stood and tucked the doctor-prescribed crutches under her arms. I allowed Deloris to lead the way, limping down the corridor and into the sheriff’s office. This had become our morning routine. I would modestly accept accolades for this most recent bust, and listen to what the sheriff had in mind for an agenda. Most commonly, he would defer to my judgment on how best to spend my time on the clock. Deloris was always enthusiastic about assisting, and I was quick to praise her publicly for her expertise.

  “Morning, ladies,” the sheriff said as he motioned for us to take seats opposite him at a large, handsome desk. “This comes from the powers that be,” he started as he scanned what appeared to be an email he had printed out. I sat up straight and proud, waiting for more high praise from Green Haven’s town fathers, or another pat on the back from the Maine Drug Enforcement Agency. The sheriff scanned the mail, sat back, and sighed. He shrugged his shoulders, cocked his head to one side while looking me in the eye, and said, “They’re asking me to put the binders on you.”

  This was not at all what I had anticipated. I was confused. Deloris wiggled uncomfortably in her seat while I tried to collect my thoughts enough to ask a question. Before I could do so, the sheriff continued. “It seems that the number and amplitude of your drug-related arrests are making Green Haven’s authorities uneasy.” This did nothing to unravel my scrambled thoughts. I turned and looked at Deloris for clarity or some explanation, but her jaw had dropped and her complexion had become ashen.

  The sheriff offered the sheet of paper to me as I struggled to make sense of what he had said. I realized that Down East Maine had its own colloquialisms, some of which I had yet to decipher. But putting binders on was somewhat universal. The sheriff had been asked to hit the brakes of the vehicle on which I had been riding so high and fast, facilitating taking down dealers and smugglers of any illicit substances that made their way into Hancock County. I refused the paper as I had no need to see this ridiculous order in writing. “Why?” I asked.

  “Tourism. Maine is Vacationland. People leave the cities to get away from crime. The Town Fathers are of the opinion that the publicity surrounding your … well, achievements, will have an adverse effect on the local economy, which they remind us is hospitality based until after Labor Day.” A long silence followed. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Uneasy with my silent stare, the sheriff turned to Deloris and asked, “What will the summer people think? You get it, right?”

  “Loud and clear.” Deloris snapped to. “Nothing says Welcome to Maine like the meth lab next door. Sort of puts the ain’t in quaint.” I mulled, frustrated, while Deloris and the sheriff quickly went on to another, relatively benign subject. How could I possibly put my ambition and main purpose in life on hold until the elite vacate Vacationland? As my boss and Deloris discussed how the summer community and tourists bleed money that is so badly needed after the drying winds of winter, I pulled something from the recesses of my memory that made me smile.

  Could it have been that long ago, I wondered, that I cracked the case that put me on the map? It was 1993. News of my tri-county drug bust made headlines in every national and daily publication. And it was one tongue-in-cheek article that I clipped and saved—something I have not done since. A US Customs official had been quoted referring to the arrestees as “the most technologically sophisticated drug-transport group ever captured,” a statement that the writer of the article deemed an unsolicited testimonial that should be turned into pure gold. The journalist went so far as to suggest that drug smugglers all over the world might like to travel to Dade County to check out gadgets including “metal cylinders with infrared lights and radio transmitters for tracking packets of cocaine all over the North Atlantic Ocean.” Laundered money would boost the local economy when the drug lords came to town—a particularly large benefit would be realized by the gold neckchain industry. I would dig out the clipping and share it with Deloris, I thought as I rejoined the meeting.

  I considered suggesting that the sheriff man up and stand up to the town authorities. Then I realized that money trumps principles every time. And if the folks with the deepest pockets want to live with their heads buried in the clam flats, who was I to disenchant them? But given the appropriate opportunity, I knew that I could be very convincing in explaining why my work in drug enforcement was critical in preserving the summer world the elite possessed. Realistically, I thought, there was no sense bucking the system or arguing with the sheriff. His hands were tied, I was sure. As badly as I would like to burst the bubble in which the delusion of pristine paradise thrived, it was not my place to do so. The sheriff was the one who had to answer to the mucky-mucks, not me. And, I rationalized, it wasn’t a bad thing to give the war on drugs a breather. Let th
e dealers, pushers, and mules get a false sense of security. Then this fall, when the bad guys are overconfident and getting careless, I’ll pounce and round them up like cattle, I thought. I knew this attitude was what I needed to get through the next three months without being miserable. I sighed audibly in concession, drawing the attention of the sheriff and Deloris. “So, now what? Should I set up a speed trap or write parking tickets?” I asked sarcastically.

  “I have a report of a missing person that needs attention. Just came in this morning,” said the sheriff. “That, and there is a file cabinet full of cold cases that you can start on anytime.”

  Oh no, I thought. The endless cold case assignment was one that I had always dreaded. It seems to be the last stop for cops on their way out of employment. “Have anything lukewarm?” I asked.

  “Hey, I’m sorry, Jane. I am not in favor of cramping your style. But let’s make the best of it, and know that you can dive back into the junkie circuit when we get our town back.” The sheriff picked up a sheet of paper on which he had scribbled some notes. He handed it to me and said, “Here’s what I have on the missing girl.” I grabbed the paper and stood to leave, waiting for Deloris to struggle out of her chair and collect her crutches. “Thanks, ladies. And Jane, I am happy to hear that you will be representing the department at the Alfonds’ this year.”

  Before I could respond in the negative, Deloris spoke up. “You got invited to the annual soiree? Yay! Who’s your plus-one?”

  When I hesitated with a response, I must have expressed something of a balk in my body language as the sheriff chimed in again: “I don’t care who you take, as long as you go.”

  “Yes, sir.” I was relieved to now be able to justify my attendance at the Summer Solstice Soiree as a direct order from my boss. I had made such a big deal about not going that I felt weird about the flip-flop, and needed to save face. Fortunately, I have always been slow to RSVP. And now that I had to go, I would slip the envelope into the outgoing mail here at the department. And who knows, I thought as Deloris and I exited the office and headed down the corridor from where we had come, I may get an opportunity to bend a highfalutin ear or two in the name of fighting real crime. As much as I detest social functions, I would put a positive spin on this one in hopes of lessening my despair in the time leading to the party. Mr. and Mrs. V and Audrey would approve. Now that I knew I would go, I thought at the very least, going would allow me to form my own opinion of some of Green Haven’s affluent summer residents. I would keep an open mind.

  “What will you wear?” Deloris asked as she plunked herself behind the front desk.

  “I haven’t thought about it yet.”

  “Well, you better start. Isn’t the party Friday evening? Today is Wednesday.”

  “I must have something in my closet,” I said, hoping to dismiss any helpful hints that Deloris, who was a virtual fashion plate, might otherwise be compelled to drop.

  “Oh, I’m positive that you have a lot of somethings in your closet. I am also fairly certain that you’ll stick out like a sore thumb at the soiree unless you go shopping.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh at this. “You don’t like my wardrobe?”

  “You dress like a librarian. But drab. Like a prison librarian. But dated. Like an out-of-style prison librarian.”

  “Ouch,” I said. “Wow, I didn’t realize you’d given my clothes that much thought.”

  “You don’t wear clothes. You wear garments. All very practical, but not at all suitable for the Alfonds’. Hey, I’m just trying to help.”

  “Oh, in that case, thanks,” I said and put on the biggest, cheesiest smile I could stretch my lips into. “I am so happy for your help. I won’t be at all self-conscious now. With my new clothing, and my social graces, I’ll be the belle of the fucking ball.” I didn’t normally use foul language. But I knew Deloris well enough to get away with the F-bomb without falling from grace with her.

  I gave the missing persons report a stiff, noisy shake, then held it to focus. “Nineteen-year-old, Bianca Chiriac,” I read aloud. “Doesn’t sound like a local.” As I continued to read the sheriff’s notes, Deloris entered pertinent information into her computer. “Reported missing by her roommates. Last seen Tuesday evening.”

  “Yesterday,” echoed Deloris as she typed.

  “Bianca shares an apartment with three other young women—all foreign names. And she is employed at the Bar Harbor Inn and Resort.” There wasn’t much information on the handwritten sheet the sheriff had supplied. I imagined that he took the call and only jotted down the bare essentials I needed to get going.

  “Address of her shared apartment?” Deloris asked.

  “Nothing here.”

  “Contact number for the roommate who reports her missing?”

  “No. That’s all I have. Nineteen-year-old girl missing since last night. By the time I get to Bar Harbor, she will probably have surfaced—sheepish and embarrassed,” I said. “I’ll start with her place of employment.”

  “Good. I’ll start a file in the event that she is still AWOL,” Deloris said as I headed for the exit. “Most of the seasonal employees in the local hospitality industry are here on J-1 student visas.”

  “That accounts for the name,” I said as I waved and added, “See ya.” The majority of the thirty-minute ride to Mount Desert Island (the large, mountainous landmass connected by bridge to Ellsworth and physical address of Bar Harbor and a handful of other, less notorious communities) was all about windshield time. Deloris was probably right, I thought. The young woman who had been reported missing by her roomies had likely been a case of poor communication coupled with possible intoxication. Kids that age are less than thoughtful, I thought as I crossed the line into the town of Bar Harbor.

  As I drove, looking for a sign that marked the Inn and Resort, I couldn’t help but notice the outward, panoramic dichotomy of life on either side of the bridge linking MDI to the mainland. Working-class homes bordering on ramshackle gave way to palatial estates bounded by meticulously manicured hedges interrupted only by handsome gates that said Keep Out without actually spelling out the words. Most outlets from the road were marked with beautiful “Private Drive” signs. Glimpses I caught through the barricades revealed professionally kept grounds, bursting with flower gardens, ornate shrubs, and climbing vines, against a cobalt-blue ocean that glistened as brightly as newly polished silver. I imagined I would enjoy the same from the other side of the gate at the Alfonds’ Solstice Soiree. Green Haven’s wealth was less conspicuous, in my opinion. Not that I had much first-hand knowledge. My impression of the much-noted Bar Harbor was forming quickly. The effect of what I could see and feel could be summed up in a single word: ostentatious.

  I approached a four-way intersection with a red flashing light and a stop sign. I stopped and read a series of wooden signs presented list style on a hewn post that was visible from all directions. “BHIR” underscored with an arrow pointing to the left was, I assumed, all I would get in the way of directions to the Bar Harbor Inn and Resort. I obediently turned left and continued until I found the resort property marked with a bigger, but still unobtrusive, wooden sign: “BHIR—Guests Only.” I turned sharply into the drive and followed the blacktop to what appeared to be the main check-in area. I pulled into a spot under an awning and among parked golf carts where I was immediately intercepted by a young man in uniform. He stooped to my window as I cranked it down. “Hello, ma’am,” he said with a thick accent. A pin on his breast pocket indicated that he was from Latvia. “May I park your car?”

  “Oh, no thank you,” I replied. “I am looking for the resort manager, and won’t be here long. Can I leave my car here for a few minutes?”

  “No, ma’am. We are strictly valet. I can park your vehicle around back and retrieve it for you at your request. Just dial ten from any phone in the resort.” I glanced around the short-term parking area and realized that this kid had been parking luxury vehicles, and was probably given orders to hide anyt
hing less.

  I reluctantly climbed out, leaving the Duster running, and asked the valet to leave my keys over the rear, driver-side tire, to which he gasped. “Leave the doors unlocked. I’ll find it when I’m done,” I said as I headed toward the main entrance of a grand building. There was no way I was tipping a valet, I thought as a bellhop from Hungary opened a door and asked if I had bags. “No, I am looking for the manager. I’ll check at the registration desk,” I said in defiance of the feeling that I might need to slip the bellhop a few bucks for information. I knew from past experience that as soon as I dipped my hand into my pocket, I would be swarmed by uniformed employees wanting to assist me. Worse than panhandlers, I thought as I snubbed the concierge, whose pin read “Maine,” before he could ask to help me in some way.

  A perky young woman from Turkey manned the reception desk. She smiled and said, “Hello, and welcome to the Bar Harbor Inn. Name, please?”

  “Jane Bunker,” I said. “But you won’t find my name on your computer screen. I am the Hancock County deputy sheriff, and I need to speak with the manager, please.”

  “Oh, yes ma’am. Right away,” she said as she scurried over to a house phone and pressed a button. “The manager will be with you momentarily. May I get you a cup of tea while you wait?” Tea sounded good, I thought, and wondered how long the average wait was if tea was an option. I reached into the hip pocket of my chinos feeling for some money. “Oh no, ma’am. The tea is complimentary, and we do not accept tips. May I show you to the lounge? You’ll be more comfortable there.” I followed the gal to an overstuffed chair where I waited for tea, which was delivered by a young woman from Croatia, according to her pin.