Bimini Twist Read online

  Although I enjoyed the hospitality, the bowing and scraping was making me uncomfortable, I thought as I selected a mint tea from a tray of assorted bags that the server held for me. When I was just about on polite overload, a slightly overweight middle-aged man in an ill-fitting suit burst upon the scene and hustled toward me. “You the cop?” he asked, clearly in a hurry and annoyed by my presence.

  I stood and offered my hand. “Deputy Sheriff Jane Bunker.” His hand was sweaty, as was his round, pink face. He did not introduce himself, and instead opened his eyes wide as if asking what my business was and urging me to make it snappy. The manager wore no nationality-identifying pin, but I assumed from his demeanor and accent that he was a local. “I am following up on a missing persons report. Bianca Chiriac? She works here,” I said, realizing that the manager had many seasonal and part-time employees, and that it was likely he knew few or none of their names.

  “Yeah, I’m on a bit of a scavenger hunt myself today. Do you have any idea how many of these kids jump ship? I’m missing some persons, too. I was hoping you were here looking for work.”

  “Is Bianca here today? Do you have a copy of her schedule? Do you have a home address on file? How about a phone number?” This guy’s attitude was irritating me. Knowing that I was probably on a wild-goose chase anyway, I wanted to make short work of this and get back to something more important.

  “Jesus Christ, you’re kidding me. Right?” He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and pretended to scroll through contacts. “No, I guess I don’t have her info.” Then he patted his jacket pockets and said, “And I must have misplaced her business card. Sorry.”

  This would go nowhere, I knew. I assumed that the manager was aware of and nervous about a few infractions regarding the premises and employees that could result in fines, or worse. He must be confused about my role, I thought, and he just wanted to get rid of me. Rather than convince him that I couldn’t care less about whatever was making him nervous, I simply thanked him for his time and said that I would ask around to see if Bianca was here, admitting that this was probably a false alarm. Before he could protest, I headed for the lobby, leaving him to stew.

  I figured the best way to get information would be to find the inn’s laundry room and kitchen. Those would certainly be manned by young college kids here on visas, I thought. I jumped in an elevator and pushed the button to go down one floor to the basement. Sure enough, the laundry was bustling with what appeared to be immigrant workers. The noise of several languages spoken over the washers and dryers stopped abruptly when I announced my entrance. “Hi. I am from the Hancock County Sheriff’s Department. We received a call about a missing person—Bianca Chiriac. Does anyone know her or where she might be?” I asked.

  A brief silence was followed by a throat clearing. I acknowledged the young woman who was now raising her hand for permission to speak. “I called the police,” she said tentatively. “Bianca is my roommate. She is gone. I am scared.” I asked the girl to step into the hallway so that the rest of the laundry team could get back to work, and also to have a bit of privacy.

  “What is your name?” I asked as I pulled a small notepad and pen from my back pocket.

  “I am Anika. My English is so-so. I am sorry.” She pushed long bangs away from a very thin, plain face and tucked them behind her ears. Pimples on her forehead indicated youthfulness.

  “Your English is fine,” I said. “Tell me what you know about Bianca. Where do you live? When did you last see her? Does she have a cell phone? Does she have a boyfriend? Anything you can tell me might be helpful.”

  “We live in the UN. That is what it is called by everyone for United Nations because all of us are from not here,” she explained quickly and quietly. “Me and Bianca, we share a unit. It’s not very bad. Same as my dorm room at university.”

  “Can you give me the street address for the UN?” I asked, poised to jot it down.

  “No address. Right back there,” she said as she pointed at the end of a long hallway. “In the forest behind the resort. We can walk to work, so we don’t none of us have cars. I have called Bianca’s cell a thousand times. I left messages, then it go-ed right to voicemail.”

  “What is her number?” I asked.

  She recited it as she peeked at my notepad to ensure that I got it right. “And Bianca has some boyfriends. She is so beautiful. Not like me.”

  “Any serious boyfriend? Do you have any names? Any problems with boys?”

  “No. Bianca is too so smart for that. Just nice boys and good friends. She never stays out late because we have to work early and we need money for university. We only have three months to save our money, then we go back home to Romania.”

  “Where do you go to school?” I asked, thinking that this was a waste of time, but not wanting to shortchange this girl’s concern for her friend.

  “University of Bucharest,” she said proudly as she threw her shoulders back.

  “When did you see Bianca last?”

  “Yesterday after work, Bianca was very excited to go to town to meet a friend from the university. Her friend has job in the kitchen on a cruise ship that was coming in to this harbor. Bianca left in a taxi, and did not come home at all.” Oh, I thought, that makes sense. Cruise ships are notorious for shenanigans, especially young crewmembers making landfall after many days at sea. Knowing that they will be ashore for a brief time before weighing anchor again, most of the crew tends to let their hair down, and Bianca may have been swept up in the frenzy of activities that is best described as those of drunken sailors.

  “Name of the friend?”

  “No.”

  “Name of the ship?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Thank you for your help,” I said as I dug for a card. “Please call me when Bianca shows up, or if you think of anything that might help me find her? And text me a picture of Bianca.”

  “Thank you so much. Last time nobody came.”

  “Last time?” I asked. “Has Bianca gone missing before?” Now I was getting to where I assumed I would end up. The sheriff had sent me all the way to Bar Harbor for this. He probably wanted to take my mind off of drug busting, I thought. What a complete waste of time. Even pawing through cold cases was time better spent.

  “Last year. No, not Bianca. It was another girl who lived in the UN and worked here. Her roommate called the police, and they never came. They never looked for her.”

  “Well, did she show up on her own?”

  “No. Never. Her roommate was very upset. We all were scared. But then I guess everyone forgot now until Bianca.”

  “Maybe I can speak to her roommate. What is her name, and where can I find her?”

  “She is in Turkey. She graduated from university and has a job so no need to get the visa and come here anymore.”

  “Do you know the name of the girl who went missing?” I asked.

  “No. But the call was placed to you. Middle of last June. So you must have it in records.” Rather than defend myself and explain that the calls do not come to me directly, I chose to nod and take notes. I could sift through last June’s call log and verify this, just to close the loop. The call probably went to the Ellsworth police, and not the Hancock County Sheriff’s Department, I thought. If we jumped every time a twentysomething girl didn’t come home at night, we’d be in perpetual motion, I thought skeptically. I thanked Anika for her help, and promised to do what I could to locate Bianca. Anika went back to her job of folding fresh white linens while I watched and wondered about her accusation of a neglected missing person report last year. I assumed whoever took the call had better sense than to send an officer to investigate. College-aged girl hasn’t seen her beautiful roommate since last evening … Those dots almost connected themselves.

  I found a basement-level exit that opened in the direction that Anika indicated was where I might find employee housing, or the UN. On the far side of a parking lot, there was a well-beaten path wide enough for two people to walk a
breast. I followed the path until I happened upon what looked like tenement housing. A string of small, single units with white siding was joined by porches like a giant strand of pearls dropped haphazardly on uneven ground. I did what amounted to a drive-by, maybe out of curiosity, but also covering bases. I had no idea which unit or even which group of units Anika and Bianca lived in. And it didn’t matter unless Bianca was home and sleeping off a night of fun. And if that were the case, Anika would call and inform me at the end of her shift.

  I hustled back to the parking lot and found the Duster. As long as I was here, I should at least check out the waterfront, I thought. And my stomach was growling. I needed lunch, and Bar Harbor had a reputation for many options as it boasted a thriving tourist, merchant shipping, and cruising sailor trade. I loved looking at boats, and realized that I might never be back in Bar Harbor. As I reached for the key over the tire, my phone dinged, indicating that I had a text message. I climbed behind the wheel, started the engine, and rolled down a window before checking the text. It was, I assumed, from Anika, as it consisted of a link to Bianca Chiriac’s Facebook page. Her profile picture added credence to Anika’s description of her. She was indeed a beauty. I had neither interest nor intention of slogging through Bianca’s (or anyone’s, for that matter) social media accounts. So I swiped my phone closed and tucked it into my hip pocket. Just as I did, the phone rang. I pulled it back out. The caller ID showed HANCOCK COUNTY, which I knew was the sheriff or Deloris. “What’s up?” I asked cheerily.

  “We’ve got another missing person,” said the sheriff.

  “Oh, come on! This is silly,” I pleaded. “If you plan to have me running around looking for teenagers until fall, I’ll go nuts.”

  “I just got a call from the president of Dirigo Maritime Academy. One of his cadets didn’t make it back to campus for spring semester. His parents are distraught.”

  TWO

  I am not above any job. And it’s nearly impossible to insult me (a personal attribute about which I have been quite vocal, causing many to accept it as a challenge). But now it had become clear that I had been reduced to an entry-level detective. Rather than whine about it, I would cover my disappointment with sarcasm (mainly because I have been fairly emphatic about my dislike for complainers). In fact, I am certain that I coined “Just Do It” long before Nike trademarked the slogan. I took a deep breath and listened to the sheriff as he recited directions to Dirigo Maritime Academy and suggested that I get there today to record and file an official missing persons report. He would text me a number for the president of the school.

  “Okay, boss,” I said. “And you be sure to let me know of any old ladies needing help crossing the road or any cats in trees looking for rescue.” The silence on the other end indicated no appreciation for my wit. Rather than letting it go, I persisted. “Are the local Boy Scouts all busy today?” Another pause led me to pull the phone from my ear and examine the screen. No service. The call had been dropped. Probably a good thing, I thought as I drove around to the front of the building and parked in the valet zone, waving a finger at the valet indicating no need for his service as I would be only a minute. Before I could get out of the Duster, he was right in my window.

  “You can’t park here. Please, it’s my job.”

  “Okay, okay. I need contact information for all of the taxi services in town,” I said, suddenly realizing that he would be the best source.

  He reached into his inside pocket, producing a business card. “Only one company. Two cars owned and operated by a married couple.” He handed me the card and smiled, seemingly happy to be able to assist.

  “Would employees of the resort use this company?” I asked as I read the card. “Tag Team Taxi? Would you use them if you needed a ride?”

  “Yes, ma’am. They have an exclusive here. All guests use them, too, unless they rent a car at the airport.” The valet leaned with a hand on the edge of my window and looked over the top of the Duster toward the driveway. I pulled my phone out and started to dial the number on the card. Before I finished, the valet said, “Here comes half of the tag team now. He has guests. Can you please pull over there?” He pointed to the parking lot.

  “You bet,” I answered and pulled out of the greeting and unloading area. This would save me some time, I thought as I parked and jumped out of the car. I waited on the fringe as an elderly couple was helped from the Subaru wagon by a bellboy, and all of their bags were loaded onto a roller cart. As they made their way to the front door, I approached the cabbie, who had not left his vehicle and sat with a wallet in his lap sorting small bills. “Excuse me,” I said, interrupting his count.

  “I’m open for business! Where you going?” The sixtyish, pleasant-looking man peeked out from under the visor of a sweat-stained ball cap embroidered with his company logo—“TAG TEAM TAXI.”

  “Hi, I’m Jane Bunker from Hancock County Sheriff’s Department. I’m not looking for a ride, just information.” I couldn’t help but smile at the cabbie whose demeanor was nothing short of jovial.

  “I’m your man. The name’s Dudley. Everyone calls me Dud.” This really floored me. In my experience, cab drivers are notoriously tight-lipped until a palm is greased. “What can I do you for, Deputy?” I waited, expecting his hand to shoot out for me to slap with something green. I reached into my hip pocket for my phone. “No thanks,” he said, putting a hand up in a stopping motion. “I don’t take money unless you need a ride.”

  I laughed. “No, I’m not trying to buy information,” I said, relieved that I didn’t have to cough up any cash. “I want to show you a picture of a young woman I am trying to locate.” I pressed the text icon on my phone and found the link. I opened Bianca’s Facebook page and held it for the cabbie to check out. I was slowly getting accustomed to the smartphone the department had provided, dragging me reluctantly away from my trusted flip phone and into present-day technology.

  “Wow, ain’t she cunnin’!” he exclaimed as he pulled my wrist closer so that he could get a better look. He pulled reading glasses from a shirt pocket and placed them on his nose. “She don’t look familiar, sorry. What did she do?”

  “She works here at the resort. Her roommate reported her missing and says that she took a cab into town last evening. I was hoping you’d remember her and where you dropped her.”

  “That would be the wife,” he said as he grabbed a handheld device that looked like a walkie-talkie. “Hey Doll, what’s your twenty?”

  “Hi Babe,” a perky voice said, seeping through the handheld’s speaker. “Just passed the loop, and headed to the resort with a lovely family from Michigan. Twin boys, not much older than Dean and Everett. First trip to Maine, and they are some excited.” The voice went up a decibel and an octave. As she explained where in Michigan the folks were from and what they planned to do this week while on vacation, the cabbie chuckled.

  “She loves this job. She loves the people.” He stared at nothing and listened in total adoration to his wife’s voice. “She loves hearing about their lives and where they come from. Dreams of visiting every place she hears about…”

  We waited patiently through her enthusiastic bio of the couple who, she boasted, were both oncologists, adding, “Too bad they weren’t here last month. Geez, poor Nell.” Her voice cracked a bit. Then she picked back up with some specifics on her customers’ musical talents. “Remember when we bought Georgie the drum set? Lord, what a racket.” She had pure joy in her voice now as she recounted quite a list of trials and tribulations their own children had experienced with a variety of instruments. I wasn’t sure whether she was reminiscing with her husband or entertaining her clients, but she did have a gift.

  As she rattled on, the cabbie turned to me. “She’ll spend half the night surfing the Internet soaking up Michigan unless her next fare is from somewhere more exotic.” When the walkie-talkie fell silent, the cabbie keyed his mic and said, “That’s great, Doll. Very interesting, indeed. When you get here, there’s a deputy looki
ng for a girl—thinks you might have given her a ride last night.” His wife stated that she was five minutes out. “Then I’ll pass you at the gate, sweetheart,” he said, signing off with a double click on the mic key.

  I thanked the cabbie for his help, which he passed off as having not done anything. He was confident that if his wife had ever had the missing girl in her van, she would remember in great detail. “She drags these kids home like stray cats,” he said. “Once a week, we have resort employees at the house for a nice, home-cooked meal. She’s a good cook and a good woman. We work hard, and don’t have much to show for it. But what we do have, she wants to share. Hey, I gotta go. Good luck.”

  “Start packing for Michigan!” I smiled.

  “Oh, we never go anywhere. A customer gave me two tickets to a Sox game last season. The wife wouldn’t budge. Never been out of the state, and not about to go,” he said as he pulled away slowly and shrugged a c’est la vie gesture.

  As the Subaru disappeared around a corner, I stood and thought about the affection he showed his wife within the tone of his voice. And the nice things he shared with me about her really endeared him. I now had another stunning example of happiness. Wow, if I had a guy like that … Oh no, let’s not go down that well-worn road now, I thought as I pushed the angst surrounding my everlasting solo status out of my head with great thrust. My day would come. Or at least that’s what my landlords preached.

  Sure enough, just at the five-minute mark, a maroon-colored van pulled up to the unloading zone. I walked slowly, allowing the bellhop time to unload the mountain of luggage from the back and the people within to climb out. A stout woman appeared from behind the steering wheel and gave each of the four passengers a hug. After she collected her fare, she looked around, I assumed searching for me. I approached, introduced myself, and thanked her in advance for her time. “I’m Dolly,” she said brightly.