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  Sensing that time was running short, I thought it best to walk toward the main road and away from the lingering smoke and various noxious fumes, and intercept Clark when he arrived. As I took baby steps over the icy rim formed by the overspray from the fire hose, I again noticed the splotches of blood. May as well, I thought as I dug through my camera bag for an empty container into which to scrape a sample of the blood. This was more a precaution and covering my own butt than it related to any investigative process. It was highly unlikely that the blood would ever be analyzed for DNA, so I wasn’t particularly careful about contamination. I shook crumbs out of a plastic sandwich bag. My jackknife was the right tool for cutting through the thin layer of ice and gouging out enough for a fine specimen of the blood-soaked snow beneath. Zipping the bag closed and dropping it into my camera bag, I headed to the road just as the Jeep Cherokee came into view.

  Joan was at the wheel. When she stopped, I opened the door, and climbed in. Joan immediately started jabbering about how Clark was so exhausted that he had to shower and get some sleep, and he was glad to have met me and … I pulled the door closed and put my hand on Joan’s wrist, silently asking for her attention. She obediently placed the Jeep in park and looked at me with the same raised eyebrows I met when I entered her home earlier. “A woman has died in the fire. I assume it’s Midge Kohl,” I stated unemotionally.

  A look of horror and hands flying up to cover a gaping mouth were accompanied by a loud wailing, “Oh, God. No. Oh no.” I asked what typically is done when someone dies on Acadia. Joan trembled and began crying. Not one to console, I waited. She made attempts to speak between jagged breaths, but words were stolen by the need to catch the next inhale. I repeated the question. Her breathing slowly returned to normal and the crying subsided to sniffling. “Well, oh my! Well, when Clark’s dad passed away, we took him off wrapped in a sleeping bag on a stretcher. The county ambulance met the mail boat at the dock, and took him to the hospital where he was pronounced dead. But that was different. He was old.” Now tears streamed down Joan’s cheeks again. Her hands shook violently as she sobbed. “We didn’t even know she was here!” I waited for the hysteria to subside so that I could ask another question.

  I really wished that Clark had come to pick me up. Men are usually much more together and less emotional when faced with dead bodies, I thought and immediately regretted the sexist in me. The same sexism that I admonished in Joan’s stammering surprise this morning with the fact that I was doing what she obviously counted as a man’s job, was now reinforced by her stereotypical reaction to news that someone was dead. I had a sudden urge to slap her face to bring her around, but resisted; doing so would feed the stereotype another heap of fuel.

  Joan gasped for a breath, and I jumped in the free space. “We need a body bag, or sleeping bag, or something to wrap the remains in so that we can get them … umm, her to the boat. And I need to use a phone.” She pulled herself together, I assume assisted by my calm and task-oriented order. “We don’t want to leave Mrs. Kohl out in the elements any longer,” I said, using a little psychology. “She needs to be handled by us, with the respect that she deserves,” I continued. It was a conscious effort to refer to the corpse with the feminine pronoun.

  Joan found a paper towel jammed between the seats that looked as if it had been used to wipe the Jeep’s dipstick, and used it to dry her eyes and blow her nose. She nodded as I spoke, and pointed to a sailboat on the opposite side of the road. “How about a tarp? Will that work? It’s a custom winter wrap made special for the Kohls’ boat—BLISSFUL RETURNS. Would that be okay?”

  “Perfect. Let’s go,” I said. She slammed the Jeep into gear and stepped on the gas pedal like a woman on a mission, which she was. She jammed the Jeep into four-wheel drive, and was able to pull right up to the tarped boat that sat peacefully in its beefy wooden cradle. The dark green tarp had been made in three pieces. I figured that the bow section would be more than large enough, and the easiest to handle. Utilizing my trusty pocketknife again, I cut the lines securing the tarpaulin to the cradle, and Joan pulled it away from the bowsprit until it lay at her feet with an avalanche of snow that had accumulated in the last storm. I cupped my hands and exhaled into them, trying to warm them up a bit. My toes were numb. I hadn’t thought of it until now, but the burned-out house held a lot of heat, and I had been quite comfortable until now. I was anxious to get back to the smoldering wreckage and grabbed the tarp. Working together, we shoved the tarp in through the Jeep’s hatchback, and slogged our way through the snow, across the road, and back to what remained of the Kohls’ dwelling.

  “Maybe I should go get Clark,” Joan said, her voice now flat. I explained that we didn’t have time, and that it was best out of respect for Mrs. Kohl to not permit anyone else to see her in such a state. Joan agreed, mentioning how vain Mrs. Kohl had always been. “Why, she wouldn’t be caught dead without full makeup. Oh, sorry. Poor choice of words.”

  I dragged the tarp behind me as I made my way back to the edge of the burned-out foundation. Entering through the same doorway I had before, I was straddling a fallen beam when the tarp caught on something, halting my progress. I didn’t want to sound insensitive, so I didn’t mention to Joan that my biggest concern was missing the boat—literally. I had to get home tonight to sift through the options for having my brother live in Green Haven. I needed to get off this island with or without the corpse. I yanked the tarp to no avail. Joan was lagging behind, and seemingly unwilling to lend a hand.

  “Hey, grab the other end, will ya?” I yelled. Joan snapped out of the trance she appeared to be in and freed the end of the tarp, holding it like the train on a debutante’s ball gown as she shuffled through the mess. She appeared to be in shock. I hated myself for being so cool about what we were doing, but years of dead bodies had formed calluses where Joan had raw emotion. I wished I could do this myself, sparing this nice woman the trauma of seeing what would cause her to be awakened by her own screams for many nights to come.

  Joan stood over the body and stared in disbelief. She inhaled and wrinkled her nose. She squinted her eyes as if tolerating great pain. She stiffened as if paralyzed. I wanted to tell her that we needed to hustle, but instead allowed her a minute. She sniffed the air again, and turned her gaze at me, ready to pose a question. Knowing what she would ask, I said:

  “Roast pork.”

  Joan’s complexion turned from pale to green as she swallowed whatever had risen in her throat. She placed a hand over bulging cheeks and fought the gag reflex. “Go ahead. Puke and get it over with,” I said, crassly. Joan was clearly very familiar with the house’s layout. She scurried over to a once-white porcelain toilet, and threw up loudly and violently while I stretched the tarp out alongside the remains of Mrs. Kohl. I glanced over just in time to see Joan wipe her mouth on her coat sleeve.

  Joan was quick to gather herself and joined me over the body with a vengeance. Her horror had now become rage. She was really pissed at me, and offered no pretenses about it. I understood her reaction as I had seen it many times before. “I can’t fuckin’ believe this,” she mumbled. “Now what?”

  I instructed Joan to help me move the corpse onto the tarp, which she did. Once we arranged the corpse into position, we proceeded to drape both ends of the tarp over the body, then roll tightly, as she commented, “Like a fuckin’ burrito.” We each grabbed an end of the roll and lifted to carry it to the Jeep. It was heavy, which didn’t escape comment from Joan.

  “Jesus Christ! Of all the people to have to be lugged, it had to be fat-ass Midge Kohl … I knew I should have sent Clark to get you.” We struggled, but made it over and around all of the debris piles and over the edge of the stone foundation. “And he told me who you are,” she continued, back to her verbose self. “Insurance, my ass. Fuckin’ Nancy Drew.” I was relieved that all Clark knew of my past was my occupation. But that relief was short-lived. “Just when we thought we’d seen the last of the Bunkers, along comes long-lost Jane. And lo
ok at this mess!” She was clearly implying that my presence had somehow caused the horror that she had been enlisted to deal with. No matter, I thought. I’d just let her rant. She didn’t even know what she was saying, and likely would not remember most of it by the next morning. Shock affects different people differently, I knew. I wouldn’t take anything personally.

  We placed the corpse on the ground behind the Jeep long enough to open the tailgate. We lifted together, swung the package back and forth counting out loud, and flung it into the back of the Jeep on the third swing. Slamming the tailgate closed, Joan reached up with a high five for me. “Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. Nicely done.” Clearly delirious, I thought. She’d come full circle soon and be back to the sobbing and shaking. I hoped I’d be aboard the boat by then.

  Joan continued to talk—mostly about nothing—as she drove slowly, cautiously avoiding the larger bumps. I knew without her saying so that she was deliberately giving the corpse a nice, gentle ride, which seemed ridiculous on so many levels, but spoke to her genuine caring personality in spite of her outbursts. She reminded me that we needed to retrieve the Kohls’ car from the airport, which again made no sense to me. But I was happy to assist her on this rather than remind her that Mrs. Kohl would not be needing it. I looked at my cell phone. Still no service.

  “Unless you have Down East Premium, you might as well forget about the phone until we get back to the west side,” Joan advised. She then went into a detailed history of cell service on Acadia, which took us all the way to a tiny airstrip in the middle of a thickly wooded area. I wondered why Mrs. Kohl’s vehicle would be here, as she clearly had not left the island. There were no cars in sight.

  Joan came to her senses and said, “Maybe it’s at ALP. We have to pass right by there to get back to the dock. Mr. Kohl refuses to fly, so we like to leave the car at the dock for him,” she explained. Now Joan was thinking and speculating. It’s natural to try to make sense of things, I knew.

  “Clark must have assumed someone had given Mrs. Kohl a lift to the airport or dock, and moved her car from the house. We are constantly moving their vehicle around. They never travel together,” she explained. “Or she could have left her car at ALP intentionally and gotten a ride home from someone. Or, well, the possibilities are endless. We usually refer to their car as Waldo. Where’s Waldo is a weekly game for us as their caretakers. I would feel better if we knew where the car was. And we should get it to the dock for Mr. Kohl. As soon as he gets the bad news, he’ll be heading this way, I’m certain of it. And he is as particular about things as she is, or was…” A tear formed in the corner of her eye, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand.

  I was relieved that Joan was talking sense now. She seemed to have her wits about her. Not knowing her for more than this very brief period, it seemed she could handle crisis better than the majority of people I had come across in my life in similar situations. I wondered if her ability to quickly transit the stages of this traumatic event was part of the human fabric of Acadia Island. With no law enforcement or trained firefighters, or fire marshal, or medical professionals, or … well, there was purportedly nobody here equipped to deal with matters professionally, so I imagined that everyone dealt with everything in their own “island way.” I wondered what she knew about the Bunkers that gave her the attitude. I would certainly learn more about that. All in good time, I thought as Joan wheeled the Jeep around and up to a large metal building with signage marking it as “Acadia Lobster Products.”

  There were about a dozen vehicles in the area marked “Employee Parking,” which really surprised me, as we had seen zero activity all day. A forklift zipped around to the loading dock and a door magically opened, displaying a pallet of colorfully designed boxes. I couldn’t read the print from the distance.

  “Today is frozen tails. The main plant is cooking, processing, and packaging. The product is then taken over there,” she pointed to a second, smaller building, “where it’s frozen and eventually shipped.” We passed another building with a double loading dock. “This is where the live product is shipped from. Most of it is going to China.” It was good to know that this part of Acadia was up and running and very much alive. Just in front of what I assumed was the main entrance, I noticed a woman with what looked like a picket sign. I estimated the temperature to be in the teens. And the protester was all alone, which made it even weirder. As we got a bit closer, I recognized the bundled-up gal as Trudy, Joan and Clark’s daughter. Joan had her blinders on, I thought as she consciously ignored my questioning stare through the driver’s-side window as we passed Trudy, who marched back and forth before the entryway. I nearly laughed at the thought of this college girl trying to change the world—here on Acadia Island.

  Joan rattled on about the miracle of high-tech freight boxes designed to keep lobsters alive, and how these special boxes were the biggest contributor to higher and consistent lobster prices. She was clearly embarrassed by her daughter, and was trying to distract me from looking at her. Joan certainly didn’t need to worry about Trudy inciting any riots, I thought. She’d be lucky to get a second look.

  “Phew,” Joan signed. “There’s the Kohls’ Range Rover. The key should be under the floor mat. Follow me to the dock. You’ll just make the boat.” I jumped out of the Jeep and into the Range Rover, found the key under the mat, and was out of the parking area closely behind the Jeep, which sped quickly by Trudy. I glanced over and saw that her sign read “Lobsters Feel Pain!” Wow, I thought, Trudy really had her hands full protesting killing lobsters in a place where the only income is derived from doing so. Ballsy kid, I thought with a chuckle.

  As soon as Trudy was out of sight, Joan began creeping along, driving barely over a crawl. I tried to be patient. Flipping open the top of my bag in the passenger seat, I dug for my phone. No service. The time was 2:45. I had about fifteen minutes to get myself and the cadaver aboard the boat before it left. I was disappointed to have no time to insist on finding a phone to make a few calls. I wanted to give Mr. Dubois a heads-up, and call the sheriff to make arrangements for someone to collect the corpse. My landlords are welcoming, but this might be pushing their limits, I thought with a chuckle. Just then, music rang out from within the vehicle, loud and clear. A custom ringtone that I recognized as “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” played as I followed the tune to a cubbyhole in the center console between the bucket seats.

  I fumbled for the phone, and finally grasped it just as the music stopped. Missed call. I waited to see if the caller would leave a message. Nope. I’m fairly certain that I would not have answered the phone if I had found it in time, though. There is something very intriguing and mysterious about the phone of a deceased person. Realizing that I could now place calls with this phone, I dialed 411 and got directory assistance to text me a number for the Hancock County Sheriff’s Department. Mrs. Kohl’s phone beeped, and I opened the text message to the number. How fortunate for me that Mrs. Kohl used Down East Premium, and that she had no locks on her phone. Old school, I thought. But not in her choice of phones. This one was the latest and greatest of technology, and far superior to mine. I was immediately connected to Hancock County Sheriff’s Department, where I spoke to Deloris, the dispatcher. She took the message for the sheriff, and promised to make all arrangements to relieve me from my duty of escorting the corpse as soon as the boat touched the dock in South Haven.

  Before I could call Mr. Dubois, I was in the parking area above the dock. I could see a boat at the float, and knew that it was my ride ashore. Joan motioned for me to park, which I did, leaving the ignition key under the floor mat where I had found it. Joan backed the Jeep down the narrow, icy way to the top of the ramp where she hopped out and ran down and aboard the boat. By the time I reached the ramp, she was headed back up with two men closely behind, one of whom carried a backboard. I was relieved to see that there were no passengers coming and going on this particular trip. Word would spread quickly enough—it always does in a small, close
-knit community. Joan introduced the men as the captain and mate of the boat and explained that they would help with Mrs. Kohl. The men may have been father and son, I thought. I filled them in on my conversation with Hancock County, assuring them that we would be met on the other end, and the corpse would no longer be our responsibility. As they loaded Mrs. Kohl onto the backboard, the mate admitted to being “creeped out” by dead bodies, to which the captain responded that it was thankfully only a forty-minute trip. I silently concurred.

  There was some heated, yet low-voiced discussion of whether the rolled tarp should ride in the wheelhouse or on the deck. Joan wanted Mrs. Kohl’s last boat ride to be more dignified than sharing the deck with boxes of empty milk jugs. The captain and crew were not excited about sharing their space within the cabin with a cadaver who was not even able to pay the boat fare, and one that seemingly had never been their favorite customer. A compromise was quickly reached: Mrs. Kohl was placed on the bench seat across the transom, the most coveted outdoor seating in the summer, and where the mate insisted Mr. Kohl always perched when transiting. This seemed to appease Joan, the consummate caretaker.

  Before disembarking, Joan surprised me with a tight hug. “Well, Jane Bunker, we’ve had quite an afternoon, haven’t we?” She reached in her hip pocket and pulled out a business card that she handed to me and said, “When you want to visit the island on different terms, give me a call. I’d love to show you around and answer any questions you might have.” I promised to be in touch, and thanked her for her help. I attempted to say that I was sorry for her loss and offer an apology of some kind, but the mate was throwing lines, forcing Joan to step off the boat and onto the float. I glanced at her card as the boat pulled away from the float—“Beck and Call Caretaking,” a phone number, and address—good to have, I thought as I slipped it into my bag. It would indeed be nice to visit Acadia Island under different circumstances.