Bimini Twist Page 6

I brought the sheriff’s verbal directions back from memory, recalling that he had instructed that I would be heading north on one peninsula and back south on the next peninsula. The visual image of his directions showed two necks poking out into the ocean separated by very few miles. Between the two peninsulas there was the large and beautiful Jericho Bay. Until now, I had only observed the area on a paper navigational chart. And I had heard stories about what lies east of Bar Harbor that might make someone of lesser courage (or higher intelligence) cringe. This area was notoriously lawless with the exception of Dirigo, or “the Academy,” to which I was now going. The school must certainly be a diamond in the rough, and quite an anomaly, I thought. I imagined the dichotomy of straitlaced and unlaced as I turned right onto Route 1 in Ellsworth.

  Five minutes later, I saw the sign for Route 176. I turned right and immediately noticed the poor condition of the road. Potholes the size of craters were too numerous to avoid by straddling. I drove slowly, fearing loss of hubcaps as the Duster crept along the bumpy road. I laughed out loud at the number of dilapidated mailboxes. This collection of rundown receptacles was much worse than the ones that had been abused by snowplows in Green Haven, I thought. Some of the boxes were merely mangled, while others were missing from posts altogether. There were obvious attempts to repair in true Down East fashion. Broken posts bolstered by five-gallon buckets filled with cement and boxes wrapped with duct tape entertained me. When I dared take my eyes from the road, I enjoyed the view to my right.

  Jericho Bay was littered with tiny, uninhabited islands that I imagined were ringed with bountiful lobster bottom, as buoys marking lobster traps speckled the surface of the water as far as I could see. A number of boats worked in circular patterns hauling and resetting traps. Visibility was excellent. I wondered how fishermen got away with molesting competitors’ gear without being seen. I had heard that the Maine Marine Patrol had no teeth when it came to prosecution for fishing crimes. So I imagined that had led to the free-for-all that this sliver of ocean was noted for. I understood that gear wars were out of control here. And if this morning’s events had been an indication of how things were handled at sea, I figured the Marine Patrol as an agency of enforcement was a joke.

  Before long, I slipped into a daydream starring Pete. It had been such a long time since I had encountered a man who caught my eye and my breath that I had nearly forgotten how to fantasize. I imagined meeting him at his family’s party. He would offer me his arm, which I would graciously accept. He would whisk me around, politely introducing me to everyone and anyone. What would I wear? What would I drink? Would there be dancing? Would there be a good night kiss? I inhaled deeply and could almost smell his aftershave.

  A pickup truck approached too swiftly from behind, filling my rearview mirror and distracting my thoughts. The driver swerved out around me and passed on a dangerous curve in the road. Darting back to the right lane, nearly cutting me off, the pickup bounced along until it disappeared around another corner. Glancing at my speedometer, I shrugged when I saw that I was well below the speed limit. I imagined that the locals who drove this stretch of road daily had become accustomed to the deep and massive fissures that peppered Route 176, and perhaps didn’t baby their vehicles as I did mine. And it was likely that they were not preoccupied with dreams of romantic possibilities.

  By the time I found the entrance to Dirigo Maritime Academy, I had been passed by three trucks and a tractor. The parade of more patient drivers that had accumulated behind me seemed relieved as they rushed by when I turned off at the school. A single honk of a horn seemed more a thank-you than it did a gesture of good riddance. But that could have been a reflection of my mood made buoyant by my mounting intrigue with Pete (not to be confused with any intrigue in mounting Pete. I am, after all, a relative prude when it comes to such things).

  I was happy to find that Dirigo maintained their drive meticulously. In fact, the entire campus was groomed to perfection. While most of Maine’s scenic land and seascapes were rugged and handsome in a natural way, Dirigo’s campus seemed more artificial. The beauty was contrived, I thought. Flowering shrubs lining walkways were exotic and gorgeous. But I preferred indigenous to alien, I thought as I followed signs to the visitors’ parking.

  I found a spot, parked, and jumped out of the Duster. I ran my hands down both thighs to straighten my now wrinkled khakis, and tugged the back of my jacket down from where it had ridden up while I was seated. Freshly painted wooden signs directed foot traffic along various walkways. I started in the direction of “Administration,” following signs at intersections until I stood in the shadow cast by a large brick building propped up on pristine white columns. I checked my phone for a text from the sheriff, and found contact information for the Academy’s president, Earl Smith. Now I knew who I was looking for.

  I bolted up the stairs of the administration building, knowing that I would go through the formalities of filing the missing person report for the wayward cadet, and get back on the road toward home ASAP. By the time I got to the sheriff’s department, Deloris would have any and all pertinent details on Pete. And the rest of her assignment? Well, yes, I would be interested in learning about whatever Deloris could dig up on the menacing captain of Insight, as I would no doubt eventually be assigned to investigate the sinking of Elizabeth. My second job as insurance gal was less exciting than my deputy gig. But it helped pay the bills, I thought as I looked through a list of the building’s occupants by office number.

  Earl Smith, according to the list, was in office number one. Appropriate, I thought as I walked a long, cool corridor looking for the academy’s president. The office numbers were in descending order. I found number one at the very end of the corridor, knocked once, and entered. I was greeted by a very pleasant, chubby, elderly woman who stood from her desk as I entered. “You must be Deputy Bunker,” she said quietly.

  “Yes. I’m here to see President Smith.”

  “We have been expecting you. Thanks for coming. He’s with the parents. Everyone is very concerned.” She was almost whispering as she made her way from behind her desk to shake my hand. “Right this way,” she said as she led me to another door where she knocked lightly until a voice beckoned us to enter. The secretary opened the door and motioned for me to enter, which I did. She introduced me to her boss and the couple that remained seated in comfortable, easy chairs. The woman wept quietly while her husband wrung his hands. Overreacting, I thought to myself as I took a seat and pulled a small notepad and pen from my jacket’s inside pocket. I couldn’t help but think of the dramatic difference in the two missing persons cases. No tears were being shed for Bianca. And help from the inn was scarce. My presence at the inn had been a nuisance. Here, I sensed relief that I had arrived. There, nobody seemed alarmed that a young woman hadn’t come home. Here, emotions were running on high.

  President Smith pulled reading glasses from his face and wiped a bead of sweat with a neat handkerchief pulled from a trouser pocket. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw a man use a handkerchief. Old-school, I thought as I waited for someone to start the conversation. “Thank you for coming, Deputy Bunker,” Earl said as he placed the glasses on the top of his head. “In the interest of time, what do you know so far? No sense rehashing the upsetting facts.”

  “Well, I haven’t been told much,” I said. “I know that one of your students is missing following an at-sea training period. Cadet shipping, I think is what you call it.”

  “Yes, all Dirigo students spend three summers in our cadet shipping program. Two summers are spent on our school’s training ship, and the third is aboard a commercial vessel—real hands-on experience that often leads to employment with the same company.” This sounded a bit like a school brochure, I thought as I jotted notes. The woman, who was the mother of the missing cadet, wailed loudly as her husband tried to console her. Earl Smith continued, “In this case, Second Classman Franklin Avery had been placed aboard a cruise ship two months ago. He was due back in por
t and back to school yesterday. When he missed muster this morning, we called his parents.”

  I looked up from my notebook. The Averys stared at me. This wasn’t much to go on, I thought. What did they expect me to say? “I understand your concern,” I lied. “When was Franklin last heard from?”

  The cadet’s father answered. “We received an email from him on Monday. He emailed from the ship daily. We didn’t think much of not hearing from him yesterday, as we expected him to call wanting us to pick him up when he got ashore. We had planned to catch up over lunch, and then deliver him back to school in time for dinner last night. When he hadn’t called for a ride, we just assumed that he got held up aboard the ship and that he would call as soon as he was relieved of all duties.”

  “What about friends or roommates?” I asked. “Has anyone checked?”

  “His girlfriend,” the father answered. “We assumed that Franklin would want to see her first, and rightly so. But she hasn’t heard from him since yesterday either.”

  The realist in me had a notion that Franklin had met another woman. Happens all the time, I thought. He may have been led astray. He was probably shacked up somewhere in a local hotel. But that wasn’t a theory I would share with his doting parents. Not yet, anyway. “And assuming he has a cell phone, I know that you have been dialing that. And you have left multiple messages, correct?”

  “Of course,” Mr. Avery confirmed.

  “What about social media? Can you share any Facebook account information? Twitter? Anything that might help track recent activity would be good for me to have. What about credit cards?” I asked, knowing that a credit card is a must for checking into any hotel. “My associate back at the sheriff’s department is highly skilled at electronic forensics and just plain digging.” I regretted using the word forensics as soon as it slipped out, as it brought on a fresh round of howling from Mrs. Avery. If she only knew how ridiculous she’d feel when her son showed up like nothing had happened. Some people have a penchant for drama, I thought.

  Even Mr. Avery seemed a bit put off by his wife’s theatrics as he answered my inquiries. “Yes, we will give you everything you need to track Franklin down.”

  “He’s only been missing since last night, right? There’s a very good chance that your son is in no danger at all. How old is Franklin? And do you have a recent picture of him?” I asked, trying to sound as optimistic as I was without sounding as annoyed as I was.

  “Our Frankie is turning twenty next month,” Mrs. Avery stopped sobbing long enough to interject. “And he is not one to disappear! He is a good boy, isn’t he, President Smith?”

  “Yes. Franklin is the last cadet I would suspect of misbehaving or being irresponsible. He is a model student and one we are very proud of here at Dirigo.”

  “I’m sure that is true,” I said truthfully. “And the majority of nice young men who fall out of communication with parents and girlfriends and have never been in any trouble before show up unscathed.”

  “Well, we are all hoping and praying for that,” said President Smith. “But I’m sure you didn’t come all the way to Dirigo to tell us to sit tight. What can we do in the meantime? Are you filing a formal missing person report? Is there a waiting period that needs to be met?”

  “In Maine, we have no formal missing person report. It’s simply a police report, and that was filed when you placed the call to the sheriff,” I said. “I am here to follow up, and collect all pertinent information that will assist in locating Franklin.” I handed my notepad to Mrs. Avery and asked her to write down everything she knew regarding social media that her son used, cell phone number, girlfriend’s contact info, credit card numbers, social security number, and the like. “What is the name of the ship he was training aboard? Do you have any contact information for his employer? When and where was Franklin scheduled to be relieved of his duties?”

  President Smith opened a file folder and produced a nice headshot of Franklin Avery. I took the picture and admired how handsome and wholesome he looked in his uniform. The president shuffled through a few pages and read, “Franklin was training aboard a cruise ship called The Princess of the Seas.” I cringed as he continued. “The ship landed in Bar Harbor as scheduled yesterday morning. The Averys waited to welcome Franklin home, but he never came ashore.”

  “We waited for hours,” exclaimed Mrs. Avery. “The launch went back and forth from the dock to the ship at least twenty times. The last trip of the day carried all of the ship’s officers except our Franklin. We assumed that he had been required to stay aboard for some reason. We left phone messages for him to call when he needed a ride, and we went home to wait. He never called.”

  I suddenly had more interest in this case. The Princess of the Seas was the last known destination of my missing girl, Bianca. I would have Deloris check for a connection between Franklin and Bianca. And if Franklin was involved in a clandestine relationship, it made sense that he would not come ashore to the waiting arms of his mother and his girlfriend. If they had rendezvoused, there would be plenty of evidence in the form of texts, emails, or phone calls. Just as I was formulating a tactful way to tell the parents that I had a hunch regarding their son that might cast a shadow on his sterling reputation, a phone dinged loudly. Mr. Avery apologized as he pulled his phone from a pocket. “It’s Frankie!” Mr. Avery pushed the phone to open the text with great force, and read, “Stuck aboard—sorry. Will get ashore in Rockland Saturday. TTYL.”

  “Thank God!” Mrs. Avery wiped a tear from her cheek. “Ask him when we should be there.” Mr. Avery obediently texted back and forth with his son while we all waited for his report. I wanted badly to ask Mr. Avery to inquire about a young Romanian girl, but resisted. I made a note to have Deloris check the ETA for The Princess into Rockland. My sense of local geography was not great. But I thought Rockland, Maine, was just a few ports down the coast from Bar Harbor. I didn’t understand why Franklin would not be ashore until Saturday when I had watched The Princess weigh anchor hours ago. I noticed a nautical chart on the wall of President Smith’s office, and got up to examine it. I half listened to Mrs. Avery bark orders to her husband while he texted. “Why don’t you just call him? Why hasn’t he answered our messages?”

  “He says that his phone had no service in Bar Harbor and that he just got our messages,” explained Mr. Avery. I could tell from his tone that he was trying to cover for his son. And that he didn’t believe the lame excuse for no contact. “He was required to stay aboard ship because he is low man on the totem pole, and the other engineers all wanted shore leave in Bar Harbor.”

  “That’s our Frankie,” praised Mrs. Avery. “He is very responsible and thoughtful of others. But what about school? He is missing classes.”

  Earl Smith chimed in. “He can be excused from a few classes in the line of duty aboard ship. The hands-on experience he is getting is invaluable.” Another plug for Dirigo, I thought as I found Rockland on the chart. “I am relieved, but not surprised, to learn that all is well.” I stretched my hand from port to port—planting my thumb on Bucksport, the tip of my middle finger landing in Bar Harbor. I then moved my hand to the lines of latitude at the vertical edge of the chart and measured minutes. “I guess we should let the sheriff know that the lost has been found.” I felt this was my invitation to leave, but was still figuring out how long it would take The Princess to steam from Bar Harbor to Rockland. And I was still looking for a way to mention Bianca. Cops don’t tend to believe in coincidence.

  “The trip from Bar Harbor to Rockland is less than one hundred miles,” I said as I stared at the chart. “And most cruise ships steam at a minimum of twenty knots. So, he should be in Rockland by this evening.”

  “You know that from waving your hand over the map?” asked Mrs. Avery skeptically.

  “Well, it’s not entirely accurate. But as the crow flies—it’s good enough. Every minute of latitude equals one nautical mile,” I explained.

  “Whatever.” She was clearly not impresse
d with my navigational skills. “Dear,” Mrs. Avery said as she patted her husband’s back, “we should pick up Melissa and go to Rockland. I can’t wait to see him!” I assumed that Melissa was the girlfriend.

  “But Frankie says he can’t get off the ship until Saturday,” replied her husband. Somehow I suspected that Mr. Avery hadn’t relayed all of the text messages. “We should wait until then to go to Rockland. Let’s do as he has asked.”

  “But what about Melissa? That is unfair of the cruise line to expect Frankie to stay aboard while in port—especially seeing that he was supposed to be relieved yesterday.” Mrs. Avery was nearly pouting. “Come on. Let’s get out of President Smith’s hair. We have wasted enough of his time.”

  The three shook hands and thanked one another and all shared sighs of relief. The parents thanked me and apologized for wasting my time. “Not at all,” I said. “I am glad to know your son is in no danger.” I waited behind as President Smith walked the Averys to the door. When he returned to his desk, I filled him in on my missing girl. I confided my suspicions to him regarding Frankie and Bianca. I realized that he might see the connection as a stretch. But with young people, where there’s a will there’s a way. And mere acquaintances were fair game among millennials to hook up with sexually, especially for those born at the very end of Generation Y, I thought. “I am not judging. But it seems likely that these two may have hooked up aboard the ship. My partner is looking at activity on Bianca’s phone. Now that I have Frankie’s number, I may be able to establish a connection.”

  “But Frankie is no longer missing. There is no need to investigate, is there?”

  “Well, I still have a missing girl to locate. And the only lead I have is a friend she was meeting aboard a cruise ship that was in Bar Harbor last night. See where I am going with this?”

  “Yes, I understand what you’re driving at. Not Franklin Avery. No way. He is very devoted to his girlfriend and not at all susceptible to being led astray.”