Bimini Twist Read online

I had found Bianca’s roommate, Anika, in the inn’s laundry facility. Anika was very concerned, and grateful for the attention put forth on behalf of the missing roomie. I learned of a second reported missing girl that seemingly was never resolved—and may not have been thoroughly investigated. I met and questioned the owner/operators of Tag Team Taxi, Dud and Dolly. I learned that Dolly had driven Bianca to the waterfront where she had stated she was meeting a friend from Romania who worked aboard a cruise ship. I had since learned that The Princess of the Seas was the only possibility of the two cruise ships that were in port when I arrived at the waterfront myself, as the Allure had arrived this morning. The other ship that I learned had been in Bar Harbor—Radiance—had weighed anchor for Cuba the night before and had no Eastern Europeans on its passenger or employee lists, probably ruling that out as a possibility.

  Pete Alfond transported me to The Princess with his lobster/pilot boat, Ragged But Right. I spoke briefly with the ship’s steward at the boarding door. The steward had looked at Bianca’s picture, and did not recognize her. He also claimed that there had been no visitors allowed aboard in Bar Harbor, so was confident that Bianca had not been there. I noted that this was questionable. I could not board and ask around, because the ship was getting ready to leave. And, as the steward had mentioned, the foreign flag enabled the ship to not allow me access to investigate unless the missing person had been a US citizen.

  The trip to Dirigo was easier in terms of paperwork, I thought as I drove the length of Green Haven’s Main Street. I had met the school’s president, Earl Smith. I had met the parents of the missing student, Franklin Avery. And by the time I left the school, the case of the missing cadet was seemingly resolved as he had texted that he was still aboard The Princess as part of his cadet shipping experience, and would disembark in Rockland Saturday morning.

  With the exception of Bianca’s roommate, Anika, everyone else I had questioned believed that she was in no danger and that she would show up to work soon. And all of the evidence certainly supported that theory. I would know for sure on Saturday when I planned to be in Rockland to close this case. I would not be accused of dropping the ball, as someone had with the missing girl from last year, I vowed as I pulled into my parking spot in the Vickersons’ yard. And that concluded my day’s activities, I thought as I locked up and made my way to my apartment. The case of the lobster boat ramming and sinking would be on hold until I was asked to investigate for the insurance company. And if Pete Alfond’s insights on that were accurate, it might never be reported. So I could focus on police business for now, I thought. Maybe I would crack open a cold case after all.

  I knew that I had time to freshen up before joining Henry, Alice, and Wally for dinner, as my landlords fancied themselves late diners, which I had come to know meant plenty of time for a Scotch or two. They had even taken to mixing Wally a mock-tail every night! I was certainly ready for the real thing by the time I knocked and entered the tidy kitchen.

  * * *

  “Well, look what the tide left!” Mr. V greeted me with a smile and arms open for a quick hug. “Glad you made it home for dinner. Alice has a real treat for us—Mediterranean mussels over angel-hair pasta.” The brief embrace was warm, and I noted how bony the old man’s back had become. I could feel individual ribs, and realized that in his mid-eighties, Mr. V was doing quite well in spite of his thinness.

  Mrs. V waved a wooden spoon from her station at the stove, reminding me of a stereotypical grandmother. Her white hair was pulled back into a neat bun that filled the nook between the base of her skull and slight hunch in her back. “Hello, dear! Get comfortable in the living room while Henry tends bar. Your brother should be home from work soon.”

  I plopped into my favorite armchair and immediately started my inspection of the nautical knickknacks lining every horizontal space. The glass sailboats holding unlit tea lights continued competing in the endless regatta along the fireplace mantle. Although all eight frosted glass boats were identical, they were a catalyst for the Vickersons’ frequent discussions on sailing and boats. Sloops, ketches, yawls, gaffers … If it has a sail, it’s a sailboat, in my opinion. But my landlords were virtual naval architects, and not always from the same school. This made for interesting and often heated debates about hull speeds, sail styles and sizes, etc. Hoping to avoid Sailing 101 this evening, I forced my stare to the large sill at the bay window. “What happened to the mermaids?” I asked.

  “She moved them to the bathroom,” answered Mr. V as he filled the ice bucket from a drawer-style freezer. “Do you like the wheel?” I couldn’t help but notice the full-sized ship’s wheel—wooden and spoked—that diminished the top of the table. “It’s from Queen Anne’s Revenge. You know? Blackbeard?”

  “Really? Where did you find it?”

  “It’s a replica.”

  “Oh. Of course,” I said feeling a little stupid. Mr. V handed me a Scotch with two ice cubes. He placed his wife’s drink on an anchor coaster on an end table next to the chair she liked, and made his way to the “south end of the couch” as he liked to call it, leaving the north end for Wally. Slowly, Mr. V lowered himself onto the overstuffed cushion, bracing with his right hand on the arm of the couch and his left fist in the cushion. He groaned and exhaled as his buttocks finally landed and took the weight off of his extremities. I had recently noticed that Mr. V was showing his age. It made me sad that I was not comfortable with mentioning this or even asking how he was feeling. I had never dealt with the joys of aging parents. I jumped up to grab his drink that he had forgotten on the bar. “So where did you get the replica?”

  “Uncle Henry’s,” he said, referring to the Maine-based swap, sell, and trade publication that was fodder for a large percentage of local small talk. “Drove clear to Gouldsboro to pick it up. Twenty-six miles, round-trip. Still a deal, though. I got that beauty for fifteen bucks!”

  “Plus lunch,” Mrs. V chimed in as she joined us. “Henry always neglects to mention all expenses when he boasts of the deals he gets.”

  “Good thing you’re such a cheap date,” Henry laughed. “Wasses Hot Dogs. Two with everything for five bucks. And a bottle of water from home. We used to eat two dogs apiece. Not anymore. We’re getting old, my love.”

  We sipped Scotch and chatted about a number of things as we waited for Wally to come home from the café. Mr. V gave me a lecture on Blackbeard and his ship, which I found interesting. Who doesn’t love pirate intrigue? We agreed that the ship’s wheel would sell quickly in the Lobster Trappe, as soon he found something suitable to replace it on the coffee table. By suitable, I knew the item would need to be found in Uncle Henry’s, and involve a road trip, and be worthy of little conversation.

  As Mr. V struggled to his feet to mix another round, I filled my landlords in on my missing people. The working theory that Bianca and Franklin were enjoying a tryst aboard a cruise ship delighted Mr. and Mrs. V. “Young love is wonderful!” Mrs. V exclaimed. “You’re not going to bust them, are you?” It always cracked me up when the octogenarians used contemporary vernacular.

  “No, they haven’t done anything illegal. But it is my job to follow up and ensure that they are accounted for. There was a girl reported missing last year at this time, and we have no idea whether it was resolved. Not on my watch,” I said.

  “Yes, young love … And old love ain’t too bad.” Mr. V was trailing us in the conversation, which was happening more and more. “Alice and I met at the Blue Hill Fair. Sixty.…” Henry turned toward us from the bar, stopped to think and appeared to be confused.

  “Sixty-two years ago this September.” Mrs. V rescued her husband, as usual. “And I know we went missing on occasion.” She winked at her adoring husband.

  “Yep. I met my wife at the Blue Hill Fair. She was working at the girlie show.”

  “Henry! Stop that! I’m glad Wally isn’t home to hear that nonsense.”

  Almost on cue, the door flew open and Wally made a grand entrance. Not grand in a grandios
e way—just grand in that his quiet, positive presence lit up the room without effort or intention on his part. All smiles, Wally hugged me while I remained seated. Happiness breeds happiness, I thought as Wally took a seat at his end of the couch. “What are you drinking, Walter?” asked Mr. V, using the full name as requested by my brother after being told by Audrey that Wally was not mature enough.

  “Yes please, Mister V,” Wally said politely.

  “Okay, double Scotch, neat. Coming right up.” Henry answered my questioning scowl with a playful grin, and popped the top on a can of root beer. As he poured it over ice in a highball glass, he said, “I was just explaining to your sister how I met Mrs. V.”

  “Dinner is served! Bring your drinks to the table,” Mrs. V said loudly. “I want you to eat this masterpiece while it’s hot,” Mrs. V announced as she bounced to her feet and hustled toward the kitchen just as a timer dinged. We all obliged obediently, as we were acutely aware that the cook is the boss—even when she isn’t cooking.

  Mrs. V oohed and aahed and smacked her lips as she served up four plates of piping hot angel-hair pasta topped with her newest creation for the All Mussel Cookbook she had been working on since I had landed on her doorstep over a year ago. We ate mussels in some form every night. And she never repeated a recipe.

  After a quick joining of hands for grace delivered by Henry, we dug in. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I took the first bite. The mussels were just the right size and were cooked to perfection—shells were open and meats nearly fell out. They were moist and smooth, not dry and grainy like when they are overcooked. The broth was slightly briny, and had a hint of fresh tarragon and Pernod. Capers, sundried tomatoes, and Kalamata olives added color, texture, and flavor. I willed myself to slow down when I realized I was gulping.

  Wally and I cleared the table, rinsing and placing the dishes in the sink for Henry and Alice to deal with later. (I appreciated the fact that Alice never allowed us to actually wash the dishes, because I was usually yawning by the time that was necessary). As soon as there was room on the table, Mrs. V presented a beautifully plated dessert. Wally literally clapped his hands in applause of the mini tower of sweetness dusted in powdered sugar and capped with a dollop of lemon-flavored cream. “Wow, Mrs. V, you have outdone yourself. What is this?” I asked while still admiring my plate.

  “Reinette apple dessert,” she answered proudly. “It’s to die for. Believe me. But I had to substitute golden delicious for the Reinettes. Welcome to Down East Maine…”

  “A taste of the forbidden fruit! This is how Eve entrapped Adam, my dear,” said Henry as he pushed a fork down through four layers of his stacked dessert.

  “Forbidden?” Wally asked, laying down his fork.

  “In the biblical sense only, my friend.” Mr. V turned to me and asked, “Didn’t you kids attend Sunday school?”

  “When it comes to poison apples, the Evil Queen and Snow White is more my speed,” I answered as I nearly licked my plate.

  “Well, that’s a case of comparing apples to oranges,” Mrs. V added, knowing she was starting one of our word battles.

  “An apple a day keeps the doctor away,” I said.

  “How do you like them apples?” Wally surprised me by jumping in appropriately.

  “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Mr. V noted.

  “But one bad apple don’t spoil the whole bunch,” I reminded him.

  “Don’t be a wise apple,” Mrs. V teasingly scolded her husband.

  “You’re the apple of my eye!”

  “You are an apple polisher!”

  “Don’t upset the apple cart.”

  “American as apple pie,” I shouted. We all sat silently thinking. I couldn’t come up with another apple reference, and it was clear that nobody else could either. “I win!”

  “I concede. It is time for everyone to get away from the table so we can police-up the kitchen and get ready for bed,” Mrs. V said as she started clearing the dessert plates. “Walter, you go get cleaned up now, sweetheart.”

  “Thank you for dinner,” Wally said as he pushed his chair in. He then gave me another hug and retreated to his room. I, too, thanked my landlords for dinner, and was happy to retire to my apartment. I was not sleepy, but would always log in a few extra hours of sleep when I could.

  It was just eight thirty when I was in my nightshirt and ready to tuck into bed. The sun was disappearing, leaving behind traces of citrus that mingled then dissolved into the western bay. I heaved a contented sigh and pulled the shade on the day. Although I was not excited about my duties right now, I had to admit that chasing down missing people was like a vacation. I wouldn’t be shot at or threatened in any way, I thought as I turned down the top sheet. And after all, it was summer. And summer was a great time to spend more time with friends and family. I wasn’t sure whether the Vickersons were friends or family, but I did enjoy and appreciate all they did and were doing for Wally and me. As I reflected, I had to acknowledge the fact that I was indeed looking forward to Friday night. Wouldn’t it be great, I thought, to investigate possibilities with Pete Alfond?

  Just as I drifted, nearly sleeping, my cell phone rang. Nobody ever calls me unless it’s work-related, I knew. I cleared my head and jumped up to grab my phone. It was my boss at the marine insurance company, Mr. Dubois. “Hi, Jane. Sorry for the late call. I have a job that needs to be done tomorrow if you’re not busy fighting crime,” he said.

  “Hello, Mr. Dubois,” I answered. “I am on fairly light duty now, so I can give you a day. What’s up?” When I wasn’t in the throes of a major investigation, the sheriff appreciated my moonlighting as the insurance adjustor/investigator, as it was easier on payroll to not have hours tallying up without real purpose and progress. And it was an easy back and forth between law and insurance, I thought. And I didn’t have anything on my deputy sheriff slate until Rockland on Saturday.

  “Not the most pleasant assignment, I’m afraid,” he said. “One of our commercial lobstermen passed away this afternoon. Looks like a heart attack brought on by his boat sinking.” I was stunned and remained silent. I waited and was not surprised to hear, “Ron Thomas. Nice family man. His widow needs some attention and assurance that we are on it.”

  FIVE

  I was at first stunned, and then saddened, to hear of the death of a man whom I had helped save from drowning. I wondered briefly about Pete Alfond. He and Ron Thomas seemed to be close friends. Was Pete aware of the death yet? If the truth were to come out, would there be manslaughter charges brought against the captain of Insight? Murder one was more appropriate, I thought. But chances of that ever happening were slim, I knew. “Where and when do I meet the widow?” I asked.

  “Her name is, let’s see … Liza Thomas. I’ll text you the address listed on the policies. She’s in Northeast Harbor, and expects you in the morning—first thing. They carried a lot of insurance, both property and life, with us. The boat was paid for, which is unusual.” Mr. Dubois’s voice cracked and squeaked with emotion. I didn’t know if he was overwrought with sadness about the death, or if doling out large sums elicited his grief. “If you can console her and give her confidence, I’ll start the paperwork for the claims and reach out to her personally as well.”

  “Will do. Let her know that I will be at her door at eight a.m. And I’ll look for the text with her address from you,” I said. We hung up, and I crawled back under the covers of my bed and lay awake staring at the ceiling. I realized that I would have to fill my boss in about what I had witnessed today. Would it be considered a conflict of interest for me to conduct any duties on behalf of the insurance company or the sheriff’s department? Judging from what I had learned about the unlawful way of Down East Maine in general, I doubted anyone would raise an eyebrow if I were to testify as a witness as well as being an arresting officer should charges be filed. Didn’t I owe it to the insurance company to hold Larry Vigue accountable? Insight must certainly be fully insured, I reasoned. But
nearly every commercial fisherman in the region was covered by the same underwriters. So, I reasoned, the claims would eventually come from the same till.

  I wondered how much the widow knew of how Elizabeth came to sink today. Did her now late husband tell her it had been an accident? Did he confide in his wife the degree of hostility that had been reached in the ongoing territorial war that I had learned was part and parcel of the inshore lobster fishery? How would Ron’s death affect the battles? Would the aggressive activity escalate? Or would Ron’s death act to curtail it? I knew of boat sinkings that had occurred while boats were on moorings, scuttlings that had been self-inflicted for high insurance payouts, and boat burnings that occurred when nobody was aboard. I was aware of boats that had been cast adrift and of shootings that amounted to warning shots across bows. There were daily reports of gear molestation and theft. But what I had witnessed today was an intention to kill, attempted murder that could easily be seen as involuntary manslaughter at the very least.

  I needed to turn my mind off and get some sleep. Tomorrow morning could be long and emotional. I heard my phone ding with an incoming text just as I was teetering on the edge of sleep. In my cloudy state, I fantasized that the text that I knew was from Mr. Dubois was from Pete, saying good night. I have always reveled in that half-in, half-out stage of consciousness where I can manipulate reality to suit me.

  Sleep came quickly, and morning too early. First light slipped around the window shades and through my eyelids, waking me gently. I stretched and yawned, not daring to turn over and risk falling back to sleep. I hopped up and into a warm shower and pulled on light clothes, ready for a hot day in my un-air-conditioned Duster. Khakis, blouses, and sensible shoes were what I lived in. One of the things I enjoyed about living and working in Maine was the absence of a dress code. As long as I was covered appropriately, I could get away with most anything in my modest wardrobe. Clean was the only guideline I had been given, and was what I followed whether performing duties for the insurance company or the sheriff’s department. I liked not wearing a uniform. Those days were way behind me, I thought as I buttoned up. I hadn’t worn a uniform since being a beat cop in Miami. Once I had been promoted to detective, the Dade County taupe became a thing of the past. (Taupe was never becoming on me, a mousy blonde with a low-color complexion. I would have much preferred a dark blue or green—but they were too hot in the summer.) Before I closed my closet door, I glanced through my hanging clothes for something to wear to the Alfonds’ party. Maybe I would have to buy something new, but not tell Deloris.