Bimini Twist Read online

  The text on my phone was indeed the address I needed from Mr. Dubois. I opened my Road Atlas to Maine and found the only route from Green Haven to Northeast Harbor. It looked to be a forty-five-minute drive with light morning traffic. And I figured I could easily find 10 Peabody Neck when I got there. I was behind the wheel of the Duster at 6:00 a.m. as planned, leaving me an hour to grab coffee and breakfast at the café.

  “Good morning, Audrey,” I called as I closed the door of the café behind me.

  “Good afternoon,” the smart aleck called back from the far side of the counter where she wrapped silverware in white paper napkins and stacked them in preparation for the breakfast rush. “Do you think the criminals sleep in, too? I sure hope so, because otherwise I’d feel unprotected for the first two hours of my day.”

  “Yes,” I smiled as I perched on a stool, resting an elbow on the paper place mat. “The local outlaws are notoriously late risers. All of them,” I teased as Audrey poured a mug of steaming hot coffee and set it in front of me. “Do you have any more of those biscuits?” I asked.

  “The day olds? Yeah, but they are now three days old. I was going to feed them to the seagulls.” My look of obvious horror at the thought of feeding the birds with what I might call breakfast stopped the sassy waitress in her tracks. “Jesus, you’re cheap. Okay, you want a stale biscuit? You got it. But I draw the line at mold. If they are green, you’ll have to break the bank and spring for the special.”

  Audrey pushed through swinging doors that led to the kitchen and reappeared before the doors stopped swinging. She held a biscuit in her right hand. Grabbing a small plate from a shelf under the counter, she slid the plate onto my place mat, plopped the biscuit on it, and said, “Bon appétit, girlfriend.”

  “Thank you. Jelly?”

  “Oh, of course! And butter, too, right?” she exclaimed as she presented a small ceramic tray filled with individual pats of butter and assorted jams. I disliked this packaging of condiments, and had voiced this to Audrey many times. They are hard to open if you bite your fingernails, which I do. And I like a lot of butter—so the end result is a large pile of empty plastic things that have been chewed open.

  “Thank you,” I said as I began the tedious process of picking at the corner of foil sealing a pad of butter. I spun the package around, trying each of the four corners before I managed to lift an edge, giving me access to the butter. Fortunately, the café door opened and a group of four came in, followed by a couple of guys who sat at the counter. As much as I liked Audrey, I didn’t need her full attention first thing in the morning. Spreading cold, hard butter on a dry biscuit was at first entertaining, and then frustrating. What initially appeared as a large, lumpy bun had been reduced to rubble on my plate. I chopped the pats of butter into smaller pieces and tried to butter individual crumbs as they flaked from the shrinking biscuit.

  The cowbells fixed to the inside of the café door chimed a number of times, to which I paid no attention until I heard Audrey greet my buddy Cal. Cal was one of the first people I had met when I moved to Green Haven. And I knew him as someone I could count on. Cal had retired from commercial fishing, and was always willing and available for hire if I needed a boat ride. We had, in our short relationship, been through a few scrapes and come out basically unscathed. I looked up from my plate of scraps just as Cal took the stool beside me. Cal was not a gabber or a gossip. He was quiet and spoke only when necessary. After a friendly hello, Cal shook out a newspaper and began to read the front page, looking up when Audrey came over to take his breakfast order. “What’s it going to be today?” Audrey asked as she refilled my coffee and set a fresh cup for Cal.

  “What’s that?” Cal asked after checking out the mess on my plate.

  “Biscuit,” I said.

  “I’ll have the special, over easy,” Cal said with a scowl. “Hold the biscuit.”

  Audrey giggled and dashed off to place the order. “Hey Cal,” I said, “How long would it take for you to get to Great Duck Island?”

  “Nice day like this, I guess it would be a bit better than an hour,” he said.

  “I need a ride out tomorrow to check out a clambake.”

  “You want to go to a clambake? You can do that right here. Fletcher’s puts one on every Sunday—open to the public—only twenty bucks a ticket.”

  “Well, I have to attend the one on Great Duck tomorrow as part of an active investigation,” I said. “Are you free to give me a ride out?”

  “Yup. Is this on the insurance company or the sheriff’s department?” Cal asked in reference to who would be paying him for the water taxi service that I enjoyed.

  “Hancock County,” I said.

  “What do I need to know?” Cal asked, clearly poking me about a couple of adventures I had gotten him into. Boat ride gone bad is an accurate description of the last time I hired Cal for transportation.

  “This is tame. I am tracking down two missing young people who I suspect will surface on Great Duck. I believe the young man and woman are aboard a cruise ship whose passengers and crew are scheduled to be at the clambake at noon tomorrow. No criminals—just kids.”

  “That’s what you said last time. But, yes. I will meet you aboard Sea Pigeon at ten thirty.”

  “That works,” I said as I resorted to eating my biscuit with a spoon.

  Audrey arrived with a plate of eggs and toast for Cal. Glancing at my breakfast, she said, “That is not good for business.”

  She pulled a slip from her apron pocket and slapped it on the counter. I turned it over and said, “You’re charging me for the biscuit? I thought you were planning to throw it out!”

  “I am charging you for the butter! And for the cleanup I’ll have to do when you leave. Looks like Hansel and Gretel have been here, bread crumbs up the wazoo.”

  I glanced around and was embarrassed to admit that I had made quite a mess. I attempted picking crumbs from my lap, which only crumbled them further. So I brushed them into my hand and dumped them onto the plate as Audrey cleared it. “Well, looks like Wally will have plenty to do when he comes in for his shift,” I said with an apologetic smile as I noticed the ring of crumbs circling the base of my stool.

  Audrey actually stopped moving, something that is quite rare. She placed her free hand on her hip, rolled her eyes, and said, “Gee thanks. Very thoughtful of you to make work for my employee. You’re the best.” She shifted back into high gear and flittered around the café, chatting and tossing insults while she single-handedly waited on what had become a full house. Much like the Soup Nazi from Seinfeld, Audrey had neither time nor patience for indecision. If a customer dawdled over the menu, she literally snatched it from their hands and ordered breakfast for them—usually the special, which always consisted of eggs, home fried potatoes, and toast. Locals knew to bark out their preferences as Audrey approached their table. And knew that there was a strict “no substitutions” rule. If you ordered a hot dog for lunch with “everything,” this did not include ketchup, which in Audrey’s words was sacrilegious. There was no complaint department, complaint box, or complaint tolerance. If you ordered eggs and were served pancakes, “Shut up and eat them” was good advice. In spite of (or because of) all of this, the Harbor Café was thriving with Audrey at the helm.

  I knew to pay my bill and slip away without saying goodbye, as doing so would invite a snide remark about what I was wearing, or sarcasm about the tip amount. In this case, my tab was $1.50. I felt quite generous leaving two dollars on the counter. That tip was over 30 percent! But, I reminded myself, Audrey worked very hard and was nice to my brother. And I didn’t have the time to wait for change.

  Phew. A clean getaway, I thought as I left Green Haven in the rearview mirror. Traffic was indeed light. But the condition of the road that led to Northeast Harbor from Route 1 was rough, which forced me to drive below the posted speed limit of forty-five miles an hour. The rough road surface coupled with my unfamiliarity with the twists and turns put me in Northeast Harbor at
exactly eight o’clock, which was fine. I continued on the main road through what I assumed was the town of Northeast Harbor, which consisted of a narrow main street section lined with small shops that I had come to recognize as quintessential Down East Maine. You might not find a bank or a grocery store in the middle of most towns. But there was an abundance of antique shops, hair salons, and churches, all of which seemed to be in competition for the worst signage award. Who thought it was funny to name a hair salon “Curl Up and Dye”?

  The road widened as I followed it out of the congestion of Main Street. The absence of parking spots left pavement enough for oncoming traffic to pass without fear of losing side mirrors. I drove slowly to read street signs as I passed them, and quickly found Peabody Neck on my right. The drive was carved out of a thick forest of spruce trees of great girth. All of the green branches were up high, leaving space at eye level to admire the view of the ocean on either side. The land grew broader as driveways appeared sporadically, some gated and some not. A simple wooden sign marked a drive on my right as number ten. A slight incline and a sharp curve opened up to a gorgeous house, barn, and view. This couldn’t be right, I thought as I pulled around the circular driveway and stopped directly in front of granite steps that led to a magnificent, heavy mahogany door. I knew that hardworking fishermen made a decent living. But this was not at all what I expected. Too nice, too much, I thought as I flipped open my phone to check the address.

  I climbed out of the Duster, deciding to knock on the door and ask for directions to the Thomas house. As I made it to the top of the granite steps, the door opened before I knocked. A handsome young boy of about ten years old stood in bare feet holding the door open. “Hi,” I said. “Can you tell me where the Thomases live?”

  “We live right here. I’m Bradley,” he said.

  “Well hello.” I tried to hide my surprise. “I’m Jane Bunker from the insurance company Marine Safety Consultants in Ellsworth. Is Liza home?”

  “Yep. Mom,” he yelled over his shoulder. “The insurance lady is here!” He waited for a reply, and when he didn’t receive one, he said, “She is expecting you. Follow me.” I did as I was told, following Bradley through a beautiful entryway lined with what appeared to be family photos, black and white and done by a professional. He led me into an ultra-modern kitchen where he offered me a chair. White, crisp, and stark, I thought as I checked out everything I could see from where I sat. The kitchen was fitted with top quality appliances, countertops, and hardware. And the lights and window treatments were in a league of their own. I hated myself for assuming the home of a fisherman would be modest.

  I sat and waited and listened to Bradley’s bare feet as they padded upstairs over my head. I heard gentle voices, but could not make out words. How sad, I thought. I had always disliked this part of my job. I had never flinched when informing family of death from overdose, drug-deal gunfire, or any self-inflicted crime-related killing. In my profession, victims were usually involved in illicit activity of which their loved ones usually were aware, and therefore not shocked by news of loss of life. But that was in Miami. That was the vice squad with a heavy focus on narcotics. The death of Ron Thomas was different. I wondered why there were no cars in the yard, and no neighbors or friends here to console Liza the day after her husband died. Maybe it was simply too soon, I reasoned, for anyone to respond to the sudden death.

  I heard the bare feet come back down the stairs followed by the clicking of heels. The footsteps slapping the hardwood faded in the distance and the clicking of heels amplified until Liza appeared in the archway. An attractive brunette in a navy-and-white sleeveless shift, Liza did not fit the fisherman’s wife stereotype that I had deeply rooted in my head. With the exception of sniffles and eyes red from crying, Liza was put together in a classy style. She moved with grace as she pulled out a chair and sat across the table from me. Her hair was coiffed in a do too elaborate for any stylist north of Boston, I thought. Tight curls and bangs that grazed dark, thick eyebrows framed a flawless complexion that said natural and unpretentious, allowing me to relax within the stiffness of the sparse furnishings. She extended a lily-white and delicate hand for me to take—not to shake in a masculine way, but to take and hold, which I did.

  “Liza, I am Jane Bunker, here on behalf of the insurance company. Mr. Dubois sends his deepest sympathies and wants to assure you that he is working on your behalf. In the meantime, is there anything you need that I can help you with?” This was met with deep, silent sobs that seemed to rack Liza’s thin frame. “Oh, I am so sorry,” I said quietly. “Please, let me get you a glass of water.”

  I pulled my hand from under hers, anxious to break free. I was extremely uncomfortable in this role. I found a glass and ran the tap in the main sink, allowing the water to run while I gathered my thoughts. Liza took a breath, smoothed the front of her dress, and began talking. “Thank you for coming. I’m a mess. I have to pull myself together for Bradley. He shouldn’t see me like this,” she said as I handed her the water and sat back down.

  “Your son seems to be handling it better than most young boys would,” I remarked.

  “Oh, he’s stoic. That’s the Alfond in him.” I couldn’t quite believe what I had heard. Suddenly everyone I meet is an Alfond, I thought. That was too weird. My silence was broken by Liza, whose emotions were now unleashed in a verbal landslide. “Yes, I am an Alfond,” she confessed. “Or at least I was before I married Ron twelve years ago.” I wanted badly to ask how she was related to Pete, but my patience paid off in spades when she admitted that her family had totally disowned her when she became engaged to a fisherman. “Except for my brother Pete. We have remained close, to the chagrin of our parents.”

  “Sounds like a real Romeo and Juliet story,” I said in hopes of learning more.

  “Yes, with the exception of me still being alive,” she said pitifully. “Oh God, I’m so sorry. That is the type of drama that I detest in others. I really appreciate your coming here. I just can’t cope with the fact that my husband is gone. Are you married?”

  “No.”

  “Kids?”

  “No.” I now felt even more inadequate. I certainly couldn’t pretend to relate to what Liza was going through. The fact was, I had been sent as damage control. When people suffer loss, the longer it takes to get the claim processed, the bigger the numbers get for what they think they are due. Attorneys get wind of possibilities, and then it’s game on. Lawsuits are filed. And that is why premiums are through the roof, I knew.

  “What do you need from me?”

  “I don’t need anything from you,” I said in my most reassuring tone. “I am here to let you know that my boss, Mr. Dubois, is making you his top priority. He will process the claim as quickly as possible. The whole thing should be quite seamless. We don’t want to add to the stress you must be feeling, among other emotions.”

  “Thank you. But you should know that I am not the beneficiary of any insurance payout.”

  That threw me off. “Well, I am not here to talk specifics. I am not privy to any numbers. I am just here to share our condolences and to see if there is anything I can do for you.” This was met with silence, so I continued to fill the awkward void. “Typically the spouse is the beneficiary,” I said. “Occasionally the money is put in a trust fund for children of the deceased. Is Bradley the only child?”

  “He is our only child. But the beneficiary is Ron’s ex-wife. It was her biggest demand, and the only way she would grant the divorce. She won’t need any consoling, though. No offense, but small-town Mainers can be so greedy.”

  “No offense taken,” I said. “Small towns don’t have a monopoly on that.” She needn’t know that I had lived the vast majority of my life in big-city Miami. That would put us even further apart, I thought.

  “If Ron had picked up with someone of lesser means, things would have been easier. But we fell in love. And we had a wonderful marriage. And Bradley is amazing. I know my family. The Alfonds will now welcome
me back into the fold. They aren’t cruel, just snobs. I remember the first time I saw Ron…”

  By the time she needed a refill on her water, I had learned a lot. And while I can’t say that I was stunned by anything she shared, I must admit that I had great interest in all she divulged in the name of spilling guts to a total stranger. Liza was being so honest and forthcoming with information, I wanted to share what I knew. I wanted to know what her late husband had told her about the demise of Elizabeth, which I now assumed was Liza’s full name. I wanted to guide Liza away from the family drama and back to facts and events that led to Ron’s fatal heart attack. I needed to steer the conversation to an exit off of Memory Lane.

  I interjected. “This may seem a huge coincidence. But I want you to know that I met Ron yesterday.” Liza looked perplexed. “I happened to be aboard your brother’s boat—on an assignment—when Ron put out his Mayday call. There was no time to waste, so I went on the rescue mission with Pete.”

  “Wow,” Liza said. “Now it makes more sense to me that the insurance company sent you to talk with me.” I didn’t need to tell her that I hadn’t divulged this very pertinent information to Mr. Dubois. “Ron has fished around those ledges all of his life! He couldn’t believe he plowed into them. He was so embarrassed and ashamed, he could barely look at me when he told me.”

  I’ll bet, I thought. So Liza knew nothing of the ramming of her husband’s boat. I had to push a little, I knew, as I said, “There was another boat that responded to his Mayday. Do you know the boat Insight?”