Boar Island Page 14

  Seldom did she get to ride shotgun. Rangers didn’t work in pairs. She leaned back in the seat as Denise pulled out of the headquarters parking lot. It was a treat to relax and look at the scenery, enjoy the park tourist-style. A park existed for every mood, and Anna was a woman of many moods.

  “What did Pete tell you about the murder?” Denise asked.

  “Lobsterman shot sometime last night. Possibly a domestic. State and local police notified last night. The park, this morning. Concurrent jurisdiction. That’s about it. No particulars.”

  “Ever heard of the lobster wars?” Denise asked.

  “Sounds like a bad science fiction movie,” Anna replied.

  “It’s serious business in these parts. Kind of like range wars in the Old West. Lobstermen are rough customers.”

  Anna had never known a lobsterman, but she’d worked with shrimpers out in the Dry Tortugas. Very rough customers.

  “Do you think another lobsterman killed him? For lobster rustling?”

  “Probably. Who cares? Otter Creek isn’t on park land. The state guys, or the sheriff, whoever caught this one, probably cleared it last night. Duffy’s—the lobsterman’s name was Kurt Duffy—bowling pal found the body. May have been some bad blood there.” Denise spoke in a bored monotone, her face a mask of indifference.

  Anna watched her in the sideview mirror. Law enforcement rangers were never indifferent to murder. Parks were inconvenient places to deal drugs, host gang wars, or run prostitution rings. They were bucolic places filled with potato salad–eating people whose greatest crime was feeding the chipmunks. Most rangers never worked a single murder in an entire career. Wicked as it was—or sounded to outsiders—when a nice juicy murder did come along, the dilemma wasn’t getting rangers to work the case but keeping them from trampling each other to get in on it.

  “My guess is it’s a lobster-war thing,” Denise said as she conned the big Crown Vic along the narrow road. She was a skilled driver. She worked the mirrors with her eyes, and her hands loved the steering wheel. The only other person Anna had noticed driving with that kind of innate concentration was an ex-NASCAR racer who’d taught her defensive driving. Really good drivers tended to drive fast. Yet Denise was poking along ten miles under the speed limit. Apparently she was not only bored by the prospect of a murder investigation but didn’t want to reach the scene any time in the foreseeable future.

  “We had a guy shot for robbing his neighbor’s traps—Will Whitman,” Denise went on with a bit more enthusiasm, warming to her subject. “Whitman’s son was implicated along with his dad for poaching lobsters, but he’s gone AWOL. It’s probably what saved his life. These guys are the Hatfields and McCoys, Earps and Clantons—you name it, feuds go back four or five generations. There’s a range war going on under the waters around here that makes Texas in the ranchers-and-farmers phase look tame.”

  “Did they catch the man who shot this Will Whitman?” Anna asked to be asking something.

  “Sure. No problem. They threw him in jail, but he’s out now. Shooting a man for robbing your traps in Maine is akin to the ‘stand your ground’ law in Florida.”

  “Whitman. Any relation to John Whitman?” John Whitman was the taxi man ferrying Heath and company around.

  “John is—was—Will’s father. When John retired, Will got his patch. Then there was the shooting. Since John’s grandson ran off, the lobstermen have been haggling over who should get his territory.”

  “Any relation to Duffy?”

  Denise started as if Anna had poked her with a pin, then settled. “Kurt Duffy? Probably. Everybody is somebody’s cousin around here.” On that she closed her mouth into a firm line that suggested the conversation was finished.

  Anna let the subject drop. “Any news on the package sent to Heath Jarrod?” she asked.

  “That’s a strange story,” Denise answered, seemingly more comfortable talking of drugs than of murder. “We field-tested a couple of the foil packs. Black tar from Mexico, the cheapest, nastiest sort. The rest we sent to the lab. If they all contain heroin there should be about three grams total. Dime bags, cut with something. I doubt the whole amount is worth more than a few hundred dollars.”

  Anna didn’t know a lot about heroin. In the parks, other than visitors taking a tab of acid, munching a mushroom for the visuals, or smoking a little dope, drugs were urban problems. “Doesn’t the stuff come in bulk?” she asked. “Then the dealer makes it up into packages?”

  “I’d think so,” Denise said. “I suppose there’s people for that if you’re willing to pay. Here we are.”

  As soon as they crested the gentle rise in the road, it became obvious where in Otter Creek the murder had taken place. Four cars—two police and one sheriff’s and Artie’s Crown Vic—were parked around a shiny blue pickup in front of a small cottage, little more than a square of weathered wood bisected by a door with a tiny pointed roof over the porch to keep the snow off the step. Two windows flanked the front door, both blinded by pull-down shades brown and curling with age. Yellow police tape crisscrossed the door. The front was not graveled, per se. It was simply stony soil that had suffered the sudden stops of too many tires.

  It didn’t strike Anna as the sort of home one would build on real estate that had to be worth more money than she’d ever see. Old, then, a homesteader from way back.

  “Lobster fisherman and his wife,” Denise said, as if reading Anna’s mind. She parked the Crown Vic fifty yards from the house and made no move to get out. “Wouldn’t you know it? Artie, on his day off. What a twerp.”

  Anna followed Denise’s sour words to the district ranger, out of uniform but with a pistol in a holster at his belt.

  “Not in the mood for a clusterfuck today,” Denise said, switching off the ignition.

  “Beats sitting in a hot car,” Anna suggested.

  “Not today it doesn’t.”

  Anna didn’t know what to say to that. Miss out on murder? Ridiculous. “Mind if I go?”

  “Knock yourself out. Wait,” Denise said suddenly. “I would like a look inside, at the murder scene.”

  That was more like the rangers Anna had known.

  “Let’s do it,” Anna said.

  A civilian around sixty, arms and hands scarred, face weather-beaten, sat smoking a cigarette on the downed tailgate of the pickup truck. A short distance away, not part of the group but near it, her back turned to the men, was a woman with too much bleached-blond hair. Oversized sunglasses hid her face. She was holding one elbow, her free hand keeping a long white cigarette close to her lips between drags.

  Anna walked with Denise toward where the men were standing around the pickup’s tailgate. Under concurrent, or shared, jurisdiction, if the incident was not actually on park land it was customary for the NPS to give way to the state. If it was on NPS soil, the state would usually take a secondary position. Since this wasn’t exactly Acadia’s jurisdiction—and Acadia wasn’t even Anna’s park—she didn’t want to ruffle any feathers. “Just a tourist,” she said as she glided up next to the district ranger.

  “Anna Pigeon,” Denise said.

  “Right.” Artie looked down at her from his considerable height. All Anna could see of his eyes was her own reflection in his mirrored sunglasses. The set of his mouth was not welcoming. Anna reminded herself to corner him about the heroin and Heath. Make sure he thought it stank to high heaven as he ought to.

  “Hello, Ms. Pigeon,” he said coolly. “This is Sheriff Cotter.”

  Anna gazed at Artie expectantly, a neutral smile on her lips, until he caved in and added, “Ranger Pigeon is acting chief while Gris is out west fighting fire.”

  Anna nodded to Sheriff Cotter, a red-faced man in a dun-colored uniform. His skin was the type that probably burned and peeled three months of the year. Blond stubble glittered on his jowls, and his eyebrows were nearly white.

  “We got this one,” he said.

  “Peter told me,” Anna replied. Cotter nodded. No territorial fights o
ver this murder.

  “And Deputy—”

  “Dremmel, Jack Dremmel,” the sheriff’s exceedingly young companion answered, sticking out a bony hand for Anna to shake. Anna wondered if it was just her or if law enforcement personnel were getting younger. Jack appeared to be about fourteen. Acne still clustered on one side of his chin. She couldn’t imagine him shaving.

  “Bar Harbor police,” Artie said.

  Two middle-aged men in blue nodded at Anna. No names were exchanged. They were just being nosey.

  “I’d like a look inside,” Denise said. If the set of her jaw was any indication, the disinterest she’d shown in the car had transformed into a grim avidity.

  “Crime techs are all done,” Cotter said. “We’re just waiting for the coroner to come claim the body. How about you?” he said to Anna. “You want to take a look around, too?”

  “Might as well,” Anna said.

  Cotter removed the tape. He held the door open. Denise and Anna walked into one of the most depressing rooms she’d seen in a while, and it wasn’t the one where the murder had taken place.

  “The bedroom,” the sheriff said, pointing to a door.

  There was only one door off the cramped sitting room. The house was a shotgun: sitting room, then bedroom, then kitchen at the back, no halls. Anna crossed to the bedroom door but didn’t go in. Denise pushed past her, eyes searching everything from walls to floors to under the bed and dresser.

  “Guy was shot three times, then wound up in the shower curtain. Cause of death might be suffocation. The shower curtain was shoved halfway down his throat. The autopsy will let us know,” Cotter told her.

  “Find anything else?” Denise asked. “Murder weapon?”

  “No such luck,” Cotter said.

  “Sounds like you got another victim in the wars,” Denise said, then abruptly left the room. Anna heard the front door close seconds later.

  She looked over the detritus of the bedroom: a dead man, naked, blood mixing with a thick pelt of hair on his chest, face in a rictus of death, overturned furniture, plastic curtain with bright fishes. Shards of mirror reflected shards of what had been, to all appearances, a miserable life ending in a miserable death.

  Murder was so often pointless and pitiful. Anna lost her fascination with who murdered whom or why.

  “I’ve seen enough,” she said, and she had. All she wanted was to get back out into the sunlight with the living things of the park around her.

  Cotter followed her out the front door. As he was replacing the crime scene tape, Artie asked, “Where did Denise go? She’s the one on duty today.”

  Anna glanced around. Denise was already back in the Crown Vic, seated behind the wheel. Her enthusiasm had been short-lived. Obviously there were undercurrents Anna was not privy to: Peter, a surprise retirement, mood swings. She felt as if she’d walked in on the end of a family fight.

  “In the car,” Anna replied.

  Artie’s lips curled into a sneer, but he said nothing.

  “I’m Lou,” the guy on the tailgate volunteered. “I found the body. Me and Kurt were buddies.”

  Close up, Anna could tell she’d misguessed the man’s age by at least fifteen years. Lou was closer to forty-five than sixty. His face reminded her of the men she’d met who worked shrimp boats all their lives, or rode with a motorcycle gang back before the gangs were comprised of lawyers and doctors on pastel Harleys. Hard lives made hard faces. Lou’s was carved by exposure and, most likely, alcohol. Only his hair retained the softness of youth; brown and thick, it swept over his forehead, as jarring against his creased skin as the tresses of a bad wig.

  Lou was obviously proud of having found the body. Lots of people were like that. Being part of a murder investigation was their fifteen minutes of fame. Though, given the speed the Internet churned out fame, the average dose was probably closer to sixty seconds.

  Whether or not he was broken up over his pal’s death, Anna couldn’t tell. His face was not the kind to share warm fuzzy emotions with strangers.

  “I’m sorry,” Anna said. “That had to be a blow.”

  “Yeah,” Lou said. He dropped his cigarette and shifted his butt closer to the edge of the tailgate so he could grind it out with the toe of his boot. The cigarette was only half smoked. Lou moved stiffly, his head ducked as if to hide his face. Manly grief?

  “Sheriff here’ll be looking for a big man, and strong,” Lou said as he straightened up. “Kurt put up a hell of a fight. Tore the whole bedroom up. I’m surprised I didn’t find two bodies. Kurt was tough, I’ll say that for him. Tough as they come.”

  He lit another cigarette, sucked in a lungful of smoke, then spat between his knees, the smoke trickling out his nose. “Anyway,” he said on the last wisps of smoke, “glad it was me as found him. Polly isn’t much good at the hard stuff.”

  The woman with too much hair and the wraparound blue plastic sunglasses, standing with her back to the men, said over her shoulder, “Paulette. My name is Paulette.” Peeking from beneath the dark glasses was a patch of makeup, slightly off color and applied too thickly. Bruises were a bitch to cover.

  Lou’s lips pursed in annoyance. Paulette turned her head away quickly as if her boldness in correcting him frightened her.

  “Polly,” Lou said, hitting the word hard, “was Kurt’s wife.”

  The spouse, always the number one suspect. A battered spouse, better yet.

  “Hi, Paulette,” Anna said, moseying over. “I’m Anna Pigeon.” She smiled. Sensing the woman would be less forthcoming at a show of force, Anna downplayed her authority. “Don’t be fooled by the uniform. I’m just passing through. The park brought me to cover for the chief ranger for a few weeks.” She stuck out her hand. Shaking hands wasn’t her favorite thing, and the modern penchant for hugging made her blood run cold, but it was a nonthreatening way to take somebody’s temperature.

  Paulette’s hand was cold and clammy, limp as a three-day-old fish.

  Before Anna loosed her grip, the fish came alive and jerked away.

  “I haven’t had much sleep,” Paulette apologized. She took another drag on her cigarette. The hand holding the cigarette was shaking so badly she could hardly get the butt to her mouth. She didn’t look Anna in the eye.

  “I bet not,” Anna said sympathetically.

  “I was down at the Acadian Lodge from six until nearly midnight. I didn’t know what had happened until I came home and the cops were here.”

  Getting her alibi out right up front; not a guilty reaction exactly. Battered spouse, she had to know the sheriff was thinking she was a suspect. Lou seemed fairly hostile toward his good buddy’s wife. Regardless of his talk of searching for a big burly murderer, Anna wondered if he thought she’d killed Kurt.

  The insistent Polly chimed in her head, and she doubted it. Lou would have more respect for a murderess.

  Paulette dropped her cigarette on the dirt, then ground the filter into the gravel with the toe of her wedge sandal. Her legs were pretty. Shapely and slim. The mass of fried hair and bruised cheekbone had blinded Anna to the fact that Paulette was attractive and not much past forty. Fishing a pale blue crumpled pack of menthols from the pocket of her skirt, Paulette shook out another cigarette.

  “Would you like one?” she asked politely.

  “No thanks,” Anna said. “I’m trying to cut down.”

  Paulette nodded, as if to say every smoker she knew was always trying to cut down.

  “How are you holding up?” Anna asked. Just because her husband knocked her around—if it was the husband who blacked her eye—didn’t mean the woman wouldn’t be heartbroken at his demise. Women were funny like that.

  Paulette Duffy shot her a sidelong glance from beneath the temple of the glasses. She seemed to think it was a trick question. Anna smiled back with bland concern.

  “I’m okay,” Paulette said. She lit the fresh cigarette and took in a deep lungful. “The house is going to be creepy for a while.”

  “Do y
ou have anyone you can stay with? A brother? A sister?” Anna asked.

  Paulette twitched as if Anna had poked her with a hot iron. The hand holding the cigarette flicked out. The newly lit cigarette went flying. Paulette dropped the lighter she held in her other hand. Moaning, she fell to her knees to gather her belongings up.

  “I’m an only child,” she said as she scrabbled in the dirt.

  Anna hadn’t meant to push any buttons. “I have a sister,” she said as a peace offering.

  “Would you mind asking Sheriff Cotter if I can have my house now?” Paulette begged without raising her eyes from the ground. Her fingers closed around the bright yellow Bic lighter, but she made no effort to rise.

  With a creeping crunch, a white fender brushed Anna’s thigh. Willing herself not to squeak and leap, she glanced back over the long gleaming hood. Denise. The car crept forward. If Denise hadn’t braked when she did, Anna would have had to leap back to avoid being eviscerated by the sideview mirror.

  The passenger-side window smoothed down with an electric hum. “Get in,” Denise said shortly. “We’re done here.”

  Paulette crawled—actually crawled on hands and knees, the tops of her canvas sandals and the front of her skirt gathering dirt as she went—several feet before rising. Without a backward look at Anna, she scurried toward the knot of men, brushing at her skirts as she walked. The lighter and the unsmoked cigarette were still on the ground.

  Anna leaned down to retrieve the lighter and return it to her.

  “Leave it,” Denise snapped.

  Straightening, Anna gave her a level stare. She considered reminding her who was the acting chief, and who was the badly behaved subordinate.

  “Sorry,” Denise said with a crooked smile. “Got a call. Gets my nerves crackling.”

  Anna decided to let whatever Denise was playing at play out. She climbed into the Crown Vic. “What’s up?” she asked, and began buckling belt and harness.

  “What do you mean?” Denise asked.

  “The call,” Anna said. “What is it?”

  Denise laughed nervously. “If these guys don’t need us anymore, maybe we could get a bite of lunch.”