Bunker 01 - Slipknot (20 page)

Standing in the shadows, I fished the key out of my shorts pocket and made a mad scramble for the driver’s-side door.

The window had been smashed out, and the door had been unlocked. Checking the backseat for unwanted company, I hopped in, cranked the engine, and sped off. I didn’t use the headlights until I turned left onto the main road leading back to town. I drove as fast as I dared. Among the pieces of broken safety glass on the seat beside me were strewn the contents of my messenger bag, including the crab I had collected at Dow’s. The only thing I could determine missing was my camera. Even my wallet had been left behind, not that there was much money in it: eleven dollars, to be exact.

On the outskirts of town, I slowed to the speed limit to give myself time to think. I realized I had gotten too close to something. It had to be Dow’s murderer. I had believed that poking around to solve the mystery of Dow’s death had been my duty as a curious and bored bystander. Now it was personal. I would never be safe in Green Haven until the murderer was exposed. All I knew was that Lincoln had either forgotten about me or had set me up to be killed. Either option was bad.

To be forgotten was sad. To be set up was terrifying. Or what if Lincoln was in danger? Maybe someone had interfered in some way, keeping him from our rendezvous. What if my s l i p k n o t

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poking around in Dow’s death had injured Lincoln? What if he were in peril? Fear for my own life melted with growing concern for Lincoln’s.

Although I had no appetite, the last place I wanted to be was alone in my apartment. So I stopped at the coffee shop. It was nine o’clock, but a few customers remained at tables, finishing meals. Clyde Leeman held down his usual spot at the counter, where he was reading the sports page. As I approached, he looked up from the paper and exclaimed, “Oh, geez! Miss Bunker! What’s happened to you? You’re a wreck!”

Examining what I could see of myself, I agreed. Partially dried mud was clotted between my toes, exposed in my filthy sandals. My legs appeared to have been clawed by wildcats—

mostly superficial but deep enough to draw blood in a few of the gouges. The white shorts were stained with green streaks, and ferns stuck out from the top of my waistband. “I joined the women’s rugby league up in Bangor,” I lied.

“Geez. Rough bunch.” Clyde made room for me at the counter beside him.

Before he could ask any questions that would force me to elaborate, I was saved by Audrey, who came crashing through the swinging doors laden with plates mounded with crispy battered fish and french fries. She stopped in mid–food delivery and mouthed something I read as “What? You have to be kidding me.” Her eyes were as big as saucers as she shook her head in disgust. She moved on to a table of four and set plates down hard enough to make the customers jump. She said,

“ ‘All you can eat’ is not supposed to be a challenge.” Turning on a heel, she stomped back around the end of the

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counter, stopping in front of me. “Janie, Janie, Janie . . .

What is wrong with your head, girlfriend? You stood up the most eligible bachelor in Hancock County! He waited in the plant’s lot half the night for you. He just left here with a broken heart and a basket of fried chicken. Where have you been?”

Before I could answer in my own defense, Clydie jumped in with “She’s been playing rugby.”

“Yeah, right. And I’ve been singing with the Andrews Sisters.”
Ding! Ding! Ding!
An impatient customer wanting to pay his bill slammed the bell at the register.

“I didn’t know you singed,” Clydie said, impressed. As Audrey moved to the register, she promised over her tattooed shoulder to return and continue our discussion.

Knowing that meaningful conversation with Clyde was not possible, I went for the safest topic. “So, Clyde, how did the Red Sox make out last night?”

“Oh, the Red Sox didn’t play last night, Miss Bunker.”

12

as promised, audrey returned with a vengeance. Her eyes flashed with impatience as she ran a wet sponge the length of the counter. What little I knew of Clyde Leeman told me that I couldn’t put much stock in his word that the Red Sox had not played last night, when I had seen George Aldridge—

Boston’s self-proclaimed biggest fan—vigorously enjoying the game. For all I knew, Clyde used the sports page only as an accessory to his lingering at the counter while nursing a malted milk. Frankly, I would have been surprised if Clydie could read at all. Before I could confirm or confute his statement by requesting that he share the newspaper, Audrey was scrubbing the finish off the Formica adjacent to where my forearms rested. She looked at me with what I assumed was a fiery need for an explanation. I tilted my head toward Clyde and raised my eyebrows in a not-so-subtle silent reply.

“Okay, cowboy.” Audrey was firm yet cheerful, considering this late stage of what must have been a double or even triple shift. “It’s time for you to saddle up and head for the barn.”

“You fixin’ to close the saloon, Miss Audrey?” Clyde

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played along in character. He ceremoniously donned his Stetson, stood sort of bowlegged, and hitched his pants up a notch with his wrists, his hands extended as if ready to draw six-shooters.

“This ol’ gal has done rustled up enough grub for one night. I need some shut-eye. Now, get along, little doggie!”

Slapping a hand on the counter and removing it slowly, Clyde revealed a fifty-cent tip. “That’s for your trouble, little lady,” he said, and backed the entire width of the dining area toward the door.

As the cowbells clanged, Audrey called, “Watch your top-knot, partner.” Then, under her breath, “Which, in your case, is a slipknot.” A table of four exited with Clyde, leaving Audrey’s parting shot on the safe side of the door. “Your ten-gallon hat’s running on empty.” The sponge of perpetual motion came to an abrupt halt. Rocking her head from side to side, then around in circles orbiting her shoulders, Audrey danced slowly to some inner music. “ ‘I think we’re alone now,’ ” she sang. I would have thought she was too young to know it.

“What is: Tommy James and the Shondells?” I asked in true Alex Trebek fashion.

“I’m not sure who performed it originally. But Uncle William, who has since become my stepfather, did a great rendition back in 1991. It was his stage entrance number every time he came to visit. He’d always bring me a bag of Oreo cookies, and I’d be allowed to watch cartoons in the living room while Mommy and Uncle Willy watched grown-up television in the bedroom.”

s l i p k n o t

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“Ninety-one? You must have been all of five. And yet you were aware of what was going on in the bedroom?”

“I was quite precocious. Even cleaned up my own Oreo puke.” I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I didn’t. After a short pause and a clatter of dishes behind the swinging doors, Audrey was back on topic—me. “So what gives, girlfriend? Why were you a no-show tonight?”

Although I liked Audrey a great deal and had the desire to confide, I couldn’t burden this young girl, even if she was as precocious as she claimed, with the fact that someone had just tried to kill me. And I realized that, given her addiction to gossip, it would be unfair to expect her to keep a secret.

“Well, it was a simple misunderstanding,” I said. “I waited for him at Spruce Hill Clearing until after dark.
I
thought he stood
me
up. I guess we got our wires crossed, and now I’ll never be asked out again.” I looked sadly upon my hands as I picked at a cracked cuticle.

“Oh, Jane! You poor thing.” My explanation had elicited some much needed sympathy. “This is like Romeo and Juliet! You have to go find Lincoln and explain!”

“There’s no sense. His fragile male ego has been destroyed.” Audrey, who loved the drama and romance of it all, was riveted as I told her of the mysterious delivery of roses and wine and quoted the poetry from the card. Against my better judgment, I even told her about dessert. Lincoln had gone so far out on his sentimental limb; I explained to the less experienced Audrey that this meant he would almost certainly avoid me to save face. “And,” I continued, “it might be some time before he finds the courage to pursue another

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woman.” I knew this last was too hopeful and for my own benefit.

I continued to pick my cuticle in a most forlorn state of mind. How pathetic, I thought, to be lamenting outwardly and so confused inwardly about what had actually transpired tonight. Was Lincoln a villain? Had he set me up? Was he the victim of an honest misunderstanding or a bad memory?

None of that would explain the gunshots. Or perhaps the gifts had been sent by an imposter in attempt to frame Lincoln for my murder. The thought raised my spirits consider-ably, because I felt in the core of my soul that Lincoln must be innocent.

“Some people recover from total devastation more quickly than others,” Audrey said as she stared absently out the windows behind me. Or maybe not so absently, I realized as her eyes followed some motion outside. Spinning the stool 180

degrees, I looked out in time to see Lincoln and Ariel Cogan passing arm in arm on the opposite sidewalk. “There goes your chicken dinner, girlfriend.” Lincoln didn’t appear to be as broken up as Audrey had described. In fact, he looked quite content.

I thought briefly about running onto the street and screaming, “Bastard!” Instead, I laughed and said, “I’ll be damned. Poor crushed Lincoln couldn’t bear to be alone.

He’s getting some much needed consoling from that older woman. Men’s psyches are so fragile! There’s a sort of mothering thing going on there, don’t you agree?”

“Yes. Absolutely. Right on. Look at his fake smile. He’s hiding his pain
really
well. If I didn’t know that his heart had s l i p k n o t

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been ripped out, I’d swear he was rather happy. He’s very convincing. Look! They’re almost skipping!”

Pivoting my stool back around to face the counter, I said,

“I’ve seen enough. I feel bad enough about ruining his evening without watching him suffer so.”

“So much for dessert,” Audrey said with an expression I interpreted as genuine concern for me.

I nodded and said, “Don’t waste any time worrying about me. I’m a tough lady. And I have a bag of Oreos at home.” I left my young friend stacking chairs onto tables in preparation for sweeping.

The short walk to the Duster was dark and cool. I caught myself looking nervously over my shoulder and preparing to dart behind or dive under a parked car at any unexpected sound. My heart was racing when I reached the car door with the missing window. I took a deep breath and looked up and down Main Street. All was quiet. When my pulse had resumed a normal rate, I opened the car door and moved quickly behind the wheel. The dome light flickered on and off in its usual half-functioning way. Before I pulled the door closed, I sensed something moving in the passenger seat. I gasped in fear and sprang from the car. Crouching behind the open door, I prepared to sprint back to the coffee shop.

But then the dome light came wholeheartedly to life, illuminating big, fat Sir Bunny of Wheat Island up on her hind legs and enjoying the crab she had managed to fish from the plastic bag. I wiped cold sweat from my forehead and again consciously managed my heart rate down from a near-boil. I’m a nervous wreck, I thought as I shooed the evidence-eating Sir

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Bunny from the Duster and vowed to put Mr. Vickerson on window repair first thing tomorrow. Henry would surely have a sheet of plastic and some duct tape that would suffice until I could get to Ellsworth for a permanent replacement.

Green Haveners certainly go to bed early, I thought as I drove the narrow stretch of Main Street that separated private properties into waterfront and not. I noted that an amazingly large percentage of residents fully utilized their right to bear arms as I counted trucks with gun racks and NRA stickers. A far cry from Miami, where firearms were primarily concealed handguns; the only body without a hunting rifle in this town was me. Stopping at the intersection where I would normally turn left up the hill toward home, I turned right instead, into Turners’ Fish Plant.

No cars, no boat truck, no lights: Here, finally, I thought, was my opportunity to sneak aboard the
Sea Hunter
and conduct a thorough search. As I completed the turn through the gate, the Duster’s engine began surging. Great, I’m out of gas, I thought as I coasted to a stop between two loading ramps. I could deal with the gas problem later. I grabbed my messenger bag and hustled down the pier. The moon, partially obscured by cumulus clouds, cast just enough light to allow visual per-ception of shapes at a distance. When I was abreast of the
Sea
Hunter,
the moon moved out from under the clouds enough for me to see that the pier was not totally vacant. Four young children slept wrapped in blankets lined side by side like sacks of potatoes. Eddie Quinby was perched behind his telescope at the far end of the dock. The distinct smell of pot smoke lingered. He had his back to me and seemed engrossed in some s l i p k n o t

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astrological event. I knew he wouldn’t see me climb aboard the
Sea Hunter
. I assumed the babysitting charges were his much younger siblings; they had apparently fallen asleep during the meteor show. No witnesses.

Aboard the boat, the first order of business was to retrieve my cell phone. I opened the door to the head and was surprised not to find the phone. I knew I had hidden it from view of the casual glance, but perhaps Alex or George had swept it out of hiding in a cleaning spree. Down a phone and a camera. This hobby was getting a bit expensive. I should give up the gumshoe for ceramics or knitting, I thought.

Well, I could report the phone lost and cancel the service.