Blood Foam: A Lewis Cole Mystery (Lewis Cole series) (17 page)

“Who picked Lake Pettis?” I asked. “You or him?”

“I recommended us finding a nice remote place for a vacation, and Mark took it from there. He said a client recommended it as a good vacation spot.”

Felix said, “Maybe he was looking for another recommendation. To find a place he could use as a retreat if something happened. Like a Wyoming motorcycle gang going after his butt.”

I knew Paula was tempted to say once again that her fiancé had nothing to do with Wyoming or a motorcycle gang, but she kept quiet as we went through downtown Pettis: a general store with two gas pumps, a town hall, a Grange Hall, and a Civil War monument.

“Quiet,” I said.

“Too quiet, that was one of Mark’s complaints.”

A few more minutes of directions, and we were at the northern end of Lake Pettis. It seemed long and narrow, with the narrowest point being where we parked, along a stretch of road that actually had parking spaces outlined in yellow paint. We all got out and walked across the road. We were facing a sandy beach, perhaps a hundred feet wide. It was deserted.
A raft with a diving board sticking out had been pulled to shore, and a lifeguard station was on its side.

On either side of the beach, there was a rocky shoreline, which then curved out toward the lake, with cottages and small homes scattered among tall pine trees and a few leafless birch trees. There were docks that had been pulled in, and there were a few mooring floats still bobbing in the still lake water, and an orange-and-white buoy warning
NO WAKE ZONE
. Out in the distance were green lumps that were the lake islands.

I shaded my eyes with a hand. “Which island out there did you rent?”

“You see that big one on the left?”

“I do.”

“It’s on the other side. Cute place, small blue cottage, has its own private beach.”

Felix kept quiet, just keeping his eyes on the empty water, the deserted road, and the quiet homes. Then he said: “Hate to raise an obvious point, but I don’t see a way of getting out there. Paula? Did you two rent a boat, or did someone take you back and forth?”

“The owner of the cottage had a small Boston Whaler that came with the rental. The owner met us here at the beach when we came up for the first day.”

“Is he around?” I asked.

“No, she’s not,” Paula said. “She said she had a rule every year, get up to the lake a month before Memorial Day, and leave for Florida a month after Labor Day. A true snowbird.”

The lake looked so quiet, so empty, so lonely. I put my hands in my coat. “Folks, best I can come up with is for you two to take the left side of the lake, I’ll take the right side. Start knocking on doors until we find someone who’ll take us out there.”

Paula said “No offense, but why don’t I come with you, Lewis?”

“Because we need a boat. We don’t need Felix scaring people.”

Felix said “No offense taken, Paula. C’mon, you knock on the doors, and I’ll be the strong silent type, hovering in the background.”

From the beach I walked along the town sidewalk, until it ended just past the rocky shoreline. I walked along the side of the road for a few minutes
and then came across a dirt road to the left that was unmarked, save for a tree trunk that had about a dozen brightly painted wooden signs running up its side, each sign carrying a name, like Munce or Gilligan or Troy. Down the dirt road I started, and I ignored the first two homes I came across, since they didn’t directly abut the lake. The road curved to the left and the lake came back into view, with small homes and cottages lined up along the shore, one right after another. The first two cottages—one-story, stained dark, and with front porches—had planks of wood placed over the windows. Pretty clear sign that whoever resided there was gone for the winter. As I walked, I thought about what it might be like, to live on a lake. You wouldn’t have the constant to and fro of the Atlantic, seeing the sun rise over the ocean and promise a new day, nor would you see the constant stream of boat traffic that reminded one that the biggest and most populous highways in the world are the oceans.

But a lake did have its advantages, once you got past the summer people who probably raised hell with big water-ski boats and JetSkis. The spring and fall when you had the place to yourself, along with the year-round residents. And the winter, when the lake froze and snow covered everything, with the only sounds being the occasional snowmobile and lake ice shifting.

Tempting, but I planned to stay with my own damaged place back at Tyler Beach.

If Hurricane Toni would let me.

The next place was a typical New England home, and nobody answered the door. The next cottage had wood over its windows, and the next home, a bright yellow Cape Cod, had an older man with dark green chinos and checked flannel shirt, raking pine needles out of his dirt front yard.

I stopped and he looked up at me, wearing a Red Sox baseball cap. His face was worn and wrinkled, but his eyes twinkled, like he found it so very amusing to be up and about and alive on this late autumn day.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hey ya,” he said back.

“Looks like some work you’ve got going on here.”

He took in his tidy yard, with two birdfeeders and even a squirrel feeder. A freshly washed light red Chevrolet pickup truck with Maine license plates was parked in a dirt lot off the side of the road. “Well, it can take some
doing. I rake up all these Christly pine needles to keep the place clean, and about a week later here I am, doing it again.”

I nodded and said, “Sir, my name is Cole. Lewis Cole. I was hoping to take a quick spin out on the lake, but it looks like everyone’s put their boats away for the winter.”

He leaned on his rake. “True enough. About October the loons and such are heading out, and most people board up their homes, get them winterized, take their boats out. Why do you want to take a ride out on the lake? Can get pretty brisk out there on the water, and most of the foliage is gone.”

“I came up here with a couple of friends of mine, and I live on the ocean, and I’d just like to take a boat ride out on the lake.”

He scratched at his ear. “Would you leave your driver’s license behind as a deposit?”

I reached for my wallet. “Gladly. I’d even pay you some money for the gas and the bother.”

He leaned his rake up against a birch tree. “Ain’t no bother. Just make sure you take her out, don’t bang her up against any rocks, and for Christ’s sake, don’t drown. That’d mean me chasing down your estate to get reimbursed.”

After handing over my driver’s license, I followed him down a narrow dirt path that led to the side of the house that overlooked the lake. There was a second-story deck held up by metal poles, and underneath the deck some wooden furniture, a picnic table, and other odds and ends were stored. There was a stretch of canvas over a shape that he peeled off, revealing a small—and I mean small!—aluminum skiff. A couple of minutes fussing around with a small outboard motor and a gas tank, and I then helped him haul it down to the water.

“There you go,” he said, pointing inside. “A life jacket you need to have, even if you’re the best swimmer in the state, otherwise the Marine Patrol will write you a nasty ticket. There’s also a paddle in case the motor quits on you, which it shouldn’t, since it’s a Mercury and I keep her in good shape.”

“Thanks,” I said, shaking his hand.

“The name’s Pete Kimball,” he said. “And where did you say you were from?”

“Tyler Beach.”

“Hey, what a coincidence!” he said. “I had a guy here last week from Tyler, rented my big rowboat, same as you. Though he paid me some money ’cause he was going to keep it for a few days.”

That got my attention. “He leave a name?”

Pete Kimball looked embarrassed. “No, but he left a couple of Ben Franklins, if you know what I mean.”

“Sure,” I said. “Tell me, was he a good-looking guy, maybe well-dressed, black hair, sort of with an expression like he just bit into a lemon?”

“That sounds pretty fair. A friend of yours?”

“Not on your life,” I said, and Pete held the bow steady as I climbed in.

I switched on the motor, squeezed the fuel bulb a couple of times, and with two quick pulls of the starting rope the Mercury started right up. I flipped the control lever from
NEUTRAL
to
REVERSE
and backed my way out onto the lake, and then I flipped it into
FORWARD
and slowly motored my way back to the beach. The Tahoe was still there, and after I got within about fifty yards of the deserted sand, Felix and Paula emerged from the right. Paula elbowed Felix, and when I was sure the two of them were looking at me, I gave them a hearty wave. Paula waved back. Felix didn’t. He’s not one for waves.

When I was close to the beach, I flipped the engine back into
NEUTRAL
and gently bumped into the sand. Felix and Paula came down to me and Felix said, “Fleet’s in, eh?”

“Sure is,” I said. “And I’m here to tell you I’m off to your vacation spot. And it also looks like Mark is over there. The guy I rented this yacht from tells me a few days ago, a man from Tyler rented a boat from him as well.”

“I want to come,” Paula said, eyes bright with excitement and anticipation.

“I’m sure you do,” I said. “But there’s no room on this little tub.”

“Then what’s the point when you get there?” she asked. “If I can’t come out there with you, then you can’t possibly come back with Mark.”

“I’ll take his boat and tow this little tub back.”

Felix said, “Paula, it’s settled, and we’re wasting time.” He looked up and down the empty road. “Just because Mark’s hunters aren’t here yet, doesn’t mean they won’t show up in the next few minutes. Time’s wasting.”

Paula went to the bow of the little boat, shoved me off. “Go get my man,” she said.

“I’ll do my best.”

I put the motor into
FORWARD
and, using the fixed tiller on the Mercury, I made a U-turn and
putt-putted
my way out to the main lake.

It was slow and peaceful, motoring out onto Lake Pettis. Save for a bass-fishing boat on the southern end of the lake, I pretty much had the place to myself. The water was relatively flat, although every now and then a wave would slap against the aluminum side, splashing me with cold lake water. I thought of the lobstermen I had seen earlier this morning, knowing the Atlantic was much colder, and that if I were to dump, I could probably swim to safety.

The farther out I went onto the lake, the more I made out the close peaks of the White Mountains. A perfect fall day, and there were just a few trees along the quiet shoreline where the colorful foliage was still hanging on, for whatever reason. Overhead there were some seagulls and some smaller birds I couldn’t identify.

The motor was purring right along, the tiller slightly vibrating in my hand, and I turned to the left, heading to the large island Paula had pointed out. This part of the lake was shallow, and in looking down I could see huge boulders underwater, some covered with dark-colored algae, and I also spotted a couple of tree stumps, the exposed roots sticking out like some nasty and large spider.

I turned around, could make out the line marking the beach, the tiny shape of the Tahoe, and the even tinier shapes of Felix and Paula. I shifted more to the left and lost the beach from view. I slid past the large island, which had two good-sized homes with their docks pulled up, and no lights on or boats moored ashore.

The shoreline of the island petered out to a collection of above-water boulders; giving it plenty of room, I arced around in a large loop and spotted a smaller island to the rear, just like Paula had said. I went closer to the smaller island, slowing down the speed some, and at first I didn’t see anything unusual, just a thick stand of trees with exposed rocks on the shoreline.

I swung around t
he island and a blue cottage came into view, with a short, fixed dock, and gently bobbing at the dock was an aluminum skiff twice the length of mine. There was a small sandy beach that I recognized from the photo back at Mark’s condo, and I was surprised at the flash of jealousy that slipped through me.

I slid the engine into
NEUTRAL
for a moment, considering what was ahead of me, and then I put it into
FORWARD
again, heading to the island where I believed Mark Spencer was hiding out, on the run from a Wyoming motorcycle gang wanting to do him harm.

The closer I got to the dock, the more I backed down the motor, and when I was about six feet away, I put it into
NEUTRAL
and slid into the side of the dock,
bump-bumping
my way forward. I took a piece of rope from up forward of my rental, tied it off to a cleat, and worked my way up onto the dock.

I stood up, stretched my legs, rearranged my clothes, then checked out my 9mm, safe and secure in my shoulder holster.

I took a breath and then started walking, to find a missing person.

A person who didn’t seem to want to be found.

There was a dirt path up to the blue cottage, and I took my time, not wanting to surprise or startle him. There were some low-growth blueberry bushes and ferns and saplings, and the cottage sat on a dirt lot, one story tall, with a screened-in front porch, and I walked around it. No sounds of a television or a radio.

I went back to the front porch, opened the door. On the front porch was some old wicker furniture, a card table, and a dark green throw rug on the wooden floor. The door leading to the interior of the house was closed, but it had a large window, which I peered through.

Nobody.

I knocked on the door.

Still nothing.

I tried the doorknob, and it opened easily in my hand.

I remembered the last time I had gone into a house with an unlocked door, and I was glad that I was here alone.

“Mark? It’s Lewis Cole.”

I went into the house.

It was damp and dank inside. The floor was old cracked linoleum. There was a sagging couch to the right, a small kitchen area to the left. A refrigerator and stove that looked like it had been purchased when a president had once grandly announced that he was not a crook was in the far corner. There were plastic bags with recently purchased groceries on the counter. I slowly walked in, and I reached under my jacket, took out my 9mm Beretta.