Bunker 01 - Slipknot (6 page)

Even the hermitlike inhabitants of Acadia Island—an outpost of the township—had come ashore to gather information and weigh in on the hotly debated issue that was, prior to the public forum, only a rumor. In hindsight, it had been a terrible mistake for Alex Aldridge to sit right next to Nick Dow, the drunken fool. And now poor Alex must surely regret the entire evening.” I suspected that most of this was for my benefit, as the Old Maids must have been in Green Haven long enough to be aware of the background information. I filed away Audrey’s description of my people.

Audrey went on, “The vibes were bad from the very beginning. The fact that the community was divided on the wind farm was evident in the seating. The opponents of the issue—many of the wealthy summer folks, about half of the active fishermen and their families, and approximately s l i p k n o t

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fifty percent of the plant employees—were in the bleachers behind the home team’s bench, the end of which Alex had squeezed next to Dow, just prior to the meeting being called to order, and directly in front of Jane and me.” Oh, so she had noticed that I’d been seated right beside her. I felt honored to have a part in this dramatic retelling.

“On the opposite side of the issue and basketball court sat more wealthy summer folks and the rest of the fishermen and plant workers. Those in favor of wind-generated power were an unusual mix of affluent transplants and homegrown downtrodden. The clannish Acadian Islanders”—another not very complimentary term for my kinfolk—“sat among the proponents with Green Haven’s tree huggers, clammers, and worm diggers, in the bleachers normally occupied by fans of the losing varsity basketball team. At the end of the court, under the south-end hoop, was a long folding table that was otherwise seen only at potluck dinners and the annual church bazaar. Perched in folding chairs at the table were the town’s five selectmen and two ‘energy experts’ dressed in suits, one of whom the sight of must have turned Alex Aldridge’s stomach: Blaine Hamilton.” Wow, I thought. And to think Audrey had only a few hours to rehearse.

“The proper and distinguished Blaine Hamilton is the third and very recent husband of Alex’s mother, Lucy. Alex feels that Hamilton is too old to be with his mother and too much of a jerk to be referred to as Dad, so he refuses his mother this request.” None of us dared question this omnis-cient knowledge Audrey had mystically absorbed. “The Hamilton family has been summering in Green Haven since

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the town was established. Blaine inherited his family’s arro-gance and palatial compound and all of Granite Bluff, the very private and gated thousand acres, off-limits to anyone lacking the proper pedigree, unless hired to serve in some fashion. Most residents of Green Haven detest Blaine Hamilton for one trivial reason or another—some can’t put a finger on why they dislike him, they just do.” I had been at the meeting, and so far, this was all news to me. The Hamilton history piqued my interest. In my experience, greed was nearly always a factor in murder cases.

“There are no clear lines in this battle.” Audrey refilled my mug and delivered my muffin, which had been split and grilled with butter. “The wind-power issue is splitting families and friends, and it cuts across economic and social status and political ideologies.

“Then who should sashay into the gym with all eyes on her but Alex’s mother. Poor Alex must have been totally humiliated. Lucy Hamilton’s skirt was shorter than those worn by Green Haven High’s cheering squad, and the cut of her red cashmere sweater exposed more cleavage than anyone would be comfortable with.” I, too, had noticed the scantily clothed woman and recognized her as the wailing mourner on the dock this morning, but I kept my mouth shut and listened to Audrey.

“The fact is”—Audrey insisted on saying “fact” a lot—

“that Alex is embarrassed by his mother’s poor reputation, a scandalous renown that she seems to enjoy enhancing. Lucy had strongly suggested, to the point of coercion, that her son attend this meeting in support of his new dad.” I nearly s l i p k n o t

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choked on my coffee, wondering how Audrey knew this. She must have fantasized a conversation with Alex. “Alex’s attendance was neither in support of Hamilton nor in opposition to the wind farm, contrary to what his chosen seat suggested, but rather, to appease his mother.” I resisted the urge to blurt out, “How do you know?”

This could go on all day, I thought, and never get to the substance. When Audrey left for a moment to tend to the cash register, I was able to bring the story up to the actual meeting before Audrey took over again. “The first selectman tested the microphone by tapping it with the tips of his fingers, thereby calling the meeting to order.” Oh my God, I thought. Too much detail. “He welcomed the audience and informed them that this was an opportunity for all townspeople to gather facts and ask questions regarding the construction of a wind farm in Western Penobscot Bay. There would be, he said, a series of meetings prior to the annual town meeting in March, when a nonbinding advisory question will be added to the ballot.

“ ‘What do you mean,
non
binding?’ yelled a red-nosed Nick Dow from the bench. ‘Are you wasting our time?’ Poor Alex must have wanted to crawl under the bleachers as all eyes focused on what appeared to be his teammate, who stood slightly off balance, wringing his hands inside the pouch pocket of his hooded purple sweatshirt. The crowd silently waited for the selectman to answer the accusation.”

The Old Maids were enthralled, and their intense focus egged Audrey on.

“The selectman said that this process will be different

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than what we’re used to, because it falls under section two-nineteen,” Audrey said. “We don’t control the permit. Section two-nineteen is a state statute that grants permits for utility projects such as the proposed wind farm.

“So now Nick Dow stood and screamed, ‘Our input means nothing!’ Pointing across the court with an unsteady gesture of his right hand, he continued belligerently, ‘You in-cestuous bunch of mongrels can slink back to that rock you call paradise. You add nothing to this town. All you do is take, take, take . . .’ ” I didn’t actually remember the third

“take,” but I let it slide for argument’s sake. “Some folks were booing and motioning for Dow to sit down, but he kept hurl-ing insults at broader and broader targets until he included every faction and family on both sides of the court. Others joined in the shouting until the gymnasium was roaring. The selectman banged the microphone on the table in an attempt to restore order, to no avail. A few people were trying to leave. There was pushing and shoving. Old Mrs. Holmes struck a bearded granola with her purse.” I recalled the weapon being an umbrella, but that didn’t matter.

Audrey the clairvoyant really began waxing philosophical.

“Nick Dow succeeded in poisoning the sacred ground of the basketball court—historically the town’s great uniter.” Go, girl!

“That court has always leveled the town’s social hierarchy.

The kid of the worm digger is as revered as the doctor’s son.

Both wear the same shoes. This is the only place everyone cheers, hopes, and prays for the same outcome. The Green Haven Herring Gulls are the pride of the town! In this arena, s l i p k n o t

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Green Haven has risen above the larger and more affluent of the entire state of Maine. They even beat Portland.” The drama queen ramped it up for the finale. “On game nights, at the sound of the whistle on center court, Alex Aldridge is the most loved golden boy. Nick Dow, now standing on the bench and slurring loudly through cupped hands, had managed to disgrace this gymnasium where folks at a Friday-night game are more reverent and community-spirited than in church.”

I thought I heard one of the Old Maids sniffle.

“The shouting and shoving escalated. A man in a plaid shirt passed by us holding a bloodied nose. Someone had to do something. Someone had to get the instigator out of our beloved gym. Brave Alex grabbed the sleeve of Dow’s salt-stiffened sweatshirt and jerked him down from the bench.

Pulling him close to be heard, Alex spoke directly into Dow’s ear. ‘Come on, Nick, let’s get out of here. We need to sober you up. Dad’s expecting you aboard the
Sea Hunter
first thing in the morning.’ ” I had not personally heard what was said, so I could neither challenge nor confirm Audrey’s younger ears.

“Nick placed both hands in the middle of Alex’s broad chest and pushed him away with uncanny whiskey-bolstered strength. Alex tripped over someone behind him, went down onto his rear end quite abruptly, and slid on the seat of his jeans across the polished hardwood, skidding to a stop at mid-court.” A pause for effect left us breathless. “This motion in the middle of the chaotic sidelines hushed much of the noise.

Nick Dow staggered close and stood over Alex as if to help him up. Speaking loudly and clearly enough for everyone to

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hear, Nick said, ‘Why are you here? You’re not old enough to vote. Besides, no matter what the state decides, you’ll be supported by one of your daddies.’ Poor Alex looked horrified.

He sat, unable to get up, soulful black eyes blinking wildly.

Dow did a very crude bump and grind. Thrusting his pelvis, he bellowed, ‘Who’s your daddy?’ ” Audrey actually did a great Dow impersonation, I thought.

“Most of the crowd was disgusted by the obscene display, though a few degenerates were amused. Alex sprang to his feet and ran from the gymnasium, totally humiliated.

“And that, gals, is the gospel.” Audrey made another quick sweep through the dining area and into the kitchen, returning before the doors stopped swinging. The more I learned about Nick Dow suggested that he had many possible enemies, regardless of the “syndrome” Audrey had pinpointed so accurately. Dow had certainly upset everyone who’d attended the meeting. Any fisherman in the area must have been aware of the letter he had written denigrating their livelihood. Between his outburst at the meeting and the campaign button he’d worn, he would have generated enemies on either side of the wind farm issue. The list of nonsuspects was shorter than the suspect list at this point. Handy, I thought, that everyone assumed Dow’s death had been a drunken misstep. Otherwise, all of this relevant background information would have to be pulled through clenched teeth.

Most of the customers had left by now, and the Old Maids were making preparations to get across the street to work, mumbling about being lucky to have missed the meeting, and verbalizing sympathy for Alex Aldridge. “Alex will be fine,”

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Audrey said protectively. “He’s getting a basketball scholarship from Boston University. Ticket out of town! He can tell his new friends that his mother died during childbirth.” This last was kind of rough, I thought. But not knowing Lucy Hamilton, I delayed judgment. I thought about all that Audrey had revealed of Green Haven’s community and wondered if her beloved Alex was capable of murder. Or what about his mother?

I knew better than to ask Audrey her opinion of what Alex or Lucy may or may not have been capable of. Given all she had said, she would certainly be dismissed from the jury. As Audrey scraped scraps from plates into a garbage can, I winced. Half a doughnut plopped into the trash along with an untouched slice of toast. What a waste, I thought. I wrapped the uneaten half of my muffin in a napkin and placed it carefully in my bag. I figured it would suffice as lunch.

4

in light of the flood of information that had gushed from young Audrey with each tipping of the coffeepot, I decided to shuffle the order of business that I had planned to conduct this morning. Working strictly between the lines of survey and insurance documents was going to drive me insane. I needed a hobby. Solving the mystery surrounding Nick Dow’s death was going to satisfy my lust for something more challenging. Clandestine investigation of murder was so much more interesting than checking off boxes on official forms! My first priority had now become meeting the Hamiltons. Blaine and Lucy were, conveniently, the owners of
Fairways,
a forty-two-foot Hinckley—one of the more cov-eted crafts of knowledgeable sailors—but out of the price range for most. Like a hefty percentage of watercraft in the area, commercial and recreational alike,
Fairways
was insured by Top Notch Securities, a division of the largest marine insurance company in the East. Blaine Hamilton had requested a routine insurance survey of his vessel months ago, and now that Eastern Marine Safety Consultants had representation in the area—namely, me—they had been hired s l i p k n o t

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by Top Notch to perform the survey. The boat’s inspection was, of course, the means for me to survey its owners and to hopefully get a more mature, less emotional take on the pulse of Green Haven and the series of events that had led to the death of Nick Dow. As long as the death remained accidental, everyone would be generous with opinions. I knew well that when murder is suspected, people suddenly get very quiet.

Slipping behind the wheel of my 1987 Plymouth Duster, I tossed my messenger bag onto the seat beside me and buckled up. The model of my ride was, in reality, a Turismo, but I referred to it as the model preceding my car, since Duster seemed a much better fit for the driver. I stomped the gas pedal to the floor three times and turned the key. The engine started with a roar and quickly idled down to a purr. Staring at the fuel gauge, I willed it to move above the big “E.” It did, but just a hair.

I had been driving around on fumes, refusing to pay the nearly three dollars per gallon charged at every pump south of the causeway that separated Green Haven from the civilized world of moral, nongouging purveyors of petroleum. I was waiting for another legitimate reason to travel north of the twisting strip of connecting road to justify the forty-mile round trip. I had done the math and knew that the extra miles driven would inhale the dime saved per gallon. But it was the principle of price-comparative shopping that kept me coasting by the single pump in front of Island Hardware and Variety, known to the locals as the Old Maids, after the two sixty-somethingish gals with whom I had shared coffee earlier.