Secrets Haunt the Lobsters' Sea Read online

  “That’s it,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “Pretty straightforward plan, don’t you think? What can go wrong?”

  Connor put his hand on my shoulder. “If things head south, I’ll be back in a flash.”

  Connor slowed Money Pit and slid past the lobster boat. The open stern made stepping aboard very easy. I was already in the cabin before Connor had motored by and turned toward the outer harbor.

  I waited for my eyes to adjust to the dim light—and my heart to slow down a bit—and tried to remember Malicite’s exact words.

  “Lots of important information you can’t keep in yer head. We all have a notebook we write stuff in and hide in our cabin where nobody’s gonna mess with it.”

  Scanning the cabin, I looked for places a lobsterman might stash his precious notebook. In this case, a notebook listing future locations for lobster traps as the Gulf of Maine warmed up. A list originally put together by Buddy Crawford. A list an ambitious lobsterman might well kill for.

  There weren’t too many possibilities. The space below the wheel was free of any stowage. No surprise there, since the lobsterman steering the boat might kick something at his feet.

  In the whole cabin I could see only one place to store anything. Below a low counter there were two drawers wide enough to hold marine charts. Kneeling, I slowly slid the top one open. As I expected, it held NOAA charts for Macomek’s waters and elsewhere along the coast. I flipped through the pages. Nothing there and nothing beneath the pile either. Frowning, I slid the drawer closed.

  Whispering “now or nothing,” I slid the bottom drawer open inch by inch and peered inside. Unlike the chart drawer, this one held an assortment of items—official-looking sheets of paper, tide charts, pencils and scissors, envelops of various sizes. Nothing that looked like a precious notebook. Disappointed, I flipped through the layers until I reached the bottom of the drawer where a large manila envelope with frayed edges lay sideways. I pulled it out and stood to give my knees a break.

  The sun was close to setting now, and not much light made its way into the cabin. My intuition told me the envelope was important and worth a risk. I tugged Connor’s handkerchief out of my pocket, slipped it over my flashlight’s lens, and flipped it on. The handkerchief didn’t do much to diffuse the light’s intensity, so I lowered myself onto the cabin’s deck, stretched out my legs, placed the flashlight next to one knee, and put the envelope on my thighs. My body, I hoped, would block any telltale glow.

  The envelope’s flap had lost its glue a long time ago. I lifted it up and peered in. A photograph, black and white and maybe ten by eight inches, lay inside. Careful not to tear one of the frayed edges, I slowly slid it out, laid it on top of the envelope, and picked up the flashlight.

  The light brought to life two young people, a male and female. They looked the same age, eighteen I guessed. She, a cute tomboy type with blond braids and freckles, grinned at the camera. He stared only at her and the drape of his arm over her shoulder told me his affection was not sisterly.

  The guy looked a lot like Calvin. In fact, I decided, that’s exactly what Calvin would have looked like about ten years ago. I turned the photograph over. Something had been written on the back, but it was in pencil and smudged. I held the flashlight directly above the word and spelled it out.

  “C-O-D-Y.”

  The date, more easily read, was 1993.

  Cody. An unusual name I’d seen recently. Had he been one of Buddy’s classmates in the photograph Lester showed me? A Macomek kid in the photo on his wall?

  Then I knew. Cody Booth September 13, 1975–September 13, 1995

  “Oh my god. Cody isn’t a male. She’s a female,” I said. “She was a female.”

  The full realization came to me in a rush. Cody Booth had been Calvin Ives’s girlfriend. Given the much-used state of the photograph, that it was hidden in the bottom drawer, and the way Calvin was looking at Cody, I guessed she had been much more than just a girlfriend. Calvin Ives must have loved Cody Booth. A lot.

  The photograph in my hand had been taken in 1993. Two years later, the young lady with braids and freckles was dead. But she hadn’t die in a car crash or anything like that. Cody had died in a terrible storm off Macomek Island. And she’d been Lester Crawford’s sternman.

  Lester, the boat’s captain, had been rescued, but his sternman Cody had been taken by the sea. No wonder Lester marked the unlucky September date in her memory.

  Calvin must also mark that terrible date, but in his own way.

  I put the photograph down and rubbed my eyes as an idea took form in my brain. Like most people on Macomek, Calvin knew—or at the very least strongly suspected—that Lester had been drinking the day Cody died. He would hold Lester responsible for Cody’s death.

  “Revenge.” That’s what I’d added to my list. Revenge was an intensely powerful emotion that drove people to do terrible acts. All these years, I could imagine Calvin desperately wanting to retaliate for his terrible loss.

  “My god,” I said aloud. “Calvin could have killed Buddy to get at Lester.”

  I clamped my hand over my mouth as a voice from behind answered my question. “You figured that out, damn you. You nosy, snooping outsidah. I knew you were trouble the moment I laid eyes on you.”

  By inches, I got to my feet and turned around. Calvin Ives stood next to the wheel of his boat. Tight lipped, his eyes burning in the fading light, he looked like a cougar about to spring. If I’d had a voice, I would have screamed.

  He thrust out a hand. “You have no right. Give that to me.”

  I placed the photograph on his palm.

  “The envelope.”

  I held out the frayed envelope. He snatched it, slipped in the photograph, and secured the precious item in the inside chest pocket of his coat.

  “You have exactly one minute to tell me what the hell you’re doing in my cabin.”

  I cleared my throat.

  “Fifty seconds.”

  “Okay, okay.” Speaking hurriedly I said, “Buddy spent a lot of time researching where to put his traps as the Gulf of Maine waters warmed. It was a goldmine of information for the future. I thought you wanted it and maybe murdered him to get it. I guessed you had his notebook or kept notes of your own, so I decided to poke around your cabin to find out.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You thought I’d kill Buddy to get trap ideas? My god, that’s rich.”

  “You asked me to tell you why I’m here. That’s why.”

  He patted his heart. “But you found this instead, didn’t you? Now tell me, Dr. Scientist, what did you deduce from that?”

  “That maybe you wanted to get back at Lester for what he did to Cody and did that by killing his grandson.”

  At the mention of Cody’s name, Calvin’s eyes tightened for a moment. He blinked and said, “Lester deserved to rot in hell for what he did. Drinkin’ while you’re runnin’ a lobstahboat. He might’ve just as well slit Cody’s throat.”

  I added, “Whatever happened with Buddy, I don’t think you were alone.”

  The man studied my face. Then, like a practiced actor, his demeanor went from angry to clinical.

  “You’re a smart lady, I’ll give you that. You’re right. Patty was with me. She’s who you should be talkin’ to ’bout Buddy, not me.”

  Incredulous, I said, “Patty? Why…”

  He cut me off. “Buddy had a big, bad secret, but Patty figured it out. He was sellin’ drugs—bad stuff like heroin—to kids on the mainland.”

  “Kids?”

  “That’s what I said. Teenagers—fifteen, sixteen, like that. Too bad Buddy didn’t recognize those kids grown up. Before they left the island to work or whatevah, Patty taught ’em when they were little in the school out heah. That’s the school where Buddy had his memorial.”

  I remembered Abby’s words when she described Patty’s attitude toward the children she taught. “Patty, she’s like a female lion protecting her cubs.”

  “My god,�
� I said.

  “Ayuh. Buddy picked the wrong kids.”

  “But what happened? To Buddy, I mean.”

  Again, the calculator in Calvin’s brain seemed to weigh his options.

  “It was an accident. Happened right on the habah when nobody was around. Patty tol’ Buddy she knew what he was doin’. Buddy got high an’ mighty like he always did. I jumped in with my two cents. He backed up. Next thing I knew he’d fallen off the pier an’  hit his head on a rock down below. Tide was low. Buddy was dead when we got down to ’im.”

  I pictured the horrific scene. At low tide, the drop from the harbor’s pier was about thirty feet. If Buddy hit his head on a rock when he landed, he probably died instantly.

  “But if it was an accident, why didn’t you just report what happened to Marine Patrol?”

  He snickered. “That shows how much you know ’bout Macomek an’ cops from the mainland. Somethin’  like that happens out heah ’n right off they figure those crazy island guys’re killin’ each othah again.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, but he cut me off.

  “There’s somethin’ else. Patty’s DUI three times. You think Marine Patrol’ll believe Patty?” He mimicked a girl’s voice. “Oh officer, it was jus’ an accident.” His raucous laugh bounced off the walls of the tiny cabin. “Somethin’ like this ’n Patty, she’s off to jail.”

  “Well, I believe you,” I said.

  “Sorry, but that’s not worth much.” He ran a hand threw his crew cut. “Now I got the problem o’ what the hell to do with you.”

  “How about just letting me go home to Spruce Harbor?”

  The laugh resounded through the cabin once more. I wondered if the man whose boat I’d visited uninvited was a little mad.

  “Right. I’ll jus’ wait out heah ’til the cops come, ’cause you ran ovah and told ’em how it went with Buddy.”

  There was no point in my arguing with Calvin because he was right. I’d have to report his story to Marine Patrol, and naturally they’d go right after him.

  A boat motor gurgled at the edge of the harbor. Calvin whipped his head toward the sound, back at me “Who the hell is that?”

  “Connor, the guy who brought me out here.”

  “Guy’s a cop. I could smell it a mile away.”

  Money Pit’s motor growled. I bit my lip to suppress the grin.

  “Christ,” Calvin barked. “Your goddamn cop’s comin’ back for you.” He flung an arm at the cabin’s empty corner. “Back theah, on the deck. Now!” Calvin twisted Lucky Catch’s key and the vessel roared to life.

  As Calvin scrambled to the bow to release his craft from its mooring, I considered leaping up and jumping overboard. But the man was back in an instant. He yanked the wheel to starboard, a maneuver that threw me against the open cabinet in the cabin. A piece of metal inside the drawer sliced my arm. A thin trickle of blood ran down my hand as I crawled back to my corner.

  With increasing speed, Calvin wove through the moored boats like he was the lead kayak in a whitewater slalom course.

  Clueless what to do, I yelled a useless warning. “Connor’s boat’s called Money Pit’s. It’s pretty fast,”

  “Nobody beats Lucky Catch.” Calvin stared ahead with the same demonic intensity I’d witnessed in the bar. “I’ve won lobstah boat races ten years in a row.” The man licked his lips and snickered at a joke he didn’t share with me.

  Once more, he jerked the wheel to starboard. I braced a foot against the cabin’s doorframe and stayed upright. The view through the window told me we’d left the moored boats behind. I strained to hear Money Pit’s engine but didn’t.

  Calvin’s motor must be too loud, I told myself. On my knees, I squinted to see past Lucky Catch’s stern. Boats on Macomek’s outermost moorings lay quietly at anchor. Connor’s borrowed vessel drifted soundlessly with them.

  Calvin jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Looks like your cop’s wallowing in the watah with a dead engine.”

  Crawling back to my corner, I didn’t give my captor the satisfaction of a response. I needed to think. Sure, I said to myself. Think about what? I was in a fast-moving boat captained by a crazy man who could navigate these waters blindfolded. If I tried to run past him, he’d probably throw me right back onto the cabin’s deck. Even if he didn’t, what would I do? If I jumped overboard, I’d be in fifty-degree water and unconscious from hypothermia in minutes.

  Of course, Calvin would be happy if I’d offed myself so he wouldn’t have to do it on his own. That was how this was going to end. Besides Patty, I was the only one who knew Calvin’s awful secret. Year after year, Calvin’s sick mind had festered with the knowledge that Lester Crawford had killed Cody. Now, after all this time, Calvin had gotten his revenge. He’d killed once—or at the very least covered up a death he claimed was accidental. There was no question in my mind that Calvin Ives wanted me dead.

  Throwing me overboard miles off Macomek on the edge of the continental shelf would be a very effective way to make sure that happened. Who would know?

  I looked toward the island. Connor was still back there somewhere. I could just see and hear him. He’d be swearing like an Irish sailor at a recalcitrant motor that wouldn’t start. I blinked back tears.

  Calvin slammed a hand against the wheel. “Christ, goddamn it!”

  Had he run across a submerged string of lobster traps and snarled the motor? I got to my feet to look. Connor’s drug-running craft was quickly gaining on us. Maybe the king of lobster boat races was going to see his match.

  Calvin slammed the motor into a higher gear. Bow tipped up out of the water, stern buried, Lucky Catch jumped ahead like a filly given her head. Calvin whooped as Money Pit dropped behind.

  Like soldiers in a trench, I got religious. “A little help for a wayward Catholic girl?,” I whispered.

  “Sayin’ yer prayers?” Calvin sneered. “Good idea, considerin’….”

  On my feet, I looked past him. Maybe a quarter mile behind, Connor was coming up fast once more.

  Calvin grabbed my shoulder and shoved me toward the cabin opening.

  “What’re you doing?” I screamed.

  “If that cop sees you in the ocean, he’s gonna stop an’ go aftah you an’ not me.”

  I was about to protest when Lucky Catch hit a swell. The boat leapt into the air and threw me face first against the steel snatch block hanging over the side. Screaming, I pressed my hand against the gash on my forehead and flipped over the gunwale into the water.

  On my back, I slammed into a wave that tossed me down into the icy brine. As frozen barbs poked into my naked skull and salt scoured the weeping gouge, I opened my mouth to scream. A primal sense forced me to clamp it shut. To scream underwater would be to die.

  My dulled, frozen brain knew death was closing in. With collapsed lungs and no life jacket, I drifted downward, a soggy ragdoll at the mercy of currents and gravity. Ignoring knives of pain in my neck, I looked up and opened my eyes for an instant. I’d sunk so far from the realm of blessed air I could hardly see any light at all. Tears of anguish flooded sightless eyes as I fell into oblivion.

  My screaming lungs demanded air. Bitter cold water stabbed my eardrums with unbearable force. Engulfed in silence, an image of Mom and Dad in a water-filled sub drifted through my brain.

  Finally, I had to give up. In one desperate gasp, I sucked in water. My chest on fire, I knew what drowning was.

  Right before death, I dreamed of salvation. The hand of God grabbed me, arrested my downward spiral, and dragged me up to the world of the living.

  18

  Blinking, I rolled my head to the side. Why was I cold and drenching wet and lying on a hard surface that was moving? And why did my head feel like I’d smashed it into a door?

  A man with angelic curls and blue eyes leaned his face closer to mine.

  “Are you an archangel?” I asked. “Am I in heaven?”

  The man spoke with an Irish brogue. “Jus’ your buddy Connor, Mara. Y
ou’re on a boat off Macomek Island.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  There was a noise to my left. I started to turn my head in that direction but stopped. “Ouch.”

  “Take it easy,” Connor said. “You’ve got a nasty cut on your forehead.”

  “Cut?”

  “Yes. You hit your head against a hydraulic trap hauler.”

  “Oh,” I repeated. “They’re heavy.”

  Suddenly, the memory flooded in. I had been on a fast-moving lobster boat that belonged to Calvin Ives. The boat had hit a wave. I’d smashed my head on something hard, something I now knew was the trap hauler. I’d gone overboard into the water.

  My memory stopped there.

  “It’s awfully uncomfortable lying here. I’d like to sit up,” I said.

  “All right, lass,” Connor said. “Go real slow. I’ll give you a hand.”

  A half hour later, I was comfortably seated on a padded bench inside the wheelhouse of Connor’s boat. He handed me a mug of hot water to sip. He’d already draped blankets over my shoulders and legs.

  I held the mug to my chest. “Thanks.”

  “Feeling better?” Connor asked.

  “Much. Hope I stop shivering soon. How long was I in the water?”

  Calvin stood in the cabin’s entryway. “Not long,” he said. “Couple minutes.”

  I looked at him, at Connor by my side, back at Calvin. “But who got me out of the water?”

  “Calvin did,” Connor said.

  The lobsterman looked down at his feet and said nothing.

  “But Calvin,” I asked. “Weren’t you trying to get away?”

  He ran a hand through his wet crew-cut and blew out a long breath. “Ayuh, I was. But lobstermen can’t jus’ take off an’ leave someone to drown.”

  A shiver traveled down my spine. “Are you saying you turned your boat around and came back for me?”

  He shrugged.

  Suddenly the room began to spin. I turned to Connor. “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”