Boiled Over (A Maine Clambake Mystery) (5 page)

August

After the pancake breakfast I was free for awhile. Dan Small was overseeing the next event, the B&B Bed Races, where a dozen B&Bs attempted to beat each other in two-bed heats that pitted souped-up double beds-cum-go-carts against one another until a victor emerged. The only rule was the driver had to remain in the bed as it careened down the hill from the library to the dock. It sounded like a great way to get killed and when Bunnie had looked for a volunteer to run it, I’d sat on my hands until they lost all feeling.

With time to kill, I decided to go out to Camp Glooscap. Binder hadn’t exactly asked me to find out what I could about Stevie’s background, but he’d wondered aloud if I had contacts there. As it happened I did. I hadn’t missed Sergeant Flynn’s frosty reaction to Binder’s suggestion, but I decided to ignore it. Binder was the boss, after all.

When I reached home I asked Mom if I could borrow her car.

“The keys are in it!” she shouted.
Of course they are.

Driving my mother’s twelve-year-old Buick up the peninsula toward Camp Glooscap made me keenly aware, once again, of my transportation problems. The town pier where we loaded the tourists aboard the
Jacquie II
to take them to Morrow Island for the clambakes was a five-minute walk down the hill from our house. When I’d returned to the harbor from my life in venture capital, I hadn’t bought a car because I’d be returning to Manhattan at the end of the season. That left me dependent on my mother and her car.

The Buick had only been back a couple weeks after extensive body repairs. That spring, distracted by business problems and the murder on Morrow Island, I’d taken it without telling my mother and wrecked it. Mom had been gracious about continuing to let me borrow the car after it returned from the shop, but I drove extra carefully. I felt like a sixteen-year-old every time I had to ask for it.

Stevie Noyes’s RV park was just outside town, twenty acres of hard-packed dirt roads and woods with a rocky shoreline and a little beach on Townsend Bay. I drove under the great wooden sign C
AMP
G
LOOSCAP
—RV
S
O
NLY
and parked at the camp store and office. A teenage girl was at work in the store, but Stevie’s office was locked up tight. I wondered if he’d made any arrangements for his absence, much less his death.

I asked the girl, “Do you know where the Kellys’ trailer is?”

“Motor home,” she corrected. She pointed to the guest book without speaking. As I signed it, I looked for names I recognized on the lines above my own, but saw none. She gave me a map and I set off on foot.

I’d driven past Camp Glooscap thousands of times, but this was the first time I’d been on the grounds. The park was heavily wooded, well kept, and inviting. Each motor home site had a concrete block fire pit as well as electrical and sewage hookups. Because it was August, every one of the spacious, wooded spots was occupied. The girl in the store had circled a campsite on the shoreline for my friends the Kellys. As I walked, I gained a better understanding of the scale of the map. The well-kept dirt road sloped gently downward toward the bay, so it was an easy hike.

I rounded a bend and saw navy blue water peeking through the bright green leaves on the trees. The closer I got to the shore, the nicer the RVs got. Some had added porches or outbuildings that signaled semipermanent use. Many were strung with colored lights that even in the daytime gave them a cheery appearance. One seemed so long and wide that I was sure the
vehicle
in RV was a misnomer. I couldn’t imagine it wending its way down Route 1, the overcrowded, mostly two-lane highway that served as primary access to most of the Maine coast.

The Kellys’ gleaming motor home was on an elevated site with a gorgeous view of the bay. Sitting at the far edge of the campground, it had nothing but woods on two sides. I was sure theirs was a primo spot. I climbed onto the RV’s wide front porch and knocked on the door.

“Julia!” Cindy Kelly blinked at me. “What a surprise.”

Cindy and Chuck Kelly weren’t exactly friends. They were good customers. They’d attended opening day at the Snowden Family Clambake religiously for the last fifteen years. As they reminded me, they’d attended far more opening days in recent years than I had. The Kellys came out to Morrow Island several times during the season, usually when they had friends visiting. Over the years they’d developed a fond acquaintanceship with my late father, which they’d just this year transferred to me.

Chuck came to the door behind Cindy. Like her, he was round and soft, with gray hair and glasses. They were retired schoolteachers from Massachusetts who’d been coming to Maine for the length of their fifty-plus year marriage. They were among the first people to move into Camp Glooscap when Stevie started it nine years before.

“Come sit, come sit,” Chuck called.

“Yes, of course, dear.” Cindy recovered from the surprise of seeing me at their door. “I’ll get some lemonade for us.”

Chuck settled me on the redwood settee on the porch and sat in a matching chair across from it. While Cindy was in the kitchen, he inquired after Mom and asked me to give her their regards.

“I’m surprised you’re not downtown for the Founder’s thingie,” he said to me.

“I could say the same about you.”

“Oh, much too crowded and crazy.”

Cindy elbowed the screen door open and carried a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and three matching glasses onto the porch. “We stay away from town on tourist days.”

Ah, one of the eternal conflicts of a resort town. The locals, who tended to live, at least partially, off the tourist trade, wanted as many visitors as possible, while the retirees, who had their own incomes, wanted just enough tourists to keep their favorite restaurants and shops open, and no more.

“I’ve come to talk to you about Stevie,” I said, after Cindy had poured the lemonade and handed it around.

Cindy’s hand flew to her mouth. “So it was Stevie in your clambake fire!”

“The police told me this morning the dental records were a match.” Those same police had also asked me to keep that information to myself, but I didn’t see how I could have this conversation if I did.

Cindy began to cry softly. “I knew it.”

Chuck went into the house and emerged seconds later with a box of tissues. “Stevie wouldn’t disappear in the middle of the season. He hardly leaves this place except to go into town.” Chuck perched on the broad wooden arm of his wife’s chair and patted her shoulder.

“Did the police talk to you?” I asked.

Cindy nodded. “Yesterday. We told them he was missing.”

“Did they ask about his family? I understand they’re having trouble notifying his next of kin.”

“They did, but we couldn’t help them.” Chuck shook his head. “We were the first people to rent a site from Stevie. Signed the paperwork and gave him a deposit before the park was even finished. It was a big risk to take, but worth it. We had first pick of all the sites and ended up with this one, which I’ll argue is the best at Camp Glooscap.”

As he spoke, he gazed beyond the porch, taking in the entire sweep of the campground as well as the water. A couple little boys fished off the long dock that extended into the bay. Kayaks and canoes sat upside down on the beach, their bottoms gleaming. It was an idyllic spot.

“Stevie often joined us in the evenings for a little libation as he made his rounds,” Chuck continued. “In the beginning, our conversations were pretty impersonal, but over the years, we became close. We’re usually the first ones to come in the spring and the last to leave in the fall.”

“We push it right up to the day the water gets turned off,” Cindy added. For the moment, it seemed her tears had ended.

“We talked of lots of things,” Chuck said. “His hobbies—trains and the Civil War. Politics and the town. Cindy and I told Stevie about our family. He met our three kids and our grandkids over the years and always asked after them. The truth is”—Chuck paused—“I’m embarrassed to say this, but it took me awhile to realize he never talked about his family or where he came from or what he did before he started Camp Glooscap. Once or twice I asked him outright, but he was skilled at changing the subject. Eventually, we understood his past to be off limits.”

“He was such a nice man,” Cindy said. “We didn’t want to press him. But there was a sadness there, I’m sure of it. His life before Busman’s Harbor was something he didn’t want to dwell on.”

“Did anyone here have a problem with Stevie?” Binder definitely hadn’t asked me to go down this line of questioning, but I couldn’t help myself.

“Why would you want to know?” Cindy asked. “I thought Stevie’s murderer was the young man who ran away. The one who works for you.”

So even the Kellys, who hadn’t been into town all weekend, knew about Cabe Stone.

“Cabe is only wanted for questioning as a witness,” I clarified. Chuck harrumphed skeptically, but I pressed my point. “There’s no one you know of who had a problem with Stevie?”

I expected more protests about what a great guy he had been, but a look passed between husband and wife.

“Someone’s bound to tell her,” Chuck said.

“There has been a little problem in the campground,” Cindy started. “Such a shame. You see, Stevie has always given out the sites by seniority. The more years you’d been coming and the longer you stayed per season, the better your campsite. If somebody moved on or died, and you were at the top of the list, you had a chance to move up. The system was fair and worked well.”

“Until this year.” Chuck took up the tale. “The Parkers moved to an assisted living facility and sold their beautiful motor home. They’re both in their late eighties. It was just a matter of time.”

“It’s a lovely spot.” Cindy pointed to a campsite on the other side of the little beach from theirs.

I could tell it would have a terrific view of the sunrise over the bay. The camper parked behind its fireplace was pretty barebones, much smaller and more worn than any of the others in the prime waterfront locations.

“Reggie Swinburne, who has the spot behind it, thought he should get the site, because he’s next in seniority and he’s here half the year, almost as long as we are. But then the Parker kids just moved that, that
thing
into the spot. They claim they’re entitled to the site because their parents rented it,” Chuck said. “But, it doesn’t work that way. They have to go to the back of the line. And, they
only come on weekends
.”

“For
the weekends
,” Cindy repeated. In case I didn’t get it. “Weekend people do not get waterfront lots. They’re back in their own little area.”

Oh geez, I thought, the dynamics of a resort town. The natives looked down on the seasonal homeowners, who looked down on the monthly house-renters, who looked down on the weeklong hotel-stayers, who looked down on the weekenders, who looked down on the day-tripping tourists, who looked down on the natives. In Camp Glooscap, the whole cycle would play out in microcosm.

“This Reggie Swinburne and the Parker children, were they angry at Stevie?”

“They were angry at each other,” Chuck said. “There’s been a lot of back and forth. Loud music all day and late into night, revving motorcycle engines, reckless riding through the camp on All Terrain Vehicles. Yelling and threats. Reggie expected Stevie to do something about it. And the Parkers said if anyone tried to move their rig, they’d burn Camp Glooscap to the ground.”

“Oh my. Did you tell the police about this when they interviewed you?”

“All they wanted was to know if Stevie was missing and the names of his friends and relatives so they could try to locate him. They didn’t ask about anything happening at the campground.”

When I left the Kellys, I walked over to the dilapidated trailer they’d pointed out on the opposite side of the park’s waterfront area. The old camper was rusting and sat slightly askew. Not nearly as nice as the other vehicles in this part of the park.

The well-kept, neighboring RV was set back on its site. A late model, dark-blue pickup truck, one of those huge 4x4s, was parked beside it. The little yard was equally neat, with a well-tended rock garden at the corner of the drive and a neat row of hostas along its front border. Unlike its unsightly neighbor, it would have only a sliver of a view of the bay.

The old trailer had four tents of various ages and conditions scattered around its site. At the edge of the yard stood a tumble of junk—aluminum beach chair frames, propane tanks for a gas grill, a bent bike without its tires. Even a refrigerator with its door removed. The pile was placed so the fancy RV’s deck looked directly at it.

As I contemplated the wall of junk, the front door to the sleek RV opened. The man who emerged was in his sixties, dressed in classic outdoorsman style—shorts, camp shirt, socks, and hiking boots. He had a pair of binoculars slung around his neck, a full head of gray hair and an extraordinary handlebar mustache. Unbidden, my mind went to “Colonel Mustard.”

“Awful, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Amazing. You must be Mr. Swinburne. The Kellys were just complimenting your place.”

He stuck out a hand. “Reggie, please.”

“Julia.”

His bushy eyebrows drew together in a squint. “I know you. You’re a Snowden. I saw you at the clambake. Went there with Chuck and Cindy in June.”

“That’s me.” I smiled brightly.

“Terrible thing on the pier.”

I nodded. “Had you heard—”

“The victim is likely Stevie? The police were here yesterday.”

“I’m sorry to say it was him. The police haven’t officially released his name, pending notification of next of kin.”

“Damn shame. He was a good man.”

“Did Stevie ever say anything to you about his family?”

“No, never. Funny, I had the impression he was from New York, not sure why. Accent, maybe?”

I ran the sound of Stevie Noyes’s voice through my brain. I heard a homogenous TV anchor voice, no hint of an accent. “The Kellys mentioned you were having a dispute with the neighbors.”