Bunker 01 - Slipknot (29 page)

“Ride home?” Lincoln asked as we passed through the gate and onto Main Street.

“No, thanks. I’d like to walk,” I said.

“Mind if I join you? It would be good to stretch my legs a bit.”

“Not at all. Come on,” I replied, thinking that the leg stretching would be accompanied by a just-as-needed head clearing. We walked side by side slowly up the hill, until the hissing of water upon embers could no longer be heard and the smells from the fire had dissipated into the darkness.

Standing with our backs to the Lobster Trappe, we had a bird’s-eye view of all we had left below. This section of Green Haven’s working waterfront that had for so long resisted new-wave development now lay in repose. I wondered if Blaine Hamilton’s dream of wind-generated power would rise from the ashes of the plant, or if insurance fraud would negate the funding: tradition bowing to progress, to no avail. “What will happen to the fishing fleet now that the plant is gone?” I asked.

“We’ll sell our fish in Rockland. We’ll get more money for our catch and pay less for fuel. We all stayed with Turners’ out of loyalty and nothing more. My father did business with Ginny’s father, and our grandfathers and great-grandfathers . . . as far back as anyone can remember.”

s l i p k n o t

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“But what about the plant employees? Don’t many Green Haven families depend on those jobs?” I asked.

“Same thing. The cutters and packers can find better-paying jobs in Rockland. It’s only a forty-minute commute.

Everyone sacrificed for the good of the whole community.

Ironic, isn’t it?”

“Ginny doesn’t appear to share your feelings of community and loyalty,” I said.

“That’s the ironic part. She was desperate and took the only course she saw as the way out. I assume that her financial selfishness led to what will be best for Green Haven in the long run. Inexpensive, renewable, environmentally friendly power and the breaking of the shackles of time-honored family tradition that had outlived its usefulness. I deeply regret my brother’s involvement, but I didn’t know until it was too late.”

“How much do you know?” I asked, hoping that Lincoln could clarify some of what remained fuzzy in my theories.

“I had no idea that George was in as deep as he was with Dow. I mean, I knew about his gambling debts because I was the first to see Dow’s little record book, but I thought I had that all figured out. By sinking the
Sea Hunter,
I would have money for Alex’s college tuition, George would be free of Dow’s ghost, and Quin would put some money into
Fearless
and employ all of us until I could buy another boat. I even hid Dow’s book aboard the
Sea Hunter
to be lost forever and protect George from future problems,” Lincoln confessed, as if thinking out loud.

That explained the presence of the letter from Boston

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L i n d a G r e e n l a w

University among the things Lincoln wished to be lost. “Was the other day a failed scuttle attempt? Did you have to abort because Quin left the scene without us?” I asked.

“No. I backed out of the whole deal before we left the dock. Second thoughts and the changed situation—Dow’s death and Alex’s being aboard to replace him for the trip—I chickened out. We really were sinking, as you know. But it was accidental and purely coincidental. I’ll never know if Quin left us for dead to collect all three shares for himself, or if he was trying to save himself, his boat, and his son.”

I wondered if Lincoln was being honest, but I realized it was of no consequence now. “That is something we’ll never know. Will Alex go to school?” I asked.

“He’ll get there somehow. I was offered money to torch the plant, but I refused, knowing that would be the end of the bit of fishing heritage left here. That old, dilapidated building meant the world to a lot of families, including mine. Not in employment, as I explained, but in what it represented. I should have known that Lucy would approach my brother with the same offer. I’m pretty sure she sucked him into the invasive-crab ploy, too. Do you know about that?”

“I saw the crabs at Dow’s place the night I thought you caught me there, but as it turns out, it must have been George.

Anyway, I assumed Dow had a weird interest in crabs, since his aquarium was overflowing with them. Last night I was able to piece together what might be closer to reality. Dow and Lucy Hamilton and possibly George were conspiring to ensure that the proposed site for the wind farm would never be open to fishing again. Right?” I asked.

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“Right. They planned to raise them at Dow’s and release them by the bucketful when we steamed over the closed area on our way to the fishing grounds. I guess they believed they could inundate the area with enough crabs to destroy whatever might otherwise develop for commercial harvest. The whole thing seemed so ridiculous that I ignored it. Lucy has always been a conniver. She knows her future rests on that power source, and she’ll do anything to get there. Now my brother is going to prison for arson.”

“Arson and murder,” I corrected.

“I don’t believe George is capable of murder.”

“Really? That bar would have crushed my skull exactly the way it did Nick Dow’s. He knew I was on to him, and that’s why he tried to do me in. If he hadn’t killed Dow, why would he have wanted me dead?”

“Maybe he thought you figured he had tried to kill you by burning the plant with you in it. I saw you slide out of the gurry chute from the skiff. George couldn’t have known you were inside. He’s not that bad a guy. He probably assumed you were on your way to rat him out and freaked.” He sighed.

“It doesn’t look good, does it?”

I didn’t bother sharing what I knew about the knot. I would wait to hear what George confessed to. I chose not to tell Lincoln about the first murder attempt on the night of our broken date. He’d probably excuse the gunshots, as Cal had.

Just some guy out jacking deer saw the white side of the tablecloth flashing around like a deer’s tail . . . good thing he was a poor shot. . . .

George had sent the roses and wine and written the note to

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L i n d a G r e e n l a w

lure me to the Clearing so he could either kill me or scare me badly enough that I’d drop my investigation. He had purchased the satchel at Lucy Hamilton’s boutique. Perhaps she had helped with the note. She may also have penned the letter to the editor of
National Fisherman.
It must have been George who slipped out the back door of the boutique when I entered through the front entrance. George had broken into my car, hoping to find Dow’s black book, and he’d taken my camera in order to destroy whatever evidence I had gathered.

I recalled that George had been in the plant’s parking lot, listening to a ball game, and the next morning Clyde had said the Red Sox hadn’t played. Perhaps George had been waiting to see Ginny that evening, or perhaps he’d been eavesdropping to maximize his payment for the torch job. I had not even a shadow of a doubt now. But I would let Lincoln find out when the rest of the town did. And knowing how fast news traveled in Green Haven, I figured word would be out by lunch.

Now it was my turn to think aloud. “So Ginny Turner was double-dipping. She didn’t have the interest or money for the improvements necessary to keep the insurance policy, so my bet is that she wanted to collect the insurance before it was canceled. Then she’d sell the property to the Hamiltons to be utilized as the shoreside facility for the wind operation, and everyone would be happy.” Lincoln either didn’t have an opinion on this, or he was still ruminating about the distinct possibility that George had indeed committed murder. I continued, “I’m confused about Dow. Why would Lucy need to involve him? I thought the Hamiltons were filthy rich.”

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“They
were
. Blaine has squandered his entire inheritance on different schemes. This wind farm is the latest. They don’t even have enough money to pay half of Alex’s tuition. That’s why Lucy is so desperate to ensure that wind power comes to fruition. She and Nick Dow were friends since kindergarten.

I’ve suspected there was more to it than friendship, but since our divorce, I haven’t really cared. I’m sure that Lucy used Dow for whatever she needed, and that she was the only person in Green Haven who knew he didn’t drink. His ruse as the town drunk fit perfectly. He was able to bring in a substantial amount of cash under the table. He even disappeared for a month every winter and came back all tanned. The honest working people of this town can’t afford vacations.” He must have spent that month on a golf course, I reasoned. “No matter what he did or where he was seen, everyone excused him as a drunk. People lose inhibitions around a drunk. He must have seen and heard a lot. He was always prowling around at weird hours.”

“Pretty twisted,” I said, wishing for more. When nothing more came, I figured it was time to say goodbye and wait for the real authorities to tie up any loose ends. Just as I was about to thank Lincoln for walking me home (not to mention saving my life, even if he was in denial about his brother’s ca-pabilities), I felt eyes on my back. Turning toward the house, I saw the Vickersons’ faces pressed up tight against a window. I waved, eliciting the opening of the window. “Good morning, Janie,” called Alice. When had I become Janie? I wondered. “Would you like to invite your friend in for a blueberry muffin?”

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“Hi, Mrs. V. No, thank you. We were just saying goodbye, and I have to go to work,” I lied, knowing that I was headed for the shower and bed.

With this, Lincoln nodded and said, “See you around.”

Then he turned and headed back down the hill.

“We’re cooking up a new recipe. Mussel risotto! Will you join us tonight for dinner?” asked Henry.

“You bet.” The window closed, and their faces disappeared. A trip to the Old Maids was in order for gas and a container in which to carry it to the Duster. Maybe a little nap would loosen my wallet. It would be good to support my community by buying locally. I would eventually need to use the Duster, after all. I found myself reflecting back to just one week ago, when I could only imagine what my new life in Green Haven, Maine, would be like. Tranquil, it was not. I hadn’t yet sought out any of my Bunker roots, as I had tentatively planned to do. But I was beginning to feel stronger family-like ties with the Vickersons, Cal, and Audrey than I’d ever felt in Florida. Who says you can never go home? Happy with the knowledge that I hadn’t been able to fully escape my love of solving crimes, I wondered whether the murder of Nick Dow would have been investigated if I had remained in Florida. I suspected Dow’s death would have been regarded as accidental suicide for eternity. As capital crimes didn’t often occur in these small towns, I was content to assume that my life would meld into what I had originally imagined. I would be the insurance lady and nothing more. Until the next time.

A c k n o w l e d g m e n t s

So often acknowledgments include apologies to those forgotten among the scads of people being thanked. This is no exception. I have been working on
Slipknot
for one year, and am bound to forget to mention a few people whose help, en-couragement, and support I am most grateful for. If you are among those slighted, please know that I am eternally grateful for whatever you did or said.

Thanks to the great folks at Hyperion for all you’ve done to get this book airborne. To name a few: Will Schwalbe, Brendan Duffy, Leslie Wells, Bob Miller, Ellen Archer, Jane Comins, and Christine Ragasa. Here’s to book number five!

Thanks to my literary agent, Stuart Krichevsky, and all of the ladies at the Stuart Krichevsky Agency.

Thanks to my friend Drew Darling. Your beautifully written correspondence has inspired me to the point of near pla-giarism.

One of the more difficult things about writing is finding just the right spot in which to sit down and do it. I am fortunate to have generous friends with perfect places. Thanks to Marie Lane for the use of Uncle Walter’s cabin in Rich’s

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a c k n o w l e d g m e n t s

Cove. Thanks to Andrea Fassman for the time at her condo in Florida. And thank you, Pete Sheehen, for the week in your ski haus in Jackson, New Hampshire, when I was really under the gun to finish this book.

Thanks to the Smithwick brothers, who have provided marine insurance as well as contact information for others in the industry. I owe special thanks to Dave Dubois of Marine Safety Consultants for facts and a willingness to help in the future.

Thanks to photographer Todd Holmes and diesel mechanic John Pride.

Thanks to the talented and hardworking gals at Seabags for designing and producing the awesome Jane Bunker bag. I love mine!

Thanks, Mom and Dad, for proofreading. And thanks, Simon, for your help typing from time to time and for your companionship throughout.

There. Who did I forget?

A u t h o r ’ s N o t e

Slipknot
is, of course, a work of fiction, but included in the plot are some very real issues that confront today’s coastal communities.

From California to Florida to Maine, species like the Japanese Crab are devastating our aquatic ecosystems. If you want to learn more, there’s lots of interesting information at www.epa.gov/owow/invasive_species/.

As for wind farms, with ever increasing global energy demands and the growing movement toward developing renewable energy sources, wind farm projects are becoming more and more popular. But they’re no magic bullet, and they have their own set of environmental consequences. You can learn more about the pros and cons of wind farms and other forms of alternative energy at http://environment.newscientist.com/

channel/earth/energy-fuels.

Finally, there’s the delicate issue of fishing regulations.

The struggle between government agencies trying to safe-guard our natural resources and fishermen simply trying to feed and clothe their families is ongoing. Passions can run high on both sides of this debate, and it’s difficult (and not