Massacre Pond: A Novel (Mike Bowditch Mysteries) (17 page)

“My understanding is that the state’s entire delegation is on record opposing your plan,” I said.

“A teensy problem,” said Briar.

“There’s also another way to do this,” said Albee. “Under the 1906 Antiquities Act, the President can confer national-monument status on an area by executive order. That’s how Teddy Roosevelt created Grand Canyon National Monument. In the past two decades, six new national parks have been designated, and most of them were national monuments first. The exception—which is closer to the model we’re following here—is Voyageurs, in Minnesota, which was also created through the acquisition of private land.”

“In either case, it seems to me you need to win over public opinion,” I said. “I can’t imagine the President is just going to ride roughshod over local politicians and voter sentiment.”

“That’s not necessarily the case,” said Albee. “Most presidents wait until the lame-duck period of their presidencies to designate national monuments. They have their eyes on their place in history at that stage and not on the next election, and thus are more willing to assert their privileges. But you’re right: It absolutely helps to have a groundswell of support from the populace. That’s why this moose massacre might ultimately be a good thing.”

I could feel my face flushing with blood. “Excuse me?”

Albee held up his hands to show his peaceful intentions. “It’s horrific, inexcusable—don’t get me wrong,” he said. “The perpetrators need to be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. But a violent incident like this can create a backlash of sympathy. I’m not sure if you’ve been following the news, Warden, but because of Betty’s celebrity, this is now a national story. The shootings have cast the opponents of our proposal in a highly negative light. The Maine papers have all come out with editorials reconsidering the opposition to Moosehorn, and Betty has been invited to New York tomorrow to appear on three of the morning TV shows. From a public-relations standpoint, the slaughter of those ten animals might actually be—”

“Dexter, that’s enough.” Elizabeth Morse stood in the door leading to the kitchen.

Political animal that he was, Albee instantly sensed the waves of anger coming off his patron. “Betty, I’m just trying to point out the silver lining to this horrible event.”

She ignored him and looked straight into my eyes. “Mr. Albee’s passion is his most endearing quality, but sometimes he lets it get the better of him.”

“My apologies,” said Albee.

Elizabeth pivoted toward her daughter. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. It’s so nice of you to join us.”

“You didn’t tell me you were having Mike assigned to the case.”

“How could I tell you when you were passed out with an empty wine bottle?”

“Someone tried to kill me, Mom!”

“So you said.” It sounded like Elizabeth wasn’t as quick to believe her daughter as Leaf or I had been. “How about putting on a robe? I’m sure Warden Bowditch doesn’t mind the peep show, but I would prefer it if you acted with more maturity around my guests.”

Briar pinched the top of her nightgown closed. “Leaf says you used to be like this cool free spirit when you were my age. What happened to you?”

“I became a mother,” Elizabeth said. “Warden, I’d like to speak with you alone out on the patio if you have a few minutes.”

Again, the suggestion was a command. “Yes, ma’am.”

Briar leaned over and kissed my cheek for no apparent reason. My face grew warm again.

“Knock it off, Briar,” her mother said.

Briar made a
harrumphing
noise that didn’t exactly demonstrate the maturity her mother wished for her, and then she turned on her bare heels and scurried upstairs.

“Betty, I really didn’t mean anything,” said Albee with a flutter in his voice and an expression that seemed to be growing more and more nervous by the second.

“Yes, you did,” she said, exiting the room.

I gave the jug-eared man a curt nod by way of a farewell, thinking that I needed to phone Rivard and tell him to check out Dexter Albee’s whereabouts on the night of the moose massacre.

18

We stopped briefly in the kitchen to pick up two mugs containing EarthMother herbal tea and then proceeded through a sliding door onto the immense flagstone patio beside the lake. The air was heavy and muggy, and a translucent haze hung along the distant hills. It could have been the dog days of summer. The morning was already too hot for tea.

Elizabeth Morse didn’t speak until she had settled herself into one of the two Adirondack chairs flanking the extinguished fire pit. She waved a hand at me to indicate I should do the same. It felt awkward. I was a law-enforcement officer, in uniform and on duty, and not some vacationer here to enjoy the view.

“When I die, I intend to donate this house to serve as the park’s welcome center,” she said. “I had it designed with that purpose in mind.”

“It’s certainly spectacular.”

“Albee didn’t shoot those animals,” she said.

I didn’t inform Elizabeth Morse that she had an uncanny habit of reading my mind. “That’s good to hear.”

“He was giving a presentation at a house party in Cumberland Foreside, near Portland. You can ask the hosts.”

Greater Portland was approximately five hours away by car. Since I doubted that Albee had spent the night at the home of Morse’s potential backers, he might easily have driven to Washington County after the party had ended. Given that the moose might well have been shot between midnight and dawn, his alibi didn’t amount to much.

“So what was your reaction to the proposal?” Morse asked me after a long pause.

“It’s ambitious,” I said.

“That’s true, but you don’t support the idea. I can always tell a skeptic.”

“I know a lot of good people who work in the forest industry,” I said. “You’re not going to retrain them to run bed-and-breakfasts and souvenir shops. Maybe someday all the good economic benefits you talk about will happen, but a generation is going to struggle in the meantime.”

“What else?”

“I’m a game warden, Ms. Morse. I know it’s not politically correct. But hunting and trapping and fishing mean something to me. They’re part of our heritage here in Maine and important activities in my own life.”

She leaned forward in her chair. “Last week was the moose hunt, wasn’t it?”

“In this zone, it was. The moose hunt happens during different weeks in September and October around the state.”

“How many dead moose did you see?”

I thought back to my patrols during that long, hot week; the many times the agent at the tagging station had called to tell me a big bull had just come in on a trailer; the occasions when I had happened on a party of hunters field-dressing an animal in the woods.

“I’m not sure,” I said, “but I know they tagged twenty-three at Day’s General Store.”

“Yes, I saw several being weighed as we drove by. They were lifted on a chain by their hind legs over that pole contraption they have set up there. All of them had been gutted beforehand, and there was a pool of blood on the ground. People were taking pictures. It was a grotesque spectacle.” She set her mug down on the arm of the chair. “The question I have for you is, how was that any different from what happened on my property?”

“The hunters who shot the moose didn’t just leave them to rot,” I said. “They’re going to eat the meat. In many cases, these men and their families are poor, and they are going to save hundreds of dollars in food bills. Nothing is going to waste.”

She waved her hand, and I saw that her fingernails were newly polished. “You pretend it’s all a utilitarian enterprise. What’s that word hunters always use? The deer
harvest
? That’s a cozy term for mass murder, in my opinion.” Her throaty voice began to rise in pitch. “But you’re deliberately ignoring the key similarity between the ‘legal’ hunters who gleefully pose for photographs with their trophies and the hunters who shot the moose on my land.”

“Which is what, ma’am?” I tried to keep the personal insult I was feeling out of my voice.

“The enthusiasm. The joy of killing another living thing. You hunters can pretend you’re engaged in some noble tradition that softhearted city people will never understand. But the truth is, you get a kick out of inflicting death, and I find that repugnant.”

I had heard this argument before many times when I was in college, and I had usually answered that
Homo sapiens
evolved as a species of hunters. It wasn’t some cultural artifact we would morally relinquish, the way we had slavery or leaving old people on ice floes. Hunting was woven into the strands of our DNA. It was the reason we had incisor teeth. Man is a meat eater—and always will be.

But I was already tired of debating with Elizabeth Morse, when what I wanted to be doing was searching for the men who had killed those animals. And the fact that I was stuck here, seemingly for the sole purpose of entertaining this wealthy woman’s whims, made me feel even more like a useless plaything.

“Then you and I disagree,” I said.

“Where did you grow up?” she asked me. “You don’t remind me of the other wardens I’ve met.”

“In what way?”

“You talk the same talk—about your proud outdoor heritage, et cetera—but it’s as if you’re pretending somehow. You don’t have much of a Maine accent, and your speech is different, not quite so folksy.”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” I said.

“The wardens I’ve met are always using words like
critters
to describe animals. It’s like you come from a very different background than your sergeant and lieutenant. Where did you go to college?”

I paused before I answered. “Colby.”

“And what did you major in?”

“I was a history major.” I felt peeved that she had identified some special quality that separated me from my colleagues.

“My daughter was studying dance and theater at Bennington. Now she tells me she wants to work for my foundation. She wants to use my money to help ‘people instead of animals,’ she says. Her latest fixation is curing typhoid fever in Zambia and Zimbabwe. I notice you don’t wear a wedding ring.”

This woman took a lot of liberties. “No, ma’am.”

“I think Briar likes you.”

“She’s a lovely young woman,” I said.

She leaned back in her Adirondack chair and brought her hand to her chin. She studied me with those perceptive hazel eyes. “I’ve decided to raise the reward I’m offering to twenty thousand dollars. What do you think about that?”

“That’s a lot of money.”

“Not to me, it’s not,” she said. “The question is whether it’s enough money to achieve the outcome I desire.”

“In this part of the world, I would say it is.”

“Good, then perhaps you can help me get the word out through whatever channels you use for these things.”

“We have a program called Operation Game Thief.”

She made an amused noise in the back of her throat. “Another euphemism.”

“I’m sorry?”

“
Game.
As in something you play.” She stood up from the chair and stood in a place where the sun was shining directly behind her, surrounding her silhouette with a celestial aura. “Dexter mentioned that I’m flying to New York today. I have some meetings, and I’m going to tape segments with the network morning shows tomorrow about the shootings. I’d thought of having you appear with me on TV—you are articulate and photogenic—but I have a feeling the idea would give your Lieutenant Rivard a fit. And I don’t get the sense that you enjoy the limelight.”

Nor would I enjoy being used as a prop to advance your park proposal, I thought.

“I don’t think the Maine Warden Service wants me to be its official spokesman,” I said, rising to my feet. “But I could check with the corporal down in Augusta who handles information requests. Perhaps he would be available to go with you.”

“It was just a fleeting idea I had. Now I should go pack some things. You’re free to stay or go. I’ll give you a call when I need you again.”

And with that, I was dismissed. In Queen Elizabeth’s eyes, I was just another servant. I was beginning to understand Billy’s resentments.

“Have a safe trip,” I said.

“And good luck with your investigation. By the way, do you know what Thoreau’s last word was?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“It was
moose.
I’m coming to see that as an auspicious omen for me.”

*   *   *

I put a call into the Augusta headquarters and told the corporal who handled the media for the Warden Service about Elizabeth Morse’s twenty-thousand-dollar reward. He whistled when I told him the sum. It would be the largest amount of money ever offered through Operation Game Thief, he said.

The comment made me reflect on Morse’s wordplay:
game,
as in a wild animal killed by hunters;
game,
as in a childish form of recreation. I didn’t want to think too hard on the point she had been trying to make.

Leaf Woodwind escorted me to the Sixth Machias gate. He sat in my passenger seat, reeking so much of marijuana, it seemed like almost a deliberate attempt to taunt me. After riding with him for a few minutes, however, I concluded that the old hippie was just heedless of how obviously drugged he was.

“So you guys really don’t have any leads on this thing?” he asked.

“We have a few.”

“Man, I hope you do, because Betty isn’t the most patient person on the planet.”

I looked at him out of the side of my sunglasses, keeping my head facing the road. “I heard you used to be her business partner.”

“Yeah, I was. Back in the eighties.” He stroked his beard softly, as if it were a pet he’d owned a long time. “But I never really saw it that way, you know? To me, it was more like we were together and the business stuff was just something we did to pass the time.”

“I can’t really picture Elizabeth Morse as a back-to-the-lander.”

He had a laugh that was more of a deep-throated giggle. “Betty was always more of a pretend hippie. The first time I saw her, she was standing next to this overheating VW Super Beetle, with her hair all in crazy curls, wearing this peasant dress. I asked her where she was heading, and she said nowhere. She was just this restless young thing exploring the Maine countryside. So I gave her a ride, and we ended up back at the shack where I was living, and Betty thought it was the coolest place in the world. She had read the Nearings, you know? She had all these fantasies of eating only food she grew herself and living the good life. She moved in with me that night. I was a bit older than her so I couldn’t believe my luck. I didn’t realize she was this rich kid from Boston.”