The Maine Massacre (10 page)

"Well, gentlemen, would you care to follow me? My cabin is on the other side. It used to be here, but when the shore got built up I decided to move my living quarters."

The path circled the hill and Jeremy and the sergeant regulated their speed to the slow progress of the commissaris, who was limping badly. The sergeant didn't mind the slow pace. He looked at the smooth, wide curves of the snow, covering glades between the trees, and at the bay below, shimmering between the island and the cape. The dog ran ahead and waited for them on the path. De Gier extended a hand, but Jeremy held him back.

"Don't trust the dogs. You'll see another two on the other side. The young ones like to stay near the house. They have to get to know you real well before you can play with them. Now they'll attack without warning, and they bite to hurt. I had to save a hunter last year. The man had been stupid enough to ignore my KEEP OUT signs. The bay was completely frozen over then, so he could walk across. The dogs attacked him all at once and pushed him over and held him down until I came. They bit him too, but fortunately he had thick domes on and had tolled over so they couldn't get at his face."

"Didn't he have a gun?"

"He might have shot them if they'd barked or showed their teeth, but Dobermans don't waste time, not if they have been properly trained."

"Did you train them, sir?"

"Yes. I got the mother as a puppy and her puppies were born here."

They had to cross a steep ravine in order to get to the house. The drawbridge over the ravine was narrow. The cabin stood on posts, in a large clearing, and a small peninsula had been leveled so that it could be used as an airstrip. Smoke crinkled from the cabin's chimney and from a small shed at the edge of the clearing.

"The doghouse. I have a potbellied stove in it that will bum for a whole day if I put the damper on. But the door is ajar so that the dogs can get out. They don't like to be cooped up."

Two big dogs, larger than the one that had met them on the path, were running around the clearing, keeping their distance. Jeremy whistled and they darted up to him, touched his legs with their noses, and shot off. The first dog joined them and they barked briefly and pushed each other and split up again, each seeming to take responsibility for his share of die grounds.

"My home, gentlemen. I'll go ahead, and you can try your luck with die ladder."

The ladder was well made, and de Gier noted how it could be pulled up to slide underneath the cabin floor. He turned in the open door to take in the view. The horizon, broken only by a few small islands, was packed with puffed clouds. The open sea seemed like a gigantic, quiet pond and moved only with the swell, rising and falling away without a ripple on its smooth surface, stretching away forever.

Jeremy looked at the clouds. "More snow tonight or tomorrow. I'll have some shoveling to do. Some of the paths must be kept open. I've been snowed in before. It's not a bad feeling, but I have to buy stores from time to time and I don't want to repeat the ordeal of being without salt and tobacco for a week on end."

"You go to town often, sir?"

"As few times as I can possibly manage, but this old body of mine houses a lot of desires. I grow my own vegetables and potatoes and I keep summer goats for meat and I fish, but some of the staples and luxuries I have to buy and in winter my stocks run low."

He had taken off his jacket and hung it on a peg. An open holster was strapped to his belt and a long-barreled revolver pointed at the floor. The commissaris looked at the sidearm and at a rifle, hung from a hook above the door.

"You are well armed, sir."

Jeremy smiled.

"And well protected. It would take an amphibious attack by a number of men to dislodge you."

"Yes, it would. The water is on the boil and the cake is on the table. If the sergeant cuts the cake I'll busy myself with the tea."

The commissaris made no further efforts and let the quietness of the cabin seep into his mind. The tea was hot and strong, and he sat back, grunting with pleasure. The cabin was sturdy and beautifully finished with paneling on all sides and a high whitewashed roof, carried by rafters of handhewn pitch pine. The paneling consisted of assorted boards, but their shades and colors blended well. There were several bookcases and more books piled on the floor. Several shelves were filled with jars containing grains and dried herbs. Smoked meats and fish hung on strings attached to the rafters.

"You see why I won't let the dogs in here. They're good jumpers, and they like a change of diet every now and then. I feed them on what's called trashfish here, suckers and alewives, but they thrive on it."

"You built the house yourself?"

"Yes. I had a bit of help, but not too much of it. It took a long time though. I wasn't a handyman when I arrived. I was the opposite, in fact, the proverbial idiot, the man from the city who knows it all but can't do anything. I had to live in a tent for a year or two, an army arctic tent with a kind of funnel for an entrance. Hard to get in and out of, but it was the only thing I could find that would allow for local conditions. I was very grateful when I could move into the cabin, even if it was drafty. I hadn't learned about insulation. I thought I just had to nail a lot of boards together. I had to wreck and rebuild the house twice and get help from shore, and all in all it's cost me five times as much as I calculated. And the best joke was that I had to pull it down again, just when I'd decided that it was perfect. That was when the neighbors began to arrive and to litter up the cape with their noise and monstrosities. I pulled it down, moved it bit by bit, and built it again, for the third and last time, I hope. A monotonous occupation. It took all spring and all summer."

"Excuse my curiosity, sir," the commissaris said, "but I am a police officer and addicted to asking questions. Did you buy the island from Mr. Astrinsky when you arrived?"

"Through another agency that used to have a branch office here. The previous owner was a gambler who had no idea of what he was throwing away. The poor fellow liked the pink, crumpled bills around Las Vegas. I paid what was considered to be a high price in those days, but I imagine I could get a good deal more now. Islands are in short supply, and the summer people all seem to be millionaires. They'll give a thousand dollars for a rock with a tree on it. I have ten acres of rocks and trees."

"But you wouldn't sell, I take it."

"No, I'm here for the rest of my life."

De Gier had got up and was looking at die airstrip.

"You had an airplane once, sir?"

"I intended to have one. I thought it would be fun to fly around, but it turned out to be too much trouble. Or perhaps I was too old to learn. The instructors gave up on me after I broke the wheels of one plane and the wing of another. It doesn't matter. I have the rowboat, and when it gets really cold, in January and February, I can walk across. I have a backpack and any car will give me a ride into town. But the airstrip was made and I left it. Michael Astrinsky used to come out and visit me until I told him that his blustering bored me. Now Madelin comes sometimes."

"You don't mind her visits?"

"On the contrary, she's an exception to my rule. She doesn't talk much and we share a meal and we go for a walk. She's good with the animals and she never stays long. I keep the strip clean for her."

"I see. And you have no other contacts?"

"Very few. If the Indians were still around I might be tempted to be sociable again, but what can the people here teach me? Your brother-in-law was high up in the Blue Crustaceans, a club. Bah. To sit around and try not to get drunk and then make the effort to try and get home in one piece. I can get drunk here by myself, just by watching the bay. I get a lot drunker here than I used to in New York and I don't need a bottle to do it now. It took time. The first few years were hard."

"Indians," the commissaris said. "They've all gone?"

"Yes, to the reserves. We have the land. An Indian needs land, lots of it. An Indian could go into the woods naked and come back a week later with a suit of clothes, good shoes, a bow and arrows, a canoe even. And all they used were twigs and bark and the furs of the animals. They didn't need shotguns that take five shells and fire them all in three seconds."

"About those people on the shore," the commissaris said, "the people that made you move your house. They aren't there anymore. My brother-in-law fell and slipped and died. His neighbors got shot, drowned, were chased away, froze in the woods, drank themselves to death." The commissaris' voice was low and sleepy.

"Yes, so I heard."

Jeremy shifted in his chair. His gnarled hands played with the mug.

"Do you have any idea how all these accidents came about, sir?"

"Oh yes," Jeremy said, and the words came calmly and matched the slow turning of the mug. "Ideas I have, the ideas of a moron marooned in Orca Bay. The old sheriff may have had better ideas, and the new sheriff may be having them now."

"Murder," the sergeant said quietly. "Wouldn't you think so?"

"But I won't tell you what I think," Jeremy said, his eyes gleaming, "although I might give you some advice if advice is wanted."

"We are new here," the commissaris said and stuck his fork into his cake. "As new as you were once. But we are interested, of course, and your advice will be appreciated. We looked just now at the chain saw my brother-in-law was working with moments before he died. An unfamiliar tool to us. The Netherlands have few woods left and we try to leave them alone. The chain saw was stuck in a tree."

"Nipped it. He probably didn't make a proper cut and the weight of the tree was leaning on the saw so that it couldn't be moved."

"Exactly. So he pulled and pulled and slipped and fell. The snow was frozen hard, turned to ice. There wouldn't have been any tracks had somebody been with him."

"He would have worn gloves. With gloves the hands don't slip on the saw's handle." Jeremy was staring at the commissaris. He seemed fascinated and amused.

"He might have slipped all the same. Perhaps he wasn't a good man with the chain saw," the commissaris was saying.

"No, he wouldn't have been. But even so, hard to prove something, isn't it?" Jeremy got up and stretched, rummaged about on the table, and found his pipe. "You might, mmpf mmpf, try to work on another victim, mmpf mmpf, seems you have choice enough."

"Another victim? Which victim would you recommend?"

The pipe was lit and sweet smoke crinkled through the cabin. "Let's see now," Jeremy said. "Who would I recommend? Mary Brewer, I think."

There was a tap on the window. Jeremy opened it and let in the raven, which flew up and sat on one of the rafters, peering down at de Gier.

"The lady who was drowned."

"Yes. I saw her go out that day. The wind was getting stronger and she wasn't wearing a life jacket, as usual."

Jeremy paused and dug about in his pipe with a penknife. "I can tell you a little, but I'm curious too. You're police officers, you say, from the Netherlands. Would you be cooperating with the sheriff here?"

"The sergeant is here on an exchange program, sir. I am a relative of one of the victims on Cape Orca."

"But you're a police officer too?"

"Yes."

"I see. As I say, I was just curious. Well, this is my tale. Mary used to like to sail clear out of the bay, which is fine when the wind isn't too strong. But that day the wind couldn't make up its mind and came this way and that and sometimes it came in sudden gusts. Cat's paws we call them here, like a cat reaching down, quick as a flash, and the mouse is caught. But Mary was the mouse—I am assuming. I didn't see Mary go down, but I saw the cat's paws on the bay. I was a bit worried about her, I suppose, but not too worried. She'd always managed to come back."

"Go on, sir."

"Yes, if the tale is of interest, certainly. There's something else I should tell you. Mary capsized once and her boat sank. She had a silly boat, not designed for these waters. I saw her go over and I rowed out. She was close to the island. I got her aboard and we lifted the boat out later. It had sunk in a shallow spot. But Mary got a fright then, and she had the stern and the bow of her boat filled with plastic foam. The carpenter made some nice wooden bulkheads to hide the foam."

"So the boat became unsinkable?"

"Oh yes, quite unsinkable."

"And did the boat come back, sir?"

"Exactly," Jeremy said. "There we have my point. That boat should have come back. Everything comes back here. The current is inland. You should see the garbage I pick up on the shores of this island. And Mary's boat was bright orange, a horrifyingly bright color."

De Gier was trying to outstare the raven, but the bird's eyes didn't blink.

"I see," the commissaris said. "You are saying the boat shouldn't have sunk, but apparently it did. There wasn't a search?"

"Not really. Maybe the Coast Guard looked for the boat, but they can't have been too thorough. The corpse turned up, you see, and everybody knew that Mary never wore a life jacket. And she wasn't missed until days after the accident. I saw her go out, but I didn't check to see whether she came back. She lived by herself. I suppose the mailman alarmed the sheriff when he saw that she wasn't emptying her mailbox."

"You are sure the boat wasn't found."

"Yes."

"So if it was found now and the disappearance of the plastic foam was ascertained..."

"Yes."

De Gier gave up on the raven and turned to look at Jeremy. "So there could have been murder, sir. You didn't tell the sheriff about your theory?"

"Me? Never. Perhaps if he'd come to see me, but I wouldn't barge into his office. We live our own lives here. I certainly do."

The raven had hopped down and was worrying de Gier's hat. Jeremy got up, took the hat away from the bird, and gave it back to the sergeant.

"Thank you. My beautiful washbear hat. It belonged to Mr. Opdijk."

"Washbear? Oh, 1 see. Is that what you call raccoons in your country? Not a bad name. They do wash their food before they eat it. Washbear, hmrnm."