ONE
“Any get-together described as a social, fete, gala, or soiree—you can count me out,” I said as I stood, brushing tiny scraps of blueberry muffin from my jeans into the palm of my hand. I deposited the muffin crumbs onto the place mat that marked my usual spot at the breakfast bar at the Harbor Café. The place mat that advertised every commercial enterprise between my home in tiny Green Haven and Ellsworth, Maine, and still allowed room for the café’s menu was all that was needed to explain the size and rural-ness of the area where I had decided to hang my hat following a knee-jerk move from Miami. “I’m just more casual than that. Think shindig.”
“But you have to go,” urged Audrey from the working side of the counter. “The Alfonds’ Summer Solstice Soiree is like the annual who’s who of Green Haven.”
“And all the more reason for me to not attend. I detest that sort of thing. And why was I invited? I am the epitome of nobody.” I stood and bent over the stool, resting both elbows on the counter. I was anxious to hear the sassy young waitress talk her way around the fact that my invitation was clearly a case of mistaken identity or at the very least a serious lapse in the Alfonds’ judgment. “Are you going?”
This literally stopped what I had come to know as Audrey’s perpetual motion in its proverbial tracks. I had met Audrey right here nearly a year ago to the day. And in that time I had never been less than amazed at her ability to multitask, running the show at the café while carrying on a conversation (or three!). Now, in this brief moment, Audrey wasn’t clearing a place setting, pouring coffee, taking orders from customers or barking orders to the kitchen, scraping plates, serving food, or answering the phone. She looked at me in astonishment through her paradoxical, contradictory combination of maturity beyond and naivety before her nearly twenty years of age. “You are kidding, right?” She sucked a gold lip ring into her mouth thoughtfully, then allowed it to pop back out. “Yours truly is not even on the B-list. Someone like me would never be invited.” This was matter-of-fact, and not at all a lament or complaint. “That’s why it’s so important for you to go and report back to me! The only time real people get invited to the soiree is when a selectman or code enforcement officer is included. And that only happens when some hobnobber needs a variance for a project that does not comply with zoning rules.”
“And once again, why am I invited?”
“News flash for you, girlfriend…” Audrey now switched gears back into full speed ahead. She quickly cleared and reset the counter where I had been, and turned to load the coffee maker while talking over her shoulder with her back to me. “You are Green Haven’s most eligible bachelorette.”
“Ha! Prospects aren’t good for the single men in this town if I top the list of possibilities.”
“Not to downplay any appeal you might have, but have you looked around lately?” Audrey disappeared through the swinging doors to the kitchen and returned with a tray loaded with plates full of eggs and pancakes before the insult sunk in. “You are it, period. The only other single ladies in town are gay, widowed seniors, or socially unfit for a soiree—like me!” Audrey served the breakfast plates like she was dealing from a deck of playing cards: smoothly and precisely. She breezed by me as I pulled on my jacket to leave and added, “You are going to the Alfonds, and that, as they say, is that.”
I laughed knowing that there was no way that I would go. In fact, I had the RSVP in my bag, and was planning to check the “I can’t attend” box and stick it in the mail this morning on my way to work. Cowbells clanged when the café’s door opened revealing Green Haven’s equivalent to the village idiot, Clydie Leeman. Glad to avoid the usual nonsensical conversation with him by excusing myself and leaving, I made my way through the door, which Clydie held open with more flourish than was necessary. Before the door closed behind me, Audrey called out playfully, “And now enters your plus-one!”
“Plus what?” I heard Clyde ask while I quickly made my way down Main Street as the sounds and smells of the café dulled to nothing. I always enjoyed the light banter I shared with Audrey, as well as her insights into the community that had fostered her in the absence of nurturing biological parents. That same community, which was so different from that of low-income, migrant-and-immigrant Miami from where I had come, was beginning to feel like home, I thought as I walked briskly along Green Haven’s Main Street toward my apartment perched on Burnt Hill.
Well, this somewhat native Floridian had survived her first Maine winter. Not exactly my first. But the only one that I had any recollection of. I had left Maine at the age of five in an old station wagon with my mother at the helm and my infant brother, Wally, in the back seat with me. Stopping only for fuel and catnaps, we ran out of road and money in Miami, where we set the anchor. I suppose most people would consider my childhood a little rough, or unorthodox at the very least. But one thing’s for sure, it was indeed mine. And I had come to realize that my childhood was one of very few things that I truly possessed and that could never be lost or taken away. In my early teens, I am embarrassed to admit, I was envious of my brother’s Down syndrome. Wally’s affliction seemed more a blessing than what I had been dealt—Nothing special—No great beauty or intellect—No God-given talent—No charm or sex appeal—No reason to be noticed. Plain Jane. Jane Bunker. Milk toast. Uninteresting. Except, I reminded myself as I started up the hill, in my career. There had been no lack of luster on the job.
I had clawed my way to the top grade of detective in crime-ridden, drug-laden Miami in the days when women were addressed mostly as Mrs., Mom, or both. My life at work was far from boring. My career eventually defined me. Detective Jane Bunker became feared by the outlaws who smuggled drugs onto the shores of my territory, so ripe for such activity with mangrove swamps and everglades. Thankfully, law enforcement is a career that translates well geographically. Cops are needed everywhere. It hadn’t taken long for my initial Down East gig of insurance investigator to cede way to the growing duties at the sheriff’s office of Hancock County, where I had been named deputy.
Since my arrival in Green Haven, I had waged what amounted to a single-handed war on drugs in Down East Maine, and had won many battles, the numbers of which were on a frighteningly steep rise. I had made busts up and down the supply chain, knowing that each time I severed a link, it interrupted flow. Interrupted flow saved lives. I had also managed to investigate three non-drug-related murder cases, all of which ended in lengthy prison sentences for the convicted. Not that prison equals justice for all victims and families. But it is the best we can do short of practicing eye for an eye (not that I always oppose it) which I suspect was a standard mode of operation prior to my presence. The fabric of remote, coastal, small-town Maine is lumpy with so much having been swept under the rug through the years.
My apartment, which I now approached, was an efficiency over a seasonal gift shop called The Lobster Trappe. My landlords lived in the main house, and graciously rented their guest bedroom to my brother Wally, who moved to Maine from Miami four months ago when his assisted-living situation closed due to loss of federal funding. I had been skeptical of how the arrangements would work out. And I initially reasoned that Wally would be under the same roof only temporarily. Our landlords, Henry and Alice Vickerson, or Mr. and Mrs. V, were so much more than that. Both in their mid-eighties, Alice and Henry were quirky and cool, and very much like the grandparents that I never knew. They had grown fond of Wally quickly, and this endeared them to me even more than their generosity and kindness to me had. Stepping around unopened boxes of inventory for the gift shop, I made my way to the main entrance to check in with Wally before heading off to work at the Hancock County Sheriff’s Department.
I rapped twice on the door with the back of my hand, opened it, and called out, “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Janey,” was the cheerful reply from the chorus of three voices that I had come to expect. This was our daily morning routine. I found everyone in their usual places around the breakfast table. Mr. V was the only one fully dressed, and he looked as dapper as he always did, with perfectly creased chinos and a blue-and-white plaid dress shirt tucked in neatly and accented with a canvas belt embroidered with lobsters. Mrs. V wore her long cotton summer nightgown under a white-and-red lobster-print terrycloth robe. Her slippers were a matching red and a little floppier than what I thought safe for an elderly woman to shuffle around in. Wally sported his favorite Batman jammies, which had been part of a welcome package from Alice and Henry.
“Motley crew,” I said as I pulled out the fourth chair and plunked into it. “Wally, you are working bankers’ hours! It is nearly eight thirty, and you’re not dressed,” I teased.
“I like split swing shift. It’s more civilized,” he responded with what I knew was a direct quote he had picked up from the Vs. Wally could be somewhat of a parrot, which is why I am so concerned about who he spends time with. Back when he was a teenager, the local kids used to take strange joy in teaching him to swear, and then I was stuck teaching him to apologize to whomever he had offended. Now, I heard the landlords’ influence every time he spoke. That, and Audrey’s. Wally’s “split swing shift” was spent at the café where Audrey kept him busy and entertained. The job was great. It gave Wally a little independence and a lot of pride and self-respect. Employment gave Wally a bit of swag, and Audrey gave him too much sass for my liking. But I knew to take the good with the bad. Besides, I realized that the shifts had been created specifically for my brother. The first two hours of the split shift landed directly between the breakfast rush and the lunch onslaught, and the second was right after lunch. I didn’t know what the “swing” portion of his hours referred to, but assumed I would find out when Wally’s shift swung.
I sipped a cup of black coffee that Mrs. V poured from a lobster carafe and listened contentedly to everyone’s plans for the day. The landlords would be busy stocking shelves in the gift shop with new merchandise—all of which had something to do with lobster traps, buoys, boats, or the critters themselves. Tourist season had just begun with a little light traffic in the way of shoppers. “But,” Mrs. V reminded, “we’d better hold on to our hats.” The season would be in full bloom by July Fourth. They had just three short months to “make hay.” And then it would be another nine months of “tough sledding.”
Wally drank hot chocolate and slurped the last of the milk from his now empty cereal bowl. Mr. V drummed his fingers on the table until I made eye contact with him. “So, we understand that you’ll be attending the Alfonds’ annual Summer Solstice Soiree. That’s wonderful!” It was now clear that my landlords, who consider my business (personal or professional) their business, had gleaned this particular insight from sifting through my mail, which was always delivered to their box as I had not secured one of my own.
Three wide-eyed expressions waited anxiously for my affirmative reply. They sat with elbows on the table, leaning forward encouragingly and welcoming what they hoped would be an excited acquiescence to what they all understood was not at all something I would desire or enjoy. “Nope,” was all I could muster. All three sank back in their chairs, crossed arms at their chests, and exhaled in disgust. “I am not interested in socializing with summer people.”
“From what we see and hear, you’re not interested in socializing with anyone.” Mrs. V sounded sad and sort of whined as she continued. “Janey, you must be lonely. If you don’t put yourself out there, you’ll never meet anyone.”
“I am fine, really. But thank you for caring. I have work. And I have all of you!”
“Audrey says Janey is a squayah,” Wally interjected in a pretty good Down East accent. As the Vs and I realized that Wally didn’t know what it meant to be square, we chuckled and lightened what was heading toward awkward for me.
Before they could badger me further, a sharp dinging rang out from a kitchen timer—of course the timer was a plastic lobster—alerting us that it was now time for Wally to get ready for work. This was always my cue to leave, and I did so quickly, thanking my landlords for the coffee and kissing my brother on his forehead. “Time for me to break camp,” I announced happily and started toward the door.
“You are breaking rank,” teased Mr. V, beginning what had become a game of play on words that we engaged in frequently. In this case, Mr. V had chosen “break.”
“Them’s the breaks,” I quipped.
“You should break new ground,” Mr. V advised.
“You sound like a broken record.”
“Break the ice!” Mr. V pounded a fist on the table for emphasis.
“I’ll break out in a sweat.”
“After you, they broke the mold.” He shook his head.
“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”
“But you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.”
“Break it up!” yelled Mrs. V as she placed her right hand on top of her left forming a T, calling for a time-out. Although I still had a few arrows in my quiver, when the boss lady speaks, we listen. Before I reached the door, Alice once again pleaded her case, giving reasons why I should start socializing, and added, “At least promise you’ll think about going to the soiree. Won’t you, dear?”
“Will do,” I said in concession as I stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind me. I couldn’t imagine why my landlords worried so about my personal life. I was content and fulfilled in my work. Although Audrey had defined my extracurricular activities as “lame,” I never paid heed as I knew that I had no time for men, which is where any such conversation always took us. Sure, I had been through my fair share of relationships, I thought as I bobbed and weaved through lobster birdhouses and wind chimes that dangled from the gift shop’s exposed beams. I had even been engaged once. And the memory of how that had ended so badly, and the fact that my ex-fiancé was solely responsible for my move to Maine at the top of my career, sealed the deal on the RSVP to the soiree.
I climbed behind the wheel of my Plymouth Duster, stomped on the gas pedal three times, and cranked up the motor. My car was another conversation starter. Although I refer to it as a Duster, it is in actuality a 1987 Plymouth Turismo with 186,000 original miles. The Turismo’s original sales brochure boasted what spoke directly to my Scottish heritage—“The American Way to Get Your Money’s Worth.” Budget wheels and a taste for Scotch whiskey are perhaps the only connections I have to my roots. Of course I never celebrate them in unison, as drinking and driving would be a blemish I could not live down. I bought my car used, and it is the only car I have ever owned. In its day, the beige crystal coat and sable brown were probably pretty sexy. But thirty years in, even this “Florida car” had faded to a dull, nondescript hue—like me, I realized with a laugh. I forced all thoughts of men and cars out of my head and allowed myself to appreciate the scenery as I drove the narrow, twisting road that connected Green Haven to the rest of Maine, including my destination—Hancock County Sheriff’s Department in Ellsworth.
Daffodils that had pushed proudly through brownish banks and roadside ditches just days ago were now looking limp as fresh greenery spread and budded nearly everywhere I looked. Coastal Maine in spring was far different from what it had been in winter, I thought. The only remnants of winter’s retreat were crusty, white rings of snow at the bases of trees that shaded them from direct sun, and what remained of fishermen’s trap piles that shrunk daily in preparation for the first shedders to strike. Spring brought bustling activity and renewed spirit to Green Haven, I thought. Freshly painted buoys were strung to dry in nearly every yard in town. The florescent Day-Glo buoy paint splattered bright spritzes of color onto backdrops of yellow or green trap wire. Boats loaded high and wide with gear disappeared from the harbor and returned empty to docks to reload and set again. Dawn was greeted with the roar and purr of diesel engines. By daylight the calm of the harbor was chopped by boats and skiffs dashing about for fuel and bait. And all quelled at dusk as boats returned to moorings and fishermen with empty dinner pails headed home in pickup trucks that drained from parking areas in steady streams.
The seasonal shops that lined Main Street were getting their annual sprucing up. Shutters were opened and windows were cleaned. Porches and railings were painted and repaired as needed. Signs were freshened and flags were displayed. Food shacks boasted “The Best Lobster Roll in Maine” and “Fresh Blueberry Pie,” surely the staples of the Maine food scene during tourist season. “Help Wanted” was a common theme among the seasonal signage. Picnic tables appeared where snowmobile trailers had been. Mailboxes that had taken the brunt of careless plow drivers were shored up. The inventory at the General Store had changed from ice fishing gear, rock salt, and shovels to mackerel jigs, sun block, and T-shirts touting all of the glories of Vacationland. As I left Green Haven proper and swerved my way across the snakelike causeway to the mainland, I thought how nicely I had settled in here. I am happy, I thought to myself as I drove the final ten minutes to work.
As July Fourth approached, the traffic in Ellsworth would become heavy and parking spaces hard to find. Fortunately, I had a place reserved with a sign that read “Hancock County Deputy Sheriff” right in front of the station. I swung the Duster into my dedicated slot and hustled to and through the front door where I was greeted by Deloris, the dispatcher. Actually, to refer to Deloris as a dispatcher was doing her a disservice, I knew. Deloris had proven herself invaluable in electronic forensics and reconstruction and was adept in researching and navigating all of the Federal and State websites and systems for any and all investigative information needed to assist me in my pursuit of justice. (Hacker is a term that I save for those on the wrong side of the law).
Deloris had just recently returned to work from a long stint at home where she convalesced from broken heels suffered in the line of duty. Although she longed to be more hands-on, we wouldn’t have that conversation until she was fully healed (no pun intended). And until that time, she would remain at a desk and assist where I was weakest. Yin and yang. Deloris was the perfect partner, I thought as I stopped at her desk to get the early scoop on what was on the docket for this morning. “I see you made the front page, again.” Deloris smiled and handed me a newspaper that she had neatly folded to display a single headline and article. “Hancock County Sheriff’s Department Strikes Again,” she read as I focused on the subheading: “Two New York City men arrested on charges of trafficking heroin and crack cocaine.”
“They never get it right,” I said as I placed the paper on top of a pile of folders in front of Deloris. “I arrested three people. Two men and one woman.”
“You’re averaging a bust a week!” Deloris held up a hand for a high five, which I was happy to reciprocate, and I accepted the congratulations. “You’re killing it.”
“Unfortunately, the frequency of arrests made is a statement of how rampant the drugs and thugs are, rather than a true testament to my police work. But I am killing it, aren’t I?” Stamping out illegal drugs that were chalking up deaths due to overdose at a history-making rate had been my mission since taking on the position of deputy sheriff. It was what I had done in my past life in Miami, and was perhaps the one thing that I was passionate about.
“Yes, indeed. Now, if you can squeeze your swelled head through the door, the sheriff is waiting for us in his office,” Deloris said with a grin as she stood and tucked the doctor-prescribed crutches under her arms. I allowed Deloris to lead the way, limping down the corridor and into the sheriff’s office. This had become our morning routine. I would modestly accept accolades for this most recent bust, and listen to what the sheriff had in mind for an agenda. Most commonly, he would defer to my judgment on how best to spend my time on the clock. Deloris was always enthusiastic about assisting, and I was quick to praise her publicly for her expertise.
“Morning, ladies,” the sheriff said as he motioned for us to take seats opposite him at a large, handsome desk. “This comes from the powers that be,” he started as he scanned what appeared to be an email he had printed out. I sat up straight and proud, waiting for more high praise from Green Haven’s town fathers, or another pat on the back from the Maine Drug Enforcement Agency. The sheriff scanned the mail, sat back, and sighed. He shrugged his shoulders, cocked his head to one side while looking me in the eye, and said, “They’re asking me to put the binders on you.”
This was not at all what I had anticipated. I was confused. Deloris wiggled uncomfortably in her seat while I tried to collect my thoughts enough to ask a question. Before I could do so, the sheriff continued. “It seems that the number and amplitude of your drug-related arrests are making Green Haven’s authorities uneasy.” This did nothing to unravel my scrambled thoughts. I turned and looked at Deloris for clarity or some explanation, but her jaw had dropped and her complexion had become ashen.
The sheriff offered the sheet of paper to me as I struggled to make sense of what he had said. I realized that Down East Maine had its own colloquialisms, some of which I had yet to decipher. But putting binders on was somewhat universal. The sheriff had been asked to hit the brakes of the vehicle on which I had been riding so high and fast, facilitating taking down dealers and smugglers of any illicit substances that made their way into Hancock County. I refused the paper as I had no need to see this ridiculous order in writing. “Why?” I asked.
“Tourism. Maine is Vacationland. People leave the cities to get away from crime. The Town Fathers are of the opinion that the publicity surrounding your … well, achievements, will have an adverse effect on the local economy, which they remind us is hospitality based until after Labor Day.” A long silence followed. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Uneasy with my silent stare, the sheriff turned to Deloris and asked, “What will the summer people think? You get it, right?”
“Loud and clear.” Deloris snapped to. “Nothing says Welcome to Maine like the meth lab next door. Sort of puts the ain’t in quaint.” I mulled, frustrated, while Deloris and the sheriff quickly went on to another, relatively benign subject. How could I possibly put my ambition and main purpose in life on hold until the elite vacate Vacationland? As my boss and Deloris discussed how the summer community and tourists bleed money that is so badly needed after the drying winds of winter, I pulled something from the recesses of my memory that made me smile.
Could it have been that long ago, I wondered, that I cracked the case that put me on the map? It was 1993. News of my tri-county drug bust made headlines in every national and daily publication. And it was one tongue-in-cheek article that I clipped and saved—something I have not done since. A US Customs official had been quoted referring to the arrestees as “the most technologically sophisticated drug-transport group ever captured,” a statement that the writer of the article deemed an unsolicited testimonial that should be turned into pure gold. The journalist went so far as to suggest that drug smugglers all over the world might like to travel to Dade County to check out gadgets including “metal cylinders with infrared lights and radio transmitters for tracking packets of cocaine all over the North Atlantic Ocean.” Laundered money would boost the local economy when the drug lords came to town—a particularly large benefit would be realized by the gold neckchain industry. I would dig out the clipping and share it with Deloris, I thought as I rejoined the meeting.
I considered suggesting that the sheriff man up and stand up to the town authorities. Then I realized that money trumps principles every time. And if the folks with the deepest pockets want to live with their heads buried in the clam flats, who was I to disenchant them? But given the appropriate opportunity, I knew that I could be very convincing in explaining why my work in drug enforcement was critical in preserving the summer world the elite possessed. Realistically, I thought, there was no sense bucking the system or arguing with the sheriff. His hands were tied, I was sure. As badly as I would like to burst the bubble in which the delusion of pristine paradise thrived, it was not my place to do so. The sheriff was the one who had to answer to the mucky-mucks, not me. And, I rationalized, it wasn’t a bad thing to give the war on drugs a breather. Let the dealers, pushers, and mules get a false sense of security. Then this fall, when the bad guys are overconfident and getting careless, I’ll pounce and round them up like cattle, I thought. I knew this attitude was what I needed to get through the next three months without being miserable. I sighed audibly in concession, drawing the attention of the sheriff and Deloris. “So, now what? Should I set up a speed trap or write parking tickets?” I asked sarcastically.
“I have a report of a missing person that needs attention. Just came in this morning,” said the sheriff. “That, and there is a file cabinet full of cold cases that you can start on anytime.”
Oh no, I thought. The endless cold case assignment was one that I had always dreaded. It seems to be the last stop for cops on their way out of employment. “Have anything lukewarm?” I asked.
“Hey, I’m sorry, Jane. I am not in favor of cramping your style. But let’s make the best of it, and know that you can dive back into the junkie circuit when we get our town back.” The sheriff picked up a sheet of paper on which he had scribbled some notes. He handed it to me and said, “Here’s what I have on the missing girl.” I grabbed the paper and stood to leave, waiting for Deloris to struggle out of her chair and collect her crutches. “Thanks, ladies. And Jane, I am happy to hear that you will be representing the department at the Alfonds’ this year.”
Before I could respond in the negative, Deloris spoke up. “You got invited to the annual soiree? Yay! Who’s your plus-one?”
When I hesitated with a response, I must have expressed something of a balk in my body language as the sheriff chimed in again: “I don’t care who you take, as long as you go.”
“Yes, sir.” I was relieved to now be able to justify my attendance at the Summer Solstice Soiree as a direct order from my boss. I had made such a big deal about not going that I felt weird about the flip-flop, and needed to save face. Fortunately, I have always been slow to RSVP. And now that I had to go, I would slip the envelope into the outgoing mail here at the department. And who knows, I thought as Deloris and I exited the office and headed down the corridor from where we had come, I may get an opportunity to bend a highfalutin ear or two in the name of fighting real crime. As much as I detest social functions, I would put a positive spin on this one in hopes of lessening my despair in the time leading to the party. Mr. and Mrs. V and Audrey would approve. Now that I knew I would go, I thought at the very least, going would allow me to form my own opinion of some of Green Haven’s affluent summer residents. I would keep an open mind.
“What will you wear?” Deloris asked as she plunked herself behind the front desk.
“I haven’t thought about it yet.”
“Well, you better start. Isn’t the party Friday evening? Today is Wednesday.”
“I must have something in my closet,” I said, hoping to dismiss any helpful hints that Deloris, who was a virtual fashion plate, might otherwise be compelled to drop.
“Oh, I’m positive that you have a lot of somethings in your closet. I am also fairly certain that you’ll stick out like a sore thumb at the soiree unless you go shopping.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at this. “You don’t like my wardrobe?”
“You dress like a librarian. But drab. Like a prison librarian. But dated. Like an out-of-style prison librarian.”
“Ouch,” I said. “Wow, I didn’t realize you’d given my clothes that much thought.”
“You don’t wear clothes. You wear garments. All very practical, but not at all suitable for the Alfonds’. Hey, I’m just trying to help.”
“Oh, in that case, thanks,” I said and put on the biggest, cheesiest smile I could stretch my lips into. “I am so happy for your help. I won’t be at all self-conscious now. With my new clothing, and my social graces, I’ll be the belle of the fucking ball.” I didn’t normally use foul language. But I knew Deloris well enough to get away with the F-bomb without falling from grace with her.
I gave the missing persons report a stiff, noisy shake, then held it to focus. “Nineteen-year-old, Bianca Chiriac,” I read aloud. “Doesn’t sound like a local.” As I continued to read the sheriff’s notes, Deloris entered pertinent information into her computer. “Reported missing by her roommates. Last seen Tuesday evening.”
“Yesterday,” echoed Deloris as she typed.
“Bianca shares an apartment with three other young women—all foreign names. And she is employed at the Bar Harbor Inn and Resort.” There wasn’t much information on the handwritten sheet the sheriff had supplied. I imagined that he took the call and only jotted down the bare essentials I needed to get going.
“Address of her shared apartment?” Deloris asked.
“Nothing here.”
“Contact number for the roommate who reports her missing?”
“No. That’s all I have. Nineteen-year-old girl missing since last night. By the time I get to Bar Harbor, she will probably have surfaced—sheepish and embarrassed,” I said. “I’ll start with her place of employment.”
“Good. I’ll start a file in the event that she is still AWOL,” Deloris said as I headed for the exit. “Most of the seasonal employees in the local hospitality industry are here on J-1 student visas.”
“That accounts for the name,” I said as I waved and added, “See ya.” The majority of the thirty-minute ride to Mount Desert Island (the large, mountainous landmass connected by bridge to Ellsworth and physical address of Bar Harbor and a handful of other, less notorious communities) was all about windshield time. Deloris was probably right, I thought. The young woman who had been reported missing by her roomies had likely been a case of poor communication coupled with possible intoxication. Kids that age are less than thoughtful, I thought as I crossed the line into the town of Bar Harbor.
As I drove, looking for a sign that marked the Inn and Resort, I couldn’t help but notice the outward, panoramic dichotomy of life on either side of the bridge linking MDI to the mainland. Working-class homes bordering on ramshackle gave way to palatial estates bounded by meticulously manicured hedges interrupted only by handsome gates that said Keep Out without actually spelling out the words. Most outlets from the road were marked with beautiful “Private Drive” signs. Glimpses I caught through the barricades revealed professionally kept grounds, bursting with flower gardens, ornate shrubs, and climbing vines, against a cobalt-blue ocean that glistened as brightly as newly polished silver. I imagined I would enjoy the same from the other side of the gate at the Alfonds’ Solstice Soiree. Green Haven’s wealth was less conspicuous, in my opinion. Not that I had much first-hand knowledge. My impression of the much-noted Bar Harbor was forming quickly. The effect of what I could see and feel could be summed up in a single word: ostentatious.
I approached a four-way intersection with a red flashing light and a stop sign. I stopped and read a series of wooden signs presented list style on a hewn post that was visible from all directions. “BHIR” underscored with an arrow pointing to the left was, I assumed, all I would get in the way of directions to the Bar Harbor Inn and Resort. I obediently turned left and continued until I found the resort property marked with a bigger, but still unobtrusive, wooden sign: “BHIR—Guests Only.” I turned sharply into the drive and followed the blacktop to what appeared to be the main check-in area. I pulled into a spot under an awning and among parked golf carts where I was immediately intercepted by a young man in uniform. He stooped to my window as I cranked it down. “Hello, ma’am,” he said with a thick accent. A pin on his breast pocket indicated that he was from Latvia. “May I park your car?”
“Oh, no thank you,” I replied. “I am looking for the resort manager, and won’t be here long. Can I leave my car here for a few minutes?”
“No, ma’am. We are strictly valet. I can park your vehicle around back and retrieve it for you at your request. Just dial ten from any phone in the resort.” I glanced around the short-term parking area and realized that this kid had been parking luxury vehicles, and was probably given orders to hide anything less.
I reluctantly climbed out, leaving the Duster running, and asked the valet to leave my keys over the rear, driver-side tire, to which he gasped. “Leave the doors unlocked. I’ll find it when I’m done,” I said as I headed toward the main entrance of a grand building. There was no way I was tipping a valet, I thought as a bellhop from Hungary opened a door and asked if I had bags. “No, I am looking for the manager. I’ll check at the registration desk,” I said in defiance of the feeling that I might need to slip the bellhop a few bucks for information. I knew from past experience that as soon as I dipped my hand into my pocket, I would be swarmed by uniformed employees wanting to assist me. Worse than panhandlers, I thought as I snubbed the concierge, whose pin read “Maine,” before he could ask to help me in some way.
A perky young woman from Turkey manned the reception desk. She smiled and said, “Hello, and welcome to the Bar Harbor Inn. Name, please?”
“Jane Bunker,” I said. “But you won’t find my name on your computer screen. I am the Hancock County deputy sheriff, and I need to speak with the manager, please.”
“Oh, yes ma’am. Right away,” she said as she scurried over to a house phone and pressed a button. “The manager will be with you momentarily. May I get you a cup of tea while you wait?” Tea sounded good, I thought, and wondered how long the average wait was if tea was an option. I reached into the hip pocket of my chinos feeling for some money. “Oh no, ma’am. The tea is complimentary, and we do not accept tips. May I show you to the lounge? You’ll be more comfortable there.” I followed the gal to an overstuffed chair where I waited for tea, which was delivered by a young woman from Croatia, according to her pin.
Although I enjoyed the hospitality, the bowing and scraping was making me uncomfortable, I thought as I selected a mint tea from a tray of assorted bags that the server held for me. When I was just about on polite overload, a slightly overweight middle-aged man in an ill-fitting suit burst upon the scene and hustled toward me. “You the cop?” he asked, clearly in a hurry and annoyed by my presence.
I stood and offered my hand. “Deputy Sheriff Jane Bunker.” His hand was sweaty, as was his round, pink face. He did not introduce himself, and instead opened his eyes wide as if asking what my business was and urging me to make it snappy. The manager wore no nationality-identifying pin, but I assumed from his demeanor and accent that he was a local. “I am following up on a missing persons report. Bianca Chiriac? She works here,” I said, realizing that the manager had many seasonal and part-time employees, and that it was likely he knew few or none of their names.
“Yeah, I’m on a bit of a scavenger hunt myself today. Do you have any idea how many of these kids jump ship? I’m missing some persons, too. I was hoping you were here looking for work.”
“Is Bianca here today? Do you have a copy of her schedule? Do you have a home address on file? How about a phone number?” This guy’s attitude was irritating me. Knowing that I was probably on a wild-goose chase anyway, I wanted to make short work of this and get back to something more important.
“Jesus Christ, you’re kidding me. Right?” He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and pretended to scroll through contacts. “No, I guess I don’t have her info.” Then he patted his jacket pockets and said, “And I must have misplaced her business card. Sorry.”
This would go nowhere, I knew. I assumed that the manager was aware of and nervous about a few infractions regarding the premises and employees that could result in fines, or worse. He must be confused about my role, I thought, and he just wanted to get rid of me. Rather than convince him that I couldn’t care less about whatever was making him nervous, I simply thanked him for his time and said that I would ask around to see if Bianca was here, admitting that this was probably a false alarm. Before he could protest, I headed for the lobby, leaving him to stew.
I figured the best way to get information would be to find the inn’s laundry room and kitchen. Those would certainly be manned by young college kids here on visas, I thought. I jumped in an elevator and pushed the button to go down one floor to the basement. Sure enough, the laundry was bustling with what appeared to be immigrant workers. The noise of several languages spoken over the washers and dryers stopped abruptly when I announced my entrance. “Hi. I am from the Hancock County Sheriff’s Department. We received a call about a missing person—Bianca Chiriac. Does anyone know her or where she might be?” I asked.
A brief silence was followed by a throat clearing. I acknowledged the young woman who was now raising her hand for permission to speak. “I called the police,” she said tentatively. “Bianca is my roommate. She is gone. I am scared.” I asked the girl to step into the hallway so that the rest of the laundry team could get back to work, and also to have a bit of privacy.
“What is your name?” I asked as I pulled a small notepad and pen from my back pocket.
“I am Anika. My English is so-so. I am sorry.” She pushed long bangs away from a very thin, plain face and tucked them behind her ears. Pimples on her forehead indicated youthfulness.
“Your English is fine,” I said. “Tell me what you know about Bianca. Where do you live? When did you last see her? Does she have a cell phone? Does she have a boyfriend? Anything you can tell me might be helpful.”
“We live in the UN. That is what it is called by everyone for United Nations because all of us are from not here,” she explained quickly and quietly. “Me and Bianca, we share a unit. It’s not very bad. Same as my dorm room at university.”
“Can you give me the street address for the UN?” I asked, poised to jot it down.
“No address. Right back there,” she said as she pointed at the end of a long hallway. “In the forest behind the resort. We can walk to work, so we don’t none of us have cars. I have called Bianca’s cell a thousand times. I left messages, then it go-ed right to voicemail.”
“What is her number?” I asked.
She recited it as she peeked at my notepad to ensure that I got it right. “And Bianca has some boyfriends. She is so beautiful. Not like me.”
“Any serious boyfriend? Do you have any names? Any problems with boys?”
“No. Bianca is too so smart for that. Just nice boys and good friends. She never stays out late because we have to work early and we need money for university. We only have three months to save our money, then we go back home to Romania.”
“Where do you go to school?” I asked, thinking that this was a waste of time, but not wanting to shortchange this girl’s concern for her friend.
“University of Bucharest,” she said proudly as she threw her shoulders back.
“When did you see Bianca last?”
“Yesterday after work, Bianca was very excited to go to town to meet a friend from the university. Her friend has job in the kitchen on a cruise ship that was coming in to this harbor. Bianca left in a taxi, and did not come home at all.” Oh, I thought, that makes sense. Cruise ships are notorious for shenanigans, especially young crewmembers making landfall after many days at sea. Knowing that they will be ashore for a brief time before weighing anchor again, most of the crew tends to let their hair down, and Bianca may have been swept up in the frenzy of activities that is best described as those of drunken sailors.
“Name of the friend?”
“No.”
“Name of the ship?”
“No.”
“Okay. Thank you for your help,” I said as I dug for a card. “Please call me when Bianca shows up, or if you think of anything that might help me find her? And text me a picture of Bianca.”
“Thank you so much. Last time nobody came.”
“Last time?” I asked. “Has Bianca gone missing before?” Now I was getting to where I assumed I would end up. The sheriff had sent me all the way to Bar Harbor for this. He probably wanted to take my mind off of drug busting, I thought. What a complete waste of time. Even pawing through cold cases was time better spent.
“Last year. No, not Bianca. It was another girl who lived in the UN and worked here. Her roommate called the police, and they never came. They never looked for her.”
“Well, did she show up on her own?”
“No. Never. Her roommate was very upset. We all were scared. But then I guess everyone forgot now until Bianca.”
“Maybe I can speak to her roommate. What is her name, and where can I find her?”
“She is in Turkey. She graduated from university and has a job so no need to get the visa and come here anymore.”
“Do you know the name of the girl who went missing?” I asked.
“No. But the call was placed to you. Middle of last June. So you must have it in records.” Rather than defend myself and explain that the calls do not come to me directly, I chose to nod and take notes. I could sift through last June’s call log and verify this, just to close the loop. The call probably went to the Ellsworth police, and not the Hancock County Sheriff’s Department, I thought. If we jumped every time a twentysomething girl didn’t come home at night, we’d be in perpetual motion, I thought skeptically. I thanked Anika for her help, and promised to do what I could to locate Bianca. Anika went back to her job of folding fresh white linens while I watched and wondered about her accusation of a neglected missing person report last year. I assumed whoever took the call had better sense than to send an officer to investigate. College-aged girl hasn’t seen her beautiful roommate since last evening … Those dots almost connected themselves.
I found a basement-level exit that opened in the direction that Anika indicated was where I might find employee housing, or the UN. On the far side of a parking lot, there was a well-beaten path wide enough for two people to walk abreast. I followed the path until I happened upon what looked like tenement housing. A string of small, single units with white siding was joined by porches like a giant strand of pearls dropped haphazardly on uneven ground. I did what amounted to a drive-by, maybe out of curiosity, but also covering bases. I had no idea which unit or even which group of units Anika and Bianca lived in. And it didn’t matter unless Bianca was home and sleeping off a night of fun. And if that were the case, Anika would call and inform me at the end of her shift.
I hustled back to the parking lot and found the Duster. As long as I was here, I should at least check out the waterfront, I thought. And my stomach was growling. I needed lunch, and Bar Harbor had a reputation for many options as it boasted a thriving tourist, merchant shipping, and cruising sailor trade. I loved looking at boats, and realized that I might never be back in Bar Harbor. As I reached for the key over the tire, my phone dinged, indicating that I had a text message. I climbed behind the wheel, started the engine, and rolled down a window before checking the text. It was, I assumed, from Anika, as it consisted of a link to Bianca Chiriac’s Facebook page. Her profile picture added credence to Anika’s description of her. She was indeed a beauty. I had neither interest nor intention of slogging through Bianca’s (or anyone’s, for that matter) social media accounts. So I swiped my phone closed and tucked it into my hip pocket. Just as I did, the phone rang. I pulled it back out. The caller ID showed HANCOCK COUNTY, which I knew was the sheriff or Deloris. “What’s up?” I asked cheerily.
“We’ve got another missing person,” said the sheriff.
“Oh, come on! This is silly,” I pleaded. “If you plan to have me running around looking for teenagers until fall, I’ll go nuts.”
“I just got a call from the president of Dirigo Maritime Academy. One of his cadets didn’t make it back to campus for spring semester. His parents are distraught.”
Copyright © 2018 by Linda Greenlaw
