Massacre Pond: A Novel (Mike Bowditch Mysteries) (4 page)

We had parked at the top of the bluff in an area reserved for maintenance vehicles. Two identical forest green Toyota Tacomas seemed to be waiting patiently, like unused toys. Down the hill, closer to the front door, sat a hybrid Toyota Highlander SUV, also forest green, and a shiny new Prius painted a color that made me think of metallic sand in an atomic desert. The odd vehicle out was a cherry-red BMW Z4 roadster parked at a careless angle in front of one of the guest cottages.

Billy brushed his shirt as if to remove nonexistent crumbs. “I should have called ahead,” he said. “Ms. Morse doesn’t like surprises.”

He gestured toward the entrance. A hand-carved sign hung over the double doors, bearing the inscription
MOOSEHORN LODGE
.

“Does Mr. Toad live here, too?”

“Lay off, Mike.” He pushed the buzzer beside the intercom. “Hello?” he said, bending over the gray box. “Anyone at home? It’s Billy.”

After a minute or so, the double doors swung open and a smiling gray-bearded man looked out. He had deep laugh lines around his eyes and a ponytail that must have gotten progressively harder to maintain as his hairline had receded over the years. He was wearing an off-white hemp shirt with a groovy tie-dyed necktie, jeans that showed dirt on the knees, and leather sandals.

“Hey, Billy? What’s the good word?”

“Not good, Leaf. This is Warden Bowditch. He’s here to see Ms. Morse.”

I’d pegged the guy as an aging hippie from his outfit and the surfer-dude inflections in his voice. But even I was unprepared when he held out a strong calloused hand and introduced himself as Leaf Woodwind.

“What’s going on, man?” he asked. I detected the herbal odor of a certain smokable plant on his clothes.

“A crime was committed on Ms. Morse’s property last night,” I said.

His bushy eyebrows fell. “Did someone fuck with the gates again?”

“Worse than that,” said Billy.

“Dude, you’ve got to tell me. You know Betty hates surprises.”

“I think it would be better if I told her myself,” I said.

“Hang on, then. I’ll see if I can find her.”

He stepped suddenly back into the room and shut the door in our faces.

“Leaf Woodwind,” I said, repeating the name for my own pleasure. “What’s he—the gardener?”

“He’s Ms. Morse’s personal assistant. Been with her forever. They used to be partners in her business when she was starting out in Cherryfield. Seems like it must be kind of weird for him, watching her get so rich. But he seems pretty mellow about everything.”

“Yeah, I smelled his mellowness.”

Minutes passed. Billy had grown quiet and inward again. I had the sense he was already checking the help-wanted ads in his head. I found myself gazing through the screen of pine boughs at the brilliant blue lake. I could hear a boat knocking against a dock somewhere, a rhythmic, relaxing sound.

My momentary sense of calm was disturbed by my cell phone, which gave off a sudden electronic chime that sent a pulse of adrenaline shooting into my bloodstream. The previous winter, I’d been stalked by an extremely dangerous man who called himself “George Magoon,” after a legendary Down East poacher, and who seemed to delight in tormenting me. He still sent me taunting messages from across the border in Canada, where he’d fled to escape a murder rap. Every time I heard my phone beep, I expected to find another untraceable threat.

This e-mail was from my mother:

“When one door of happiness closes, another opens, but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one that has been opened for us.”

—Helen Keller

Lately, my mom had begun sending me inspirational quotes from famous people without any explanation. We hadn’t been close in a very long time—since before the bad business with my father—and I had no idea what she was trying to communicate with these vague aphorisms. My mother spent the warm months in Maine and then moved with my stepfather to a golf-course condo in Naples, Florida, every fall. Beyond that, I knew very little of her whereabouts. She was as elusive as George Magoon in that regard.

The door opened again, and Leaf Woodwind stepped out, shoulders sagging noticeably. “Betty and Briar are out back. I’ll take you around.”

So we were not going to be given the grand tour after all. Too bad. I was curious to see what half a billion dollars bought you these days. I put away my cell phone and followed.

Woodwind led us along a flagstone path, past raised flower beds set within rock retaining walls. The rhododendrons had flowered and gone by months ago, but someone had brightened things up with an assortment of orange, yellow, and pink mums. Out of the sunlight, you could smell the autumnal odor of rotting vegetation, and the chill brought goose bumps to my exposed arms.

We emerged from the shadows onto an enormous stone patio, roughly the size of a baseball diamond. In the center, two Adirondack chairs flanked a fire pit in which no fire was burning. Two women were sitting in them, looking down the length of the lake. We seemed to have caught them in the middle of morning tea.

The younger one remained seated, her head turned away, but I had that impression you sometimes get, when you glimpse a stranger for a split second, of youthful attractiveness. I saw bare brown legs, thick dark hair, and a heart-shaped face hidden behind enormous sunglasses.

As we approached, the older of the two arose. Elizabeth Morse didn’t remotely resemble an ex-hippie. Instead, she projected an air of aristocratic confidence, as if she’d just stepped off a yacht. She had sun-streaked blond hair, cut and curled to accentuate an attractive face that reminded me, somehow, of a cat’s. She wore no makeup that I could see and minimal jewelry, just a simple gold locket and bangles at the wrist. She wasn’t particularly tall or heavy, but she looked solid. Underneath her expensive outfit—sepia-tinted sunglasses, cream linen shirt, shiny brown slacks, open-toed sandals—she still had the physique of someone who rose at dawn to till the earth.

“Good morning, Billy.” Her voice was firm, with a faint Brahmin inflection, as if the muscles in her jaw were clenched.

Billy inclined his head. “Hello, Ms. Morse.”

“Leaf says we had another incident but that you’re being very mysterious about it.”

“This is Warden Bowditch. He’s with the Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife. He can explain it better than me.”

“I know what a game warden is.” She turned her golden head to me. “People seem to forget that I used to have a homestead in the woods around here. I wasn’t always the titan of industry that I am today.”

I couldn’t stop from myself from smiling, but the worried expressions never left the faces of Billy Cronk and Leaf Woodwind.

“You seem to be the only one who gets my sense of humor, Warden,” said Elizabeth Morse. “But you’re not here for my comedy routine. What’s this about? Not good news, obviously.”

“No, ma’am,” I said. “It’s not. This morning, as Mr. Cronk was driving onto your property, he discovered evidence of a pretty heinous crime.” I held out my business card with my name, title, and phone number. I felt that she was measuring me from behind those shaded glasses.

“You don’t have to sugarcoat things for me, Warden Bowditch. I am tougher than I appear.”

“Someone shot a young moose near your Sixth Machias gate.”

She removed her sunglasses and let them dangle between her fingers. We locked eyes for a while; hers were almond-shaped and a spectacular shade of hazel. Then she said, “A poacher?”

“No, ma’am.”

“What, then? Some sort of vandal?”

“That’s what it looks like. The person—or persons—killed the moose for the sake of killing it. So you could call it vandalism.”

She waited. “Go on.”

“There were five others,” I said.

Elizabeth Morse’s brilliant eyes softened. I could tell that she was trying to absorb the impact of my words. She blinked several times before looking away. “I see.”

It was the young woman who spoke next. “Six moose! Oh my God!”

Billy had mentioned that Morse had a daughter by the odd name of Briar. I didn’t detect much of a resemblance. She was wearing bright red lipstick, and she had painted her toenails red to match. Her sleeveless smock was white—to show off her toned arms—and her shorts were made of some shimmering black material that looked expensive. Around her neck hung an elaborate wooden necklace that made me think of tribal people living in a distant jungle. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she said.

When I turned back to Elizabeth Morse, I saw that she had put her sunglasses back on, and I had a sense that it was to conceal from the rest of us whatever emotions she was experiencing. Her voice turned blunt and businesslike again. She had shoved her momentary softness back beneath her rocky exterior. “So how do you plan on investigating this … atrocity? I assume there’s some sort of protocol.”

Yes and no, I wanted to say. The Warden Service was expert at wildlife forensics, but I wasn’t sure my organization had dealt with a crime of this magnitude before.

“I’d start by asking if you know who might’ve had reason to shoot those animals,” I said.

She turned to the ponytailed hippie. “Leaf, can you go fetch the folder?” Without pausing for an answer, she returned her attention to me. Her efficient manner suggested she was well practiced at running meetings. “If you’re looking for specific names, I can’t help you. Most of the people who hate me don’t bother to sign their death threats.”

“You’ve received death threats?”

“Does that surprise you?”

“No,” I admitted.

“I would like to see the bodies myself,” she said.

“Mom,” said the younger woman, “that’s gross.”

“This is my daughter, Briar,” said Elizabeth Morse.

I nodded her way. “I’d prefer to get a team of wardens on the scene first.”

“I don’t understand why I should have to wait,” Elizabeth said. “These shootings occurred on property I own and are almost certainly in retaliation for my recent land purchases.”

“I’d also prefer to hold off on making assumptions about motives,” I said.

“You haven’t read my mail, Warden.”

Briar Morse rose to her feet. As she stood beside her mother, I could see that they had similarly muscular builds. “You can’t keep us from driving on our own land.”

I took a deep breath and gave my attention again to the person who most deserved it.

“Ms. Morse,” I said. “I’m not trying to prevent your seeing the bodies for some frivolous reason. There’s evidence at each of the shootings that might lead us to identify—and prosecute—whoever did this. I don’t want a crowd of people contaminating the scenes, because I want very much to punish the perpetrator or perpetrators here.”

“What kind of evidence?”

My cell phone rang on my belt. “Excuse me a moment. I need to take this.”

I wandered across the patio, holding the phone to my ear. It was McQuarrie. “So we’re at the gate,” he said. “Where are you, kid?”

I dropped my voice. “I’m up at Morse’s house.”

“Queen Elizabeth’s?”

“I wanted to tell her what happened before she came blundering on the scene.”

“How did Her Highness take the news?”

“Not well.”

“I got word to the L.T., and he and a bunch of other wardens are on the way. So you’d better excuse yourself and get your keister down here to let us in the gate. This is going to be the perfect shit storm, Mikey boy. And you don’t want to be the one who catches it in the face.”

It would not be a new experience, I thought.

“I’ll be right there,” I said, and hung up. I wondered again who Mack had riding with him today. It could be any of a number of people.

I paused a moment, listening to the soughing of the pines as the winds ruffled their branches. When I turned back to the people on the patio, I found that Leaf Woodwind had returned with a file folder the size of the Manhattan phone book. “Where’s the letter we got Friday?” Elizabeth asked him.

“I just printed it.”

“Billy,” I said. “Mack McQuarrie needs you to open the gate.”

“We’re coming with you,” said Ms. Morse, as if the matter had been settled.

“That’s not a good idea—for the reasons I mentioned before.”

“Yes, your arguments were very sound and well put, but the fact remains that this is my land.”

“Here it is,” Leaf said, producing a piece of paper from the stack.

The letter was a photocopy of another document. The original had been printed in one of those generic fonts that are standard on all computers.

You Fucking Bitch—

You think you can just move in here and buy up our Land and our Heritage! How many good
Maine
people do you plan to put out of work? Do you even care about our families, or are you only concerned about baby ducks and bunny rabbits, you naive tree hugger? Well, we have news for you, you goddam slut. We don’t want your gates. We don’t want your park & we don’t want some out-of-state cunt deciding she’s our queen. You think your money will protect you? It won’t stop us from putting a .223 round through your ugly face anytime we choose. This is your Final Warning, lady. Leave now or leave in a coffin—
your choice
!

“I thought him calling me ‘lady’ was amusing,” said Morse with no trace of amusement in her voice. “It was as if he’d run out of expletives by the end.”

I handed the paper back to her. “Have you shared this letter with the state police?”

“The entire file.” She gave me a catlike smile. “So when you say you’d prefer not to make assumptions about the persons and motives behind this incident, how certain are you?”

I had a hard time coming up with an answer.

“That’s what I thought,” she said.

5

We rattled along in a column of vehicles, with Billy leading the way and the Morse women and Leaf Woodwind trailing me in the Highlander. I wondered if I should call ahead to McQuarrie and warn him of the oncoming trouble, but I decided there was no point. The situation was escalating itself without my assistance. I only hoped that Elizabeth Morse would speed past the dead moose—the first one, near the gate—without noticing.