I looked around for a waitress.
“You need to order up at the counter. The baked goods come from Dough Business in Farmington.”
At the register, I noticed a printed announcement for an informational meeting of the Maine Prisoners’ Rights Association at the Bard the next week. I could only imagine the incendiary reaction of that group’s members to the prison attacks. No doubt they would be anticipating a cover-up. Their fears were well-founded.
“What’ll it be?” said the man behind the counter.
He had a full head of white hair and bushy eyebrows that would have required sheep shears to trim.
“Just a large regular coffee.”
“There’s no such thing as regular coffee. Do you mean dark roast? Medium roast? Light roast?”
“Medium.” I inspected the glass case containing the baked goods. “Do you have any molasses doughnuts?”
“Try the maple-sugar bun.” It was a command.
“What kind did you get?” Ronette asked as I returned with my plate and mug to the table. “Is it the Kenyan? Or the Ethiopian?”
“I’m not sure.”
She reached out to tear a piece from my sugared pastry. “You know I’m dying to ask about what happened at the prison and the hospital. Everyone’s talking about it. But I have a sneaking suspicion it has nothing to do with why you called me. So what brings you to my neck of the woods on this shitty April morning?”
What did I say about Ronette being a smart cookie? I appreciated not having to rehash the drama with Billy. Instead I started the story with the call I’d received from Gary Pulsifer, summoning me to Pennacook.
When I had finished, her eyes had grown wide. “I thought those wolf sightings were all bogus. I came to the conclusion that people were seeing big coyotes and assuming they were wolves. It’s bizarre that an injured animal sought out Mary Gowdie of all people.”
“I take it you and she are not the best of friends.”
“Mary’s the only person I know who hunts deer with an AK. The last time I pinched her for hunting without a license I thought she was going to use me for target practice. It’s no wonder she called Gary instead.”
“Having met her, I’m surprised she called anyone at all.”
Ronette arched a black eyebrow. “I’ve always figured Mary has a soft side, especially when it comes to dogs. I’ve heard a rumor that she brought her last dog, a Scottie, to a taxidermist to have him stuffed, she was so unwilling to part with the little ankle-biter. She supposedly keeps him at the foot of her bed.”
The ease with which the image materialized in my mind told me it had to be true.
“How about this Zane Wilson?” I asked.
“I know he and his girlfriend live in a yurt.”
“A yurt?”
“They’re millennial hippies. I’ve seen them around, at the farmers’ market, other places, but haven’t had a real conversation with them. Zane is quite the hottie, as my daughter would say. His girlfriend, Indigo, seems like a firecracker. My guess is it’s her family’s money they used to buy their little patch of Dogpatch. I’ve never heard a bad word about either of them, other than people scratching their heads why young people would want to move here of all places to start a farm.”
Her description bolstered my generally positive impression of Zane Wilson. “I’d feel better about the guy if he hadn’t lied to me. He first claimed to have seen Shadow two or three nights ago on the road in his high beams. Later, he said he saw him on the back side of the property, which is nowhere near the road. Hence Zane couldn’t have seen him in his headlights.”
“Maybe he was confused. You did say he hit his head.”
“No, he was definitely lying.”
“I doubt it was Zane who shot your wolf,” said Ronette. “More likely it was a coyote hunter over a bait pile.”
It was the logical inference. “Can you give me the names of anyone in the area who hunts for predators with a bow or crossbow?”
She shifted her hips on the wood bench. She studied the bottom of the mug in her hands. “I can think of a few possibilities. Gorman Peaslee’s right at the top of the list. Maybe the Beliveau boys. Where do you think the shooting might have happened?”
“I saw some fields and pastures below Mary’s property that intrigued me. They looked ideal for someone who might want to hunt predators from a blind. There were several farming homesteads with newly built houses all grouped together. Do you know who owns that land?”
Ronette made a wincing expression.
“Is that a yes?”
“Those farms are owned by our new Amish neighbors.”
I paused in licking maple sugar from my fingertips. “There are Amish people in the Sandy River Valley?”
“Here’s a piece of trivia for you. The Amish are the fastest-growing faith group in the country. And Maine’s got the fastest-growing Amish population in the Northeast. Third fastest in the nation.”
“I knew there were settlements up in Aroostook County—”
“And in Whitefield and Unity. Now we’ve got three families living in Intervale. Of all the places for them to settle, but I guess it makes sense. No one else wants to buy land there.”
“What’s so bad about Intervale?”
“It’s where that asshole Gorman Peaslee lives, for one thing. It’s never been a place I’m wild about visiting alone. Peter, my husband, hates it and always wants to ride shotgun. And I mean that literally. Do you know who else lives there? Zane Wilson and his girlfriend. Their yurt is over near Tantrattle Stream, not far from the Stolls. They’re one of the Amish families I mentioned.”
“What are they like, the Amish?”
“I haven’t had many dealings with them, but they seem like good people. Some of the locals have complained about their horses and buggies in the road: the usual small-minded crap. I am not wild about driving onto their farms to interrogate them about shooting a wolf.”
“Do you know if they
