“How so?”
“It was an assortment of items you don’t see for sale at souks like this. There was some taxidermy but also an electric guitar. Three mink coats. Even an espresso maker! Who sells an espresso maker at a place like this?”
“It sounds like the kinds of items you’d find in a pawn shop.”
“That’s exactly right! It was as if he were a pawnbroker.”
“What about his vehicle?”
“One of those cheap Plymouth minivans. The ones with the flaking paint on the hoods. The color was, or had been, cerulean blue.”
“I take it you didn’t see the license plate.”
She lifted a Japanese hand fan from the table and began to wave it vigorously in the air. “I’m a watercolorist, not a state trooper.”
“Did you happen to overhear any of Charley’s conversation with the stranger?”
“The only part I heard was when Ethan Frome shouted at Charley, ‘You can’t take that! Not without paying.’”
Finally.
“Did Charley say anything in response?”
“Yes, he said, ‘I’ve got your number.’ The look on his face when he passed my table—I’ve never seen Charley Stevens that mad before. Normally, I consider him to be a handsome man. Not all my female friends do. But this was the first time I remember thinking he looked ugly—ugly with anger.”
“Do you know what Charley took from his table?”
She considered the question with real thoughtfulness. “Whatever it was, it was small enough to fit in his hand.”
“I’m sorry to keep pressing you on this, Mrs. Boyce, but you said you looked at the items on this man’s table. What did you see that might have fit in Charley’s hand?”
“Earrings, watches, jackknives.”
My cell phone rang at that moment. I pulled aside my coat to reach for my back pocket. When I saw whose number it was—Major Shorey’s—I let the call go to voice mail and turned back to the watercolorist.
“He also had a badge,” Carol Boyce said.
“Excuse me?”
“He had a badge for sale. Seeing yours made me remember.”
In reaching for my phone, I had exposed the badge clipped on my belt.
“It was a game warden’s,” she said, “only smaller and tarnished. And it had a number on it. Don’t bother asking me what the number was. I just happened to have noticed because the digits were so clumsily engraved in the metal.”
“You’ve been extremely helpful, Mrs. Boyce, I wish there was something—”
“You could buy one of my paintings.”
I waited to see if her deadpan would crack, only to realize she was completely serious.
Happily, my phone chose that moment to ring again.
It was Dani, calling presumably from the firing range.
“Sorry, but I need to take this one,” I said, already backing away. “It’s my girlfriend.”
The artist waved her paper fan in the dead air. “A likely story!”
“You have perfect timing,” I told Dani.
“I can never tell when you’re being a wiseass.”
“I’m serious! You rescued me from being forced to buy a painting by one of the least talented artists in Maine—and that’s saying something.”
Cars and trucks rumbled and roared past. I cupped my hand to my opposite ear to hear her better.
“I got that long email you sent. I was looking forward to seeing you. Of course you have to go up there to help.”
“Thanks for understanding,” I said.
“Where are you?”
“At the Machias Dike. I have a theory about what set Charley off the other day.”
I gave her a quick rundown of everything Carol Boyce had told me.
“You think it was an old warden badge?” Dani asked.
“That’s my best guess.”
“It’s not illegal to sell those. They come up for sale on auction sites all the time. Why would Charley get pissed off about running across one?”
“I can think of two reasons,” I said. “The first is the stuff the guy was selling. It sounded like the kinds of things burglars steal from people’s houses.”
“That’s a real thing,” Dani said. “Thieves fencing their stolen merchandise at flea markets. It’s especially bad in big cities. We’re supposed to be on the lookout for anything that looks suspicious. What’s the other reason?”
“Judging from how Charley responded, I believe the badge belonged to someone he knew.”
“But warden badges don’t have personal identification on them.”
“The really old badges did. They had district numbers engraved on the front.”
“So it might’ve been somebody Charley knew as a young man?”
“Possibly.”
“What do you think Charley meant when he told the guy, ‘I’ve got your number’? Like he knew the creep was fencing stolen property?”
“Maybe, but I’m guessing he meant something else. If you had been in Charley’s shoes, what would you have done to find out his identity?”
She sighed with embarrassment. “Looked at his license plate.”
“A person can’t just find out who owns a vehicle by typing a license plate number into a website; you need help from a dispatcher. But that wouldn’t be a problem for Charley, who still has friends in law enforcement. That’s another question for Ora, I guess.”
“That’s where you’re headed next?”
“Knowing Ora, she’s going to insist I stay for dinner, which means I’ll probably end up spending the night.”
“I understand,” she said. “I miss you, babe. It’s been a long week.”
Gulls chattered out on the flats, pecking for bloodworms in the acres of exposed mud.
“How did you shoot today?” I asked.
“Not my best. My head is splitting. I think it’s the flu. If you’re sleeping at Sixth Machias Lake tonight, who’s taking care of Shadow?”
“Logan Cronk.”
“This is going to end with the wolf eating him.”
I would have laughed if it wasn’t a real fear of mine.
She became quiet again.
“Dani?”
“You need to promise me something, Mike. You need to promise to keep in touch. I want to be your partner, not just your friend with benefits. I know you’re trying to be honest and open with me, but it’s not in your nature to ask for help.”
It was an accusation that had the problem of being true.
“I promise.”
10
The boondocks, the williwaws, the backcountry—none of these terms properly described just how deep Charley and Ora lived in the woods. Late
