Chapter 9
When a child goes missing in a small town, rumors fly, parents hug their children a little tighter, and an army of volunteers magically appears to help in the search. Too many volunteers, it seemed to Maggie, as she scanned the crowd milling around the parking lot of the Maiden Pond boat ramp. Most of these people were locals who had never even met Zoe Conover, yet here they all were, summoned overnight by one of the most powerful mobilization tools ever invented: the town’s Facebook page. Maggie spotted familiar faces: Hank from the hardware store, Harold from the PO, and Janine from the Marigold Café. Amateurs all, but ready to help because a missing child was everyone’s worst nightmare.
“Well, this is a bloody circus,” said Ingrid.
Maggie and her four friends stood at the edge of the parking lot, surveying the disorganized crowd. They, at least, had come equipped for the day’s task, with sun hats and water bottles, sunscreen and DEET. They’d also brought their own evidence bags, should they spot anything worth collecting. To anyone who saw them, they probably looked like five retirees out for a leisurely hike, but these retirees had come prepared to tackle a crime scene.
The same couldn’t be said about the other volunteers. Well intentioned though they were, a crowd this undisciplined could easily destroy clues by trampling shoe prints or dropping litter or dislodging evidence. And there was always the chance that embedded within this group was someone who had not come to help, someone who was here instead to watch and listen and divert attention from the truth. Maggie looked at faces, many of them familiar, and she wondered: How well do I really know any of you?
“There’s Jo,” said Ben as a patrol car pulled into the parking lot. “Maybe she knows how to herd cats.”
Jo Thibodeau stepped out of her vehicle, her jaw squared in determination, stray blond hairs spilling from her ponytail. Jo wasn’t a big woman but she moved like one, with the determined stride of a warrior. She put her fingers to her lips, and her whistle was so piercing that everyone turned to look at her.
“Hey, people, I appreciate you being here,” yelled Jo. “But having you all beating the bushes is going to make my job harder.”
“We were told to meet up here at nine o’clock. They said you needed us!” a man yelled.
“Who told you that?”
“I saw it on Facebook!”
Even from across the parking lot, Maggie could see Jo’s pained expression.
“We just want to help,” said Janine from the Marigold. “If my kid went missing, you bet I’d want the whole damn town looking for her!”
Other voices chimed in: “So would I!”
“Me too!”
Jo held up her hands for silence. “My officers and I have already searched this area, all along the shoreline and up to the main road.”
“What if you missed something? What can it hurt, having us look too?”
“Okay.” Jo sighed. “Okay, if you really want to help, then at least break up into teams. If you find anything you think is significant, let us decide what to do with it ...”
“Time to get moving, before these people trample everything,” said Ingrid. “Assuming Luther told the truth and this is where he left the girl, she’d walk in that direction to get home.” Ingrid pointed to the road that curved along the western shoreline. “So that’s where we should start.”
“‘Assuming’ he told the truth?” Maggie said.
“One must always entertain doubts. Nullius in verba. Take nobody’s word for it.”
“Well, I believe him.”
“Because he’s your neighbor?”
“Because he’s far too intelligent to commit such a clumsy crime.”
“Crimes of opportunity are, by definition, not well thought out,” said Ingrid. “Think about it. The girl’s sitting in his truck. They’re all alone, with no witnesses around. And he’s a big man, certainly powerful enough to—”
“Ingrid, please,” said Maggie. “This is Luther Yount we’re talking about.”
“But it’s something we need to consider, isn’t it? That we’ve miscalculated. That the man’s not who we thought he was.”
Maggie could hardly argue the point. Their prior careers had primed them to question everything and everyone. More than once in her life, Maggie had been disappointed, even shocked, by people she thought she knew.
As they left the boat ramp and started up the road along the western shore, she wondered if the truth about Luther had eluded her as well. If their friendship had blinded her to a dark side he’d kept hidden from her.
They assumed search formation, staying five abreast as they walked, Declan and Maggie along one edge of the dirt road, Ingrid and Lloyd on the other edge, and Ben moving straight down the center. Brambles and tall grasses encroached on either side, and they had to move slowly, poking through the weeds for evidence. The day was already warm, and their movements stirred up clouds of gnats and mosquitoes. Anyone who came across them would think them an odd sight, five gray-haired hikers in their sun hats and boots, moving shoulder to shoulder with almost military precision, stooping to examine the occasional cigarette butt or some other bit of refuse. Every so often, Maggie caught sight of a waterfront cottage at the bottom of a driveway, but the curtain of evergreens allowed her only a glimpse of a gabled roof or a private dock. This was the desirable side of Maiden Pond, and the cottages along this shore were impressive enough to fetch equally impressive prices, even though they stood unoccupied for most of the year.
“You’d think people living on this road would be tidier,” said Lloyd, exposing an empty beer bottle that had been hidden in the underbrush. He inserted a twig in the bottle’s mouth and lifted it for a closer look. “Heineken. This label still looks fresh. It hasn’t been lying here very long.”
Ingrid pulled a paper bag from her backpack. “It’s evidence.”
“Of littering?” said Ben.
“There’ve been a few burglaries reported on this pond. Maybe the thief got thirsty.” She held open the bag. “In it goes. With any luck, it will have some nice crisp fingerprints.”
“There’s the driveway,” said Declan. He pointed to the sign nailed to a tree.
Moonview
Absolutely No Trespassing
For a moment they considered that forbidding notice as they stared down a tunnel of overhanging branches. The house itself was out of sight, hidden by a thick curtain of evergreens. Except for the whine of mosquitoes swarming their faces, it was eerily silent here.
“If the girl made it this far, she would have walked down this driveway,” Maggie said.
Lloyd gestured to the sign. “Do you suppose they really mean it?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” sighed Ingrid. “When has a ‘No trespassing’ sign ever stopped any of us? Let’s go.”
They fanned out again, trying to move abreast as before, but the encroaching woods forced them to weave through saplings and blackberry thorns that clawed Maggie’s trouser legs. When the driveway at last opened up and the house loomed into view, they all halted, staring at the cottage known as Moonview. The owners might call their summer homes cottages , but this was a sprawling lakefront home, a house that might show up in tourist brochures with the caption Maine: The way life should be. From the house, a green lawn tumbled down to the pond, where a small private dock bobbed on the water.
The day had grown hot, the bugs more persistent, and Maggie eyed the water with longing, thinking how delicious it would be to plunge into the pond now, to float on her back and just drift, gazing up at the sky. Although her farm was only a mile away, she had not gone swimming this year because she’d been working such long hours. Soon summer would roar by and then there’d be a chill in the air, and her chance to float in a pond would have to be postponed until next year. How many summers do I have left?
The front door suddenly swung open, and a man emerged. He was in his late forties, with wheat-colored hair, dressed in crisp khakis and an oxford shirt. “Can I help you?” he asked. The words might be polite, but the tone of his voice conveyed an entirely different message: What are you doing on our property?
“We’re helping in the search for Zoe Conover,” said Ingrid.
“And you are?”
“Concerned citizens.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be meeting at the boat ramp?”
“The search teams already have that area covered. But if Zoe made it this far down the road—”
“Look,” he cut in. “Our whole family’s been up since dawn, searching for her, and we’re exhausted. We don’t need amateurs tramping all over the yard. My wife’s on the phone with the police right now, so if you don’t mind leaving the property—”
“What on earth is going on out here, Colin?” A silver-haired woman appeared in the doorway. She might be the oldest among them, but this woman was no one’s idea of a sedate senior. Her hair was cropped stylishly short, blue jeans hugged her trim waist, and she regarded the trespassers with steely authority.
“I’m taking care of it, Mom. I’ve just asked these people to leave.”
“But we’re here to help,” said Ingrid. “You never know what a fresh set of eyes might find. And we do have some experience.”
“No, this has gone far enough ,” the woman snapped. “We need our privacy.”
Maggie heard the crackle of tires on the driveway, and she turned to see a Purity PD patrol car pull to a stop. Jo Thibodeau stepped out of the vehicle and frowned at the group, no doubt wondering how Maggie and her friends had once again managed to insert themselves into the middle of an investigation.
“These people are trespassing,” Colin said.
“Yes, I can see that,” said Jo.
“I’ve asked them to leave. They’re not complying.”
“We only offered our assistance,” Ingrid said.
“Is it normal procedure in this town for the police to enlist amateurs?” the older woman asked.
“Mrs. Conover,” Jo said, her patience clearly strained, “why don’t you and Colin go inside? I’ll talk to them.”
Jo held her silence until the woman and her son reentered the house. The instant the door swung shut, she turned to Maggie. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for Zoe Conover.”
“That’s my job, not yours.”
“And we’re here to assist.”
“Don’t you have a farm to run?”
“I do.”
“And the rest of you.” Jo looked at Maggie’s friends. “Don’t you have other hobbies? Maybe take up golf or something?”
“Hardly challenging enough,” said Ingrid.
“I know you want to help. I know retirement might be boring.”
“That’s not why we’re here,” said Maggie.
“Why are you here?”
“Because Luther Yount asked for my help.”
Jo paused. “What did Mr. Yount tell you, exactly?”
“That you towed his truck to the crime lab. That he’s now a suspect. We both know he didn’t hurt that girl, Jo.”
“That’s yet to be determined. Now if you could all please leave and let me do my job?”
“Apropos of your job , this might prove relevant,” said Ingrid, thrusting the paper evidence bag at Jo.
“What is this?” Jo asked.
“An empty beer bottle we found near the top of this driveway. Heineken, Original. It appears recently discarded, and you can probably pull off usable fingerprints and DNA. That’s what I’d do, anyway.” Ingrid looked at her husband. “Come along, dear. It appears we’re being evicted from the crime scene. I’ve thought of other avenues we can pursue.”
As her four friends walked back up the driveway, Maggie lingered behind. She had first encountered Jo Thibodeau earlier that year, after a body was dumped in Maggie’s driveway, and during that inquiry, Jo had proved herself to be a dogged investigator. In Jo, Maggie had seen a younger version of herself, with the same determination, the same streak of stubbornness, and being challenged by all five of them had forced Jo to dig in her heels. Perhaps a quiet conversation, between just the two of them, would prove more effective.
“We really can help,” said Maggie. “You know we have a few tricks up our sleeves.”
Jo shook her head. “With this family, I need to dot every i and cross every t. You heard what Elizabeth Conover said, about working with amateurs.”
“She doesn’t have to know we’re involved.”
“If she finds out, she’ll raise bloody hell.”
“We’re very good at not being seen.”
“Please, Maggie. Don’t make my job more complicated than ...” Jo paused. Took out her ringing cell phone. “Thibodeau,” she answered. Seconds later, her head snapped up. “Where was it found? And it was just turned in? Okay, send me the photo. I’ll show it to them.” Jo hung up and pivoted toward the house. Whatever news she’d just heard on the phone was so urgent it had made her temporarily forget Maggie was there. Jo straightened and took a breath before knocking on the door.
This time a younger woman appeared. Brown haired, disheveled, as if she had not slept in days. Exhaustion had hollowed her cheeks and drained the color from her face, and she looked at Jo with a mixture of fear and hope. The girl’s mother, thought Maggie.
“Susan,” said Jo quietly, “I need to show you something. A photo.”
“Oh God, have you found—”
“No, we haven’t found Zoe. This is something that was found yesterday afternoon, on Route One. It was at the side of the road. The driver turned it in to the Belfast Police Department this morning. It’s a backpack.”
Maggie edged closer, to listen in. Close enough to watch Susan Conover’s face as Jo pulled up the photo on her cell phone and showed it to her. Susan pressed her hand to her mouth, but it was not enough to muffle the keening from her throat. The sob was loud enough to bring a man out of the house, a man Maggie assumed was Susan’s husband, because he immediately wrapped his arms around her. She sagged against him, shaking, her face pressed to his shoulder.
“Ethan?” said Jo. “Is this Zoe’s backpack?”
He glanced at the photo and nodded. “Where was it?”
“A driver noticed it yesterday afternoon lying on Route One, about sixteen miles south of here. He stopped to pick it up. He assumed it fell off a bike or a motorcycle, and he didn’t get around to turning it in to the police until this morning.” Jo paused. “There’s a wallet with Zoe’s student ID in it, along with twenty-two dollars in cash.”
“And her phone? What about her phone?”
“There was no phone in the backpack.”
“Then she might still have it. If you can just locate the phone—”
“We don’t know where it is,” said Jo. “It hasn’t pinged off any cell towers since yesterday, around noon.”
“Where?”
“Gurney Road. That places it somewhere in this area.”
The conversation had drawn other members of the family out of the house. Now Elizabeth Conover stepped outside, followed by her son Colin and a blond woman.
“What about that man who said he dropped her off?” Colin asked. “That farmer with the truck. Did you ask him about the phone?”
“Mr. Yount has been cooperative,” said Jo.
“What does that even mean?”
“He voluntarily surrendered his vehicle. The crime lab is examining it.”
“But what do you know about him ? Does he have a criminal record? Has he ever done anything like—”
“I know Mr. Yount,” Maggie said. They all turned to look at her, suddenly registering the fact that she was there. “I know him very well, in fact. I have no doubt he’s telling the truth.”
“We have no idea who you are,” Colin said. “We’re supposed to take your word for it?”
The blond grasped Colin’s arm. “Let it go.”
“Nothing ever changes around here, does it? These locals, they always protect their own.”
“Colin!” his mother snapped. “This isn’t helping. Please, let’s all go inside. We need to talk about this in private.”
Maggie waited until the family retreated into the house, then turned to Jo.
“You said the phone last pinged around noon yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“And there’s been nothing since?”
“No. Either it’s turned off or it’s been damaged.”
Maggie’s gaze shifted to Maiden Pond, its surface shimmering under the midday sun. Or it’s underwater, she thought. Without a word, she headed down the sloping lawn, past a pair of canoes resting in the shade of a pine tree, past a trio of white Adirondack chairs. She stepped onto Moonview’s private dock and looked across the pond, at the far more modest camps on the opposite shore. In another month, all these houses would be occupied and people would be sunning on their decks and splashing in the water. But this was still early in the season, and most of the homes stood vacant. No one had been here to see the girl climb out of Luther’s truck. To witness what happened to her next.
She heard boards creak as Jo stepped onto the dock to join her.
“So it was an abduction,” said Maggie.
“It certainly looks like it now,” said Jo. “I thought maybe she’d gone off the rails like teenagers do. Ran away and hid out with a friend somewhere. Or maybe it was an accident. She jumped into the water and drowned, and we’re just waiting for the body to pop up. But the backpack, that changes everything.”
“You said it was found on Route One, southbound lane?”
“Yes. Probably tossed out a car window. The perp discarding the evidence.”
“From there, he could’ve taken her to Portland, Boston. Or beyond.”
“Where we’ll never find her.”
“Luther didn’t do this, Jo.”
“I know that’s what you believe.”
“He has a granddaughter. You’ve seen how much he adores Callie. The idea he’d hurt any girl Callie’s age—”
“I know it’s unlikely, but I have to consider him a suspect. The Conovers certainly do.”
“They don’t know him.”
“They know he had the girl in his truck. They know he’s the last person who saw her alive. And Jesus, look at the man! He’s like some hairy old Bigfoot who just walked out of the woods. To people like them, he’s exactly what a killer might look like.”
“‘People like them’? What does that mean?”
“You can see they have money. And they probably think we’re just country idiots, so they’re going to second-guess every decision I make.”
Maggie turned to look at Moonview, and she glimpsed movement in the top window. A face stared down at them. Not one of the family members she’d seen earlier, but a shaggy-haired young man. “Who’s the boy?” she asked.
Jo turned to the house, and the boy in the window quickly ducked out of sight. “That’s the grandson, Kit. Colin’s boy. Odd duck.”
“Meaning?”
“Hardly said a word to me last night. Like he’s mute or something. His mother did all the talking for him.”
“Maybe you scared him.”
Jo glanced down at herself. “ I’m scary?”
“Not you, but your uniform. Maybe he’s had a bad experience with the police. Something worth checking out, don’t you think?” Maggie turned back to the pond, where a rising wind raked the surface into ripples. “Keep us in the loop, Jo.”
“Have you heard a word I said? I don’t want any of you involved in this.”
Maggie thought about Luther, scared and shaken, sitting at her kitchen table. Luther, who’d always been there for her, always ready to help, whether it was pulling her truck out of a snowbank or lumbering to her rescue when she’d dodged an assassin’s bullets this past winter. During their years as neighbors, Luther had demonstrated his loyalty again and again. Now it was her turn.
“I’m afraid we already are involved,” said Maggie. “Whether you like it or not.”