The Maine Nemesis Read online

  “Well, Maynard, I’m guessing you’re going to get some shit over this,” Dale said as he placed a wooden crate of blueberries onto a picnic table and pointed at the side of the road behind the truck. “I think you just killed the Vice President’s dog.”

  TWO

  For just a year shy of a century, the Old Wabanaki Chowder House dominated the tiny downtown business district of Wabanaki. The small seaside town was known as the best kept secret the south-eastern section of Maine had to offer. And unlike the nearby towns of Kennebunkport and Ogunquit, Wabanaki wasn’t prone to busloads of seasonal tourists and it certainly wasn’t a vacation destination for gay folk. While it enjoyed a respectable handful of loyal, sophisticated summer vacationers, the town only had one motel, a handful of small inns, three restaurants, none of them part of a chain—to the chagrin of city folks who were lost without their Starbucks—and the only gift shop in town didn’t stock pile hundreds of lobster-themed refrigerator magnets.

  And Wabanaki, the little sleepy town on the coast with the silly name, was hopelessly split down the middle.

  The residents didn’t have a difference of opinion on a political level really, but a longstanding fight between those in town who wanted Wabanaki to become the next big vacation destination and those who wanted to preserve the town’s upscale quaintness. Everyone was aware what happened up the road in Kennebunkport: over-commercialization and endless traffic jams of tourists trying to catch a glimpse of a former President Bush at Walker’s Point. It didn’t matter which Bush people got to see, they just wanted to see one. Tacky tourism thrived up there, too. $9.99 tee shirts, blueberry-adorned Christmas ornaments, and innumerable lobster-themed refrigerator magnets.

  The other half of the folks in Wabanaki saw opportunity lost. Lost profits. Little growth. Not a spec of national recognition. And restaurants that never, ever had a waiting list.

  But it hardly mattered. Most vacationers were unaware of the lowly port town with the funky American Indian name, located on the rocky point roughly half way between Boston and Portland. There were no signs on the highway, and no exit for it. The guidebooks barely mentioned Wabanaki. The town had just one starred restaurant, because no one had ever bothered to review the rest. The well-to-do tourists all headed to Kennebunkport. The gay ones—well-to-do or not—descended on Ogunquit to dance until dawn. And the rest were on their way to Portland, because, well, Portland was cool again with its hipster cafés, exposed brick walls, and funky shops. Plus, large cruise ships were stopped there now.

  Wabanaki was decidedly sleepy. And perhaps just a little depressed. Nothing much ever happened and very little changed. And there certainly wasn’t a pier big enough for a 2,000 passenger vessel to dock.

  But in the center of town, the one-starred Chowder House was about to celebrate its 99th birthday. One more year and they could really do it up big, but until then, the management was fine with a low-key celebration. Half priced oysters. Lobster specials. A local Steely Dan cover band. They made up coupons and mailed them to all the locals. They took an ad out in the eight-page Wabanaki Weekly. But the management secretly wanted more. They knew they had potential award-winning seafood chowder. With a little creative marketing, they could entice the masses to exit the highway a mile north of town and double back. It’d be worth the trek. Maybe the restaurant would appeal to the hipsters who were looking for something on their way to Portland. Off the beaten path. Quaint. Historic. Undiscovered. That was Wabanaki in a nutshell. In an oyster shell, to be exact.

  Tanner Millhouse ran the business. With his father-in-law newly diagnosed with early stage dementia, it was up to him to keep the employees in check. It was up to him to protect the century old recipes. It wasn’t a challenge; he’d been working in the restaurant since he was 13, so it was all second nature. He started as a busboy when his mother was a waitress. His father was a bartender on the weekends. Besides fishing and lobstering, there weren’t many jobs to be had in town. Working the Chowder, as they called it, was a family tradition. Tanner moved up. From busboy to waiter. From waiter to bartender. From bartender to shift manager. From shift manager to general manager. Then he married the boss’s daughter, because of an accidental kid, not by design. So, he was in it deep. In for life. A Chowder-lifer.

  He wasn’t thrilled about it, but it was better than having to drive an hour to work in some factory or at a Wal-Mart. And he had a kid and a wife, who pretty much cemented the deal.

  Tanner loved Wabanaki, though. He didn’t know much about the Native Americans who unwittingly lent their name to the town, but he respected the town’s history and he was proud that he was a descendent of a long line of residents. His grandfather was a former mayor. His father was a seasoned lobsterman. And his late mother was a noted author whose series of decorating books were quite popular in her day, landing on the New York Times best seller list more than a few times. (Tanner never quite understood how she came to corner the market on traditional Colonial home design and decoration, having lived her entire life in New England, but she somehow pulled it off and was considered by many to be an expert on the subject.)

  Despite the scarcity of tourists, the Old Wabanaki Chowder House managed to soldier on. Because of loyal locals and seasonal vacationers (yes, there were some, including a former Vice President of the United States), they made a decent profit. That, and Tanner’s new online sales component—frozen seafood chowder, delivered overnight on dry ice—was keeping the business in the black.

  If he was dead, Tanner’s father-in-law would spin in his grave. The idea of shipping his beloved creation through the mail was the epitome of commercialism that he had always been firmly against. But it was paying the bills and keeping the doors open. And paying the old man’s nursing home bills.

  Tanner was in the kitchen sitting at his desk tucked into a corner underneath the stairs. He was on Facebook, scanning his feed to pass the time. As usual, it was full of the idle ramblings and cute baby photos from ‘friends’ he’d just as soon forget about. For the hundredth time, he closed the browser window and promised himself he wouldn’t waste any more time with social media unless it was to promote the business.

  Shea, a longtime Chowder House waitress, set down her tray and leaned against the kitchen wall. “Did you hear what happened?”

  “I can’t even imagine,” Tanner said absently.

  “The Sheriff killed Vice President Farr’s dog.”

  “On purpose?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Tanner logged back into Facebook to see if anyone was posting about the dead dog. “And you keep saying that nothing exciting ever happens in Wabanaki.”

  * * *

  Sheriff Little walked into the Wabanaki Animal Hospital and nearly kneeled at the reception desk. He was sweating something awful.

  “Hello, Sheriff,” the receptionist said. “You don’t look so good.”

  “I need information about an Alaskan Ridgeback. His name is Mondale.”

  The receptionist was kind, but clueless. “We have very strict policies here, sir. Are you an immediate family member?”

  “Immediate family member? Do I look like a dog?”

  “No, but we do have rules and we have to…”

  The Sheriff exhaled deeply and pushed his way through the double doors leading to the examination area.

  “Is he going to live?”

  A startled young man in light blue scrubs put his hands on his hips and stared down the sheriff. “You shouldn’t be back here, sir.”

  “Is he alive?”

  “Who?”

  “The goddamned Vice President’s goddamned dog.”

  The young man was indignant. “I don’t think you need to use profanity.”

  “Damn it, son, where is the vet?”

  “I’m the vet, Sheriff.”

  “You look like you’re 14 years old.”

  The young man sighed and slumped and shifted his weight. “I get that a lot. I’m 26.”

  “Gotch
a. Well, apparently, I’m the one that hit the damned dog with my truck. Now, how is he?”

  The veterinarian paused then shook his head slowly. “I haven’t even told the Vice President and his wife yet, sir, but Mondale is quite dead. He was gone long before Dale brought him in. There was nothing we could do.”

  Sheriff Little closed his eyes for a few long seconds. “Crap.”

  THREE

  Skyler Moore occupied seat 2F on a United Airlines Boeing 777 flight from London to Boston. She slept little.

  She flipped absently through a stack of British style magazines she’d picked up at Heathrow. Despite her best judgment, she ate the stale, microwaved nuts and the bland poached chicken salad. She watched the plane’s trajectory move across a patch of glowing blue on a map on the seatback television screen. But for the most part, she replayed the epic fiancé-jilting that took place the day before and how she unceremoniously departed for America. She was sure she’d done the right thing. She wouldn’t—she couldn’t—marry a man who didn’t respect her and she certainly wasn’t going to put up with his insistence that she move to Great Britain permanently after she asked him repeatedly to consider a bi-continent compromise.

  She was a proud American who owned homes in Maine and Washington, D.C. And while she loved visiting London, she had no desire to become a fulltime ex-pat. And she certainly wasn’t going to move 3,600 miles across an ocean to become a housewife.

  “I have a career across the pond that I love,” Skyler said to him the morning before, “I can’t just give that up.” She was dumbfounded that this was still a sticking point.

  “And I need a wife who understands that I need a whiskey poured for me when I come home,” Rufus said. “Call me old fashioned.”

  “You are kidding me, right? You realize that this isn’t the 1950’s? And you do know that my name is not June Cleaver?” She had slammed her hand down on the counter for good measure.

  “Who the bloody hell is June Cleaver?” He scraped savagely at a stain on the tabletop with his manicured thumbnail, as if this time he could make the stain go away.

  “A very buttoned up housewife who looks like a million bucks while she’s making breakfast, who vacuums the house in a dress and high heels, bakes a cake from scratch every afternoon, and has dinner on the table precisely at six o’clock sharp when Ward gets home from the office. But, you know, June Cleaver is dead now and I’ll die before I give up everything and keep a house for you, Rufus. It’s just not who I am. You knew that when we started this.”

  “I don’t know who these people are that you’re talking about, but we can hire folks to do the Hoovering, you know.”

  “You’re missing the point. I love you, but I have to spend my summer’s in Maine and I want to keep my clients.”

  “And I need to be here in London. And I need my wife to be with me.”

  “Well, I guess that’s not going to be me then.”

  “That’s disappointing. I’m glad we wasted all this time to get to this place, Skyler. Quite disappointing.”

  “Quite disappointing,” Skyler repeated, putting on a snooty English accent. She didn’t cry. She wanted to, but she held it together. “But I don’t feel like it was wasted time. We had a lot of fun.”

  His face flickered with anger. “I disagree. Wasted love.”

  “You’re an asshole.” She didn’t know who this person was sitting in front of her. Perhaps it was wasted love.

  “I guess I am. Why don’t you go home to your beloved Maine, have a fucking lobster roll that you love so much, and call me if you ever grow up.”

  She was dumbfounded. “That’s not going to happen. You’ve become a very noxious person all of a sudden and it’s not pretty on you, mister.”

  He had no reply. He left for his office moments later, and she didn’t see him again.

  After the plane touched down at Logan Airport, Skyler collected her checked bag and headed to the rental car area. She selected a dark green, late model sedan and programmed the navigation system for Wabanaki. It was a 75-mile trip north, mostly via Route-95, and at 10:00am on a Tuesday morning, it was going to be an uneventful drive.

  About 45 minutes into the trip, her cell rang. The caller ID read, ‘Brenda Braxton,’ and she immediately lightened up.

  “Are you on the ground?” Brenda asked.

  “I am. I’m answering the phone, aren’t I?”

  “Pleasant flight, I trust?”

  “Is there such a thing anymore?”

  “You are answering all of my questions with another question.”

  “I tend to do that, don’t I?”

  “You just did it again.

  Skyler sighed. “I thought I was more original than that. The flight was okay. I’m glad to be on my way to Wabanaki. Can you come up for the 4th? I’m going to be alone and it’s our 40th anniversary.”

  “Geez, Skyler,” Brenda’s voice rose in volume, “why on Earth do you need to continue to remind me about how old we are? But, yes, I’m going to come up; my schedule is pretty light this month. I’m going to see if I can get Wayne to fly me up on his plane, that way I don’t have to fly commercial. And I can bring Mulder and Scully, right?”

  Mulder and Scully were the celebrity chef’s two Lemon Treeing Walker coonhounds who were permanent fixtures in all of Brenda’s eponymous restaurants. They were depicted in her corporate logo, their portraits hung on the walls, and she even had a photo of the dogs with The X-Files actors David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson, their namesakes, when they dined in her Vancouver location.

  “Those dogs are more spoiled than I am.”

  “They are and they deserve it. July 5th is their seventh birthday, so I want to have a party.”

  “We’ll have lobsters,” Skyler said as she accelerated around an 18-wheeler. “Listen, I went and did a silly thing. I loaned my house to my brother’s family this week, so I’m going to stay at the Captain’s Inn. I wasn’t expecting to be back so soon.”

  “Wait. You said you’d be alone.”

  “Don’t worry, they’ll be gone by the 2nd of July. The house will be all ours. Just the girls. And the dogs.”

  “And I assume Rufus is in the doghouse if you’re going to be alone?”

  “I’m done with Rufus. I left him in London. Permanently.”

  Brenda sighed. “You’ve said this before.”

  “I mean it this time.”

  “Then I believe you.”

  “You’ll see,” Skyler said flatly.

  “I said that I believe you, and I do,” Brenda said sweetly. “Listen, I have to go. I’m judging an episode of Hot Chef this afternoon. They’re taping in a studio right around the corner from my house or I never would have agreed. Okay, you don’t care about any of this. Love you.”

  “Love you.” Skyler hung up and concentrated on weaving around vacationers on Route 95, endlessly annoyed at how they insisted on going the posted speed limit. She managed to reach her exit without killing herself or anyone else.

  After another 15 minutes of back roads through the woods and past the occasional farm, she pulled up to The Old Sea Captain’s Inn & Conference Center (which always made her laugh, since the Conference Center in question was a tiny room no larger than her kitchen) and left her car out front. A young uniformed kid ran out to greet her; he didn’t look old enough to have a driver’s license. But they all looked like that to her these days.

  “Checking in, ma’am?”

  “Miss Skyler Moore,” she said as she handed over the car keys. “Someone from Avis is coming to get the car in an hour or so, so can you leave it someplace handy?”

  She grabbed her bags and headed inside. The lobby was empty of guests and it smelled like fresh apple pie. She’d had many drinks in the corner near the large roaring fire, but she’d never stayed the night and she was curious to see what all the fuss was about. All her friends claimed that the beds were the most comfortable they’d ever slept in.

  After getting the third degree from t
he nosy front desk clerk—a chick she’d gone to grade school with—on why she needed overnight accommodations when she owned her own cottage a block away, Skyler entered Room 6 and immediately tested the lush-looking, queen-sized bed.

  Four hours later, she woke up to the last rays of sunshine cutting through the white lace curtains.

  “Fuck,” she said, taking a moment to figure out where she was. Now I’ll never sleep tonight.

  Skyler pulled on a pair of well-worn jeans and a white tank top featuring a bejeweled British flag, tied a light hooded sweatshirt around her waist, and headed out the door.

  She strolled up to the front of her own house and peeked inside. Her brother, sister-in-law, and four hopelessly misbehaved children, ranging in ages between two and ten, sat around her large farm table dissecting what looked like a meatloaf dinner. She rolled her eyes—only they’d make meatloaf when the bounty of the sea was theirs for the having all around them—and snuck away. She loved her brother, but she had absolutely zero patience for his children. Or any children, for that matter.

  They’d be headed out the next day and she could return…after the housekeeper had pulled hair from the drains and cleaned pee stains from the floor and toilet rims, of course.

  * * *

  At the Chowder House, Tanner spotted Skyler at the bar, snuck up behind her, and grabbed her around the middle. She spit white wine onto the counter.

  “What the heck is wrong with you?” she asked as she spun around.

  “I ask myself that every morning,” her dearest male friend said. He kissed her on the cheek and sat down on the stool next to her. “What’s new?”

  “How much time do you have?”

  “All the time in the world,” he said as he waved over a bartender. “Miller Light draft, please. And…” he looked at Skyler “…two bowls of seafood chowder?”

  Skyler nodded and the bartender complied.

  “I’ll tell you the quick and dirty version,” she began. “Rufus is an asshole and I left him, for good this time. And before you ask, yes, I mean it. And I am not living in London ever again. I am staying at the Captain’s tonight because my house is full of my brother’s spawn. Brenda is coming for the 4th. She’s bringing the dogs. We are going to eat and drink and hopefully do nothing else.”