Distant Thunder

13

Stone thought about it, and he realized that there was someone else who had seen John Collins on Islesboro. He made the call.

“Hahlo!”

“Seth, it’s Stone.”

“How you doin’?”

“Very well, thanks, and I hope you are.”

“Yup.”

“Seth, you remember the gentleman who spent the night in the garage?”

“Of course.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

“Of course. How could I miss him?”

“Right. Had you ever seen him before?”

“Yup.”

“When and where?”

“I saw him in August. He was walking on the island. Noticed him because most of them from away drive their cars or golf carts.”

“Walking where?”

“Just walking.”

“I don’t mean his destination. I mean, where on the island did you see him?”

“Two or three spots, I reckon.”

“Where were they?”

“I saw him along the road from the ferry to the village, like maybe he had just gotten off the ferry. I saw him in the village, where he went into the store and bought an ice cream. I saw him, late in the day, walking back toward the ferry.”

“How was he dressed?”

“Casual, like all them from away: khakis, a shirt; had a sweater thrown over his shoulders, like he expected it to get cooler. Good idea! It gets cooler up here.”

“Was he alone?”

“Yup.”

“How long was he in the store?”

“Twenty minutes, maybe. More than enough time to get himself an ice cream.”

“Did you see him speak to anyone inside or outside the store?”

“When he come out, he gave a little wave to somebody behind him and said something. Couldn’t make out what from the distance.”

“Did he buy anything in the store except ice cream?”

Seth thought for a moment. “Yup. He bought a paper, maybe the New York one. Had it tucked under his arm.”

“Which way did he go when he left the store?”

“Toward the ferry.”

“Seth, is there a bar on the ferry, or liquor for sale?”

“Nope. You have to bring your own.”

“Was he carrying anything? A bottle or a hip flask?”

“Nope to the bottle. His pants were kind of baggy, so he might have had room for a hip flask.”

“Anything else you can remember about him?”

Seth went quiet for a minute.

“Seth?”

“Yup? Nope. Can’t remember anything else.”

“Thanks for your time, Seth.”

“Yup.” Seth hung up.

Stone ran the conversation again in his head and retained the pieces for further use.

Joan came in with some sheets of paper. “This was sent to you by Lance Cabot,” she said.

It was the Maine ME’s report on the Collins postmortem. Stone ran a finger down to “stomach contents” — lobster, coleslaw, alcohol, colorless, likely vodka, eight to twelve drinks — that spelled drunk.

So Collins had a lobster roll, widely available in the area, but vodka? Was liquor sold at the little market in Lincolnville? Very likely. But Collins was a nondrinker. What could have caused him to imbibe eight to twelve drinks? Or, perhaps, who? And where? On board the ferry? In a car? In a car on the way to the ferry?

Stone looked for the place on the form for cuts and bruises. One large bruise, recent, base of the skull. He would have been unconscious for a while afterward. That would account for how they got him into a car. Maybe how they had gotten the vodka into him.

Stone checked the photographs of the corpse. Fingernails intact and clean. He hadn’t tried to scratch or claw anybody. Left-hand knuckles bruised. A straight left to somebody’s nose, maybe. Right knuckles unbruised. A right to the belly or solar plexus? Bruises on both arms, just above the elbows. Somebody pinned his arms back? Maybe while pouring the vodka into him? None of this would count in a court of law, but it gave him a picture, albeit a fuzzy one.

He called Vanessa Morgan.

“Hi, there.”

“Hi. Did the Agency send you or give you a package or a bag of the contents of John’s pockets?”

“Yes, they did.”

“Could you bring it with you to dinner tonight?”

“Okay.”

“Six-thirty here?”

“Sure.”

“See you then.” They both hung up.