Ragged Island: An Island Mystery

By Darcy Scott

Maine botanist Gil Hodges, aka Hodge, is plagued by personal demons he can no longer keep at bay: a string of sordid, failed relationships, outrageous wrongs never put right, and a gut-wrenching trade-off made years ago with a stone-cold killer who slips in and out of his life at will—taunting him, haunting his dreams. And back with a vengeance now, it seems. Question is why.
When a chance encounter offers the promise of new love, Hodge tempts fate by taking on his murderous foe. Desperate to cut this grisly tie once and for all, he risks everything by going back to where it all started—back to Matinicus.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Darcy Scott
• Release date: Mar 21, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463767603

Darcy Scott

Darcy Scott is a live-aboard sailor and experienced ocean cruiser who’s sailed to Grenada and back on a whim, island-hopped through the Caribbean, and been struck by lightning in the middle of the Gulf Stream. Her favorite cruising ground remains the coast of Maine, however, and her appreciation of the history and rugged beauty of its sparsely populated out-islands serves as inspiration for her Maine Island Mystery Series, which includes 2012’s award-winning "Matinicus" and the newly-released "Reese’s Leap." Book three, "Ragged Island," is currently in the works. Her debut novel, "Hunter Huntress," was published in June, 2010 by Snowbooks, Ltd., UK. Learn more at www.DarcyScott.net.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Been here, done this—the same Cessna 206 on its short, white-knuckled hop from the airport at Owl’s Head to Matinicus, a pancake of an island some twenty-plus miles out to sea. Three years ago, plus or minus. Biggest difference this time out is that Doug, the chatty, easygoing pilot I got to know before the bottom dropped out of my world, has been replaced by a kid with the reaction time of a juiced-up meth freak.

In a strange return to yesteryear, I’m once again the sole passenger onboard, squeezing all six-two of me in among the same kind of freight I remember from last time—assorted cases of liquor, boxes of grocery orders and boat parts, an enormous quantity of beer, a few FedEx packages, a case of oil filters, and yet more liquor. This time, though, the small cabin is filled with the redolent smells of garlic and tomato sauce, courtesy of a half-dozen large pies from Athens Mediterranean Pizza in Thomaston, or so the boxes inform me.

My overriding fear that last trip out was simply the possibility we’d nose-dive into the wind-whipped waters of Penobscot Bay, or slam into the unforgiving rock face at the end of the narrow, tree-lined runway gaping like an open wound at the north end of the island. Simple stuff, nothing to the anxiety I’m feeling about what awaits me in a place I’ve long been reviled—which I deserve to be, of course, only not for the reasons anyone out here thinks.

Some sane part of me, a part I’ve completely lost touch with over the last few weeks, whispers it would be much healthier to leave the past alone—something I’ve repeatedly tried and failed to do. Instead, I buckle in, accepting the inevitability of whatever’s about to unfold.

Time to end this nightmare once and for all.

ONE

Three Weeks Before

Dr. Hodges?

I swing my gaze to the woman in the doorway—middle-aged and officious-looking, no hint of a smile. One of them, then. Police with a capital P, not the pathetically underpaid campus cops who initially showed up in response to my wildly panicked call. Another detective, probably, though decidedly better dressed in dark gray slacks and matching blazer than the guy who’s been peppering me with questions for the last twenty minutes. Pinned to her lapel is something my mother called a brooch, this particular example a circlet of gold strands braided into a kind of wreath. Tasteful. Understated.

C’mon in, I call over. You’re a little late to the party, but what the hell. I turn back to the detective before me, one Daniel Fuentes—tall, slender, clearly of Latin stock. How one such as he ended up in Orono, Maine is anyone’s guess.

No, I tell him as he stands looking down his long aquiline nose at me, a muscle spasm in his left cheek setting the dark mole under his eye twitching. I’ve no idea where it came from, or why the hell some nut would leave it here. Leave is not quite the correct word. Staged is more like it—the sight of the thing as I came around my desk an hour or so ago dropkicking my gut to my throat.

So you got back from lunch and there it was, just lying on your computer; that’s what you’re telling me. His tone oozes disbelief.

That’s what I’m telling you. Again. The sight of it forever seared in memory, never mind it was oh-so-carefully removed, bagged and carried off some fifteen minutes ago, along with my aging laptop and its trove of research notes. Thank Christ I had the presence of mind to snag the thumb drive from the USB port before the Mounties arrived.

You usually leave the door unlocked when you head out to grab a sandwich, take a leak, whatever?

Never. I always lock up.

You’re sure.

I’m sure, Detective. I sigh, having done this dance already with the campus dicks. I teach an early class on Fridays. I came to the office afterward, say nine-fifteen, worked on the computer ’til about noon, when I went to grab lunch.

So the door wasn’t locked when you returned.

That’s the thing. It was.

How do you explain that?

I can’t, I say, my eyes on the Lady in Gray who’s begun picking her way quietly along the opposite wall, her methodical gaze taking inventory of the small, cramped space I call my office. Not slender like Fuentes, but short and squat as a fireplug. Which is very un-PC of me, I know. "You’re the cop; you get to figure that one out. I’m just a lowly academic.

Excuse me, I say pointedly as my latest visitor stops to draw a book from a row of scholarly tomes shelved on the far wall—far being a relative term, of course. You’d think the Director of the University of Maine’s School of Forest Resources would rate better digs than the closet-sized 203 Nutting Hall. I’ll have to push for something bigger if I’m going to have all this company. Can I help you?

She ignores me as she pages listlessly through the book—one it’s doubtful she can fathom, let alone have any interest in. Even I barely understand the jargon.

A lowly academic who got back from lunch to find a severed finger lying on his computer keyboard, Fuentes pushes, ignoring the interruption. Dog with a bone, this one.

She who’s perusing my shelves cocks a brow at that. Could it be no one’s filled her in as yet? Not a cop, then. Some newbie from administration sent to check out the latest bizarro trouble in Nutting 203, maybe. Definitely not a student. You don’t find many middle-aged women angling for a degree in tree biology.

A finger excised from the hand two, maybe three days ago, based on its condition, Fuentes continues, studying me.

If you say so.

The adrenaline starts its tap dance at my temples again as the image forces itself on me: flesh a bluish-purple, the upper joint with its chipped, pink-painted fingernail poised as if in thought.

Fall classes started a few weeks ago, right? Fuentes says. September eight, if I remember. Still, I’ve never known frat hazings to involve human body parts.

Not in Maine, anyway.

Well, there’s a reason the finger was taken—pretty sloppy job, by the way—and a reason it was left on your keyboard. We could get lucky with a print, but it’s a long shot. You won’t have access to your laptop for the time being, of course.

Is this guy nuts? He thinks I want that thing back?

We shake. He makes the usual noises about staying in touch as he glances around a final time, his eyes traveling over the Lady in Gray without much interest, then he slips out—headed for coffee, maybe, or a stiff drink. Something I could use right about now, never mind it’s only half-past last night’s hangover. Would it be rude, I wonder as this chick moves toward me, hand extended, if I oh-so-casually pulled out the flask of scotch secreted in my lower desk drawer? Perhaps I could offer her a snap.

Dr. Liz Horvath, she says as we manage a perfunctory shake. It’s good to finally meet you, even if I did have to drive up from Portland to track you down.

The name is vaguely familiar, as is the voice, but it’s too much work to try and figure it out. Plus, I‘ve had more than enough crappy attitude for one morning.

Gil Hodges—Hodge to just about everyone. And I’m afraid you’ve wasted a trip. I can’t help you; I know nothing about any of this, I say, flicking my hand toward the spot where my computer used to live, weighing the chances of snagging another by the end of the day.

No reason you should recognize me, of course, she says, dropping into the chair opposite my desk, but I should think the name would ring a bell. You’re the one who sent her to me, after all.

I cock my head, hoping to jog the brain cells, but the synapses refuse to fire.

I’m Tiffany Burgess’s therapist, she says, no doubt to save me all this mental effort. The one you’ve been writing checks to for the last year in hopes of helping that troubled young woman?

Ah. Glancing down, I riffle a few papers at the edge of my desk, trying to look efficient and focused as my mind tilts toward overload—the mere mention of this kid enough to trigger the anxiety and guilt that’s plagued me since I returned from Matinicus three years ago knowing I was as much to blame for everything that happened out there as she was. I guess you’d say we’ve got history. Boy, do we.

And how’s that going? I ask the doc.

It’s not, actually. Tiffany missed her last three appointments. I’ve tried phoning you, left messages, finally decided to just drive up here.

Bit of a haul from Portland, I say, and again, a wasted trip. Haven’t seen her in ages. Which is true, technically speaking.

If you say so. She gives it a beat. I felt it was time we met, to be honest with you. I have some information you might find useful, especially since the last time she did show up, I got the definite impression she was heading this way.

That right?

Yes. And at this point in her therapy, anger is her primary emotion, one that tends to manifest itself quite indiscriminately.

I try for bored as I stir the papers, ignoring the sudden uptick in my pulse. Yeah, well, she was pretty pissed off last time I saw her, too. Heading off to comb all of North America for her mother, as I remember.

A spectacular disappointment, by the way.

I never once thought she’d find her.

Oh, she found her, alright. Our girl is nothing if not resourceful.

I take another look. There’s something plodding, almost matronly about Ms. Doctor Horvath, what with that solid build, the limp brown hair in a blunt shoulder cut. It would be easy to underestimate her but for the intense gray eyes—those orbs scrutinizing me just now with a wary intelligence. You don’t say. And?

Ask her yourself when you see her, she says standing. Trust me, you will. Oh, and just so you know, she’s calling herself Amelia at the moment. She likes to change it up; try on different personas. It throws people off—something else she enjoys doing. She was calling herself Liz for a while. I found that mildly disturbing, as I’m sure you can imagine.

Only mildly? Could be this chick isn’t as smart as I thought.

I fight to keep my gaze neutral as she pulls a card from her bag, sets it on the corner of the desk.

I’ll be in town through tomorrow morning. I have some questions; no doubt you do, as well. Let me know what works for you.

TWO

My plan before I was given the finger, so to speak, was to spend the rest of this stunning Friday afternoon and much of the ensuing weekend continuing research for a book I’ve been pulling together on the biodiversity of the Maine out-islands—an ill-conceived bit of scholarly drivel both my editor and the university bigwigs have been hounding me to finish. My excuse this particular afternoon is that I no longer have a computer. And then there’s the almost constant ringing of my office phone, what with said bigwigs on the prowl for answers as to just who might have left a decomposing digit atop a piece of university equipment—apparently unaware that particular bit of equipment was my personal property. Probably for the best. Between the business with the finger and the good doctor’s surprise drop-in, my focus is shit anyway.

A quick knock, and I glance toward the beak-nosed profile visible through the frosted glass of the door—which on most days stands open in welcome. I was beginning to wonder just when he’d show up, considering his office is but two doors down from mine.

Yo, I call by way of invitation, already dreading the encounter.

The door cracks open to reveal the apologetic face of Bradley Winston, aka The Tree—the forestry school’s seven-foot assistant director, and a guy who’s been waiting to snag my position for almost as long as I’ve had it. He likes to hang in my doorway expounding on the frustrations inherent in his work with the Healing Harvest Forest Foundation and their restorative forestry project. I hand him regular donations in lieu of actual involvement, which suits us both just fine.

Brad is a physical anomaly. In addition to his prodigious height and quasi-anorexic build, he sports an oversized head sitting uncomfortably atop an impossibly slender neck—a look he cultivates with thick glasses that make his eyes appear almost comically large. Eyes he turns on me now.

I’ve been in the tree ring lab all morning, so I just heard, he explains. My God, Hodge. The entire campus is buzzing. His face is flushed, expectant—as is always the case when he’s fishing for information.

Sorry, Brad. Can’t say much. Ongoing investigation and all that. Crock of shit, of course; I simply don’t have the energy just now. How about we touch base in a few days?

The phone pipes up again, saving me from further explanation. I grab it as he retreats, hoping now that four o’clock has come and gone it might be David Duggan—my best, and possibly only real friend—taking me up on my offer of a couple beers and a burger.

Yup?

Nothing.

I wait a beat. Hello?

Nada. I’m about to hang up when the background noise stops me cold, holds me. There’s something eerily familiar about the distant sound of rushing water, the quiet whir of what might well be a ceiling fan catching in a particular place each time it cycles through space. I’ve been there, wherever this is.

Like that, the phone goes dead. A moment later, it rings again, startling me from my confusion. I snatch it up, annoyed and a little spooked. Yeah?

It’s the cop, Fuentes. Back at the station, from the sound of it. Ringing phone lines, bursts of laughter. I can all but smell the sludge of bad coffee puddled at the bottom of his mug.

We’ve checked the hospitals, he says by way of greeting. Nobody’s admitted a woman with a missing finger. I’m not just talking Maine, here; that’s all of New England.

Impressive, I tell him, glancing to the small, baseball-themed clock atop my desk—a gift from a grateful undergrad a few years back for not flunking his lazy ass. It’s been, what, three hours since you carted it off? Might have been snagged from some lab, left as a joke; have you considered that? Call around to the medical schools, the Geisel School at Dartmouth, maybe. Lots of labs. And lots of whacko grad students. I’ve dated a few.

Too fresh, and far too brutally excised. He pauses. So what we’ve got is a woman wandering God-only-knows-where, too dazed to find her way to medical attention or maybe being kept from it—that or she’s past the point of needing it. He lets that sink in. So, I’ll ask you again. Why was a woman’s finger left on your keyboard?

Why indeed. No fucking idea, Detective.

I mean that’s making a hell of a statement, wouldn’t you say? Some kind of warning, maybe.

This guy’s starting to piss me off. A warning about what, exactly?

See, that’s what I’m wondering. Word on you is that you’ve got a thing for students. Young girls who are, what, half your age? Must be those movie-star looks. That guy—The Dude, I mean.

Referring, of course, to my uncanny resemblance to Jeff Bridges, his mid-forties incarnation, right down to the ageing surfer hair and goofy grin. Something I once took considerable time cultivating, sad to say. Just born lucky, I guess.

That sort of thing never ends well, does it, Fuentes pushes. Dating kids, I mean. You screw them, you dump them, and you’re surprised they get pissed off?

This crap never fucking dies. That was years ago, Detective. The woman you’re referring to turned out to be an obsessive nut job who went after me with a beer bottle at a campus party. When she didn’t manage to kill me, she put considerable effort into trying to ruin my life. Almost succeeded. The fact this guy’s been digging around in my romantic past really burns my ass, not that I’ve got anything to hide—nothing criminal, that is. Well, nothing actionable. Not this long after the fact, anyway. Shit.

And where is the young lady now? he asks.

Went home to Iceland years ago, which is the perfect place for her, by the way. Haven’t heard from her since, thank Christ. If there’s a God in heaven, I never will. He’s speaking again when I hang up.

The phone rings again immediately. Seems this guy isn’t done chewing on my ass. I’m tempted to just let it go to voicemail, but the urge to really let him have it is overwhelming. Fuck it, I think, grabbing up the handset.

Forget something? I growl.

Silence, but for the whir of the fan catching, the gurgle of rushing water, but now there’s music as well. Take Your Clothes Off When You Dance, to be exact—a song from my favorite Mothers of Invention LP—1968’s We’re Only in It for the Money. Vintage vinyl I found on eBay a few years back for $9.99. This one skipping in the same place, I note. Who is lonely will be free…Who is lonely will be free…Who is lonely will be free.

The hair at the back of my neck begins to lift, the familiar throb of panic setting in. No fucking way she could get into my place, I stupidly tell myself—not with the security set-up I’ve got. A thought that would normally reassure, only I know this chick.

I grab my keys and make a beeline for the door, panicked at the thought of Dad’s priceless baseball card collection, the only thing I’ve got left of the old man after rather stupidly losing his Dodgers ball cap down a well shaft last summer. His complete 1952 Topps set is in near-perfect condition, including a rookie Mickey Mantle card so pristine it’s worth more than many people’s homes. Then there are all 206 of the Topps ’55s. You get the picture. Pure gold from an investment standpoint. All of this locked in nothing more than a cheap, fire resistant safe I picked up at the Walmart in Bangor, clearly visible if you were to crack open a particular bedroom closet door. Not even bolted to the floor. Christ.

* * *

The city of Bangor sits at the center of a triangle between Baxter State Park, the Sugarloaf ski area, and Acadia National Park, and has a storied history as a lumber port. In fact, many of its nineteenth-century lumber barons’ Victorian and Greek revival homes still stand today.

My urban loft in downtown may not be in that most elegant part of the Queen City, but it’s a mere twenty-minute drive from the campus in Orono—twenty minutes that today feels more like an hour as I fight for parking, the downside of the city’s current trend toward reurbanization. I finally swing my old Saab 900 to the curb two blocks down