The Maypop Kidnapping Read online

  “Or the thief took it from her house and later dropped it at Gusty’s,” Mom says.

  I get goosebumps. “The kidnapper may have been in Gusty’s, and we didn’t even know it.”

  “For all we know, Blythe may have been tied up in the trunk in the parking lot while he ate a lobster roll,” Mom says. She sees my lip tremble and hugs me.

  “I’m sorry I said that,” she whispers. “I shouldn’t involve you any deeper in this.”

  A shiver goes up my spine and I remember how I was standing next to the Escalade and I had an inkling that Ms. Stillford was in the back. I’m about to tell Mom about it, but she holds my shoulders straight and looks into my eyes and says, “All right, here’s what we’re going to do.”

  15

  Mom gets on the phone and files a missing persons report. I offer her my version, but she pulls up a form online and shows me how all you have to do is fill in the blanks. Then she calls the Houlton police, the border patrol, and the FBI. At three that afternoon, the field investigation begins, with headquarters at Gusty’s. Police and volunteers from nearby towns crowd in, and each person picks a dark blue jacket from a big cardboard box. The jackets shout RESCUE in neon yellow letters across the back.

  Dad flips burger after burger to feed the hungry searchers and keeps trying to push one on me.

  “Dad! For the third time, I do not want a burger.” A burger would taste like sand right now. “Ben wants a burger. Give him one.”

  Ben and I sit at our table in the corner. John Denby is nowhere to be seen. I show him a copy of the missing persons report:

  Blythe Stillford was reported missing on Monday, September 15. Stillford lives in Maiden Rock, Maine, and is a retired high school chemistry teacher currently working as a tutor. She was last seen on Thursday, September 11, at Gusty’s Café. The circumstances of her disappearance are considered suspicious.

  At the time of her disappearance she was 60 years of age, stood 5’ 4”, and weighed approximately 130 pounds. When last seen she was wearing blue jeans, a green sweater, a silk scarf, boat shoes, and cat-eye glasses. She carried a canvas tote that says “Beatrix Potter’s Botanicals.”

  Anyone knowing anything about the whereabouts of Blythe Stillford, please contact the Maiden Rock sheriff, Margaret Boyd, at #10 Mile Stretch Road, Maiden Rock, Maine, or online at www.maidenrocksheriff.gov.

  I don’t like seeing her age, height, and weight “at the time of her disappearance,” because it makes her sound like a body instead of a live person, but Mom says that’s how it’s done.

  “Look up here, folks,” Mom calls out. “Here’s a picture of Blythe Stillford.”

  She holds it up so everyone can see it. The photo comes from our last Fourth of July picnic. Ms. Stillford’s wearing her traditional red-and-white striped sailor top and bell-bottom jeans. The ones she calls vintage. Two women in the group whisper and smile. I think they’re making fun of Ms. Stillford’s clothes. I want to run over and yell at them to get out.

  “She’s sixty years old, approximately one hundred and thirty pounds, has long blonde hair with silver streaks. She usually wears it in a loose knot at her neck. When she was last seen, she had on a green sweater, a silk scarf, jeans, and boat shoes. Oh, and glasses. She wears brown cat-eye frames with orange stones at the corners.”

  “Last seen when?” a big guy with a gold badge asks. He looks at the others like Mom is screwing up the investigation by talking about the orange stones.

  “I’m getting to that, Officer Dobson.” Mom gives him a stare. “She was last seen here in Gusty’s. She had lunch with my daughter, Quinnette, last Thursday.” She turns to me. “Quinnie, come tell us what happened at lunch.”

  I shrink in my chair. I’d been so eager to get this going. Now, in front of all these people I don’t want the spotlight anywhere near me. Mom walks over and pulls me up by my elbow.

  “Go ahead, honey. Tell them what happened.”

  I search the room for my dad and find him behind the counter. He gives me a you-can-do-it nod. Mom’s thumb is pressing a little too hard into my arm. I know it’s because she needs me to do my part.

  “She had a Gusty Burger . . .” I falter a bit. Just the facts, right?

  The big guy smirks, which gets a couple other people looking down and stifling laughs. Now I hate him for sure. Mom slips her arm around my shoulder and squeezes.

  “She had on her lobster pin, and she was pretty normal, kind of.” I stand up a little straighter. “I showed her my new school clothes and my notebooks and my Ouija Board phone case.” Okay, I’m starting to babble.

  When I start to show the crowd my phone case, Mom says, “Anything else, Quinnie?” She can tell my mind is drifting to the brown apple and the lobster pin on the floor, and she jumps in. “About the last time you saw her. That’s what we need to hear right now.”

  I know so much, but Mom told me not to tell anyone about her letter or what I saw in her house. “Owen Loney was there. He was talking to her about fixing a torn screen at her house.”

  The room falls quiet. I look around and accidentally make eye contact with Officer Dobson.

  “Who’s Owen Loney?” Officer Dobson reaches into his shirt pocket and takes out a small spiral pad and ballpoint pen. One of his big thumbs flips to a blank page; the other clicks the pen tip up and down.

  “I’m Owen Loney,” a gruff voice calls from the back of the crowd.

  All heads turn toward the door, to the man wearing the Lobstah! cap. Ben and I stretch our necks to see him.

  “Come on up here where people can see you, Owen,” Mom says, and she shoots me a look. “And tell us what you remember about Thursday afternoon.”

  Owen Loney shoulders his way through the blue-jacketed volunteers. He stands with his gnarly knuckled hands clasped in front of him. His brow wrinkles with worry lines.

  “I had my regular number three, crab cake sandwich with fries, and was finishing up my second cup of coffee when Blythe came in, so I went over and talked to her about it getting windier and all, and did she want me to fix up her torn screen on the second floor on the ocean side.”

  He swallows and waits.

  Mom prompts him to continue. “What did she say, Owen?”

  “She said, ‘Sure, thanks.’”

  A little titter of laughter goes through the crowd, like that was a silly answer.

  “Were those her exact words?” asks Dobson.

  “Let me see.” Owen rubs his whiskery chin and studies the floor for a couple seconds. “I believe she said, ‘Thanks, Owen. I’d like that.’ But I don’t know what good knowing that is. We ought to be out looking for her right now.”

  Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Owen Loney adjusts his cap, pulling it down tight.

  “Did you see her leave?” someone calls from the back.

  “Nope. I left before she did.”

  “Did you see anyone else? Anyone drive by?” Dobson asks.

  “Not a soul . . . ’cept the sisters.”

  “What sisters?”

  “The nuns. Them two that live at the convent out on the point and drive like it’s the Indy 500.”

  A few little conversations break out.

  “Yes, well, now let’s break up into groups,” Mom says to the crowd. “I’ll come around and give you each a map and a search area. And you don’t have to deal with the beach houses. I’ve got keys for all of them, and I’ll be checking each one later this afternoon.”

  16

  In between people calling out “Over here” and “I’ll go with Joe” and “Put me on the yacht club group,” the café door opens and a man and a girl make their way through the crowd. The man is tall with a pale, rectangular face and small eyes framed by chunky tortoiseshell glasses. The girl is thin, with long, dark hair; red lips; and skinny jeans marked by thready holes.

  I immediately know who they are and who they might be looking for—Real Estate Mom. I try to catch Mom’s eye, but she’s sucked into the confusion of search tea
ms sorting themselves out.

  I go to the kitchen. Dad is inching four molten-hot blueberry pies out of the oven.

  “The Zoe house people are here,” I say. I know if I say the Philpotts are here, he’ll say “Who?” He doesn’t remember rental-people names. That space in his brain is reserved for things like the unusual garlic salad dressing on the coleslaw at Betty’s Tea Room in Boston that closed before I was born.

  His face slowly shows recognition.

  “Oh, boy. Where’s your Mom? She needs this right now like a gull needs a bath. And I can’t leave the café.” I don’t remind him that gulls are filthy things that could all use a good scrubbing. I already researched that at Ms. Stillford’s request.

  I peek out front. Most searchers have cleared out of the café, and the Philpotts man is standing in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips like the Jolly Green Giant. The girl slouches by a table, chewing on the end of her hoodie string. Cars are pulling out of the parking lot, and search teams are scattering in every direction. Mom is nowhere to be seen.

  I turn back to the kitchen. Dad sticks four other pies, unbaked, into the oven.

  “Go home and get the keys for the Buttermans’ out of Mom’s office. Okay, honey? And let them in.”

  “They saw all the police. I think they might be changing their minds,” I say. “I’ll see if they still—”

  “Quinnie,” Dad says. “Don’t start.”

  There are a few reasons why I don’t want to show these people to #9 Mile Stretch Road. First of all, it is Zoe’s personal house. Second, I don’t need a replacement friend for Zoe, despite what Mom says. And, oh, third, and most important, they will just be in the way of the investigation to find Ms. Stillford. And fourth, I don’t want to go to school with their daughter. I want it to be like Ms. Stillford said: “It’s you and me, kid.” So I don’t go get the keys right away. Instead, I walk up to the man and the girl.

  “Are you the Philpotts?” I ask.

  The man turns to me. “What’s going on here?”

  “There’s a missing person,” I say.

  “Really. Who’s missing?” He acts interested in a detached way, like he might make it a scene in one of his books someday, which gets me, because I do not want him writing about Ms. Stillford. This isn’t some mystery novel. This is real life.

  “Blythe Stillford.”

  The man looks at the girl. “Isn’t she the tutor?”

  I think of Ms. Stillford showing me an article about a big oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico with a picture of a red-faced man ranting and raving about his vacation getting ruined because he couldn’t go on the beach. “What’s sad about this story, Quinnie, is that too often a problem is only as big to people as the part of it that affects them.”

  It’s true. Ms. Stillford’s kidnapping is just a school problem for the Philpotts. I look at the girl, and her face is zoned like she didn’t hear it or like she has practice tuning it out.

  Mr. Philpotts pats his pockets until he locates his phone and a slip of paper. I guess I’m not important enough to talk to.

  The girl continues to lean against a table. I notice for the first time she has glittery green on her eyelids and her eyes are icy blue. I look at Ben. He’s stealing glances at the girl from behind World Cultures: Western Hemisphere.

  The man clears his throat and puts the paper in his pocket. He has just pulled out one of those electronic cigarettes when I hear a ten-second loop of “Glory Days” and turn to see my mom’s cell phone lighting up on the counter. Springsteen continues to play a few bars.

  Mr. Philpotts turns his back to me and tucks his chin. The girl looks at the phone on the counter, then at her dad, who puts his finger in his free ear to block out the Boss. I notice his daughter isn’t actually wearing lipstick. Her lips are stained scarlet like she had it on yesterday.

  Mom’s phone stops ringing, and the man stands up tall. “Hello, this is Jack Philpotts. Leaving a message for Margaret Boyd. We’re here in Maiden Rock. At the café . . . at”—he looks around, then grabs a menu—“Gusty’s.” He tosses the menu back on the table. “I guess we’ve arrived in the middle of a crisis, but we’d like to get into our house. Please call me as soon as possible.” He presses END and turns to the girl and says, “We might as well sit down. It could be a while.”

  The girl doesn’t move.

  “Do you want anything?” I ask them. “Coffee? Pie?”

  “You work here?” the girl asks me.

  “My dad’s Gusty.”

  The girl twirls her hoodie strings a few more revolutions and looks over at Ben like she’d like to know who he is. I don’t volunteer anything.

  “Coffee, maybe . . . sure, two coffees,” Mr. Philpotts says. He looks at the girl but she doesn’t move. “Come on, kiddo. Might as well have a seat.” She sits down, and he drops his head and starts tapping on his phone again.

  With my left hand, I hook two mugs, and with my right hand, I grab the pot of Columbian decaf.

  The man looks up, “Is that leaded?”

  It takes me a second.

  “Decaf,” I say. “That’s all Gusty brews after noon.”

  “I guess that will have to do, then.” He resumes his phone absorption.

  I don’t reply. Dad says when customers say rude things, just count one–one thousand, two–one thousand in your head and then move on.

  The café door flies open as Mom rushes in and scans the room. The second she spies her phone on the counter, “Glory Days” launches again.

  “Oh my God, there it is.” Mom runs to catch the call. “Hello, yes.”

  She heads toward the kitchen, still talking on the phone. Her voice grates, “Yes, Officer Dobson . . . I know that, I live here . . .”

  The café door swings open again, interrupting my eavesdropping, and John Denby walks in.

  “Quinnie.” He nods at me like my name itself is hello enough. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. He looks at Ben and says, “Have you done your homework?”

  Ben flips open a notebook and starts writing.

  “My mom’s in the back,” I say and look behind the counter.

  John Denby slides onto a counter stool.

  “Coffee?” I ask him.

  “No, thanks.”

  I want to ask him where he’s been all morning to see if he’ll slip and say, “Taking care of my darling,” but I know he won’t. So I don’t. I know he normally spends his mornings filling bird feeders and tromping around in Becker’s Woods. That what naturalists do, I guess.

  “You going on a search team?” John Denby asks me while he folds a paper napkin about five ways—nervous behavior, if you ask me.

  I nod and say, “Mom’s giving me and Ben our own map.”

  Over at his table, Mr. Philpotts is still scrolling through emails. The girl is twirling her hair, elbows propped on the table.

  “That’s good. You two ought to be helping out,” John Denby says.

  Oh, yeah? Funny how he didn’t come in time to join a search team.

  He unfolds the napkin again. I want Mom to hurry up and come out and see the nervous behavior.

  I go back to my table and to Ben, who is doodling. The girl doesn’t look at us but she leans back in her chair now, in our direction, with her hair behind her ear. Listening to us.

  Ben’s eyes shift back to me. “Who’s she?”

  I feel a wave of . . . I don’t know exactly what . . . jealousy? Here we are getting ready to go on a search that could lead to the discovery of Ms. Stillford, and I am distracted by what Ben thinks of some blue-eyed, red-lipped, skinny jeans-wearing New York girl.

  I scoot my chair closer to Ben and whisper, “The people who are renting Zoe’s for the winter.”

  The girl nods slightly, and her hair falls over her ear. It isn’t great hair but it’s not bad. She’s got those sweepy bangs that she swings out of her eyes with a little jerk of her head. I get it why Ben looks. So now I’m getting a stomachache on top of a stomachache.<
br />
  Mom sticks her head out of the kitchen and looks directly at the Philpotts. She must have listened to her voice mail. Then she notices John Denby. She walks over to him and rests her hand on the counter.

  “Thanks for coming, John. I’m thinking your best search area would be the preserve and especially”—she lowers her voice—“the marsh area.”

  What are you doing, Mom? I scream in my head. Why would you put a possible killer in charge of the search?

  “Sure. I can do it,” John says.

  “I’ll send someone with you.”

  “No need. I know that marsh like I know the back of my hand.”

  See, Mom! He wants to do it alone. Don’t let him.

  “I know you do,” says Mom, “but it’s investigation protocol that we have a sweep done by at least three people in a team. So just hang on here for a minute while I get you a couple buddies.”

  Okay, so Mom is pretty smart. With that simple question, she found out he wanted to search the marsh alone. Ben’s shoe touches mine under the table. Then he gives me a knowing look that says: See, he wants to search the marsh alone.

  Dad slides a plate with a lobster roll and slaw in front of John Denby, who doesn’t look in a hurry all of a sudden.

  Then, as if a switch flips in Mom’s multitasking brain, she puts on her Margaret Boyd Real Estate Lady face and walks over to Mr. Philpotts with her hand extended.

  “Mr. Philpotts, how do you do? I’m Margaret Boyd. I spoke to you about the rental.”

  Mr. Philpotts’s eyes shift around the café, trying to make sense of who is who and what is what.

  He shakes Mom’s hand. “Jack Philpotts,” he says like she didn’t just say his name to him. Then, like he almost forgot the girl was there, “Oh, and this is my daughter, Mariella.”

  “Yes, yes. I’m sorry,” Mom says. “I left my phone here in the café. I just got your message.”

  “You’re the sheriff?” Jack Philpotts asks, a little confused.

  “Yes. I’m the sheriff of Maiden Rock, the mayor of Maiden Rock, and the real estate broker. The postmaster too.” She allows it to sink in. “It’s a really small town.”