The Poacher's Son (Mike Bowditch 1)

threw him out. I felt a surge of hopefulness. Surely, the detectives had looked at Tripp as a possible suspect. I reached for my cell phone to call Soctomah.
    There was a tapping at my window that made me jump. It was apple-faced Dot Libby in her waitress outfit. “Ain’t you coming in, Mike?”
    “Not today, Dot.”
    She looked at me with surprise, as if we were actors in a theatrical per for mance and I’d just ad-libbed my lines. “No breakfast?”
    “I just wanted to see the paper.”
    The look of concern hadn’t left Dot’s face. “We’re all sorry about your father.”
    So the word was out in Sennebec about my connection to the cop killer. Why was I surprised? “Thanks,” I said, starting the engine. “I appreciate it. I should probably get going.”
    “Wait a sec,” she said, and hurried back inside before I could say a word.
    I sat there with the engine idling, not sure what to do. In the diner windows I could see faces looking out at me through the sunfaded curtains.
    A moment later Dot returned. She clutched something in a napkin. She pressed it to me through the open window. “You be sure to stop in for lunch,” she said.
    I told her that I would.
    As I drove away, I wondered why I’d promised to return for lunch when I had no idea what the day would bring. Was it just to reassure Dot? In a small town like Sennebec, routine is such a precious thing—it’s how people get to know and trust one another. I’d only been in town for eight months, but I was already becoming somewhat predictable to my neighbors. It was the first step to becoming one of them, part of their community. Maybe that was what I was afraid of happening.
    Inside the napkin was one of Dot’s homemade molasses doughnuts. My favorite.
     
    On my radio I called in to the dispatcher to tell her I was 10-8, on duty and available to respond. Then I tried Detective Soctomah.
    “What can I do for you, Mike?” he said, polite but not friendly.
    “Remember I told you about that bald guy my dad knew at the Dead River Inn two years ago? Well, I just saw the Bangor paper and there was a picture from the public meeting. It’s him, Vernon Tripp.”
    “We spoke with Mr. Tripp yesterday.”
    “So he’s also a suspect?”
    In his silence I sensed his disapproval as clearly as if I’d seen his face. “We’ll keep you up to date, Mike—as events warrant.” I thought he was going to hang up on me then, but instead he said, “Does the name Brenda Dean mean anything to you?”
    “I don’t think so. Who is she?”
    “She works at Rum Pond Sporting Camps. She’s says she’s your dad’s girlfriend.”
    “That’s what she thinks. She’s probably one of ten.” I tried to sound lighthearted, but Soctomah wasn’t in the mood for humor.
    “Your father never mentioned her?”
    “No. Do you think she’s the woman I heard on my message machine?”
    There was silence on the other end.
    “Detective?” I said.
    “We’re all set here, Mike.”
    “I know the sheriff doesn’t want me up there, but—”
    “You don’t have to call me again,” said Soctomah. “Not unless you remember something else important that you left out of your statement.”
    “I understand.”
    “Good,” said the detective.
     
    To occupy myself I decided to check the culvert trap. I followed the rutted dirt road down through the hemlocks and cedars to the old cellar hole at the edge of the swamp. As I neared the trailer, I saw that the trapdoor had fallen shut. Because of the liquid shadows beneath the trees I couldn’t see what, if anything, might be caught inside.
    The sound of an animal thrashing about was the first thing I heard when I got out. I moved slowly, but the animal heard me coming and fell silent at once. Slowly I circled around to the gateend of the trap to have a look.
    “For Christ’s sake,” I said aloud.
    Inside the trap was the fattest raccoon I’d ever seen. Fat like a furred basketball. A stomach swollen with doughnuts and bacon. Heavy enough to trigger the door when it clawed at the bait bag.
    I opened the door and stood aside, waiting for the raccoon to come out, but it seemed content to huddle at the gate-end, as if it had decided to take up residency inside the trap. Finally, I had to go around to the opposite end and poke a stick at it through the grate to get it to move. The gluttonous animal edged out of the culvert and plopped heavily to earth.
    I came around the side of the trailer. The coon glanced over its