parked between Alex’s Volkswagen and my new BMW, and went over to look at it.
I followed him. “Your dispatcher seemed mainly interested in having me put a dollar value on the property damage.”
“She’s not a Jew,” he said. He looked up at me. “What can you tell me about it?”
I told him about the swastika on Charlotte Gillespie’s No Trespassing sign and how her dog had been poisoned. “I went up to see her yesterday,” I said. “She was missing.”
“Missing?”
I shrugged. “She wasn’t there. She uses a bike to get around. It was there, but she wasn’t.”
“‘Missing’ is a strong word, Mr. Coyne.”
“It just felt—I don’t know. Like something was wrong.”
“I never mistrust feelings,” said the sheriff. “Unfortunately, you can’t take feelings to court. Tell me about your swastika.”
I told him how I had come to be the proud owner of my own red swastika when I parked my Jeep at the end of Charlotte’s roadway, and about the local consensus that it was the work of ignorant kids.
“Kids, maybe,” he said. “If so, I’d sure like to know who put ’em up to it.” He cocked his head and peered at me. “What about you? Got any enemies around here?”
“Not that I know of. I only come up on weekends. My, um—my friend—lives here.”
“That’d be Miss Shaw,” he said. “Your friend.”
I shrugged. “We don’t exactly know how to refer to each other.”
“Virtual spouse?”
“Yes, that’s good.” I smiled. “Anyway, I don’t think I’ve been up here enough to make any enemies. Certainly not long enough to make friends.”
He pressed his lips together and shook his head. “These country people don’t care much for weekenders, Mr. Coyne. They make friends slowly, anyhow. But,” he said with a nod, “they make enemies quick enough. You sure you haven’t offended somebody?”
“I probably have. It’s something I do easily. But I suspect Charlotte Gillespie is more likely to have an enemy than me.”
“How so?”
“Well, for one thing she’s African-American.”
Dickman’s mouth tightened. “There are some who would consider that ample justification for painting swastikas and poisoning dogs. Could be enough to drive a person right out of town.”
I nodded. “I thought of that. She might’ve just decided she’d had enough. Although I think she’s got a lot of backbone. She didn’t seem like the kind of woman who’d run away from anything.”
“Everybody’s got their limit,” said the sheriff. He reached into his hip pocket, withdrew his wallet, and took out a business card. “I tell you what,” he said. “If you hear anything about swastikas, or if you get anything new on Ms. Gillespie, or if you want to share a name with me, give me a call direct.” He handed me the card. It read: “Marshall Dickman, High Sheriff, York County, Maine.” There was an address in Alfred and two phone numbers on the bottom.
I put the card into my shirt pocket. “She sent me a note last week. Said she needed to see me. I’m a lawyer.”
“What’s she need a lawyer for?”
“She didn’t tell me that. But when I talked with her earlier, I got the feeling that she had something on her mind.”
“A feeling,” he said.
“I know,” I said. “You can’t take feelings to court. The vet wanted to do an autopsy on her dog. At first Charlotte said no. Then on the note she sent me, she said she’d decided to do it. Then she sent somebody to pick up the dog’s body.” I shrugged. “Seems like more than feelings to me.”
“You think something happened to her.”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I do.”
He ran the palm of his hand over his bald head and gazed out toward the meadow behind the house. “I was a cop in Philadelphia,” he said. “Nineteen years on those streets. When I got the chance to come up here, I jumped at it. Went to the university in Orono. Always hoped I could come back. But you know what, Mr. Coyne?”
I shook my
I followed him. “Your dispatcher seemed mainly interested in having me put a dollar value on the property damage.”
“She’s not a Jew,” he said. He looked up at me. “What can you tell me about it?”
I told him about the swastika on Charlotte Gillespie’s No Trespassing sign and how her dog had been poisoned. “I went up to see her yesterday,” I said. “She was missing.”
“Missing?”
I shrugged. “She wasn’t there. She uses a bike to get around. It was there, but she wasn’t.”
“‘Missing’ is a strong word, Mr. Coyne.”
“It just felt—I don’t know. Like something was wrong.”
“I never mistrust feelings,” said the sheriff. “Unfortunately, you can’t take feelings to court. Tell me about your swastika.”
I told him how I had come to be the proud owner of my own red swastika when I parked my Jeep at the end of Charlotte’s roadway, and about the local consensus that it was the work of ignorant kids.
“Kids, maybe,” he said. “If so, I’d sure like to know who put ’em up to it.” He cocked his head and peered at me. “What about you? Got any enemies around here?”
“Not that I know of. I only come up on weekends. My, um—my friend—lives here.”
“That’d be Miss Shaw,” he said. “Your friend.”
I shrugged. “We don’t exactly know how to refer to each other.”
“Virtual spouse?”
“Yes, that’s good.” I smiled. “Anyway, I don’t think I’ve been up here enough to make any enemies. Certainly not long enough to make friends.”
He pressed his lips together and shook his head. “These country people don’t care much for weekenders, Mr. Coyne. They make friends slowly, anyhow. But,” he said with a nod, “they make enemies quick enough. You sure you haven’t offended somebody?”
“I probably have. It’s something I do easily. But I suspect Charlotte Gillespie is more likely to have an enemy than me.”
“How so?”
“Well, for one thing she’s African-American.”
Dickman’s mouth tightened. “There are some who would consider that ample justification for painting swastikas and poisoning dogs. Could be enough to drive a person right out of town.”
I nodded. “I thought of that. She might’ve just decided she’d had enough. Although I think she’s got a lot of backbone. She didn’t seem like the kind of woman who’d run away from anything.”
“Everybody’s got their limit,” said the sheriff. He reached into his hip pocket, withdrew his wallet, and took out a business card. “I tell you what,” he said. “If you hear anything about swastikas, or if you get anything new on Ms. Gillespie, or if you want to share a name with me, give me a call direct.” He handed me the card. It read: “Marshall Dickman, High Sheriff, York County, Maine.” There was an address in Alfred and two phone numbers on the bottom.
I put the card into my shirt pocket. “She sent me a note last week. Said she needed to see me. I’m a lawyer.”
“What’s she need a lawyer for?”
“She didn’t tell me that. But when I talked with her earlier, I got the feeling that she had something on her mind.”
“A feeling,” he said.
“I know,” I said. “You can’t take feelings to court. The vet wanted to do an autopsy on her dog. At first Charlotte said no. Then on the note she sent me, she said she’d decided to do it. Then she sent somebody to pick up the dog’s body.” I shrugged. “Seems like more than feelings to me.”
“You think something happened to her.”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I do.”
He ran the palm of his hand over his bald head and gazed out toward the meadow behind the house. “I was a cop in Philadelphia,” he said. “Nineteen years on those streets. When I got the chance to come up here, I jumped at it. Went to the university in Orono. Always hoped I could come back. But you know what, Mr. Coyne?”
I shook my
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