Free Massacre Pond: A Novel (Mike Bowditch Mysteries) by Paul Doiron Page B

the back of her pants. “I’m going to get mud all over the passenger seat. The inside of your truck is going to smell like the bog I just waded through.”
    “I don’t mind,” I said.
    *   *   *
    “What’s that noise?” she asked.
    “I think it’s my serpentine belt.”
    “Can’t you tighten it?”
    “It comes and goes.”
    “Matt’s been having the same problem. Must be a GMC thing.”
    The police radio burped and mumbled. I hit the wipers, hoping to clear away some of the dust. When that didn’t work, I tried spraying some wiper fluid but succeeded only in smearing mud across the windshield, which made it impossible to see through it for several frightening seconds. I kept up a steady stream of blue fluid until the glass became somewhat transparent again. Stacey didn’t seem to notice my alarm.
    “What did you think of the Butcher Brothers?” I asked, hoping to start a conversation that wouldn’t end in an argument.
    It was as if she’d been half-asleep. “Huh?”
    “Clay and Scott Butcher.”
    “Those guys are real pieces of work. They had tags for every moose and deer hanging up in their coolers, but I know they must get in some poached animals, too. They were a little too relaxed about our visit, if you know what I mean.”
    “I’m afraid I don’t.”
    “Like they knew we weren’t going to find anything on the premises. They let us take some samples, like it was no big deal. The other butchers Mack and I visited—they were scared and suspicious as hell.”
    “Around here, game wardens come in right below politicians and used-car salesmen on the trust scale.”
    “Wildlife biologists don’t score much higher. If you’re driving a state or federal vehicle, you’re considered an automatic asshole.”
    “You don’t have to tell me,” I said. “Someone let a skunk loose in my trailer last winter.”
    “Yeah, I remember that. You really stank that morning in my dad’s plane. Did you ever catch the jerks who did it?”
    “It was Joe Brogan, the guy who used to own Call of the Wild Game Ranch.”
    “My dad told me the ranch was for sale.” She kept massaging her sore neck. “I wonder what Brogan’s up to these days. Rivard’s probably going to want to check him out. A disgruntled ex–hunting guide—sounds like a suspect to me.”
    “In Rivard’s book, everyone is a potential suspect.”
    “What’s his problem with you anyway? I can guess, but I want to hear your version.”
    The little jab she’d given me stung, but I didn’t let it show. “I was involved with the sister of that drug dealer who fell through the ice on the Machias River. She had a pretty serious substance-abuse problem of her own, it turned out. But the real reason is that I solved a homicide everyone thought had already been solved, and Rivard didn’t like me getting the credit. I’m just focused on doing my job these days. I’m not going to let myself get dragged into Warden Service politics.”
    She gave a sharp laugh, which caused me to glance her way. “So you’ve turned over a new leaf? No more troublemaking? Or pissing off everybody you work with?”
    “Something like that.”
    “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
    I turned my head back to look at the road. “Where do you want me to drop you?”
    “Skillens’ Lumber,” she said.
    For some reason, I’d had a suspicion we were headed to her fiancé’s place of business.
    *   *   *
    The Skillen family had been original settlers in northern Washington County, during a time when virgin forests blanketed the land as far as the eye could see and Passamaquoddy Indians, dwelling in seasonal camps along the St. Croix River, speared salmon as they leaped free of the tumbling falls. Amos and Harlan Skillen opened their first small stave mill in 1879 on the East Machias. The brothers cut the pines with axes and crosscut saws, and they filed their blades by lantern light.
    Flash forward a century and the Skillen Lumber Company was the seat