KATE   RUMOHR

At 7:30am on the Tuesday after Thanksgiving, Detective Levon Wolfe was called into his Captain’s office. “I just got a call from the Blue Hill Sheriff ’s Department asking for an assist on a high-profile murder in Spruceport. I don’t have too many details, just that the victim, Llewelyn Bouchard, a white male in his early 70s, was found about an hour ago by his wife. Looks like he was bludgeoned,” said Captain Fisk. 

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“Bangor is closer to Downeast Maine. Do you know why he called us?” 

 

“I asked the same question. Assistant Sheriff Snow didn’t say, but I got the impression he hasn’t been impressed with the talent Bangor PD has sent his way in the past. Conjecture here, but some city folks don’t like it in the sticks. Snow asked if I have anyone experienced working high-profile cases who’s also attuned to the quirks of rural life, and I told him I had just the guy.” In a rare display of his gentler side, Fisk smiled and continued, “I also thought you might appreciate a change of scenery. What do you think?”

“Isn’t Blue Hill coastal? I didn’t realize there were rural spots along the coast outside of Washington County,” Levon mused.

Laughing, Fisk replied, “Come on, Wolfe, have you even traveled outside of Portland?”

“Clearly not enough. What makes this case high profile?”

 

“Aside from the brutality of the crime, Llewelyn Bouchard was a very wealthy businessman. His family has been around for a long time and have had their hands in a lot of lucrative pots, like lumber and lobster.”

“I can head straight from here. Send me the location and have Snow call me. I want to ask him to keep the body on site to help me see things as they are.” After a brief pause, Wolfe added, “And thank you, a distraction would be good.”

“Will do. Travel safe and check in when you learn more,” Fisk replied.

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Almost three hours into his drive, Levon’s GPS told him he was about forty minutes away from Spruceport, a town he had never heard of in Downeast Maine. The roads had changed from the congestion of downtown Portland to the four-lanes of 95 North, and now the two-lane road he traveled as he cut east across the state. He turned right onto the Blue Hill Peninsula, exiting Route 1 which followed the northeast coastline to Bar Harbor and on to Canada. This new road was narrower, losing its shoulders as he passed by small farms, dormant blueberry fields, and occasional clusters of homes. The further down the Peninsula he traveled, the more rugged the road became. He climbed up and down small, steep hills and wound around curves with poor visibility and frequent blind spots. In warmer months, it would be a nice drive, but in late November, all the bare trees and mud depressed him. He wondered how many car accidents the Sheriff ’s Department must deal with and whether the main culprit was deer, drink, or drugs. 

 

About 15 minutes away from his destination, he crossed a short bridge over the Penobscot Bay, no more than 30 feet long, and passed a sign welcoming him to Spruceport. As he drove, he could see a mix of farmhouses, salt boxes, and mobile homes. There were low, crumbling stone walls fencing in a few of the properties, giving him a sense of just how old and relatively untouched this area was. Some of the homes were tidy with well-kept yards, but the missing leaves revealed what he knew the warmer months would hide – accumulating possessions scattered around some of the properties. It reminded him of where he grew up, in the sticks just north of Atlanta. Some people would see trash, others saw treasure. He knew in most cases it was a combination of both. 

 

He was aware that the road hugged the coast after crossing the bridge, and while the thickening evergreens added some much-needed color, they blocked his view of the ocean. The paved road turned to dirt as he made his way closer to his destination, winding up what felt like a small mountain. He hadn’t expected so much elevation in this part of the state, and thought, “I need to get a better handle on the geography here,” knowing his unfamiliarity with the region could reflect poorly on him. 

 

The dirt road continued for about five miles, up, down, and around. Not much wider than a single lane, Levon doubted two cars could fit without someone pulling off to the side to allow the other driver to pass. The evergreens – primarily a combination of spruce and pine – offered privacy to most of the homes, save the few that stood proudly along the side of the road that were likely built before the road was much traveled. There was a lot of land in between the houses – a good place for people who like their privacy. Occasionally, he’d turn a corner and get a brief glimpse of the ocean, then the road would turn again, and he felt like he was in the middle of a forest. He hadn’t passed anything remotely commercial in over 30 minutes and wondered why Llewelyn Bouchard, someone so wealthy and heavily involved in commerce, would choose to live year-round at what felt to be the end of the earth; to Levon, it made more sense as a vacation home and escape.

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Levon gradually climbed this small mountain for about a mile before cresting to the top. The pavement reappeared and a hand-painted sign welcomed him to Fletcher Cove, established 1817. “This must be the town center of Spruceport,” he thought. He paused for a beat, taking in the view. Nestled below him, the harbor town had a small wharf with a pier on one side of the main road and a semi-circular village that appeared to be burrowed into a hill on the other side. From this perspective, it looked almost like a man-made amphitheater constructed of houses and a few small businesses, all with a sweeping view of the Penobscot Bay. This wasn’t what he had expected at all.

 

Following his GPS, Levon turned right onto “Bouchard Boulevard,” a paved, private road just before the village. “Boulevard” was misleading, and perhaps a bit pretentious, as it was the same width as the narrow road he had just been on. On his way up to the residence, he passed two driveways hidden among the trees, one on either side of the Boulevard. He continued a gradual climb for about a mile until he entered a clearing filled with emergency response vehicles and people shuffling about in the foreground, behind which stood a shockingly large, bright, white house landscaped unlike anything he had seen before. Backed by substantial pine and spruce was a series of gradually diminishing boulders – the smallest of which was at least four feet high – leading to a small pond that was beginning to freeze around the perimeter. Out-of-bloom garden beds, ominously filled with an abundance of dead hydrangea blooms, wrapped around the residence. Built in the Queen Anne style characteristic of the turn of the 20th century, it stood three stories tall, with a shiny copper roof and large glass cupola on top. He imagined the view from up there was spectacular. The house itself had a wraparound porch and large, two-story rounded turrets on either side of the front door. Set further back, to the left of the house, was an attached three-car garage. 

 

After taking in his surroundings, Levon turned his attention to a man in a stiff-looking sheriff ’s uniform, complete with campaign hat, walking towards his car. He felt a wave of gratitude that his current position allowed plainclothes; he was comfortable in his jeans, collared shirt, and zip-up sweater. He checked his car’s temperature gauge which read 30-degrees; it was a lot colder here than when he left Portland. He took a deep breath, grabbed his coat, and climbed out of his car.

“Detective Wolfe,” – the man said, reaching out his hand – “I’m Assistant Sheriff Oliver Snow. Welcome.” Snow was on the short side, around 5’8”, although most people seemed short next to Levon’s 6’2” frame. Snow looked like he was in his late 50s, sturdy, with a softening middle. He had bright blue eyes, a graying Tom Selleck-style mustache, and lines on his face that signaled he had spent a lifetime outdoors, smiling more than scowling.

“Hi, yes, I’m Wolfe. Nice to meet you,” Levon replied as he shook Snow’s hand.

“I appreciate you coming all this way on such short notice. I know it’s a bit of a haul.”

Wolfe grunted in agreement and the two men began to make their way towards the house. As they approached, Levon clocked a Cybertruck with the vanity license plate, GOD4U, parked askew in front. Making small talk, Levon said, “I didn’t know what to expect, but I can tell you that my first glimpse of Fletcher Cove blew me away. I moved to Maine around three years ago and I clearly haven’t done enough exploring.”

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“I’ll fill you in on some good spots to check out while you’re in town,” replied Snow, who stopped walking once they reached the porch. “I hate to admit that I feel a bit at a loss about this case. Fortunately for us, we have very few murders to investigate around here, and those are mostly domestic. That’s why I asked for help. I expect a lot of scrutiny on this one because of our victim, Mr. Bouchard, and I want to make sure we do everything right.”

Levon already knew he liked Snow. He, too, doesn’t shy away from asking for help when he needs it, but understands that not everyone feels the same. “I want to know more about Mr. Bouchard, but not yet. I’ve found that details can sometimes complicate first impressions. All I know is what my Captain shared, that Mr. Bouchard was a wealthy businessman, although I would have probably worked that out on my own,” Levon said as he took in the home.

“That’s correct. To my understanding, Mr. Bouchard was one of the wealthiest men in Maine, but my team will confirm this. He was killed in his office. His wife is currently at their niece, Daphne Crawford’s, house down in the village. We’ll head over there when we finish here.” He paused and looked out over Levon’s shoulder. Levon turned to follow his gaze, taking in the view of Fletcher Cove and the Penobscot Bay beyond. It was breathtaking. While they put on shoe covers and nitrile gloves, Snow added, “Just wait until you see the view from the cupola. You ready?”

“Lead the way.”