Chapter LXXX

Dexter lay in a valley by Lake Wassookeag, where my grandfather and his buddies used to fish for trout. It was a vibrant small town by any standards, with a nineteenth-century library, a municipal golf course, and a small airport on its outskirts. The Dexter Police Department, which numbered perhaps six full-time personnel and assorted reservists, was housed in a whitewashed building on Main Street. I'd rarely had cause to deal with the Dexter PD directly, but it had a good reputation, which wasn't always the case with small-town law enforcement. It even had a K-9 division, and who doesn't like a dog?

We arrived at the station house just as a uniformed officer was locking up. The department was open for official business only from 9:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m., so either he was running late or had forgotten his hat. Outside those hours, officers were available by calling the dispatcher, so we'd struck it lucky. I saw the brass on his collar as I got out of the car. Here was the chief of police himself, Lyle Drummond. He was built for blocking doorways, but looked friendly enough, even after I'd identified myself, meaning he didn't immediately try to run me out of town.

"Well, well," he said, as he handed back my ID, "Portland's own Sherlock Holmes. Should I be getting ready to lose sleep?"

"I wanted to speak with one of your local residents, Maynard Vaughn," I said.

"Huh."

"Is that a problem?"

"Ordinarily, it wouldn't be," said Drummond, "except that Maynard has gone AWOL. He hasn't been seen since yesterday, and he's a man of routines—except when he's off his meds, and that hasn't happened for a few years. We run a Good Morning Neighbor program here, which means volunteers run daily checks on seniors and vulnerable adults, Maynard among them. He's always up and waiting for the visit because he enjoys the company, but there was no reply from his apartment today and the other residents of his condo building say it doesn't look like he came home last night."

"Did anyone take a look inside?"

"He leaves a key with the guy in the apartment next door, but the volunteer called us before doing anything, so one of my people was with her when she went in. There was no sign of any disturbance. The apartment isn't big, and Maynard keeps it tidy. It's a hangover from his time in the military."

"Are you actively searching for him?"

"We haven't started combing the woods yet, but now that you're here, I may have to upgrade my level of anxiety. What did you want to talk to him about?"

I told him I was working on behalf of Colleen Clark and shared, as succinctly as I could, the relevant details of the investigation, including the purchase of a money order on behalf of Mara Teller by a man believed to be Maynard Vaughn.

"I don't know any Mara Teller," said Drummond.

"I think it's a false name, but she might have been recognizable enough around here to enlist Vaughn's help."

Drummond glanced past me. I turned to see Angel and Louis getting out of the car to stretch their legs.

"Who are they," asked Drummond, "Watson and Watson?"

Which I had to admit was kind of amusing.

"They take care of some of the heavy lifting," I said. "I have a bad back."

"I might have heard stories about some shadows of yours," said Drummond. "But then if I was in your shoes, I'd also travel with reinforcements. Do you have a description of this Teller woman?"

"I can show you a photo, but it's not great."

I pulled up the picture from the file supplied by Delaney Duhamel. Even cleaned up and enlarged, Mara Teller's features remained indistinct.

"You weren't kidding about the quality," said Drummond, taking a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket to examine the image more closely. "That could be my wife."

"Great," I said. "Does she sleep around at conventions? If so, my work here is done."

"Do you want to spend a night in a cell?"

"Not so much."

"Then knock it off about my wife. She's a churchgoer." He continued to look at the photo. "You know, there's something familiar about this woman. I might have seen her around, but she's not local. If she was, I'd be able to identify her straight off, even with the blurring."

"I'll email you a copy, and you can let it percolate."

Drummond gave me his card, and I returned the favor.

"By the way, who's the man with her in that picture?" Drummond asked.

"Colleen Clark's husband."

I let him cogitate on that.

"You're thinking an affair?"

"He's admitted it," I said, "but only as a step above a one-night stand."

"I haven't been keeping up with the small print. No more than that?"

"He says not."

"You believe Teller, whoever she really is, might know what happened to the Clark boy?"

"If she does, she may also have harmed Maynard Vaughn."

Drummond tapped my card against his gun.

"I'll circulate that picture," he said. "Someone else might have a better memory for faces. Spending the night in town?"

"No, we're moving on."

"Can't say I'm not relieved. Mind if I ask where you're headed?"

"Gretton."

I decided not to mention the detour we'd first be making.

"You ever been there before?"

"No."

"Well, you won't be hurrying back for a second look," said Drummond. "It makes Dexter look like Reno. So what's in Gretton?"

I finished emailing Drummond the image from my phone.

"If I'm right," I said, "Mara Teller."