Quick Pivot

by Brenda Buchanan

  Chapter Ten

  Sunday, July 13, 2014

  Riverside, Maine

  Before leaving the Mill Stream parking lot I called Jimmy on Peaks Island. I was braced for his grumpy recorded voice, but he picked up.

  “Gale,” he said.

  “You’re screening.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “I’m honored that you chose to take my call.”

  “Ten bucks you aren’t calling to inquire about me. You want an update on Helena, right?”

  “She called me late Friday night and left a message, sounding pretty low.”

  “Did you call her back?”

  “It was late and she didn’t ask me to. I thought I’d wait a day to reconnect. How’s she doing?”

  “She was okay till the cops came to see her yesterday. I saw her after they left. On the surface, she seemed fine. But to anyone who knows her, it was obvious she was a mess.”

  “Drinking again?”

  “Nope. Stone cold sober. That was the tip-off.”

  “Did she tell you what the cops said?”

  “They asked a bunch of questions about her brother. Gave no information in return. She was furious because they treated her like an interview subject, not a family member of the deceased.”

  “Did they confirm they were her brother’s remains?”

  Jimmy made a noise like an air horn. “Didn’t have the decency to tell her anything. Strictly a one-way street.”

  “Riverside cops?”

  “Staties, I think. In plainclothes, so it was hard to tell. One of ʼem a woman. That was kinda manipulative if you ask me.”

  “You catch her name?”

  “Jackie something. French name. LeBlanc, or something like that.”

  Not Barb Wyatt. I was so interested to learn that the state police had taken over the investigation I didn’t bother to tell Jimmy a lot of cops were women these days, including the Riverside chief.

  “If state cops made the trip to Peaks, that explains why the Riverside cops are being so close-mouthed. They aren’t running the show anymore.”

  “I don’t care who’s in charge. Make ’em talk, okay? And when you know what’s what, call me, or better yet, come out here and fill us both in. Helena’s counting on you.”

  * * *

  Leah was out of town at a cousin’s wedding, so Gene Pelletier was sitting in as city editor. Newspapering in the twenty-first century was like a game of musical chairs. Your seat might not be comfortable, but you counted yourself lucky if your butt had someplace to land.

  Gene turned down the burping police scanner as I approached the desk. “Isn’t this your day off?”

  “I thought I’d check in, just in case Barb Wyatt’s been slinging any more bull.”

  “Leah told me you think she was the one who complained to the people upstairs that you were getting ahead of the cops on the story.”

  “Who else would it be?”

  “I dunno, but it’s not her style.”

  “Must have been an angry impulse. She was pissed when I abruptly ended our midnight chat at the ball field Friday night.”

  “I know. She was still spitting mad when she called me at home yesterday morning to make the case the remains were relatively fresh.”

  “Have you talked with her since then?”

  Gene made a sour face. “She ducked my calls all day yesterday and again this morning. We’re going to have to set the dogs on her. If the Riverside PD’s no longer in charge of the investigation, we need to know that.”

  “You’re on better terms with her than I am. Want me to watch the desk so you can drive out to Riverside to see her?”

  Gene laughed at my attempt to manipulate him into doing my scut work. “No way. You’re the man for the job.”

  “Buy you a beer after work if I manage to get three words out of her.”

  “I’ll buy you two if you don’t,” he said.

  My concern about making it beyond the front desk vanished when I pulled into the Riverside PD parking lot twenty minutes later and saw Chief Wyatt slipping out the side door, talking on her cell phone as she walked toward her unmarked. I intercepted her just as she ended the call.

  “Hey, Chief. You have a minute?”

  Wyatt surprised me by stopping in her tracks. “What are you doing—staking out my car?”

  “We’ve got a bone to pick. Why’d you complain about me to the Chronicle brass? I haven’t stepped over any professional line.”

  She cocked her head sideways, a half-amused, half-puzzled look on her face. “I told you to your face that you need to back off. I haven’t talked to your bosses, directly or indirectly.”

  The lack of defensiveness in her voice and body language told me she was telling the truth.

  “Somebody’s been talking to them. Sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed it was you.”

  When she started climbing into her car, I held up my hand.

  “There’s still meat on the bone, Chief. You’ve been spinning a tale about the preliminary pathology on the skeleton. Was it your idea to claim a homeless person somehow got bricked into a wall in the past year or two, or did the staties make you say that?”

  “It was a joint decision. You know we sit around trying to figure out how to confound bulldogs like you.”

  “Can we drop the posturing for a minute?”

  She shrugged. “Ask away.”

  “Can you confirm that the investigation has been taken over by the state police?”

  “Technically, we’re working collaboratively, drawing on the resources of both the Riverside Police Department and the Maine State Police.”

  Translation: Wyatt was no longer in charge because it was officially a homicide investigation. Except in Portland and Bangor, the state police handled murders and other major crimes.

  “Ah. ‘Working collaboratively.’ You sound like a badly written press release.”

  “That’s because I didn’t write it. Some bureaucrat in Augusta did.”

  “I’m sure it sucks to have a hot case yanked away from you.”

  “What sucks is when they pretend that’s not what they’re doing. As if we haven’t all been through this before.”

  “You’re still working the case, right?”

  “They can’t make us stop.”

  “No offense, but this sounds kind of like an echo of our conversation Friday night.”

  Wyatt ran her hands through her chin-length dark hair, allowing me a glimpse of her stress. “You’re right. I already was feeling grabby about the case, feeling the staties’ breath on my neck.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d work with me on this, Chief. You know how their press operation works. They’ll stonewall me for no reason.”

  There was a glint of something in Wyatt’s ice-blue eyes, maybe not a willingness to cooperate, but a wish to push back against those who blocked her out. Then it was gone, her face a blank mask. “What do you want me to say?”

  “That the case of George Desmond’s disappearance has been reopened.”

  Wyatt leaned against her unmarked while she considered my request. “That’s one lead we’re following. But it’s not the only one.”

  “Are there other missing persons who had a connection with the mill?”

  “Your question presupposes that a connection with the mill is necessary.”

  “Not really. But it would be harder for someone who was a stranger to the mill to wind up entombed there.”

  The chief nodded like a college professor engaged in a philosophical argument with an earnest undergraduate.

  “Okay. Here’s my comment,” she said, straightening to her full five feet five inches. “We’re reviewing unsolved missing persons cases from the
past several decades for individuals last seen anywhere in Maine. One of those individuals was George Desmond, and we’re looking with fresh eyes at the circumstances of his disappearance. His family is cooperating with us. But we have no forensic proof that the remains are Mr. Desmond’s, and it would be premature to jump to that conclusion simply because of his connection with the Saccarappa Mill. As soon as we confirm the identity of the remains, we will inform the public.”

  She waited while I scribbled her words in my notebook.

  “Thank you. Who’s in charge for the state police?”

  “Wrecker Rigoletti’s their point man. That’s Lieutenant Antonio Rigoletti to you. All official statements in the future are likely to come from him.”

  “Official statements?” I emphasized the first word.

  I thought for a moment she’d respond to my implication that she was willing to be my back door source. But her face was inscrutable as she slid behind the wheel of her midnight-blue Chevy Caprice and started the engine.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sunday, July 13, 2014

  Portland, Maine

  My competitive little heart wanted Chief Wyatt’s couched confirmation to serve as sufficient basis to run my already-drafted story about the 1968 disappearance of George Desmond. Gene shot down that fantasy but quick. Still, as he helped layer in some caveats, he was more excited than Leah would have been.

  She would have focused on the “it would be premature to jump to the conclusion” part. Gene—raised to believe Desmond engineered the theft that knocked the mill to its knees—seemed to feel honor-bound to print a story saying the dead man might be Desmond, leaving between the lines the notion that the poor guy probably was framed.

  I called Jimmy to ask if he’d pave the way for me to see Helena midafternoon, filling him in on the chief’s hedged confirmation.

  “I owe it to her to talk with her in person. This’ll be the lead story in tomorrow’s Chronicle, meaning she’s going to be in the spotlight. She needs to be prepared for that.”

  Jimmy was all over it. “Jump on the two-fifteen boat. I’m tied up all afternoon, but I’ll let Helena know you’re coming.”

  A half hour later the phone on my desk rang. I grabbed it on the first ring.

  “Gale. Newsroom.”

  “You the fella writing a story about the Saccarappa?” The voice was male and unfamiliar.

  “That’s right. Who’s calling?”

  “Earl St. Pierre asked me to give you a ring. This is Gil Parker calling from Raleigh, North Carolina. I was the construction super at the mill for twenty-three years before I retired in ’97.”

  “I’m looking for whoever ran the construction division in the late sixties. Earl told me he thought that was you.”

  “Nope. That would have been Leland Havey. He’s been dead for years.”

  “Too bad. I was hoping to talk with someone who’d remember the details of a wall being rebuilt in the basement of the north wing, sometime in the sixties.”

  “I remember that. I was promoted to supervisor in ’74 when Leland retired, but was on the construction crew for a dozen years before that.”

  I grabbed a notebook and uncapped a pen. “Did you help rebuild the wall?”

  “Hell, no. It was hired out, a moonlight-type deal with one of the guys whose day job was with DiRenzo Brothers, a Munjoy Hill outfit. I’m pretty sure the company’s long gone, but I remember hearing the guy who did the work was Mike Thibodeau. I went through school with Mike. Great basketball player. Best point guard in the state—maybe New England. Could run the floor like nobody’s business. He filled out a bit after high school, but I always recognized him right away when I saw him around town.”

  I glanced at the clock. It was quarter of two. It would take me at least ten minutes find a parking space near the ferry terminal. In order to make the two-fifteen ferry, I’d have to push Parker to spit out what he knew.

  “So this fellow Thibodeau did the work. Do you remember what year it was done?”

  He chuckled. “You know what they say about time flyin’ by. It’s hard to pinpoint the year in my mind. Mid-to late-sixties sometime.”

  “What was the problem with the wall?”

  “I don’t recall. It was in the basement, so wouldn’t have been nobody’s office. To make a storage area maybe? Or maybe it was just falling down.”

  I didn’t have time to listen to Parker cast about. Grabbing the phone book, I looked up Thibodeau in the white pages. There was a Michael A. listed in Scarborough.

  “You think your old pal Mike would remember? Looks from the phone book that he’s still living in the area.”

  “You could give him a ring. If you reach him, tell him Gil Parker says hello.”

  “If you remember anything else, I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call.”

  “Sure thing, but before you hang up, can you tell me why you care about a wall repair at the Saccarappa? It’s been closed for a hell of a long time now.”

  Apparently Parker hadn’t kept up his Chronicle subscription when he moved to North Carolina, and Earl didn’t fill him in.

  “The wall was taken down last week, and a skeleton was found behind it.”

  “Whose skeleton?”

  “That’s what everyone’s trying to figure out.”

  “Sounds like CSI or something.”

  “Yup, except it’s real life.”

  * * *

  The air conditioner wouldn’t make it to full wheeze on the short drive to the waterfront, so I rolled down the windows and sucked the humid air into my lungs. Idling at a red light, I started to dial Megan’s number. When I realized what I was doing, I dropped the phone as though it’d bit me. She’d bought a high-tech cell before leaving, one that would work all over the world. Had the speed dial lived up to its billing I would have been faced with a choice—hang up like a heartsick adolescent or leave a lame message: “Stuck in traffic, thought I’d call and say hi.”

  Despite pillow talk about staying in touch, I knew Megan’s interest in me would evaporate like a sidewalk puddle on a hot day. Her work—she’d pledged herself for a minimum of two years to a women’s health organization—would be all-consuming. The few months we’d been lovers didn’t create enough of a foundation to withstand a couple of months apart, never mind a couple of years. With a tap of my thumb I deleted her number from my contacts. Best to eliminate even the possibility of dialing her out of habit.

  Crawling through the Old Port, I managed to find a legal parking space near the Custom House. The unreliable dashboard clock read 2:12 when I set off toward the ferry terminal at a dead run. Gasping my thanks to the deckhands dawdling at the top of the ramp, I ducked past them onto the boat. While they cast off the lines, I leaned against the starboard rail and took a deep breath of salt air, preparing myself for the delicate task ahead.

  * * *

  In two days Helena Desmond had aged ten years. On Friday I would have called her slender. By Sunday afternoon she looked gaunt. Eyes smudged by insomnia, she sat slumped like a rag doll at her kitchen table.

  “Jimmy says the police are telling you more than they’re telling me,” she said without preamble. “Three state troopers were here yesterday. They asked a hell of a lot of questions. Didn’t have the decency to answer any of mine.”

  “My information is from Barbara Wyatt, the Riverside police chief, who’s been elbowed aside by the state police. When I talked with her this morning, her words and body language were two different things. She knew I was looking for a quote, so she gave me something I could use, hedging a bit to keep the staties from having a complete fit. But Chief Wyatt’s tone and the look on her face left no doubt they believe the remains are your brother’s.”

  “Did she tell you how they’re going about looking for his murderer?” Her p
ale blue eyes were leaking tears. She blotted at them with a fistful of tissues.

  “She didn’t say. The fact that the police are being so close-mouthed could mean two things. They have a suspect and want to circle the wagons fast or they’re trying to buy some time while they figure out where to start.”

  Helena sank into her porch rocker. “Who would have killed George? He was a guy who loved to dance, loved to laugh, loved to spend an afternoon fly-fishing.”

  “He was also the guy who kept track of the mill’s money.”

  “My brother didn’t care about money. That’s why the embezzlement theory was so crazy. What the hell would George have done with a half million bucks?”

  It was a statement more than a question, and it hung in the air. I’d looked it up on the internet—five hundred grand in 1968 would be about three million bucks in today’s dollars. A lot of dough. What would a man do with that kind of money? Live the high life. Eat fancy food, drive fast cars, romance beautiful women? It now appeared George Desmond hadn’t been in a position to do any of that.

  Who did care about money, cared so much that he’d killed for it?

  “Did you know any of his coworkers?”

  She waved her hand in my direction. “I already thought of that. The finance staff was small. George had a secretary. Joan Slater was her name. The cops put her through hell after he disappeared. They figured she knew stuff even if she didn’t know she knew it. Grilled her until she cried, even made her undergo hypnosis to see if that’d bring any buried memories to the surface. She ended up moving over to New Hampshire to live with her sister. Rumor was she’d had a nervous breakdown.”

  “Where in New Hampshire?”

  “Durham, where the university is. She sent me a Christmas card for a while after she moved, but I haven’t heard from her in years. She’s probably dead.”

  I asked her to spell the secretary’s name. “Who else worked in finance?”

  “Just the big boss, a guy named Ed Talcott. He was near retirement age and ill with cancer. Didn’t do much actual work. He died within a year of George disappearing.”