Quick Pivot

by Brenda Buchanan

  Joan Slater, makeup blotchy from weeping, asked for and got a promise that she’d be informed if our collaborative effort led to an arrest.

  “It’s time for justice to be done,” she said as I guided MacMahon’s wheelchair down a portable ramp we’d laid across her front steps.

  MacMahon turned to face her before sliding into the car, once again laying his big hand on her arm. “It’s high time for old wounds to heal. You take care of yourself, ma’am. I have a feeling we’ll be in touch very soon.”

  * * *

  When I stumbled into my kitchen, it was after eleven. A note from Christie sat in the middle of the kitchen table, confirming she’d looked after Lou. Theo and I stopped by at 6:30 to see the pup. We had a lovely prance around the ‘hood. Hope to see your face soon. Take care of your sweet self.—CP.

  As I finished reading, my text message chime sounded. It was Christie herself, way past her bedtime.

  R U home?

  I tapped a reply. Yup. U still up?

  Obvs.

  Good day?

  Fine. You?

  Amazing.

  If I call will U tell all?

  She did, and I did. She’d already read online about my trip back inside the Saccarappa. I gave her the quick and dirty version of what had gone down in Durham, but didn’t name names. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Christie to keep her mouth shut. It felt perilous. I’d tell Leah and Joe who was being called in for questioning, but they were newspaper people. Christie was a civilian.

  After we hung up, I reveled for a moment in the realization that the case was on the brink of breaking wide open. In a day or maybe two, my front page story in the Chronicle was going to rivet the whole damn state. In the newspaper biz, that’s as good as it gets, and it doesn’t get that good very often these days.

  The air in my apartment was hot and close, yet a beer didn’t seem right. I closed the refrigerator and reached for the scotch. Tossing a few ice cubes into a glass, I poured myself two fingers of a single-malt scotch someone had given me the previous Christmas.

  I raised my glass in Lou’s direction. “To justice.”

  She looked up from her spot next to the screen door, a questioning look on her face.

  “Okay. To justice, no less sweet for having been delayed by forty-six years.”

  Paulie’s ghost was muttering into my ear about the perils of predicting the next day’s headlines.

  You can’t outrun the news, kid.

  Stories’ll be bigger or smaller than you thought they were gonna be.

  The sure bet for page one will fizzle.

  “I sure as hell wish your old buddy Paulie was still alive,” I said to Lou. “But seeing that he isn’t, let’s you and me go hang out on the deck.” I flicked off the kitchen light, opened the door with my foot and took my dog and my scotch out into the sultry night.

  Slouched in a chair, feet up on the railing, I savored the sensation of being alone to think. Impressions from the day eddied through my mind like confetti on a soft breeze.

  Joan Slater’s determination to continue the meeting despite the emotional bombshell that Paulie had been forced to choose between her and his job.

  MacMahon’s recounting of the 1968 interviews.

  Wyatt’s terse exchange with Rigoletti.

  Paulie’s scrawl in Notebook #1: ESP: Pal of GD. Strt shootr. Will he help xpose BL fibs?

  My gas station encounter with Leo Harding the previous night slid into focus. If he was neck deep in Desmond’s disappearance, maybe he’d followed me to Kennebunkport and back. I hadn’t noticed him at the restaurant, but I’d been giving all my attention to MacMahon. There was no way he could have overheard our conversation. The ice machine’s racket had taken care of that. But we’d been easily visible out there on the deck. The fact MacMahon now maneuvered around in a wheelchair was irrelevant. Given his memorable face and physical presence, he’d be recognizable to anyone who’d ever known him.

  If Leo Harding knew I’d tracked down the detective who’d been gunning for his buddy Coatesworth back in 1968, that would explain how he happened by the gas station where I was filling my tank at the end of that trip. Mr. Disinformation wanted to lay down his own line of bullshit with me.

  When George went missing I was working on the mill floor, just another lunchpail guy on the second shift. Wouldn’t have been in a position to know who was moving in and out of the finance office.

  Harding, Coatesworth and Thibodeau got lucky in1968 when the FBI shelved the investigation and left town. MacMahon had other murders to solve. Paulie was covering other stories to earn his ticket out of purgatory. More than four decades down the road, the FBI was irrelevant. MacMahon had no other case occupying his time. Riverside’s chief was on board.

  I needed to track Earl down, give him the opportunity to channel his grief into action by telling me everything he’d told Paulie Finnegan back in 1968.

  * * *

  Breakfast on Friday morning was early and fast. Despite having sat out on my deck sipping scotch until a thunderstorm chased me inside at 2 a.m., I woke at quarter of six and leaped out of bed as though I were spring-loaded. I made it to the Rambler in ten minutes flat.

  Mindful of Paulie’s superstitions, I jerked my head toward the diner’s kitchen door when Christie caught my eye. Standing in the narrow corridor between the dishwasher and the walk-in, I asked her to wipe her mind clean of what I’d predicted the previous night.

  “You worried about a journalistic jinx?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I won’t hold you to any predictions about when the case will break, but today’s a big day, right?”

  I nodded.

  “What do you need from me?”

  “To keep doing what you’ve been doing. Check in on Lou. Keep your ears open around here. If you hear something you think I should know, call my cell.”

  “Sounds like this story’s going to shock this town.”

  “Shock and awe,” I said.

  * * *

  Leah prided herself on having heard everything. She worked hard to maintain a poker face when I debriefed her on the previous evening’s activity but couldn’t hide her amazement when I told her who was being brought in for questioning.

  “No shit. Ken Coatesworth is a suspect?”

  “Technically, Ken, Leo and Thibodeau are persons of interest. The cops won’t say boo on the record until the interviews are done. Then we can run with it.”

  “You sure Rigoletti won’t go behind Barb Wyatt’s back and leak to the TV people?”

  “Please don’t feed my paranoia,” I said.

  Somebody had parked a box of doughnuts on the coffee shelf next to the city desk. I soothed myself with brave words and a honey dipped. “Rigoletti loathes the media. The man doesn’t have a favorite among the press corps because he detests every one of us. Plus, Chief Wyatt knows he’s a glory hog. She’ll keep him far away from the action.”

  Gene hustled over from the copydesk, having read Leah’s body language. “What’s hopping?”

  “Ken Coatesworth, Leo Harding and Mr. Maine Basketball Hall of Fame have been invited to join Chief Wyatt and Detective MacMahon for tea this morning.” I gave him the quick skinny while Leah took notes on her computer.

  “Bet they bring their lawyers.” Gene was sitting on the edge of a desk opposite me. “You want help pulling together more history?”

  “It’d be great if you could dig into the database on Coatesworth and Harding, and deeper on Thibodeau. It’ll be terrific to have the backstory at our fingertips.”

  Mindful that neither Leah nor Gene knew anything about my previous conversations with Earl, I kept my voice casual. “I’m going to run out to Riverside to see a guy who worked at the mill back in ’68. MacMahon mentioned
his name last night. He was a buddy of Desmond’s who might have been talking with Paulie back then.”

  Gene cocked his head. “Who?”

  “Earl St. Pierre. He was head mechanic at the mill till it closed. Since he retired he’s been working part time at the Mill Stream, where I play golf sometimes.”

  Leah stopped tapping on her computer. “What makes you think this St. Pierre was one of Paulie’s sources?”

  “I finally cracked the code in his notebook.” I tossed my empty coffee cup into the trash can. “It seems Earl told Paulie that Coatesworth dreamed up the project that forced Desmond into the office on the weekend he went missing. I want to find out what else Earl remembers.”

  Leah swallowed a slug of coffee. “Is Chief Wyatt going to call you here or on your cell once they sweat these guys?”

  “Probably my cell.” I pulled it out of my pocket to confirm it was charged to the max.

  Leah shot me a smile as I grabbed another doughnut. “Be careful out there, Joe.”

  “Yes, ma’am, Sergeant Esterhaus.”

  * * *

  Earl’s house was on the way to the Mill Stream. There were no signs of life when I drove by and no car in the driveway. Shaking off the urge to peek in the windows of his garage, I went to the Mill Stream, where I was relieved to see Earl’s truck in its customary spot and the man himself behind the counter in the pro shop, talking on the phone.

  He looked up when I came through the door, signaling that he’d be free in a couple of minutes. I pulled a display model putter off the rack and began rolling putts on the miniature green in the far corner. As Earl was finishing his call a pair of middle-aged women wearing plaid shorts came in to pay for a round. As they were departing, the phone rang again. Accepting that I’d need to wait until Earl was off work to have the conversation I wanted to have, I cooled my heels until the shop was empty.

  Finally, he was free. I moved to the counter and kept my voice low. “Big developments. Can we talk this afternoon?”

  “What do you mean? Is an arrest imminent?”

  “Maybe not imminent, but there are some hot new leads.”

  His eyes were on the pro shop door.

  “Come by my house at one-thirty. Be discreet, okay?”

  “Back way again?”

  He nodded. “I’d rather not have the whole town knowing my business.”

  If I hadn’t stepped into the men’s room on my way out, I would have missed Jay Preble pulling into the Mill Stream parking lot. He cut his engine as I was climbing into my car. It turned out he was thrilled by my story on his debate with Charlene Goodnought, handmaiden to the evil forces of wagering. He leaped out of the Jag and pumped my hand, thanking me for the coverage.

  “We didn’t expect front page treatment. It was a surprise to see the story given such prominent play this early in the campaign season.”

  I told him the Chronicle recognized the importance of the issue and his name would remain on our go-to list once the battle heated up in the fall. Preble was happy to hear that and tried to woo me into playing golf with him.

  “You playing hooky from work this morning? You must have time for nine holes. Greens fees are on me.”

  “I wish. Too much going on. I just came by to see Earl for a minute.”

  A puzzled look passed over the retired banker’s face, as if it took him a moment to remember that I was Earl’s sometime student.

  “I have a benefit tournament coming up in a couple of weeks. Need to cure my slice before then.” As the automatic protect-my-source fib was falling off my tongue, I remembered Paulie’s note: JP’s inside scoop—can’t go there. It was time for me to pull out the trowel and do some source cultivation. Forty-six years ago Preble had fed information to Paulie, including something worthy of being called a scoop. Maybe it seemed a dead end at the time, but it might not be now that the story was coming full circle. I needed him to talk to me.

  “I’m here to roll a few around the green before my round today.” Preble leaned against the driver’s door of his car. “My putting’s gone stone cold this past week.”

  I glanced at my watch. Ten past nine. Apparently Coatesworth and Harding hadn’t told Preble they’d been invited to spend the morning with the cops and might not be available to play golf at noon on the dot. I wondered if he’d feel any loyalty to his golf buddies once the story came out that they were major suspects in the embezzlement of the Saccarappa’s money and the murder of its finance manager.

  “Practicing three hours before teeing off? Your putting game will be so polished you’ll qualify for the senior tour.”

  “It’s not like I have a lot else to do with my time,” Preble said. “I’m divorced. Never had children, so there are no kids or grandkids to keep me busy.” His shoulders rose and fell, hands splayed out like a man making a case for himself. “Retirement leaves plenty of time for me to play golf by day and tilt at windmills by night.”

  Determined to find out whether he’d ever suspected Coatesworth and Harding had something to do with Desmond’s disappearance, I dove in.

  “When we talked out here in the parking lot a couple of days ago, you told me about a conversation you overheard when George Desmond disappeared. I sensed you remembered more about that than you told me.”

  Preble held my eyes for a few seconds. His fair complexion reddened.

  “I’ve never been good at pulling wool over eyes,” he said. At the sound of an approaching engine he straightened up. A late-model white SUV eased into the parking lot and pulled into a space ten yards from us. We were silent until the doors opened, revealing a middle-aged couple.

  It was as if Paulie were whispering in my ear.

  When you invite a source to talk, shut up and listen.

  In a nod to his skittishness, I kept my voice down. “I think it’s time you tell me the whole story.”

  Preble’s affirmative head shake was almost imperceptible, but his tone was urgent. “I agree.”

  He studied the couple unloading their golf bags from the back of their station wagon, as if he were an anthropologist gathering data. When they began clanking toward the clubhouse, his body relaxed a bit.

  “Can we meet later, somewhere private?”

  “Tell me when and where and I’ll be there.”

  Preble glanced at his watch. “I’m going to have to juggle my schedule. Can I call you? I’ll make sure we connect sometime today.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Tuesday, June 4, 1968

  Riverside, Maine

  Paulie woke in the middle of the night with Jay Preble’s name running through his head. He wasn’t sure if he’d been having a dream about the banker or if his resting brain finally allowed the obvious truth to penetrate: Preble had been bullshitting him. The banker by birthright had more than enough social and political clout to ask questions and get answers. There was no way he hadn’t done so when George Desmond disappeared. It was absurd to think otherwise.

  At dawn he gave up trying to sleep, got up, showered and shaved. While scrambling into a clean pair of chinos and a madras sport shirt, Paulie considered his past interactions with Preble. They’d been acquainted for two and a half weeks. Except at the Memorial Day party, every time they’d spoken they’d wound up talking about the Desmond disappearance. Preble never had any fresh information to share. Yet somehow he’d learned everything Paulie knew and most of what he theorized.

  Paulie decided Preble either knew or suspected his friend Coatesworth was up to his eyeballs in trouble. He’d volunteered his technical help to the FBI so he’d have an insider’s view of the federal investigation. As to what the state and local cops were doing when they weren’t cursing the fibbies, Paulie was his source more than he was Paulie’s.

  The only question was why the banker was gathering information. Paulie scr
awled three possibilities in his notebook under Preble’s initials:

  Wellington’s mole?

  Hometown hero/show up the cops?

  Helping K cover up?

  Grabbing his car keys from the hook next to his door, Paulie headed out into the damp early morning, determined to figure out the truth.

  Locating Preble turned out to be easy. His dark green MGB was parked next to Riverside National Bank and he was strolling toward the front door, briefcase in hand. Paulie tooted the Bel Air’s horn lightly, pulled into the parking lot and turned off his engine.

  “You get bonuses for showing up at six in the morning?”

  “When your old man runs the joint there’s no such thing as a bonus.” Preble’s slicked-back hair was still wet from the shower.

  “Early bird gets the worm, eh?”

  “Something like that.” Preble yawned. “You were smart to go home last night. We stayed out too damned late. Big Leo was in rare form by eleven.”

  A dark blue sedan purred into the parking lot, John D. Preble himself at the wheel.

  “You have plans for lunch today?”

  Preble’s eyes were on his father’s car. “I’m free. Riverside Hotel at noon?”

  Paulie shook his head. “You know Thurman’s, the burger place in Falmouth?”

  Preble nodded. “Great onion rings. It’s a hike though.”

  “True, but the upside is you won’t be surrounded by people who know you. Meet me there at noon. Come by yourself, okay?”

  Preble jingled the change in his pocket. “Something happen overnight?”

  “I’ll tell you about it over lunch.”

  * * *

  Thurman’s Burgers was a squat clapboard building hard by the side of the road. The gravel parking lot was nearly full when Paulie pulled in at five till twelve. He ducked inside, ordered two cheeseburgers, a large order of onion rings and a pair of milkshakes, then stood outside the screen door until he spotted the MGB pulling in under a maple tree. Preble unfolded his long legs from the roadster and walked toward the building, his forehead creased with a frown.