Dead Down East

by Carl Schmidt

  The Lavoilettes had no children. Rebecca miscarried twice in the early years of their marriage. After the second, her doctors told her she could not safely carry a child to full term. If this put any strain on their marriage, it was not apparent to the public.

  We finished breakfast without pointing a finger at any plausible suspect. We discussed the possibility that a political rival might have gotten desperate, but we quickly dismissed that as highly unlikely.

  We left the table and made our way outside. I decided it was time to call Angele Boucher, the “first lady” in my life.

  I walked across the lawn in front of the dining hall and sat down on a bench…then turned on my cell phone and checked for messages. There were several, along with nearly thirty missed calls. I scanned the list quickly and saw that almost all of them were made from the same number, a private caller I didn’t recognize. The first one came in at eleven the previous night, and the last one was placed only minutes before. “He or she is rather persistent,” I thought. But I figured whoever it was could wait a few more minutes while I talked with Angele. Pleasure before business works fine for me.

  Angele picked up right away and asked excitedly, “Jesse, have you heard?”

  “About the governor?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “I just found out this morning at breakfast. It’s a real shame.”

  “It’s more than a shame. It’s horrible,” Angele shot back.

  Among other things, Angele Boucher is a social activist. She’s a fiery one. That, by the way, is what attracted me to her in the first place—not her political fire, just her heat. She can turn a winter blizzard into a sauna with a single look. That particular metaphor morphed into a physical reality last fall behind my house when I brought together a stove and chimney, a water tank, some planks of redwood, and other assorted building materials and created the “Thorpe Relaxation & Recreation Arena.” I call it an “arena,” not so much because of its size—it’s only 8’x12’—but because of the events that transpire there on frosty evenings. Many were the nights last winter when a snowy chill dissolved in a hot tub of pre-marital bliss.

  Angele is half Greek (her mother’s side), which accounts for most of the fire. She’s just like her mother, only a lot more my age. Her father is French—French Canadian to be precise—which, I suppose, accounts for her liberal romanticism. Fire and romance—every man’s fantasy. Maybe I’ll go up in flames, but my instincts are to follow my heart and throw caution to the wind.

  “Angele,” I said, “I miss you already.”

  “Me too, darling.”

  Music to my ears.

  “I’d love to chat, Angele, but someone has been trying to get hold of me since last night. I have over twenty missed calls from a single number that I don’t recognize. I think I’d better find out who it is and what he, or she, wants. For now, I plan on getting back home on Thursday afternoon. Can you come over Thursday evening and stay after band practice?”

  “I’ll be there,” she said. “I’ll try to get off on Friday so I can stay over for a late morning breakfast.”

  “It’s a date, Peaches. See you then.”

  “Bye,” she said.

  I looked again at my messages and missed calls. The caller rang my phone a couple dozen times throughout the night, but didn’t leave a single message. I found that odd. The caller ID provided me with the number, but the name was private. I scrolled through my address book; none of the numbers matched. Apparently somebody I don’t know knows me well enough to stay up all night hoping to talk to me. My curiosity was piqued, to say the least. I highlighted the number and hit “send.”

  3

  A Call from the Cemetery

  Before my phone registered a second ring, a woman’s voice came on the line, and in an excited, but muffled tone, she said, “Jesse, is that you?”

  “Yes,” I said tentatively. “I’m sorry I don’t recognize your number. Who is this?”

  “Cynthia Dumais,” she said.

  And that’s all she said for an unusually long stretch of time. I guessed she was giving me a chance to recall who she was, or perhaps she was collecting herself before following up with the story she’d been hoping to tell for the past ten hours. In that space of time, I quickly recapped our relationship.

  About two years earlier, Cynthia hired me for personal protection. She had been divorced for about a month when her former husband, Travis Perkins, began to show up in the evenings and hang around her home. He wouldn’t knock at the door or call out to her, but he would stroll along the street, often pausing one or two houses away and just stand there staring at her house. Sometimes he would make his appearance very late at night. When this behavior became a habit, Cynthia decided to confront him. She asked him to leave, but he simply replied, “It’s a free country.”

  Now that’s the sort of response you’d expect from a pest in junior high school with thick glasses and a bad haircut, not from a Maine State Trooper, entrusted with the task of protecting the governor and his family.

  Rather than begin the arduous process of filing for a protection order, she decided to hire me on a short-term basis to position myself in her front yard for the few minutes every day when she came home from work. This was in December, and it was pitch dark by the time she arrived home at 5:30. I’d show up at 5:15, wait for her to drive up, and escort her inside. I had done this for about a week before I first laid eyes on Travis.

  He just “happened” to be walking by the house when Cynthia arrived. It was freezing cold that night, so it was more than a bit peculiar that he “happened” to be there at that time. I recognized him from a photograph that Cynthia had given me, so I approached him directly and asked, “What are you doing here?”

  “I just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

  I replied, “If you just happen to be here again, I’ll file a complaint with the Maine State Police, and they might just happen to think you are unfit for your present employment.”

  Travis responded briskly, “Who are you?”

  I produced one of my PI business cards, and that, more or less, put an end to the whole affair. He didn’t show up the next week, and Cynthia decided that the issue was probably settled. She thanked me for my help, paid for my services, and that was the last time I heard from her—until now.

  As I quickly replayed my relationship with Cynthia Dumais, I didn’t fail to take note of Travis Perkins’ relationship with the governor. Bells began to ring inside my head, and the word, “governor” lit up the gray matter like “Tilt” on a pinball machine.

  “Cynthia, what’s going on?” I asked, now almost as agitated as she.

  Again there was a long pause. This time I was certain she was gathering her thoughts. I braced myself for a messy explanation.

  “Jesse, I’m in trouble. Big trouble!”

  “Does it have anything to do with the governor?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she exclaimed in a muted scream. “How did you know?”

  “I just added things up. Your ex-husband is a security guard for the governor, or I should say, ‘He was a security guard for the former governor.’ You began calling me a half-hour after William Lavoilette was murdered, and you’ve called me over twenty times throughout the night and into the morning.”

  “Jesse, please help me right away. I may be in real danger. I need you to come and get me.”

  Now it was my turn to pause and take stock. I found Cynthia to be a very levelheaded, professional woman. She was in her late thirties and had been employed her entire adult life. She worked in a title company for several years after graduating from the University of Maine. When she turned thirty, she got her real estate license and has been selling both personal and commercial properties ever since. I see her name on “For Sale” signs all over Augusta.

  “Jesse, are you still there?” she asked as if panicked and desperate.

  “Yes, I’m still here. I’m just getting my bearings. How are you involved?” I
asked.

  “I can’t explain it over the phone. It’s too complicated. Believe me, I need your help right away. I’ll pay whatever you ask. But, please…come pick me up. I need your protection. I can’t go home until I am able to find out if it is safe for me there.”

  “Safe from whom? Travis Perkins?”

  “I don’t know whom. I just can’t explain it all now. Jesse! Help me!”

  “OK,” I said, “Where are you?”

  “I’m on Sebascodegan Island, just south of Brunswick, not far from Harpswell Islands Road, State Highway 24.”

  “That’s precisely where the governor was murdered last night,” I said.

  “Well, that’s where I am, and that’s where I have been…all night.”

  I really didn’t know what to imagine, or what to say. There was no way Cynthia could be responsible for the governor’s death, but obviously she was involved in some way. It was beginning to look as if I was going to get involved as well. I tried one more time to get a clearer picture of the situation.

  “Can’t you just tell me a little more about your situation?” I pleaded.

  “I’m not a suspect, if that’s what you mean. But I simply can’t tell you any more right now. I’ve got to stay low and out of sight until you get here. Please come!”

  “OK. I’ll come and find you. But when I get there, you’ll have some explaining to do. If I don’t feel satisfied, I will drive away and leave you where you are. Is that clear?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’ll leave here in about ten minutes. I should be able to find route 24. Where do I go once I get on the island?”

  “I am in the woods behind the Cranberryhorn Cemetery off Cundys Harbor Road. Drive to the cemetery and call me from there. If I have to move for any reason, I’ll let you know where I am when you call.”

  “It will take me about two hours to get there. It’s 9:30 now, so I should arrive just before noon. I’ll call you when I find the cemetery. Keep your chin up,” I said, in the most reassuring tone I could muster. I was more than a little apprehensive myself, but I hoped it might provide her some comfort.

  “Thanks, Jesse. Oh…and please don’t tell anyone about me. No one! Until I can sort this out, I have to be invisible.”

  “You have my word.”

  “Thank you so much,” she said, almost crying.

  And with that we both hung up.

  • • •

  I walked briskly down to the lake. When I reached the cabin, Michael was in the hammock on the porch staring out at the lake, absorbed in his private thoughts. Tyler was sitting on the top step and spoke to me as soon as we made eye contact. “Do you still want to go out fishing this morning like we planned, Jesse?”

  “Unfortunately, Ty, something’s come up. I just received an important call from a client, and I have to leave right away.”

  “What kind of client?” Tyler asked.

  “It’s a long story. I’m sorry to say that it is also confidential. I would love to talk about it, but I’ll have to wait and see what develops before I can do that. I hate to sound so secretive, but it’s something I am obliged to do at the moment. I have to grab my things and dash off.”

  Kathleen had come out of the cabin while we were talking, and was considerate enough not to press me for any details. She said quite simply, “Gosh, Jesse. I’m sorry you’re going. We love spending time with you.”

  “I’m sorry too,” I said, “but duty calls.”

  “If you’re free in the next couple of days, come on back. We’re only a stone’s throw from Augusta,” Kathleen noted.

  “I’d love to, but that seems unlikely. I’ll just get my things. And, Michael, would you mind keeping my Orvis and tackle box with you for now. I’m in a hurry and won’t be needing my fishing gear for a spell. In fact, Tyler, you can use my rod if you like. I saw you eyeing it this morning. The reel is loaded with some sharkskin fishing line. You’ll enjoy how easily it slides through the guides.”

  With that, I slipped into the cabin, gathered up my clothes and bathroom kit, and returned to the porch in less than a minute. We said our farewells, and I walked quickly to my bronze, 2006 Subaru Forester. Before starting the engine, I turned on my Garmin and waited for it to pick up a signal. When it came online, I entered the Cranberryhorn Cemetery on Cundys Harbor Road, Harpswell. A map appeared displaying the road south of Brunswick. I checked out the area on the map to get some idea of the roads on Sebascodegan Island and then started the Forester. I backed out of the driveway and headed up the hill toward the dining hall.

  As I neared the top of the hill, Becky said, “In two hundred feet turn right on Jamaica Point Road.”

  I call my GPS, “Becky” after Becky Lawrence, a quirky redhead I dated in Andover more than a decade ago. The voice on the GPS reminded me so much of her that I couldn’t resist giving it her name. The real Becky’s voice was her most peculiar and unlikely feature. She spoke in a matter-of-fact, monotone sort of way, while her body spoke a completely different dialect. It was very curious, and I found it difficult to reconcile these two features. I never completely sorted that out, but I still think of her fondly. Nowadays she stays locked up in my Subaru, ready at my beck and call. All I have to do is turn her on, and like most of the other women in my life, she tells me where to go.

  I wouldn’t need directional advice until I reached Brunswick, so I stopped at the top of the hill and turned her off. “We’ll talk later, Becky,” I said.

  I sat there for just a moment and let the car idle. I wanted to review my decision to rescue Cynthia. But really, I had no choice. I hadn’t committed any crime, yet, and I’m sure Cynthia hadn’t either. I didn’t know if it was the gentleman’s thing to do, or sheer stupidity at work, when I agreed to pick her up at the cemetery on Sebascodegan Island, but whatever it was, I would soon be dealing with the consequences. God only knew what lay ahead. Well, Cynthia Dumais might have had some idea about that as well, but she wasn’t letting it out. That cat was still in the bag.

  4

  Roadblock

  Leaving a trail of dust behind me, I drove up Jamaica Point Road to the corner. I slowed down for the stop sign and gazed for a moment at the old Richardson farm, minus the barn that had recently been torn down. The Richardsons were related to the original owners at Bear Spring Camps.

  If you take the time to trace the family trees, you’ll discover that out here most everyone is related. Lots of Mayflower folks drifted down east to Maine, long before it became a tourist destination. French Canadians poured in from Québec, especially as the 19th Century gave way to the 20th. The locals are largely the descendants of those who stayed on and survived the winters. That’s why Mainers are so hardy; winter weeds out the sickly and the weak. Global warming might be upon us, but in this neck of the woods you still need an overcoat and boots to get by. The tourists come and go, but true Mainers stay, either by force of habit or lack of imagination. Most of us love it here, and the rest are simply too stubborn to leave.

  I made my way along the country roads heading south. In a few minutes, Lake Messalonskee came into view on my left, triggering a wave of entertaining memories. When I was a teenager, the Belgrade Lakes came alive in late spring. Local girls slipped out of the woodwork in droves, like bears emerging from hibernation. Now, almost two decades later, a lingering collection of faces, temperaments and inclinations drifted through my attention. On any other day, I would have meandered easily below the speed limit, keeping pace with my laid-back memoirs, but not today. Just north of Augusta, I left the country road behind, turned onto Interstate 95 and back into the matters at hand.

  I briefly considered swinging by the farmhouse to pick up my .38 Special, but I decided against it. Cynthia had been up all night, so I felt it was important to get to her as quickly as possible. Something else had occurred to me; I might have to drive through a police roadblock on Sebascodegan Island. There’d be some explaining to do if they searched the car and found a gun. At this poin
t, I had no plausible explanation for that possibility. In fact, as yet I had no plausible explanation to offer the police for my being there. I’d use the twenty-five miles of interstate and ten odd miles of country road that lay ahead to craft my cover story.

  I traveled down a few blind alleys in my otherwise fertile imagination until I finally settled upon a working hypothesis. I rehearsed it for several minutes until it sounded convincing.

  “Officer, I’m here to join my girlfriend on the island. She’s been visiting friends for the week, and I finally managed some time off from my construction job to join her. (If he wanted to call my boss, that story line should hold up.) What’s that? Where is she staying? … I don’t have the exact address, but I know that it’s a house very near Cranberryhorn Cemetery on Cundys Harbor Road. When I reach the cemetery, I’ll be calling her.”

  This should get me through the war zone, I thought. As for getting off the island on our way back north, I’d have to cross that bridge when I came to it. Literally.

  I sailed on down the highway and reached Brunswick by eleven o’clock. When I found Highway 24, I fired up my GPS. From here on out, I was on unfamiliar roads. As soon as she booted up, Becky announced, “In four point three miles, turn left on Cundys Harbor Road.”

  Four miles later I crossed a short bridge onto Sebascodegan Island. There were beautiful coves on either side. The area was thickly wooded, and the few houses along the road were barely visible. I cut my speed, realizing my turn was fast approaching. Then, up ahead, I saw a number of highway patrol cars flanking the road. On the left side, there was a barricade across what appeared to be my left turn. A uniformed officer stood in the middle of the road holding up an arm. He wanted me to stop.

  This jolted me quite literally into the present. I hoped there was another turn further down the road that would get me to the cemetery. I rolled to a stop next to the officer. As I lowered the window, he stepped forward, peered in at me, and said, “There are two FBI agents ahead who will be asking you some questions. Please drive slowly and stop when you reach them.”