by Carl Schmidt
“Sure thing,” I replied.
I eased forward. Just as I was coming to a stop in front of the two men, Ms. Lawrence spoke up, “In fifty feet turn left on Cundys Harbor Road.” I was sure that they heard Becky as clearly as I did.
“Hello, I am Officer Edward Handley from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Can I have your name, address, phone number and the purpose of your travel?”
“Sure,” I said. I gave him all the personal information and then I added, “I’m here to pick up my girlfriend.” For now I figured the less I say, the less I’d have to defend if things got more complicated.
While I was speaking to Officer Handley, another agent standing next to him was entering my information on what looked to be an iPad. This was a bit unsettling, in as much as I now realized I had just become part of a federal murder investigation. My private investigator’s license was literally a keystroke away from popping up in our conversation.
Handley then asked, “What’s your destination?”
“I’m going to a home on Cundys Harbor Road very near the Cranberryhorn Cemetery. I don’t have the address, but I’ll be calling my girlfriend as soon as I reach the cemetery.”
Handley replied matter-of-factly, “As you can see, this entrance to Cundys Harbor Road is barricaded. This is a crime scene. Let me have a look here.”
With that he put his hand into the lapel pocket of his uniform and pulled out a map, pre-folded to our exact location, and studied it briefly.
“That’s OK, officer, I’m sure Becky will recalculate a route for me,” I said.
His eyes flashed quickly around the car then settled back on me, “Becky?”
At first I thought he was addressing her, but then I realized he was asking me, “Who is that?”
I was doing my best to think quickly and remain calm in spite of what had suddenly unfolded. My heart was racing so fast that my metabolic clocks were working double-time, having a pronounced and elongating effect on my senses. My palms were clammy, and I realized that in my rush to leave camp this morning I didn’t use deodorant. My underarms were definitely moist. Undoubtedly I was emitting a noxious odor.
As a result of my elevated heart rate, everything around me appeared in slow motion—another consequence, no doubt, of Einstein’s Special Theory of Relativity. I made a concerted effort to keep my facial expressions from becoming exaggerated, my voice from moving an octave above normal, and my speech from sounding like Bugs Bunny. A mantra rumbled from the back of my mind, “stay calm…stay calm…stay calm,” while my hands remained clasped to the steering wheel in the “10 and 2” driving position that old ladies and NASCAR drivers use. Sure, it made me look a little nervous, but it concealed my sweaty palms.
And if that weren’t enough to keep me busy, I now had to recalculate my story to conform to Becky’s so that Officer Handley would have no reason to suspect I was making it all up as I went along.
“Jesse Thorpe, get a grip. You are a private investigator, licensed and bonded for Christ’s sake. Make a parting comment so you can be on your way. Cynthia Dumais is dying a slow death in the Cranberryhorn Cemetery. If you don’t get your butt into gear, the caretaker will find her body, dig a hole and bury her on the spot,” I said to myself. To Handley I said, “Becky? Oh, that! Becky is the name I use for my GPS unit. I have it set for the Cranberryhorn Cemetery.”
Officer Handley eyed me with a measure of suspicion, but carried on in professional mode. “The map shows that there are only two ways to get onto Cundys Harbor Road,” he said. “The first one is blocked as you can see. You’ll have to drive about two hundred feet down the road, then double back and use the south entrance. That’s the only other way to get to the cemetery.”
When he finished speaking, he continued scrutinizing me closely. I could feel his eyes boring into my hidden agenda. Then came a moment of grace…suddenly, I remembered the two social devices for disarming adversaries.
“Sorry for any confusion, officer, I’m still in shock over the murder of our governor. I guess I just can’t think very straight. Thank you for being so helpful.”
My simple apology and compliment worked like magic. Officer Handley’s face relaxed into an easy smile as he replied, “No problem, we’re all on edge here. You’re free to go.”
And with that, I slowly pulled forward. When I was about fifty feet past the first turn, Becky reasserted herself with, “Recalculating.” I had an urge to grab her by her adaptor cord and rip it out of the socket, but I didn’t want to make any sudden movements that might induce Officer Handley to think that things weren’t copasetic.
I put on my left turn indicator. A hundred feet down the road, I made a sharp left and entered Cundys Harbor Road from the south. I noticed that Handley was keeping his eye on me all the way. As the harbor road curved to the right, I watched him in the rear view mirror until his image disappeared behind a line of trees.
Becky’s announcement indicating that I was nearing my destination was her last refrain. It was now time to give her a rest. I reached into the console and pulled her plug. I could go solo from here.
I drove slowly along the harbor road for almost a mile, making a careful survey of each home, until the Cranberryhorn Cemetery appeared before me. I pulled onto a short gravel driveway, stopped the car, and killed the motor. There were perhaps a couple hundred headstones standing like sentries on both sides of Harbor Road, but as yet I saw no signs of life. That’s relatively commonplace in a cemetery, but I was hoping to see at least one person. Actually, I was hoping to see exactly one person, no more, no less.
I reached for my cell phone and dialed Cynthia’s number. She answered on the first ring and muffled an insistent question, “Jesse, is that you in the car that just drove up?”
“It is,” I said with a mixture of relief and anticipation.
“I’ll be right there.”
5
What Would Bogey Do?
Cynthia Dumais slipped out from behind a wall of trees that bordered the Cranberryhorn Cemetery. She had on a pair of black jeans and a suede jacket. She was carrying a brown leather overnight bag in her hand and a grim expression on her face.
She glanced up and down the road cautiously and then walked directly to the car. She opened the back door, set her bag on the floor, and then opened the front passenger door, sat down and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath, let out a sigh as she opened her eyes and in a shaky voice whispered, “Thank you.”
“Are you OK, Cynthia?” I asked. Obviously, she wasn’t. It was just something to say.
“I guess so,” she responded. “But I’m exhausted. Can we go now?”
If I thought that I was going to get some quick and straight answers from Cynthia about her involvement with the governor’s murder, I was mistaken. I was thinking, “Hey, I’ve just abandoned my vacation, driven for two hours, and then lied my way through an FBI roadblock in order to extract you from this mess. The least you can do is explain yourself.” I thought that, but I didn’t say that. What I said was, “We’ll be going shortly. You’ve obviously been through a traumatic and threatening experience. We need to get you off this island and safely back to Augusta as quickly as possible. That, however, presents us with a certain delicate problem.
“I have checked the map thoroughly. We have a choice of driving north to Brunswick or south, along a more circuitous route, to Harpswell Neck Road. Either way, we have to get back onto Highway 24, and that means we must return on Cundys Harbor Road. Unfortunately, there is a police roadblock ahead about a mile from here. I’m almost certain that that is where the Governor of Maine was murdered last night. Two FBI agents and a number of Maine State Police vehicles and personnel are posted there ready to interview anyone entering or leaving the island.
“I encountered them just a few minutes ago. My arrival raised a yellow flag, but not a red one. I needed to give my name, address, phone number and the reason for my visit in order to pass through. They took down all of that information; it
’s now part of an FBI file.
“The color of the flag will be entirely different when we try to exit. Anyone who is leaving might have seen or heard something last night. So… Where exactly have you been for the past twenty-four hours, and with whom? We can’t make a move toward that intersection until we create a coherent story. We have to get the narrative worked out perfectly if we hope to pass through the gauntlet.
“As you know, I’m in the dark about why we are here. I can live with that for the time being. What we need now is a story with no holes in it. It has to make sense, and it cannot contradict any fundamental facts that can be readily checked out. If FBI Officer Edward Handley asks us follow up questions, we can’t grimace and say, ‘Gee, I’ll have to consult my sweetheart to synchronize our versions.’”
Cynthia seemed to be soaking this all in. She was noticeably tired and stressed, but appeared to be settling into her professional profile. As a real estate agent, no doubt she has resolved lots of problems while thinking on her feet. That training might prove vital in getting us off this island without a major revision in our day planner…like becoming suspects in a murder investigation.
“Jesse,” she said, “Thank you. This past night has been devastating for me, and I haven’t been thinking clearly at all. I’m just beginning to see what we need to do here. You seem to have a grip on it. What do you suggest?”
“OK,” I said, taking charge. “We are in a cemetery, you are tired and frightened, and I don’t know why I’m here. So…”
The wheels were beginning to turn.
“We have just had a lover’s quarrel,” I concluded. “That comports pretty much with the way we look. You stormed out of our house in Augusta a few days ago to get away from me. But you don’t have your car, so how did you get here? Let’s see… A friend of yours picked you up, drove you here and dropped you off. Is there anyone you know, who has a cell phone and could be the third leg of our stool? He or she might be able to round out our story.”
Cynthia said, “Why do we have to involve a third party? Couldn’t you have driven me here a few days ago, and now you are coming back to get me?”
“That would be simpler, of course, but, unfortunately, when I came through the roadblock, I hadn’t yet fully prepared for that nuance in the scenario. I didn’t want to divulge your specific location, so I said that you were at a home on Cundys Harbor Road near the cemetery, but I didn’t know the exact address. My GPS spoke up indicating what direction I needed to take to get there. If I had been here two days ago, why would I be using GPS to find it again? I’d have known the address.”
“I see,” said Cynthia. “I guess you’re right.”
She hesitated for a minute, and then finally said, “Yes there is someone. And there’s only one; his name is Richard Merrill. Do I have to explain his involvement to you right now?”
“No, that’s not necessary,” I said. “What you need to do is to call him and bring him on board. You will have to explain to him very carefully what’s happening here. But first we need an address and a precise reason why you are here.”
I pointed my finger forward and continued, “Do you see the house over there by the grove of trees? I noticed a number of things about the place as I drove by. The mailbox reads ‘Fred and Laurel Smith,’ and no one seems to be home. There is no car in the driveway, and the grass is very tall around the house. Probably no one has been there for quite some time. Let’s see if we can reach the Smiths by phone.”
I took out my cell, called information and requested the phone number for the Smiths at that location. The operator recited the number, and I dialed it. Fortunately there was no answer, and even better, there was no answering machine asking for a message. This provided us with an opening.
“Let’s suppose that Richard Merrill is house-sitting at the Smith’s. And let’s also suppose that two days ago he picked you up in Augusta and brought you here. However, at this moment he is wherever he actually is, away from the house, doing whatever he is actually doing; we want to fabricate as little as possible. He left you alone in the house, and I have come to pick you up. We had been fighting, but we’ve made amends, and we’ve decided to go back home.
“Richard will have to know all of this in case Officer Handley calls him to corroborate the story.”
Cynthia stared at me for a minute and slowly nodded her approval.
“OK,” I said finally. “Call Richard now and bring him aboard our leaky Ship of Fools.”
Cynthia sat quietly for a minute and gathered herself. She then took her cell phone from her purse and dialed Richard’s number. When Richard answered, Cynthia told her story—our story—with all the gremlins included.
I listened carefully to her conversation and discovered a few salient points of interest. First, and foremost, Cynthia Dumais was with the governor last night, and she witnessed the murder!
I had loosely imagined that possibility on my two-hour drive here, but the stark reality of it rocked my bones. The expression, “In for a penny, in for a pound,” didn’t apply here. There was a lot more than a measly pound involved.
During the time I was studying to be a private investigator, I got in the habit of watching classic detective movies dating as far back as the mid 1930’s. William Powell played “Nick Charles” in The Thin Man. There was Jack Nicholson in Chinatown, Paul Newman in Harper, and Donald Sutherland in Klute. But Humphrey Bogart immortalized the consummate, big screen gumshoe, first as Sam Spade in The Maltese Falcon, and later as Phillip Marlowe in The Big Sleep.
At that moment, Cynthia Dumais reminded me of Mary Astor, who played Brigid O’Shaughnessy in The Maltese Falcon. At the end of the movie, Bogey finds out that Brigid has committed two murders. She pleads with him not to hand her over to the police. She turns on her charm, but to no avail. Bogey is having none of it. His parting words for Brigid are, “I’m going to send you over. The chances are you’ll get off with life. That means you’ll be out again in twenty years. You’re an angel. I’ll wait for you.” He clears his throat and concludes with, “If they hang you, I’ll always remember you.”
An unsettling thought began to stir my gray matter. Could the story line of The Maltese Falcon be replaying itself in the murder of William Lavoilette? Could the sweet and seemingly innocent Cynthia Dumais be the reincarnation of Brigid O’Shaughnessy, dragging me unwittingly into a gnarly mess of unexpected consequences? It occurred to me that it would have been simpler, and a whole lot safer, if I had taken Michael’s advice and simply left my cell phone turned off.
That’s the problem with good advice; you have to be smart enough to take it.
As Cynthia continued to talk on the phone, a number of other things came into focus. First, Richard Merrill was in Massachusetts on a business trip. Secondly, she and Richard had spoken at some time during the night or early morning about her predicament. It was apparent that Richard knew about Cynthia’s close involvement with the governor and had even helped arrange clandestine meetings for them. And lastly, it was obvious that Cynthia Dumais was having an affair with William Lavoilette. I would have to hope that the affair had been a true love affair, and not a pretense to lure him into the open to be murdered. My instincts told me that Cynthia was innocent, or as innocent as a governor’s mistress could be. On the other hand, my instincts had failed me repeatedly in the past. After all, I am a male.
Cynthia hung up the phone and stared at me. Judging from the look on her face, she realized I was aware of the messy details. She searched my face to see where I stood. Despite my growing anxiety, I tried to comfort her with an expression of confidence and understanding. I did the best Humphrey Bogart I could muster under the circumstances. But even Bogey had his limits. One more of his terse lines passed between my ears, “I hope they don't hang you, precious, by that sweet neck.” But I kept that to myself.
“OK, Cynthia. We are going to drive home now. We have ‘made up’ like any other couple who’s had a quarrel. We’re getting back together. Your act
ual nervousness will dovetail well with a lover who has been miffed and is trying to reconcile. My nervousness works in the same way. But we don’t want to over-act in front of an FBI agent. These guys are well trained to see through disguises. So, as any couple would agree, it’s none of his damn business why we were fighting.”
Cynthia relaxed noticeably when I said that. The Bogart façade seemed to be working.
I continued, “Richard drove you here. That’s why you don’t have your own car. Give the officer Richard’s number only if he asks for it. If the officer calls him, we’ll have to hope that Richard can cut the mustard and verify our story.”
“We can trust Richard,” Cynthia said. “He’s ready.”
“I hope so. Keep in mind one important thing, however. When questioned, don’t offer any more information than is absolutely necessary to answer the officer’s questions. The less you say, the less we’ll have to explain in any subsequent conversation. Don’t even mention Richard, unless they insist upon a clarification. Just say you ‘came here’ a couple of days ago. If they ask you how you got here, or where’s your car, then you can mention Richard. Otherwise keep him out of it. Keep everything as simple as possible. Your foot can’t get into your mouth if you keep your lips sealed.”
It occurred to me that it might be a good idea to mention the “two conversational devices,” but I resisted the temptation. For one thing, our story was already complicated enough. Cynthia didn’t need two more things rattling around her brain. But the main reason I didn’t bring it up is that Cynthia is a woman. Undoubtedly she already knows about apologies and compliments.
Something more important did occur to me, however.
“Cynthia,” I said. “I gather from your discussion with Richard that you spent Friday evening and all day Saturday at the governor’s summer home. Did you leave anything behind that would indicate you were there?”