by Carl Schmidt
There was a considerable number of handguns available at Capitol Pawn, but one stood out for both of us. It was a shiny black Snubnose Smith and Wesson .38 Special with a dark brown wooden grip. Before I could even open my mouth, Eric asked the proprietor to bring it out of the case so he could get his hands on it. For Eric it was love at first touch. If I had preferred a different gun, I probably could not have prevailed in an ensuing argument. Fortunately I liked his choice. Even Sam Spade would have concurred, I thought. It’s a beauty.
Eric passed on the Stratocaster. It was priced a little beyond his budget—our budget, actually—in as much as the band had a strict policy of splitting all profits and expenses equally. So I bought the weapon of Eric’s choice, and we drove it home.
A license is not required to purchase or own a handgun in the state of Maine. However, a license is required to carry a handgun. I had already acquired that license, and it was “on my person.” I was in full compliance with the law. As a PI, “being in compliance” is an important state to be in. I would estimate that over the past six years, my tenure as a private investigator, I’ve been in that state over 50% of the time, give or take.
A month before purchasing my firearm, I had broken up with my latest heartthrob. She was a fiery brunette with green eyes and an overcharged libido. Now that I think about it, I seem to be attracted to combustible women. It might be a logical consequence of the long New England winters, coupled with the fact that I’m often late paying my gas bill. For whatever reason, the queue of ladies in the narrative of my life resembled a row of Roman Candles on the Fourth of July. And while she and I never discussed the possibility of marriage or the pastries that accompany wedding receptions, among all of my exes, Rhonda Giannini definitely took the cake on her way out the door. By the time Eric and I got home from our shopping spree, my .38 Special had a Christian name.
The logic of Eric’s choice of monikers was irrefutable. Sure, it is commonplace to give weapons a feminine appellation. It was also true that Ms. Giannini had the personality of a loaded gun with a hair trigger, ready to go off at the slightest touch. But there were three other features that sealed the deal.
First, Eric reminded me of the night Rhonda and I met. She and one of her friends, whose name now escapes me, hung around to introduce themselves to us one Saturday night after we had finished our show in Portland. The girls had nothing better to do than to ride home with us, fifty-five miles to Augusta, at one o’clock in the morning. Fortunately, my farmhouse has two bedrooms. Unfortunately, the walls are paper-thin. According to Eric, on several occasions throughout the night, the headboard on my bed went bang against the wall, and shook the house.
Second, Rhonda had recently left me in the lurch for another innocent bystander, one Bradley Windgate, a restaurateur from Bar Harbor. Eric was quick to point out that while Bradley was not especially handsome, he was considerably more “loaded” than I, which was more than just a little annoying. Naming my piece, Rhonda, was a way of restoring what little dignity remained for me in her absence. She would now be relegated to my side. I could take her out whenever I wanted, and—as Eric put it—“fondle her” at my own discretion. Despite the seamy quality of Eric’s choice of words, I have to admit he had a point.
And finally, Eric brought to my attention the palpable fact that Rhonda was indeed, very well endowed by her maker. Coincidentally or not, our weapon of choice was a .38 Special.
Rhonda was definitely that.
I put her back in the dresser, stretched out on my bed, and drifted into the arms of the angels. If I was going to worry about consorting with murderers, it could wait until my nap was over. For now, I relished the opportunity as Hamlet did so long ago, “To sleep! Perchance to dream.”
And dream I did.
• • •
I barely remember putting my head on the pillow. I went out like a light and quickly slipped into a deep sleep.
I was floating in a fog, searching for something. I was anxious about finding it, but I didn’t know what “it” was. I only knew it was important.
I became aware of a distinct humming sound coming from somewhere behind me. It sounded like a small single engine plane. It wasn’t loud, just smooth and persistent. As I listened to it closely, I felt as if it were resonating inside the back of my head. I drifted along, propelled by this sound for what seemed a very long time.
Eventually the sound faded as if the plane had disappeared across the horizon. When the humming had completely ceased, I couldn’t hear a thing. I was now distinctly aware of the silence left in its wake.
To this point, I had been alone in the dream. I was not aware of any other person. But the silence ushered in the premonition that someone was near me. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Then she spoke, “Cherchez la femme.” The sound of the word, “femme,” trailed off slowly. I imagined a woman fading into the night.
Then I realized that it was Kathleen who spoke those three French words. There was no mistaking her voice. It had the same cadence and the precise tone. I couldn’t see her, but I knew, beyond any doubt, it was Kathleen. She spoke with no emotion. The most surprising feature of her voice was that it was so absolutely clear and unmistakable.
Even as I dreamed, I remembered that Kathleen had spoken this phrase during our conversation earlier in the day. When she said it at breakfast, I had dismissed it as a bit presumptuous. We certainly didn’t have any facts to support the assumption that a woman was involved. But now it seemed almost certain, even obvious. Perhaps it is the nature of the feminine mind to be able, in rare moments, to see beyond the confusion of possibilities and arrive directly at a pristine, unassailable truth.
While in the dreaming state, this feminine outlook felt comfortable and elegant. By comparison, my everyday, linear methodology seemed tedious and not nearly as effective. It was inspiring to think that if I could somehow use both halves of my brain at one time, rather than just the analytical half by itself, I might be able to arrive at authentic conclusions, instead of plodding along in pursuit of them.
I knew that I was dreaming, and I also knew dreams evaporate with the light of day. So I began instructing myself, resolutely, to not forget this…to bring this way of thinking back with me. I wanted to begin seeing the whole and not just the straight lines extending to points. The last thing I remember was commanding myself to remember. Then I was back.
My dream had the texture of a near death experience. While it lasted, I felt disembodied, impervious to the laws of physics. Perhaps I might one day remain “out there,” if I could find a way to resist the pull of gravity, and reject the appeal and the attraction of this planetary existence—what Van Morrison refers to as glamour. That was beyond my reach at the moment, but it wasn’t beyond my imagination. In fact, in the euphoric remnants of my dream, death seemed an inviting alternative to earthly life.
Dazed by this overview, I looked around my room and was confounded to see everything just as I had left it. It was dusk. I wasn’t sure what day it was. According to the clock on my side table and the twilight in the western sky, it was nine o’clock in the evening. I could only assume it was the same Sunday that I had left behind. If that were true, then I had been in space for several hours.
The thought returned, “Cherchez la femme.” I wondered, “Does this apply here—on earth?” I figured it must.
My heart suddenly quickened as I thought of Cynthia sleeping in the next bedroom. She most definitely was une femme.
It was clearly a case of bad news and good news. The bad news was that danger, perhaps even murder, had wormed its way into the Thorpe estate. The good news was that I was now convinced that death was not as unwelcome as it’s cracked up to be.
In any case, my rustic Maine farmhouse was beginning to resemble a harem. Not counting Becky, who was resting comfortably in the console of my Forester, there were four prominent women in my life. Kathleen, Angele, Cynthia and Rhonda: an apparition, a lover, a client, and a .38 Special.
/> 8
A Deadly Tale
The rain had stopped. The evening was cool and subdued. I eased out of bed and put on a flannel shirt. As I entered the living room, Cynthia was standing at the window looking at the road below and Leroux Pond beyond that. The sun had already set.
She turned as I came into the room and managed a weak smile. “It’s like a dream,” she said.
“It sure is,” I replied, confident that I was on the same page.
I wanted to give her a hug, to console her from the shock and grief she was feeling, but that was a road too far. I offered her a cup of tea.
“That would be nice. It’s getting a little chilly,” she said.
I went into the kitchen and rummaged through the drawer that held the only tea in the house. “Will peppermint do?”
“Sure,” she said.
Cynthia remained where she was, staring out the window, while I put on the kettle, got two cups from the cupboard and began watching the pot that never boils.
The next few minutes were quiet, inviting an inner dialogue to fill the space between my ears. It began with the trial scene in My Cousin Vinny:
Attempting to deflate the prosecution’s timeline, Vinny Gambini is cross-examining Mr. Tipton about his cooking. The dialogue went like this:
Vinny: “How could it take you five minutes to cook your grits when it takes the entire grit-eating world 20 minutes?”
Mr. Tipton: “Um...I'm a fast cook, I guess.”
Vinny: “Perhaps the laws of physics cease to exist on your stove.”
I was fairly certain that the laws of physics still existed on my stove. I had studied those laws during my four years at Colby College, and I had never witnessed any of them being violated anywhere, let alone in my kitchen. Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle held its ground tenaciously upon my stove, even though Werner himself never intended it be applied beyond the quantum realm. But then, things created on my stove have always been uncertain and tentative, even the boiling of water.
The uncertainty principle doesn’t in any way suggest that a pot won’t boil; it just indicates that there is no absolute assurance when or if it will. Quirky and inexplicable things happen in the quantum world. While the macro world is less subject to these spasmodic idiosyncrasies, technically speaking, there is no specific point where the quantum world ends and the rest of the world begins. It’s all a quantum world. Hence there remains a relentless uncertainty in every little thing and, by extension, in big things as well. Statistics be damned for the moment, if I may be so bold.
Notwithstanding the confidence I had in my scientific thought processes, the pot indeed did boil, even while I watched it. With two cups of piping hot tea in hand, I tabled my internal dialogue and made my way to the living room. It was high time for the real dialogue to begin.
When Cynthia saw me, she moved toward the couch and said, “Let’s sit down. I’ll tell you what happened.”
Cynthia sat on the couch, and I settled into my bark-a-lounger—the hideous, though comfortable, consequence of the confluence of a Discover Card, several beers, a boring evening and cable TV. The chair provided a kind of “Sam Spade’s been to WalMart” ambiance, not entirely reassuring for clients, to be sure, but after all, this was not LA. Mainers are not so concerned about haute couture and living room furniture. In her current state of mind, I’m certain it didn’t matter to Cynthia one iota.
“How to begin?” she pondered.
“Just start at the beginning and feel your way along. We have all night, and I need to know exactly what happened. Please, be open and frank. I’m your friend, and I’m here to help. Every detail is important. We’ll sort it out as we go.”
“You heard my conversation with Richard on the phone, so I’m sure you realize that I was having an affair with William. He and Rebecca hadn’t slept together for the past five years. For all intents and purposes, they were separated. On paper they were married, but in real life, no. They simply shared a proximity to one another.
“William and I began seeing each other almost a year ago. Richard Merrill and William were friends and associates. They had known one another since high school and maintained a close relationship for the past thirty years. Richard appreciated how difficult it was for William to live with Rebecca and still have a ‘normal’ life. William felt he had to keep up appearances in order to prevail in his first run for governor. As you know, he just barely won. A divorce would have ended his chances before he got started.
“But William is a man, and a dashing one at that. Was.”
Cynthia sighed, took a deep breath and waded ahead.
“Richard would arrange our dates. At times we would shuffle cars around to give us a chance to be alone. William often drove his car to Richard’s house and then would drive Richard’s car to my home for the weekend. That left his car, which could easily be recognized, at a friend’s house, not a lover’s.
“This weekend we tried something different. If we could only undo those plans…”
Cynthia teared up noticeably, so I went to the bathroom to fetch some tissues.
She thanked me, dried her eyes and continued.
“On Friday after we had both finished work, William and I converged at Richard’s home. Richard was getting ready to leave on a business trip to Massachusetts, so we couldn’t use his car. We had worked out an alternative plan. We had decided to go to William’s summer home on Sebascodegan Island and spend the weekend there alone. William alerted his security team that he would be going there by himself. Ostensibly, he would be completing the acceptance speech for his nomination for a second term. As you know, he was running unopposed in his own party. He had given strict orders not to be disturbed for the entire weekend.
“When we drove out of Augusta, I sat in the back seat. The windows of his car are heavily tinted, so no one could see that I was there. Whenever we came to a stop in town, I simply ducked down to avoid being seen through the windshield. Just before we got on the interstate, we found a quiet place to pull over, and I got in front. We drove the rest of the way side by side.
“When we arrived on Sebascodegan Island, we found another spot to pull over, and I got into the back seat once again. Being concerned that the guard posted outside William’s summer home would see me, I stayed tucked down on the floor as William stopped at the gate. He greeted the guard in his usual friendly manner and reminded him that he didn’t want to be disturbed for the weekend. We then passed through the gate and into the garage. From there we were secluded in his beautiful summer home on the bay.
“By the way, William and I planned to be married. He and Rebecca had already agreed to a divorce. They hoped to keep up the appearance of a happy couple until sometime after the election. Win or lose, the marriage was over. If he won reelection, there might be a mild scandal over the ‘other woman,’ but nothing that would interfere with his position as governor.”
Cynthia’s story didn’t shock me, but it did come as a surprise. She closed her eyes and so did I. There was little I needed to say at this point. I just waited for the story to resume.
“We spent all of Saturday lounging inside the house. We didn’t want to be spotted by the neighbors or from the boats in the bay. We were content to just be together.
“We decided to go to the theater on Saturday evening. The movie, Lincoln, was making a rerun at the Royal in Brunswick. Neither of us had seen it the first time around, so we were eager to go. It would be a little tricky to remain unnoticed, but we worked out a ruse. Actually, we reveled in it. It felt like a college caper.
“It’s only four miles to the theater. I would ride in the back all the way. William had already informed the guard that he was going out, so when we approached, the guard opened the gate, and we drove right through. When we got to the theater, William parked in an out of the way spot. He got out alone and walked inside. We had arranged to meet and sit in the back. The film had been out for quite some time, so the theater was not likely to be full.
“When the movie was over, we took separate paths back to the car. I went first because we knew I wouldn’t attract attention. He followed about a minute later. I would already be hidden in the car in the event someone noticed him on his way out. It worked fine. We left the parking lot about 10:15 and headed back to the island.
“We drove down the highway and over the bridge, but as we approached the intersection at Cundys Harbor Road and began turning left, William noticed a car stopped along the side of the road, heading in the opposite direction. The driver was standing in front of his car, waving what looked like a white towel.
“There was very little traffic so late at night, and the guy obviously needed some help. William decided to stop and see what he could do. He told me to stay down in back so that I could not be seen when he lowered his window. William pulled the car off to the right, rolled down his window and called across the road, ‘What’s the trouble?’
“The guy told William that his right front tire was flat. He had jacked up his car, but the jack had slipped and was now wedged in such a way that he couldn’t extract it. He wondered if William could spare a few minutes and loan him his jack so that he could finish changing the tire.