Dead Down East

by Carl Schmidt

  There was another noteworthy feature about William Lavoilette that caught my attention. Both he and his father were Freemasons. They attended meetings at the Masonic Temple on Washington Street in Bath in the ‘80’s and 90’s. The article didn’t mention if William was an active member after that. I found it interesting that the first Governor of Maine, William King, was also a Freemason. Maine joined the Union on March 15, 1820. William King, who was already the governor, was installed into the office of Grand Master of the Freemason Grand Lodge of Maine on June 24, 1820.

  • • •

  It was twelve-thirty. I decided it was time to give Travis Perkins a call. I tried his cell phone first. He picked up on the second ring.

  “Hello,” came the terse greeting.

  “Hello, is this Travis Perkins?” I asked.

  “Who is this?” he asked. “Your name and number are blocked.”

  “I am Jesse Thorpe. We met briefly a couple of years ago.”

  “I know who you are.”

  “I have been hired by Richard Merrill to investigate the murder of Governor Lavoilette. I’d like to ask you a few questions if that’s all right.”

  “It’s not all right. I’m an officer of the Maine State Police. If we have a talk, I’ll be the one asking the questions.”

  I thought for a moment and decided that some talk was better than no talk, so I said, “That’s fine. Ask me whatever question you’d like.”

  “I said ‘If we talk.’ But we’re not talking.” And he hung up.

  11

  Adjectives, Adverbs and Prepositions

  I keep a calendar on my wall, next to my computer. This year it’s “Island Paradise.” Angele gave it to me for Christmas with a wink and a nod. She said we needed a vacation, and besides, it was more sophisticated than the lingerie calendar I had used the previous year. I suppose it is, but lingerie is cheaper than a week in the Bahamas. I told her she might have to settle for a 12x12 glossy color photograph of a different beach each month this year. “You’re more than welcome to step into my office any time and dream away,” I said. That did not go over very well.

  As a couple, Angele and I fall somewhere between the stages of “dating” and “engaged.” She refers to it as the “Zesty Pre-committed Juncture.” As far as I can tell, there is no longer any widely acceptable euphemism for the period between dating and being engaged. A generation ago it was called “going steady,” but that phrase has disappeared from the idiomatic dictionary. Even if it were still in vogue, “steady” would not apply to Angele and me. A number of more appropriate adjectives rise from the cauldron of our relationship, which is why I mentioned the calendar in the first place.

  Whenever I finish talking to Angele on the phone from my desk, I always record an adjective of the day in the appropriate square on the calendar. It’s my job to determine which adjective in the English language best describes Angele’s mood at the moment we hang up. Adverbs are permitted in the mix as well, but prepositions are no longer allowed. I’ll explain.

  This past winter was unusually cold, but an island getaway still wasn’t in my budget. So in an attempt to keep warm, I started entering some hot and suggestive prepositions onto the page entitled, “February.” Among these were: beneath, within, over, upon, under, inside and between.

  Angele wandered into my office on the last day of that month and wrote “none of the above” in red lip liner on the 28th square. In her defense, it was not a particularly good time of the month for her. She made it clear that until I booked a trip to some tropical isle, prepositions were banned from the “Island Paradise Brochure” hanging on my wall.

  She came by a week later. I hadn’t turned over a new leaf, per se, but I had turned over the offending page on my calendar. It was March, and there was just one entry so far. On the 4th I wrote “RAVISHING” in all caps. It was my way of making amends for the prepositional indiscretions of the previous month. She studied the latest entry and then eyed me suspiciously for a few moments. But she couldn’t keep the smile from spreading to her cheeks. My gambit had worked. My bedroom doesn’t have a slow-turning ceiling fan, and it’s 1705 miles north of Key Largo, but that night it didn’t matter.

  • • •

  I gazed to my left and noticed that I had not yet turned the calendar to June. There were eight entries for May: exotic, jiggy, angelic, seductive, sassy, voluptuous, irreplaceable and preposterous. And with that I dialed her number. Angele picked up on the first ring.

  “What’s up? I haven’t heard from you in days,” she said slightly piqued.

  “Sorry, honey. I’ve been rather busy with a new client.”

  “Well, that’s a good thing. What’s the deal?”

  “Do you remember Cynthia Dumais? She hired me a couple of years ago, about the time when you and I first hooked up.”

  “I think so. You confronted the disgruntled, ex-husband stalker.”

  “Right. Well, now she has a new stalker, a Peeping Tom of sorts. She got spooked and wants to hide out at my place until it gets resolved. I’ve set up cameras at her place. Her house is now under surveillance. I’m not sure how long this will last, but she is staying in my spare room.”

  “Do I have to come over and explain to her the rules of the house?” she asked.

  “I think she can figure out the rules for herself, but you’re free to come over, of course. In fact that would be great. Cynthia is half French, like you. Maybe we can arrange a ménage à trois. Can you get away?”

  “No can do,” she said. “And forget the ménage, Jesse. I don’t think you could handle it. Besides, I’m conducting a performance evaluation all week in the Portland office. I still hope to get away on Thursday, but that will depend on whether the three new lawyers in the firm can get off their academic duffs and learn how to deal with real people. One of them is particularly badass. I think he resents taking directions from a woman.”

  “Angele, maybe you are intimidating him.”

  “I sure hope so,” she said.

  “That’s one of your more exhilarating traits,” I suggested. “You’re intimidating.”

  “That’s why I earn the Benjamins,” she replied. “Sorry, but I’ve got to go. Just hearing your voice again, however, inspires me to keep rolling with the newbies at the firm. We’ll do some rolling of our own on Thursday night, if I can make it. Just the two of us! Bye, Jesse.”

  “Bye, Angele,” I said, but I think she had already hung up.

  It was time to roll over May. I picked up a pen and wrote, “intimidating” on the June 3rd square. “This could be an interesting month,” I thought.

  • • •

  It was almost two o’clock, and I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. I walked through the hall and found Cynthia sleeping on the couch. No doubt she was still jet-lagged by the weekend’s events. I threw together a tuna fish sandwich, and rounded it out with chips and a Guinness, then took lunch into my office and ate while I continued researching the governor’s life. Richard’s call came in at 3:38. I was very eager to hear how it went with the FBI.

  “Hi, Richard,” I said, noting his name on the caller ID.

  “Hello, Jesse. I wanted to let you know that Cynthia’s name did not come up in the interview. That was quite a relief. They just asked me a lot of general questions about any possible political or personal enemies William might have had. Since William had made it clear to his security team that he would be alone over the weekend, I guess they assumed that that was true. So for now, to my knowledge, Cynthia’s name is not on the radar.”

  “That’s great. That will give us some time to proceed undercover. I’ll see you tomorrow at lunch. One of my primary interests is to learn about the women in William’s life. I’m aware that William and his wife were estranged, and had been for a number of years. Try to recall any women who had affairs with William over the past five years. No doubt he had political enemies, but I want to focus on the women in his life first. You know the well-known old phrase, �
�Cherchez la femme.’ It may be old, but it’s well-known for a reason.”

  “Right. I’ll review the list and see what specific information I have on them. Be forewarned, it’s not a short list.”

  “I won’t hold my breath,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Goodbye, Jesse.”

  I pulled the names of Michelle Jackson and Emily Haywood from my notes. These were the two women that Cynthia said could possibly have spent personal time with the governor. I managed to get both of their numbers from the phone book. The listing suggested that Emily was single. There were a few other Haywoods living in Augusta, but none at her home address. Michelle, on the other hand, had a husband named Dennis. Emily was the “shy one.” I decided to try her first. I’d hone my interviewing skills on the one without a significant other. She picked up on the first ring.

  “Hello, this is Emily,” came the sweet reply.

  “Hello, Emily, this is Jesse Thorpe. I have been hired by Richard Merrill to investigate the murder of Governor Lavoilette. I wonder if you’d be so kind as to answer a few questions about this sad affair?”

  “Oh my! Why are you calling me?”

  “I spoke with Richard earlier today, and he gave me a list of people who had personal contact with the governor. Your name was on the list.”

  “Well, yes, I did meet the governor a couple of times. The first time was at a party right after his election. My boyfriend at the time was Timothy Austin. He had worked for Mr. Lavoilette during the campaign. Tim did a variety of jobs, but primarily he was Mr. Lavoilette’s driver. He drove him all over the state to meetings, speeches, television debates, wherever he had to go. Tim was out of town a great deal, especially near the end of the campaign. I was invited to join Tim and celebrate Mr. Lavoilette’s victory at the party.”

  Emily stopped talking as if that were the whole story. So I stepped back into the conversation.

  “Richard gave me the impression that you saw the governor at least a few times after he took office,” I suggested.

  “Well, actually just once,” she said slowly, and then paused for a few moments.

  “Timothy and I broke up during the winter. Shortly after our breakup, I got a call directly from the governor himself. He invited me to come and work for him. I thought it was strange. I had only met him the one time, and we didn’t talk at all about work. I had a good job at the Maine State Credit Union, and I still work there. But he insisted I come for lunch and talk to him about a job possibility. So I went. Richard Merrill was there too. It was just the three of us.”

  “What was the job offer?” I asked.

  “That was the odd part. We ate and chatted for about forty-five minutes. He never actually told me what the job was. He just asked me a lot of questions about my own work. I guess it was just a general interview. Afterward, he thanked me for coming over and said he would get in touch with me again soon. He never did.”

  “Just wondering, Miss Haywood, was anyone else present during your lunch?”

  “There was one police officer who sat in the room while we ate, but I assumed he was just there for security reasons. Other than that, no.”

  “Was that the last time you actually were with the governor?” I asked.

  “Yes. It was just those two times. I’m a little surprised Mr. Merrill even mentioned my name.”

  “I guess he is just trying to cover all the bases. Thank you very much for your time.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Thorpe,” she said, and we hung up.

  It’s a little creepy working a job that rewards lying. After all, Richard Merrill never put Emily’s name on a list. That came from Cynthia. I’d like to think that my heart is in the right place, but this does give me pause. I’ve always had contempt for those who lie for the sake of convenience. My lie did help me get some interesting, and possibly useful, information. And, no doubt, I’d be doing it again in the days—or even minutes—to come. I guess I’ll have to get used to it. I hope that lying doesn’t become so comfortable that I let it seep into the everyday modus operandi of my life. If that happened, self-loathing would not be far behind. I reserve most of my loathing for politicians, insurance salesmen and Wall Street bankers. I certainly don’t want to end up on my own list.

  I had another call to make. I held my nose and dialed Michelle Jackson’s number. It rang four times.

  “Hello. This is Dennis Jackson.”

  “Hello,” I said. “I’m trying to reach Michelle Jackson. Do I have the correct number?”

  “Yes, you do. May I ask who’s calling?”

  “My name is Jesse Thorpe. I’m a friend of Richard Merrill.”

  There was a long pause at the other end, and then click.

  “Ouch,” I thought, out loud. I must have struck a nerve.

  For the rest of the afternoon and early evening, I researched the governor’s political fights, trying to sort his allies from his enemies. Eventually I had compiled quite a list, but a nagging thought ran through my head the entire time. The FBI should be doing this, not Jesse Thorpe. My forte is women, not politics. That’s where I had a leg up on the FBI…maybe two.

  By 7:30, I was getting hungry, so I headed for the kitchen. As soon as I opened the office door, I smelled some incredibly inviting aromas wafting from that direction. Cynthia was at the stove. Four burners were lit. There was some pasta boiling in a pot, some onions caramelizing in a pan, a steamer hissing through the seal of its lid and a creamy white substance taking shape in a saucepan. Cynthia was stirring the sauce as I entered the room.

  “What have you got going there, Cynthia,” I asked.

  “It’s fettuccine Alfredo. Right now I’m making the roux.”

  “Nothing to rue about here,” I offered, my clumsy way of saying thanks for a home cooked supper.

  I detected a faint chuckle, which was all the reward one could expect for such an obvious pun. So I added, “Thanks so much for doing this. I lost track of time and now I’m starving. I go for a piece of toast, and find my kitchen has morphed into an Italian bistro. Maybe we should get married.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Jesse.”

  “Anything you say. I never argue with a woman with a ladle in her hand. Would you like me to open a bottle of wine?”

  “That would be nice,” she said.

  “What goes with Alfredo, red or white?”

  “White,” she said, with enough certainty to satisfy any skeptic. “A Pinot Grigio is good, but any white is fine.”

  “White it is then,” I said.

  I was a little embarrassed that all my wine bottles were standing straight up in the pantry. And most of them didn’t have corks. I had intended to build a wine rack three years ago. I even purchased the cedar to construct it, but the wood is still sitting in my workshop. The cedar now has aged longer than every one of my wines.

  Fortunately I had a white one. As I was opening the bottle, I said, “The wine is from Trader Joes, but don’t let that fool you. Joe knows wines. He travels extensively throughout Napa and Sonoma counties.” I paused and then added, “Look at this…apparently he also goes to France. This one is a Bordeaux, ‘Chateau Bonnet 2011, Sauvignon Blanc.’”

  I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about, but I can read a label. I held the bottle to the light to be sure it wasn’t red. Steve Martin once opined, “Those French have a different word for everything.” I knew what “Blanc” meant, but it never hurts to double check.

  “That will be fine,” Cynthia said, “but didn’t Joe retire about twenty-five years ago?”

  “Maybe it was Joe Junior.”

  “I see,” she replied. Cynthia was kind enough to sound as if she meant it.

  I pulled the only two wineglasses I own from the shelf and wiped them clean with a dishtowel when Cynthia wasn’t looking. I then poured a glass and handed it to her. She stopped her rouxing long enough to take a sip. She then gave me a gentle but serious look and said, “I really appreciate your help. I know I’m a client, b
ut you’re now my friend as well. Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome, Cynthia. From here on out we are just ‘friends.’ I’ll be there for you when you need me. By the way, Richard called a few hours ago. Your name did not come up in his interview with the FBI. So, no worries there for the moment.” Then I added, “I’ll stop being a pest and let you finish here. I’m going to check the news to see if there are any new developments.”

  I poured myself a glass of the white, went into the living room and turned on the TV. Anderson Cooper 360o was on CNN. “That guy not only gets around; apparently he goes all the way around,” I thought. Nevertheless, he had no breaking news on the Lavoilette murder.

  I switched to MSNBC with Chris Hayes. He is a little more cheery than Anderson, but Chris had nothing new to offer either. I was just finishing my glass of wine when Cynthia came out with two gorgeous plates of fettuccine Alfredo, each topped with a sprig of parsley.

  12

  The Third Client

  I could smell the java. “It must be 7:00 already,” I thought.

  I keep my coffeemaker in my bedroom, and I use it as my alarm clock. I prefer fine aromas to buzzing alarms in the morning. Besides, when you turn off the alarm, it’s off; the snooze button drives me crazy. It works three times and then doesn’t. In the mystifying haze of early morning, I have a hard time keeping track of the number of times I’ve hit the bloody button. The java, on the other hand, never quits. It keeps luring me up and out of my slumber. Angele likes the java alarm too. She insists that, “It’s good to the last whiff.”

  I rolled out of bed, threw on sweats and poured my first cup. I strolled into the kitchen for some half and half.

  The sun was low in the eastern sky at just the perfect angle to reflect its light off Leroux Pond directly through my kitchen window. As we used to say in physics class, “The angle of incidence is equal to the angle of reflection.” In other words, the water acts like a mirror. The breeze over the water made the pond light up like an arcade.