Dead Down East

by Carl Schmidt

  “Hello, this is Jesse Thorpe,” I said.

  “Mr. Thorpe, this is Ken Harper again. I have some good news. John Westcott booked that Saturday afternoon charter. I reached him at his home in Boston and explained the situation. Not only does he remember Mr. Cook and Mr. Perkins, he has some photographs of both of them, and he’s willing to share them with you.”

  “Great! Thank you so much for your trouble.”

  Ken gave me John’s phone number. I thanked him again, and we hung up.

  I called Mr. Westcott right away.

  “Hello,” came a voice.

  “Hello, is this John Westcott?”

  “Sure is. Is this Mr. Thorpe?”

  “Sure is. Thank you so much for offering to help. I assume Mr. Harper explained to you that I am investigating the murder of our governor.”

  “Yes he did. Wow! Are these two guys suspects?”

  “Well, one of them has been arrested as a material witness in the case, and the other is wanted for questioning.”

  “I’m happy to help out in any way I can,” he said. “I have some pictures of our fishing trip. I’ve posted the best ones on Facebook, if you care to look at them.”

  “I’m at my computer right now,” I said. “I’ll see if I can view your Facebook page. Do you have any privacy settings in place?”

  “No. Not really. I don’t think that’s necessary,” he replied. “If you need help finding my homepage, let me know. I’ll just wait for you to pull it up.”

  I put in a search and found dozens and dozens of John Wescotts on Facebook.

  “Which one are you?” I asked.

  “Look for ‘John S Westcott,’ hopefully there’s only one.”

  “Got it,” I said a few seconds later. “Your profile picture shows a man in a boat. Is that you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “OK,” I said, “give me a minute or two to go through the album.”

  There were about twenty-five photos of their fishing trip. Several of them had Travis in the background along with another man who was probably Justin Cook.

  “There’s a guy in a denim jacket in the very first picture,” I said. “Was he with your party, or is he one of the guys I’m looking for?”

  “He’s one of the guys you’re looking for,” he replied.

  “I wonder if you could do me a big favor?” I asked.

  “Name it.”

  “Could you email me the highest possible resolution images you have showing the two ‘other guys’ on the boat?”

  “No problem. I’m happy to do it. Give me your email address.”

  I gave him my address, and he promised to send the pictures that evening.

  “I’ll be glad to pay you for your trouble, Mr. Wescott,” I said.

  “No need. I’m happy to oblige.”

  I thanked him again, and we hung up.

  I walked into the kitchen and announced to Cynthia, “Where is that margarita? It’s time to celebrate. I think we have a real break in the case. I’ll be getting some photographs of the man who apparently stole Travis’ gun on Saturday morning…the same gun used to kill the governor on Saturday night.”

  I brought her up to date on my meeting with Richard and Travis. I told her that if Travis’ story is true, then “Justin Cook”—if that’s his real name—is almost surely involved in the murder.

  She wanted to have a quick look at the pictures of Justin and Travis on the Facebook page, so we went in and looked through the photo album. She seemed fairly certain that “Justin” was not the guy who shot William.

  “The murderer was taller and broader in the shoulders,” she said.

  “My best guess is that Justin is one of at least two people involved in the murder,” I said.

  I told Cynthia my theory of how the murder may have taken place, just as I had earlier that day with Randall and Travis. Cynthia thought I might be right, and this frightened her.

  “If it happened like you imagine it did, then one of them probably saw me get in or out of the car in the theater parking lot,” she said.

  “That’s very likely,” I replied. “William got out of the car and walked to the theater alone. Assuming someone followed William’s car there, he might well have trailed him to the theater to see where he was going. If that were the case, he wouldn’t have seen you get out of the car. But…my guess is that he staked out William’s car, waited for him to come back, and you got there first.”

  That thought worried both of us.

  “Cynthia, we have to determine the safest place for you to stay. If I cross paths with one of the people actually involved in the murder, my home could become a point of high interest. If he, or she, knows you are an eyewitness to the murder, your life could be in danger.

  “We have a few options. You can stay here, and we can keep your car in the garage where it is now. At least it is out of sight. Or you could move to another location. I can ask my mother to let you stay with her. She has a two-bedroom home in town, and she has a garage to hide your car from view. The third option is for you to go to the FBI.”

  “For the time being I’d rather stay here. Will that be OK?”

  “Sure. We’ll keep a close eye on our surveillance cameras. I think they would try looking for you at your home first. If we see any suspicious activity there, we can rethink our plan.”

  “I’m OK with that,” Cynthia said.

  A Beach Boys’ tune started running through my mind…“Help me Rhonda, help, help me Rhonda. Help me Rhonda, help, help me Rhonda …”

  Once a tune like that gets into your head, it’s damn near impossible to get it out. It was time to dust off my .38 Special and get her loaded. I’d be sleeping with Rhonda tonight.

  Cynthia decided to make something for us to eat. I watched the news and checked my email periodically. The pictures of Justin and Travis arrived just after we finished supper.

  There were fifteen pictures in all, taken from several different angles. Most of them showed only the back of Justin’s head, but there were three very good side shots, and two excellent full-face views. I was also pleased to see that in some of the pictures Justin’s right hand was normal, but in two of them it was bandaged. That helped to corroborate Travis’ story. Now I needed to decide what to do with the photographs.

  What I wanted to do was to give them to the Maine State Police and the FBI, and tell them about the bloodstain on the shirt. They were a lot better equipped to find this guy than I was. But that would almost certainly violate the ‘Joint Defense Privilege’ statute. The information about the fishing trip came from Travis, and he had the right to not share that information with the authorities.

  I was trapped somewhere between a rock and a hard place. I decided to sit on the rock for the time being.

  I gave Angele a call.

  “What’s up, sweetie,” she said, picking up the phone on the first ring.

  “That was quick,” I said. “Tell me, Angele, are you sitting down?”

  “What position do you want me in, Jesse?” she asked. I could have sworn I heard her wink as she spoke.

  “You’re putting me on the spot, honey,” I said.

  “That’s where I want you, honey,” she replied.

  My attention was beginning to wander. I was no longer between a rock and a hard place. The rock had rolled out of the picture, and the hard place was asserting its dominance.

  “OK, let me rephrase that,” I said, catching my breath. “Please sit down, Angele, I don’t want you to fall over when I tell you what’s been happening here.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “When I called you yesterday, I told you I had a new client, Cynthia Dumais.”

  “Yes, I remember that.”

  “I also told you that the case was about a Peeping Tom.”

  “Yes,” she said. Her voice rose as she replied, in a way that indicated she was now anticipating a new version of my story to come cascading out of my mouth. Either she’s psychic, or I’m transparent. Of
course, it could be both.

  “Well, that’s not the whole story,” I said, pausing to find a way to tell her gently.

  “Out with it, big boy. The suspense is killing me.”

  I proceeded to bring her up to date with the whole truth and nothing but the truth regarding the assassination of our governor, my involvement in the case and with Cynthia Dumais. The whole truth included the part about the envelope containing a piece of bloodstained sleeve.

  “Whoa,” she said when I was through. “Are you in over your head, Jesse?”

  “Not quite yet, but the water is rising. I need a favor. I need you to call Danielle Bacon and arrange to pick up that envelope, and bring it to me on Thursday when you come. Danielle already knows your name and has agreed to give it to you. Would you do that?”

  “Of course.”

  I gave her Danielle’s phone number and said, “You’re the best.”

  “Jesse, have you started sleeping with Rhonda again?”

  “Tonight’s the night,” I replied.

  “Thursday will be my first night with the three of us in bed together. We’ll have to see how that works out,” she said.

  “See you on Thursday.”

  “Bye, Jesse,” she said, and hung up.

  • • •

  From eleven o’clock on, I tried counting sheep, but the Beach Boys kept interfering with my arithmetic. Eventually I gave up on the wooly mammals and started counting choruses of “Help Me, Rhonda.” Around midnight I heard “get her out of my heart” for the last time, and I dozed off to sleep.

  Some time during that night, I felt the mattress shift and a pair of lips kissed me on the back of my neck.

  “Are you asleep, Jesse?” she asked.

  “Peaches!” I cried out, softly.

  “Jesse, darling, it’s time for a Peach Sundae. Do you have any whipped cream?”

  “Coming right up!” I announced. But she already knew that. Angele had a hold on me…in just the right place.

  She had snuggled up from behind while I was sleeping and wrapped her arms around me. We lay like spoons, with all our appendages intertwined.

  “Angele, I’m so happy to see you. Well, I haven’t seen you yet,” I said, “but I can feel you.”

  With that, I turned over to have a look. She eased her thigh over my hip and drew me inside.

  “Can you see me now?” she cooed.

  “You sure know how to treat a guy,” I replied.

  Angele stopped chatting. Like a nightingale with a baritone voice she sang her signature song—that deep, otherworldly Fugue. I held on tight as the bed swayed back and forth. It felt like a Nor’easter fixin’ to blow wild and unpredictable, so I surrendered myself, determined to go down with the ship if it came to that.

  First I was on top. Then I was on the bottom. I lost my bearings for a time, but found them again as she rolled over me. When I surfaced for air, Angele was hanging halfway off the bed. I pulled her back into the middle, and we rode out the storm together.

  In the end, we moaned in two-part harmony and wound up lying side by side on the Island of the Floating Spirits. We were drenched and exhausted, but still breathing.

  Sleep drifted over us like a down comforter in December.

  16

  Misty Starbird

  The smell of java did its best to rouse me in the morning, but was no match for my creative imagination. I just let it filter into my dream. There were exactly six days remaining in the semester. I hadn’t been to class in months.

  I had a schedule of courses in my notebook, which I couldn’t find. There was just enough time left to do my term papers and cram for exams, but I’d get no sleep for a week. “Where are my classrooms?” I thought.

  I heard Angele’s voice from somewhere beyond, “Vegan pancakes and orange juice, Jesse.” It was nice to hear a familiar voice, but I couldn’t see how that was going to help me pass my exams.

  “Pancakes and orange juice!” The voice was louder and more insistent. Then I felt a kiss on my neck and a hand on my thigh.

  “Thank God I’m out of school,” I said, as I opened my eyes to face the other side of reality. “Angele, that was quite a midnight surprise.”

  “I figured you and Rhonda were pulling an all-nighter, so I decided to drive up and put you to sleep. We’ve got a big day ahead.”

  “You’d make a wonderful secretary, Angele,” I said, “keeping me on schedule and all.”

  “That ‘and all’ covers a lot of ground, Jesse. You’ll need to make a lot more money to pay for that portion of my workload,” she said with a wink.

  “I’ll work nights,” I offered.

  “I’ll quit if I have to sleep alone,” she countered.

  “It’s too early in the morning for paradoxes, Angele. Let’s have pancakes. I’ll be right out after a shower.”

  I rolled out of bed, stood up and looked Angele in the eyes. She, on the other hand, surveyed me from top to bottom. I did a slow pirouette to show her the whole enchilada.

  “Maybe we should get back into bed and reconsider our morning schedule,” she said, smiling.

  “I’d love to, but one brush with extinction every twelve hours is all I can handle.”

  “Just a thought,” she sighed, while taking one last look at my remains.

  I made my way to the bathroom, showered and shaved. I donned a clean pair of jeans and a sport shirt and strolled down the hall like a new man.

  The women were sipping coffee and getting acquainted. I was just thankful that maple syrup is vegan. Angele not only has her way with me in bed, she has her way with me in the kitchen as well. When she’s in town, I’m a temporary vegan. It’s a small price to pay to keep her happy. If it means I’ll survive to be a hundred, that’s a bonus. It’ll give me plenty of time to reinvent myself in the decades to come.

  “We’ve got an appointment with Misty at nine o’clock sharp,” Angele said.

  “With whom?” I queried.

  “Allison ‘Misty’ Starbird. She’s the psychic I visit now and again when I’m in the neighborhood. She’s going to help us solve our murder.”

  “Oh. That Misty,” I replied. “And since when is it our murder?”

  “Since I picked up that envelope.”

  “This is dangerous business, Angele.”

  “You bet it is. That’s why I’m here…to keep you safe and sound. And happy!”

  Allison Starbird is well known in Augusta. She has a little shop in the Franklin Plaza on Western Avenue. The sign above the entrance reads, “Misty Starbird: Psychic, Tarot Cards, Crystal Readings and Tea-Room Advice.” A second sign, in orange neon, hangs in the window below and reads, “Tell me nothing…I tell all.”

  I liked that. In fact, I like Misty. She once told me I was going to “take an elevator ride through the roof to a mystical penthouse apartment.” That was exactly one week before I met Angele. I can safely say she was spot-on with that forecast.

  Generally, I’m not into the paranormal. I take things as they come, without making adjustments to my daily schedule based on psychic premonitions. I’m not opposed to the ideas of clairvoyance, séances or time travel, but there is already plenty for me to do in my earthly life.

  “Thanks, Angele. I hadn’t thought of Misty. She might provide us with some insight,” I said.

  “Might? There’s no might about it. She’s clairvoyant, Jesse. She sees things. She’ll cut right through the veil. We’ll have this case solved by the weekend.”

  “Let’s hope so. By the way, where is that envelope?”

  “It’s on your desk in the office.”

  I finished my potato pancakes and went to my office. I opened Travis’ envelope very carefully. I didn’t want to contaminate the bloody sleeve. It was nestled inside the list of phone calls Travis had received from Justin Cook. I eased the piece of cloth onto a clean sheet of paper, folded it and put it back in the envelope.

  The list revealed almost a dozen calls from Justin to Travis over a three-wee
k period. I imagined Justin’s cell was a prepaid phone. Almost surely it was now in the trash or at the bottom of a lake. But I tried the number anyway. A recorded message indicated that the number was no longer in service.

  Tracing the origination point of those calls might provide some clues. However, the easiest and most accurate method of localization requires both hardware and software on the handset. That seemed highly unlikely in this case. Other ways to track caller positioning include network-based techniques and WiFi. Both involve privacy issues not yet entirely resolved in the courts.

  I put the list of phone calls in my desk. That had a relatively low priority at this point. Determining where Justin is now was much more important than determining where he had been over the past three weeks.

  I pulled up the videos of Cynthia’s home. No problems there. Then I called out to Angele and asked her to join me in the office. She came right away.

  “Angele, there are a number of things to do today, so let’s plan our itinerary. First of all, how long will you be here in Augusta?”

  “I have to be in Portland tonight. I managed to get one day off, but I won’t be able to come back here on Thursday as we had planned,” she said.

  “OK. It’s a little after eight now, and we’ll be seeing Misty at nine. I need to drop off the blood sample at Paternal Affairs on our way. Later today, I want to go to Brunswick and Sebascodegan Island to survey the scene of the crime.”

  “Wait a minute, Jesse. Let’s go to Misty’s shop first. I told her about the bloody shirt. She wants it for the reading.”

  “Roger that, honey. What was I thinking?”

  “And when we go to Brunswick, let’s have Misty join us,” Angele said. “She’s a psychic hound dog.”

  “I hope I can convince my clients that her services are worth the money.”

  “Just tell them you have your own methods.”

  “Let’s go talk with Cynthia,” I said.