Dead Down East

by Carl Schmidt

  “Dennis and I have two children. We are committed to our family. William was very appealing, but the night that Dennis confronted William at the campaign office was the last time either of us saw the governor.”

  That was really all I needed to hear. I just wanted to get a DNA sample and be on my way. I’d try the bathroom first.

  “Do you mind if I use your restroom? I’ve been on the road a couple of hours.”

  “Sure. It’s down the hall on your left.”

  I made my way to the bathroom and was delighted to see a hairbrush on the counter. I pulled off several long stands that seemed to match her color of hair and slipped them in a small zip lock bag I had in my pocket. I flushed the toilet, ran some water and then returned to the living room.

  “I’d like to discuss a few other things, Mrs. Jackson, but I just received a call from my wife. Our daughter fell off her bike and was taken to the hospital. It’s not serious, but I want to get there right away. Perhaps we can talk later.”

  “By all means. I’m sorry about your daughter,” she said.

  I was out of there in a heartbeat. Two or three beats later it skipped. I hurried out the door, across the porch and down the stairs without so much as a flutter, but when I looked up for my Forester parked at the curb, I found Dennis Jackson sitting on the hood holding a tire iron in his lap.

  “Dennis,” I said. “What brings you into the neighborhood?”

  Dennis was not in the mood for a chat. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pair of designer sunglasses—Gucci probably, perhaps Ray-Ban—and slipped them on his face. He then eased himself down off my car and took hold of the tire iron in both hands. It was at that exact moment that I discovered he bats from the left side. He had a definite hitch in his swing, but managed to beat the daylights out of my headlight. Plastic and glass flew off in several directions.

  Dennis then turned his head to see me, intending, I believe, to comment on his slugging percentage. I interrupted his train of thought.

  “Allow me to make the introductions,” I said. “Rhonda, this is Dennis Jackson. Dennis this is Rhonda Giannini.”

  I gave Mr. Jackson a few moments to appreciate the gravity of his situation. I held my black, Snubnose Smith and Wesson .38 Special with its dark brown wooden grip firmly in my right hand. With my left, I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my iPhone.

  “Say cheese,” I said, as I began to shoot some video of the proceedings. “I’ll want a record of this for the insurance company and for the police, if necessary.”

  The front door of the Jackson home flew open behind me, and Michelle shouted out, “Dennis, what are you doing?”

  “Yes, Dennis,” I echoed. “What are you doing?”

  He couldn’t find anything pertinent to say. The three of us stood there, awkwardly waiting for cues.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do,” I said. “First, I want you to keep hanging on to that tire iron with both of your hands.” I wiggled my .38 Special in Dennis’ direction for emphasis. He complied.

  “Michelle, I want you to walk over to your husband, slowly, and stand behind him.”

  As Michelle moved into place, I positioned myself so I could see them both clearly.

  “Michelle, reach into his pocket and remove his wallet. Then throw it over to me.”

  She located it in the inner pocket of his bomber jacket and tossed it my way.

  “Thank you. Now, Michelle, please pull the top of his jacket over his shoulders and down to his elbows. Oh, and Dennis, don’t let go of that tire iron just yet.”

  When that part of the choreography had been completed as directed, I said, “Michelle, if you will, please back away a few steps.”

  She did.

  “Dennis, how could you?” she hissed again.

  I reached for the wallet without taking my eyes off of Dennis. There were several crisp Franklin notes in the main fold.

  “I guess in your line of work lots of cash changes hands. I won’t interfere with that tradition. I’ll be taking four of these. One meets my deductible exactly. Two should cover a loaner. I’ll need a car while my Forester is being repaired. The fourth one is for pain and suffering.”

  “I’m not done with you, Thorpe,” Dennis finally said.

  “Precisely,” I replied. “Now, kindly walk over to the yellow Beemer parked behind my car. The Red Sox are looking for some right handed pop off the bench. Swing from the opposite side this time. Let’s pretend that your right headlight is the ball. Hit it out of the park.”

  “I won’t,” he said defiantly.

  I raised my cell phone and said, “Once I finish dialing 911, I’ll be committed to full disclosure of what has just happened here. Wouldn’t it be simpler all around if you’d just follow instructions?”

  Dennis glared at me and walked slowly to the front fender of his car.

  “No bunting,” I cautioned.

  Dennis took a light swing, but there was not much damage.

  “Foul ball!” I announced. “Take another cut, and don’t hold back this time. You are trying my patience.”

  Reluctantly, Dennis swung harder. From the looks of things he hit a grounder up the middle. Some glass flew and some metal bent.

  “I guess we’ll have to settle for a single,” I said.

  His shoulders slumped and his head drooped. I knew exactly how he felt.

  “I will be going now. But I’m sure you understand that I’ll need to frisk you first. Rhonda is not fond of competition. Drop the tire iron, place both your hands on the hood of your car and spread your legs…just like in the movies.”

  Dennis was not carrying a weapon, and from the feel of things he wasn’t happy to see me either. Mae West would have been disappointed.

  As I pulled away in my Forester, Dennis was lying face down in the grass, as I had instructed, and Michelle stood beside him with tears in her eyes. After a moment’s reflection, I complimented myself on the foresight not to put any physical address on my PI website. The thought of Dennis Jackson dropping by was decidedly unappealing.

  When I was a mile down the road, I stopped and called Angele.

  “Jesse! Are you in town?”

  “Let’s do lunch,” I suggested.

  “Is that the best you can do?” she whispered.

  “I’ve got a couple of hours. I guess we could do other things,” I offered.

  “You could start with me. I can meet you at my place in five minutes.”

  “See you there, Peaches.”

  “Fruit salad it is then,” she said, and I heard her wink.

  I didn’t want the Dennis Jackson episode to interfere with our noon rendezvous, so I’d save that story until after Angele and I had been reunited.

  The front door was open when I arrived, and Angele was waiting on her bed for me without a stitch on.

  “This is a great way to unwind after a difficult morning at the office,” I said unbuttoning my shirt.

  Angele’s smile grew wider each time another piece of my ensemble hit the floor. My last sock ended on the foot of her bed, and I eased myself gently on top of her. She kissed me like she hadn’t seen me for months and opened wide. When I was fully in place, she arched her back and purred, “Unwind away!”

  • • •

  After the unwinding, the bed gradually came to a complete stop at the gate, and the seat belt sign was turned off. We floated among the islands for a few minutes before Angele broke the silence, “Jesse, other than your parents, you’ve never talked much about your family. You are a real moaner in bed. You sound like a Native American chanting for rain.”

  “I was just warming up my vocal chords for our gig this evening.”

  “Really? In that register?”

  “OK. Since you asked, I’m one-eighth Penobscot. My great-grandfather, Windgate, grew up in Georgia. He skipped to Maine after his divorce from Sarah Lightfoot in 1915. He left her with five kids and a struggling peach farm in the Peach State.”

 
“A peach farmer! That’s must be why you call me ‘Peaches.’”

  “In the realm of fresh fruit, nothing tops a ripe peach,” I said.

  “You just did, Jesse.”

  I left that remark dangling and carried on with the story of my lineage.

  “Originally, Windgate’s surname was Oglethorpe. After he was in Maine for a month, he moved in with a woman named Virginia and took up potato farming in Aroostook County. Windgate said he never cared for his last name. It made him sound more lecherous than he actually was. He dropped the ‘Ogle’ and became Windgate Thorpe. I imagine he changed his name for other reasons as well. He never heard from Sarah again, and she never received any alimony checks from Down East. Virginia Pelagie, my great-grandmother, was a direct descendent of Mary Pelagie, the famous Penobscot Indian known as Molly Molasses.”

  “So you descended from a peach and potato farming deadbeat dad and a Native American. That explains several things. Among them, your moaning is probably responsible for half the rain in New England.”

  “Angele, you moan every bit as loud as I do. And it rained here long before I arrived on the scene.”

  “Don’t get defensive, Jesse. I don’t mind the rain. Besides, I love it when you moan. It’s a baritone song of love.”

  “What’s for lunch?” I asked, deciding to change the subject.

  “A kale smoothie, brown rice and tofu.”

  “I love it when you talk dirty,” I suggested.

  “Tryin’ my best to keep you vibrant, honey.”

  “By the way, Angele, I dropped in to see Dennis Jackson and his wife this morning.”

  “And…” she said, waiting for me to continue.

  “I found out three things. He was at a party with his wife on Saturday evening when William Lavoilette was murdered.”

  I paused before telling the second thing.

  “And…” she said again, this time with more anticipation.

  “He’s left handed…and…he keeps a Colt .45 in the top right drawer of his desk,” I said.

  “What?” she said. Her face lit up.

  I described my encounter with the Jacksons and then added, “You remember our bet, don’t you? It’s not a lock, but you’ll probably need to come up with forty bucks. I don’t think he killed the governor.”

  “Why? Because he said he was at a party on Saturday night? Dennis Jackson is a violent man, Jesse.”

  “He was with Michelle and thirty-five other people that night.”

  “He could have hired a killer,” Angele protested.

  I decided not to debate that possibility. First, I needed to cope with the kale smoothie. It’s easier to clear hurdles one at a time.

  22

  Fender Bass Seven Iron

  Our Friday gig at the Raincloud was relatively uneventful. Saturday night in Bangor is another story.

  The evening started routinely enough. We played mostly on key, and the crowd was enjoying themselves. Maybe it was the beers more than the music, but there were no complaints until we were well into our second set. That’s when some clown at a table in the back called out, “Play ‘White Winter Hymnal’ by Fleet Foxes.”

  That’s a mouthful to say, even when sober. But the guy managed to get well over half of the syllables correct. Very impressive. Also, I appreciated his choice of music, even if he was hammered—and he obviously was. But under the circumstances, we had to ignore him and started in on our cover of “Just Breathe” by Pearl Jam. He either failed to hear us play “White Winter Hymnal” during our first set, or he was suffering from short-term memory loss.

  We were barely into the first verse when our “friend” stood up, nearly toppling his table while maneuvering himself into a semi-erect position, and then shouted, “I said, ‘White Winter Hymnal.’”

  That time he pronounced it perfectly, but the band played on. That’s show business.

  As we reached the bridge, “Stay with me…let’s just breathe…” he obviously had no intention of taking the song’s philosophical advice. An empty beer bottle flew in our direction along with the comment, “You’re fucking trash!”

  This must have woken a patron nodding off in front, who then added, “And no more fucking James Taylor. He’s a fucking liberal twit.”

  That was three “fuckings” in less than four bars of music.

  Ocean Noises has a strict policy of playing on through two “fuckings,” but never three. When that happens, we stop the music and hope the bouncer remembers how to conduct the birthday parlor game, Musical Chairs. If he does, he knows enough to remove a chair—and in this case two—while informing the squatters they are OUT. According to the rules, the bouncer should then escort them both from the Sea Breeze onto Main Street.

  I was at the microphone so I summoned the bouncer. “Stan, would you please show these two musical connoisseurs the way to the front door?”

  Unfortunately, Stan was in the restroom at that particular moment in time, a distinct miscalculation on my part. Things generally went downhill from there. When the fun had finally run its course, we had one amplifier that never amped anything again, and Billy Mosher’s KingKORG Synthesizer had an ugly scratch across its face. Other than that, we escaped relatively unscathed.

  Landon O’Reilly, the disgruntled conservative patron sitting up front, didn’t fair as well. A Fender Bass Guitar has a weight distribution not unlike a sledgehammer. Though, oddly enough, this fact is not included in the instruction manual. If Landon retains any of the common sense God gave him, he’ll think twice before messing with a bass player again. I feel obligated to add that I had some help in the proceedings. Amanda Cavenaugh’s right knee found its way to Landon’s groin the moment he boarded the stage. Immediately after that, I swung my guitar like a seven-iron and hit him on his right shoulder. He fell back onto the dance floor, did an unusual version of the two-step, and collapsed into a tidy heap while holding on to his manhood. I was encouraged to hear Landon groan. It was living proof he had not yet expired.

  We explained to Sergeant Clemson of the Bangor City Police Department that we didn’t want to press charges; we only wanted to get packed up and go home.

  In retrospect, we decided that the hubbub had more to do with the Red Sox than our skills as musicians. Earlier in the week, the Sox were swept by the Yankees at Fenway. Then to rub salt in the wound, they were shut out on Friday night by Toronto, the doormat of the American League East that year. The boys were just blowing off steam.

  Before driving back to Augusta, I chatted with Brock. He hadn’t managed to get a date for our Friday gig in Gardiner, but he showed up in Bangor Saturday night with Anita Reston in tow.

  “Anita, nice to meet you,” I said, after the introductions.

  “Looks as if your golf game is improving, Jesse,” Brock said.

  “Where were you hiding during the scuffle, Brock? We could have used your physical presence up there,” I said.

  “I was stuck in the bleacher seats. I grabbed the loudmouth in the back and took him outside. Before I could get to the other guy, I saw Amanda knee him as he rushed the stage. Did you hire her as your bodyguard?” he asked.

  “She can really handle herself, can’t she?” I replied.

  “In any event, I figured you were in good hands. After all, you’re a private investigator. They teach karate and wrestling holds in PI school, don’t they?”

  “Not really,” I said. “But I’ve learned a few tricks watching Humphrey Bogart films. Which reminds me…what’s the latest in the Lavoilette case?”

  “You know I can’t discuss an ongoing murder investigation,” he protested.

  “Anita, please excuse us for just a minute, I need to speak alone with Brock,” I said.

  “Certainly,” Anita replied.

  I took Brock by the arm and led him around a corner and into an alley.

  “You’re not going to rough me up are you?”

  “Not unless I have to,” I said.

  “OK. Off the record?” Brock ask
ed.

  “Of course,” I assured him.

  “Travis Perkins is not talking. However, there might have been an eyewitness to the murder. We’ve received two anonymous tips that have led the FBI to find the murder weapon and some other items of interest. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you, Jesse?”

  “Not a thing, Brock.”

  “Nobody thinks Travis is directly involved. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to use his own gun or supply it to the killer. But until he helps us out, he’s going to stay locked up.”

  “What about the motive? What’s the prevailing theory?” I asked.

  “Lot’s of political angles are being discussed, but nothing substantial has surfaced in that department that I’m aware of. There are some indications that the governor was having an affair, maybe even more than one. The FBI have checked out a few possibilities, including Michelle Jackson and Lori Trumbull.

  “Michelle and her husband, Dennis, have an alibi for Saturday night. Besides, Michelle hasn’t been seen around the governor for at least a year. According to Richard Merrill, Lori Trumbull might have been sleeping with the governor a couple of years ago, but he wasn’t sure. Other than that, there aren’t any significant personal leads.”

  Brock continued, “There’s one other possible motive, but it is remote. When William Lavoilette and Richard Merrill were going to college, they were in a fatal car crash. Alcohol was involved. Officially, William was driving. But we are certain that Richard was driving, and he had been drinking. The parents and other family members of the girl who was killed all know the facts. So it’s almost certain there was no simmering hostility directed at William for the crash…maybe at Richard, but not at the governor.”

  “Thanks, Brock. I appreciate your help. I’m working a few angles of my own on behalf of my client. If anything breaks that doesn’t hit the newswire, please let me know. It could save me a whole lot of trouble.”