Dead Down East

by Carl Schmidt

  “I wasn’t going to give them Cynthia’s name under any circumstances. The other four affairs all happened more than two years ago. I thought it was better to let sleeping dogs lie. I gave you the full list. I assume you will investigate them with discretion. William was my dearest friend. I will do everything I possibly can to protect his good name. I also was thinking of Rebecca. A public display of William’s string of affairs would be painful for her, and it would be damaging to her reputation.”

  “I understand,” I said. “I’ll be faithful to your concerns. I’ll be interviewing Rebecca today. Should I avoid bringing up the names of these women? It would definitely be awkward for me to mention them.”

  “Right,” Richard said. “On the other hand, she might be able to provide you with some important clues. I’ll call her first, and tell her that you know about the women. I think she will want to help in any way possible. I’ll call you back after I’ve spoken with her to let you know how she responded.”

  “Great. That will make my task a lot easier,” I said. “Thanks again, Richard.”

  There was a brief knock at the front door before it opened. Then I heard Billy call down the hallway, “Jesse, I have your business cards.”

  Cynthia must have let him in. I’d been keeping the doors locked for a week.

  “Come on down. I’m in the office,” I shouted.

  “Very nice, Billy,” I said after seeing the cards. “You’d make a fine counterfeiter.”

  “I’ve given that some thought, Jesse. After all, I’m very fond of money.”

  “Aren’t we all?” I replied.

  “What would we do without rhetorical questions?” Billy asked with a grin on his face.

  “Very clever, Billy,” I said, “I knew you were witty, but I didn’t realize you were sophisticated as well.”

  “I’m oozing sophistication, Jesse. I went to the University of Maine Farmington. It’s a bastion of droll erudition.”

  “That’s true. It’s a much better school than most people realize. Did you graduate?” I asked.

  “No, but I did complete two-and-a-half semesters.”

  “Well done,” I said.

  “Are you referring to the business cards or my academic career?”

  “Both, but mostly the cards. Here’s your twenty bucks,” I said as I opened my wallet.

  “Can I get an advance on the finder’s fee?”

  “What happens if you can’t find the letter?” I asked.

  “I shouldn’t have any trouble. I know where my mailbox is.”

  “OK, here’s a hundred. There’s a story behind how I got this C-note. I’ll tell you about it later. I’m a little short of time.”

  “Thanks for the advance, Jesse.”

  Billy tucked the hundred-dollar bill in his shirt pocket, turned and left the premises.

  It was just over a week since Cynthia arrived. She had settled in reasonably well. I was keeping her informed of my progress, and we shared meals whenever I was around. She had an assistant helping her with property listings, and they managed to keep up with business over the phone. On one occasion, she had driven to town to finalize the sale of a home, but returned here quickly after that was done. She had books to read and found ways to pass the time, but she stayed on full alert. She was convinced that her life was still in danger, and I assumed she was right. I was armed at all times, even inside the house. Dennis Jackson weighed heavily in my thoughts, even after his contrite phone message. Now there was Susan St. Claire and Aaron Miller to consider. Without Angele to soothe my nerves, I probably wouldn’t have been getting much sleep.

  The phone rang. It was Richard.

  “Jesse, you’re free to talk with Rebecca about anything. Finding William’s killer is her primary objective now. Their marriage was dissolving, but she still loved and respected him. She knows about the women, and she’s ready to discuss them. In fact, I told her that the women were your primary focus. She’s OK with that.”

  “Thanks. That takes a load off my mind. Is there anything else I should know?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so. Good luck, and keep me informed. I’ll have my office in the State House until Friday. Then I’m clearing out. If you stop by this week, I’ll give you another check for your services.”

  “OK, I’ll see you in a few days, Richard.”

  • • •

  Maine state law limits the size of contributions that individuals can make to those running for public office. For gubernatorial candidates the limit is $1500 for primaries and $1500 for the general election. A list of donors, recipients, dates and the size of all contributions is available online. Susan St. Claire made two contributions of $1500 each to William Lavoilette’s first campaign. I also checked for Aaron Miller and Mark Prichard. Aaron contributed a total of $3000 to Clayton Andrews’ campaign, and Mark donated $3000 to John Fickett’s. Northland Natural Gas made their political bets across the board.

  Clearly the trio was trying to buy influence, regardless who won the election. They had a vested interest both in natural gas exploration and tar sands pipelines. If Maine were to permit an expansion in either of those areas, their companies stood to get very healthy overnight. That seemed motive enough to want to eliminate a governor who stood in their way. That same motive provided an opening for me to get up close and personal with Susan St. Claire.

  With freshly printed business cards in hand, it was time to make my next move.

  “Susan St. Claire speaking,” came the familiar voice.

  “Ms. St. Claire, this is Lloyd Williams. I’m an aide to the acting governor, James Frye. I am his special liaison for energy policy. Governor Frye wants to connect with Maine companies that deal in energy exploration and infrastructure. We understand that you are one of the principal owners of both Northland Natural Gas and Down East Pipe and Fitting. Is that correct?”

  “Yes I am. I’ve known James Frye for years. In fact I left a message with Governor Frye last Thursday hoping to have a discussion with him,” she said.

  “She moves right in,” I thought to myself.

  “Would it be possible for us to meet privately sometime soon?” I asked.

  “Absolutely. I’m available anytime,” she said with enthusiasm.

  “Are you in Augusta?”

  “I live here, yes. We have an office in town and another near Jackman,” she replied.

  “I have an important appointment today at two o’clock,” I said. “We could get together either earlier in the afternoon, or after…say…three-thirty?”

  “Three-thirty sounds good. Where would you like to meet?” she asked.

  “It’s a beautiful day, and Capitol Park is near my office. We could find a quiet place to sit and chat. If that’s agreeable, we can meet on the east side of State Street at the two short pillars directly opposite the State House. How’s that?” I asked.

  “That’s fine,” she said.

  “Do you like coffee?” I asked.

  “Sure.”

  “How about a cappuccino?”

  “Perfect,” she said.

  “I’ll bring two cups. See you at three-thirty.”

  • • •

  After my conversation with Susan, I spent the rest of the morning searching for information about the three owners of Northland Gas. The first thing I read was an obituary for Robert St. Claire. Susan St. Claire was listed as Robert’s wife. They had no children. The notice reported, “Robert died unexpectedly near Troy, Pennsylvania on March 12, 2008.”

  I did some checking and located several news stories relating to an accident that occurred at a natural gas drilling site owned by Keystone State Natural Gas and Pipeline Company on that day. Robert St. Claire was the only fatality.

  A coroner’s inquest was held to determine the cause of death. The report indicated that the hydraulic system at the site had not been properly depressurized. It was operating at 1,500 pounds of pressure per square inch. There was an explosion. According to two eyewitnesses, Mark Pr
ichard and Aaron Miller, the blast slammed a wrench into the side of Mr. St. Claire’s head, and killed him instantly. Aaron Miller stated, “Robert St. Claire had been holding the wrench at the time of the explosion.” The article also indicated that Mark Prichard was Susan St. Claire’s brother.

  The coroner’s report was inconclusive as to the cause of death. A grand jury took up the case, but failed to find adequate evidence for an indictment. For legal purposes, the death was ruled an accident, and Susan St. Claire was awarded a large settlement under a life insurance policy.

  One news story cited the corporate ownership of Keystone at the time of the accident. Robert St. Claire had owned 65% of the stock, and Mark Prichard owned 35% of the stock. Susan was the only heir to Robert’s financial interests, so she retained the 65% holding when Robert died. The Pennsylvania Department of State listed the current ownership of Keystone to be Susan St. Claire - 55%, Mark Prichard - 30%, and Aaron Miller - 15%, which happens to be the identical ownership distribution of Northland Natural Gas in Maine.

  • • •

  Philip Hastings met me at the front door of the Blaine House and escorted me inside to an office. Rebecca was sitting at a large oak desk in front of a computer when I entered the room. She was attractive and looked to be in her late forties. She’s a relatively tall, thin woman, and was conservatively dressed in a white blouse and dark brown blazer. She wore no jewelry other than a wedding band. A gentle smile crossed her lips as I introduced myself.

  “Sit down, Mr. Thorpe. Richard Merrill and I spoke earlier about your investigation. I understand you have been interviewing some of the women who had intimate relationships with William. Don’t be squeamish. Feel free to discuss these women with me. To the extent that I can, I will speak openly about them. My only request would be that you do your best to keep his extramarital affairs out of the press. If something surfaces that is highly pertinent to the murder investigation, then it will almost surely come out, perhaps in a trial. I am prepared for that. Just keep as much as you can out of the public eye. William was a decent man and worked hard to govern in a balanced way.”

  “Thank you Mrs. Lavoilette,” I said.

  “Please, call me Rebecca,” she said.

  I spread my notes and the spreadsheet on the table and said, “Richard gave me a list of seven women who had affairs with William over the past five years.”

  I turned the list so that Rebecca could read it.

  “If you would be so kind, could you take a few minutes and read the notes about these women. I’d be happy to hear any specific comments you might have. I’m particularly interested in any of them who caused particular stress in William’s life when the affair ended. Take your time.”

  Rebecca read the list and showed very little negative emotion. She didn’t appear surprised at all, and even chuckled when she reached the bottom of the first page. That was where the “vamp” entry was located. I suspected she was reacting to that particular comment.

  When she finished reading the second page, she looked up and said, “I am familiar with all but one of these women. The two that stand out for me are Cheryl Greenwood and Tina Woodbury. As far as I know, Cheryl was William’s first affair. The notes indicate that it lasted two months. That seems about right. As soon as I confronted him about the affair, William broke it off.

  “William had hired Cheryl as a secretary when he was organizing a team for his first campaign. She was a beautiful woman, about thirty years old, single and very intelligent. From the beginning I suspected something, but I didn’t say a thing. Perhaps if I had been more proactive, I could have nipped that one in the bud, and things would have turned out differently. After I discovered them—in the act, so to speak—my relationship with William suffered a severe downturn.

  “I don’t blame William entirely for this. I could have been a more loving wife. He was very busy preparing for his candidacy, and I felt left out of his life. I resented that. As a result, I only rarely slept with him during the campaign. His libido got the better of him.”

  “What was Cheryl’s reaction when they broke up?” I asked.

  “I don’t really know. He let her go the next day, and I never saw her again. William never spoke of her after that. But, to tell the truth, I thought Cheryl was very sweet. I got to know her briefly before I found them together. I can’t imagine her to be involved in murder.”

  “What about Tina Woodbury?” I asked.

  “She gave me the creeps from the beginning. I never liked her, even before their affair. Richard’s notes indicate she had a temper. I noticed that as well. I never understood William’s fascination with her, except if you believe the old adage that ‘opposites attract.’ She was pretty, of course, but she was very controlling. Of all the names on the list, she’s the one I would investigate thoroughly.”

  “You said there was a name on the list that you weren’t familiar with. Which one is that?” I asked.

  “Susan St. Claire. I can’t remember William ever mentioning her name. The comment that called her a ‘vamp’ is amusing, but I wouldn’t know about that.”

  Rebecca and I continued to review the list of names, but there was not much more I could glean from that part of our conversation. When I asked her to assess William’s political enemies, she laughed and said, “Do you have a week?”

  “Well, I suppose I could find the time,” I said. “However, I was looking for some specific individual who was especially hostile.”

  She thought for a minute and said, “No single adversary stands out.”

  “I have an appointment at three-thirty with Susan St. Claire,” I said. “I’ll follow up with your recommendation to move Tina Woodbury to the top of the list. If my investigation begins to run dry, I’ll call you again, and we can discuss some of his political enemies. Generally speaking though, I am leaving that to the FBI and the Maine State Police. They are better suited to investigate leads of that nature.”

  “You’re probably right. OK. So I guess we are done for now,” she said.

  “Yes. Thank you for your time, Rebecca. I appreciate your candidness. I voted for William, and I thought he was a fine governor. I hope I can be helpful in solving this case.”

  She reached out her hand and shook mine warmly. “Thank you,” she said.

  • • •

  It was three o’clock when I left the Blaine House. The nearest Starbucks was a couple miles away. I had just enough time to pick up two cappuccinos and get back for my stroll with Susan St. Claire.

  It seemed a little warm to wear a sport coat that would cover up a shoulder holster, so I decided to leave my .38 Special in the glove compartment of my car. One chilling thought, however, made my knees knock. There are grassy knolls throughout the park. It’s been half a century since November 22, 1963, yet even today, Americans can hardly imagine a ‘grassy knoll’ without a sniper or two lurking in the shadows.

  27

  Baiting the Hook

  I stood inside the Maine State House holding two cappuccinos and keeping my eye on the pillars across the street. I wanted to observe Susan St. Claire before I met her. I also did not want to be an easy target on the side of the road.

  At three twenty-five, a silver Porsche 911 with tinted windows stopped out front. A tall woman got out on the passenger side, stepped to the narrow curb and stood casually next to the pillars as the car pulled away. She was wearing a bright violet blouse and cream-colored slacks. From a distance, she appeared as elegant and self-assured as a fashion model.

  I let her stand there alone for a few minutes to size her up. She didn’t lose her composure for even an instant. She looked like a woman with confidence to burn, like someone who knew what she wanted and how to get it.

  I took a deep breath and ventured across the street, directly into the den of the lioness.

  “Susan?” I asked.

  “Mr. Williams,” she replied, giving me a slight smile and a raised eyebrow. The lilt in her voice suggested she was sizing me up.
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  “Call me Lloyd,” I countered.

  “Lloyd,” she responded, somewhere between acceptance and doubt.

  Like a chess match, we began with standard openings.

  “With or without sugar?” I asked, holding the two cups forward on her right and her left.

  “Without,” she replied.

  I handed her the cup in my right hand.

  “Thank you,” she said in a robotic monotone.

  “Let’s find a quiet place in the shade. It’s warm today,” I offered. But in reality, I was thinking, “I’m an easy target in the sun.”

  We walked down the stone steps and across a patch of grass to the gravel pathway.

  “There’s a bench under a tree by the Vietnam Veterans Memorial,” I said. “It looks vacant.”

  We continued walking along the path toward the memorial.

  The most remarkable thing about Capitol Park was how few people were there. A young man was throwing a Frisbee to his dog on the lawn in the center, and a few other people were jogging, but that was about it. Thirty acres of freshly cut grass lined with trees, and only a few souls were enjoying it on this beautiful afternoon in June.

  Susan and I were alone with our coffees and our cross-purposes.

  As we sat down on the bench, I initiated the conversation.

  “Governor Frye extends his welcome,” I said.

  “Very kind of him,” she replied.

  “The Governor is concerned about the energy resources in our state. He feels that the former governor did not adequately anticipate our future needs. James Frye intends to shift gears, but he is only the acting governor. There isn’t much that can be done in the five months before the next election.

  “Because of the sudden death of William Lavoilette, the race for Governor is now wide open. As you know, James Frye is running as an Independent, but he will need a quick influx of financing in order to run a strong campaign. He is looking for funding from the energy sector.