Dead Down East

by Carl Schmidt

  “Governor Frye is well-known around the state, but elections are won and lost with advertising. If we cannot saturate the airways, he doesn’t stand a chance of winning as an Independent,” I concluded.

  I let that thought sink in and gave Susan a chance to nibble at the bait. I sipped my cappuccino and she sipped hers. Something was definitely brewing in her pretty little head.

  “I could guarantee a very large campaign contribution, if the Governor could guarantee something in return,” she said, while looking around as if to be sure no one could hear us.

  “What exactly do you have in mind?” I asked.

  “Northland Natural Gas and Down East Pipe and Fitting are both protected for the time being under Chapter 11,” she said. “We have a fair amount of working capital, but we won’t be able to operate for more than two years if there’s no change to the status quo. We need one of two things to happen. Either we must start hydraulic fracturing for natural gas, or run extensive pipelines for tar sands; otherwise, we’ll have to shut down completely. Once we sign contracts for either one of those projects, we’ll be in position to raise millions to support our operations.”

  “Honestly, the tar sands project is a long shot, given that brief time-frame,” I replied. “If James Frye is elected governor, it could happen in perhaps four or five years. Right now, the Keystone Pipeline is stalled until our illustrious president makes a move in the right direction. I’m confident it will eventually get completed, but don’t hold your breath. There is a proposed section running from Montreal to Portland, but that is at the very end of the Keystone line, which means it is not going to happen any time soon.”

  I paused for a moment to see how she’d react. She made no response, and didn’t even blink, so I continued, “The better wager is on fracking. There is very little scientific evidence of serious water problems resulting from hydraulic fracturing. The documentary, Gasland, has been largely discredited. Not much is standing in the way of natural gas exploration in Maine—except fear. If James Frye gets an opportunity to run the state for the next four years, you’ll get your opportunity to start drilling.”

  There was just enough truth in what I said to cause an energy lobbyist to drool. A subtle smile found its way across Susan’s face.

  “We are not the only natural gas company standing in line,” Susan said finally. “What kind of an edge could we have on the competition when the bids for drilling rights start filing in?”

  “That depends on the size of the campaign contribution,” I said. I glanced around cautiously as I spoke. I was confident that I had passed the audition with my comment and my furtive gesture.

  “What position would we be in if we donated a hundred thousand dollars?” she asked bluntly.

  I thought for a moment and said, “You’d be at or near the front of the line.”

  “When would you need it?” she asked.

  “Yesterday.”

  “I’ll get back with you on that,” she said, and I handed her my latest business card, compliments of Billy Mosher.

  “I’ll take that,” I added casually, pointing to her empty coffee cup. “I’ll drop it in the trash when I get back to my office.”

  She handed me her cup. I cradled it as I would a newborn, underneath its bottom. I didn’t want my DNA to mingle with hers.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow to let you know where we stand on a contribution,” she said. “We’ll have to discuss the details of the money transfer.”

  “We’ll work something out,” I said confidently.

  We both stood up.

  “My ride is parked on Capitol Street,” she said, pointing to the north.

  “I’ll wait to hear from you,” I replied, as I turned and headed west toward the State House.

  • • •

  It was four-thirty. I had just enough time to drop off the coffee cup at Paternal Affairs before they closed. I also had a Ziplock bag in the glove compartment of my battered Forester containing several strands of Michelle Jackson’s hair, including a few with follicles.

  I handed the two samples to a young woman at the front desk and requested that I be called as soon as the analyses were completed. I reminded her that I had submitted two other samples the previous week. I asked her to combine all the results in one folder. She said they should have it done by Thursday, Friday at the latest.

  From Paternal Affairs I drove across town to Ben’s Body Shop. I had made an appointment the day before to drop off the Forester. He had a loaner ready for me when I arrived. Ben took one look at the fender and asked, “What did you run into, Jesse?”

  “A guy with a substandard attitude,” I replied.

  “We’ll have it ready on Wednesday,” he said, and added, “Stay away from that guy until then.”

  “Will do, Ben.”

  • • •

  I was welcomed home by the smell of lasagna baking in the oven. Cynthia was in the living room watching the news.

  “Supper’s ready,” she said.

  “I’m ready too,” I replied.

  I opened a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

  “White goes well with a hearty lasagna,” Cynthia said, concurring with my choice.

  “Angele has taught me a thing or two about wine. If it weren’t for her, I’d have chosen a red because it matches the color of the sauce,” I said.

  Cynthia smiled and produced two green salads to go with the pasta.

  “Thank you for supper, Cynthia,” I said.

  I reviewed the day’s events with her. She seemed eager to hear every detail. Rebecca’s account of Tina Woodbury interested her almost as much as my encounter with Susan St. Claire. I was a little uneasy about discussing these women with her, but I thought it important to keep her up to date with my progress.

  “I respect Rebecca’s opinion,” she said. “She’s level headed and is a good judge of character. I must admit that while I was seeing William, I had a soft spot for her. If they had still been in love, even a little bit, I never would have allowed myself to get close to William.” She paused a moment and added, “I’m ready to hear about the other women in William’s life.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out about Tina online tonight,” I replied. “According to Richard, the breakup between Tina and William was not pleasant. She sent him abusive letters and made harassing phone calls for two months after they separated. Richard referred to her as a ‘gold digger.’”

  “How will you approach her?” Cynthia asked.

  “I’ll be direct at first. I’ll call her tomorrow and see if she is willing to talk. If she’s not, I’ll contact her ex-husbands and see what they can tell me. If that fails, I’ll have to resort to subterfuge. In the case of Dennis Jackson and Susan St. Claire, I assumed false identities. That was the only way I could get a foot in the door. If necessary, I’ll create a new persona for Tina.”

  We finished eating and had a second glass of wine together. Cynthia excused herself and retired to her room. I cleaned up the dishes and went to my office.

  The videos from Cynthia’s home showed no unusual activity, so I began researching the life of Tina Woodbury. I browsed for almost two hours and found very little. Her name popped up in a few obituaries, and I had her home address and phone number from Richard’s notes. Other than that, I couldn’t find anything noteworthy. I decided to call Angele.

  “I bet that Susan St. Claire and Aaron Miller are guilty,” she said after hearing my account of the day.

  “You already have twenty riding on Dennis Jackson,” I said.

  “I want to amend my wager,” she pleaded.

  “My bookie never allows me to change my mind once I’ve placed a bet,” I said.

  “Your bookie?” she said incredulously. “Who is that?”

  “He’s short, dark and smarmy. I don’t know his name, but I’m pretty sure he’s enrolled in the witness relocation program. They don’t all retire to Phoenix, Arizona you know.”

  “If you want to pull my leg, Jesse, that�
��s OK with me, but do it when we are in bed—not over the phone.”

  “Sorry, honey, just foolin’ with ya.”

  “I love you anyway, Jesse. I’ll leave my bet on Dennis Jackson to show you that I’m a good sport. Just remember that I told you it was Susan St. Claire and Aaron Miller who killed William Lavoilette.”

  “Sure thing, Angele.”

  “I’m trying to take off work on Friday. If I do, I’ll come up Thursday evening and stay through the weekend,” she said.

  “I’ll be waiting,” I replied.

  “Love you, Jesse.”

  I locked the house and hit the sack.

  28

  Two Gin Slings & A Proposition

  “Hello,” she said with a hint of irritability.

  “Hello. Is this Tina Woodbury?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Jesse Thorpe. I’ve been hired by Travis Perkins to investigate the murder of William Lavoilette,” I said. I decided to leave Richard Merrill’s name out of the conversation. That might stir up unsavory memories.

  “Oh yes…Travis Perkins…the Maine State Trooper,” she replied.

  “Right,” I said. “We’re convinced he is innocent.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “I’m working with his lawyer, Randall Bradford.”

  “I don’t know how I can help. How did you get my name?” she asked.

  “Mr. Perkins provided the names of some personal friends of Governor Lavoilette. I’m hoping you might be able to shed some light on the governor’s enemies. Are you aware of any death threats he might have received?”

  “No,” she replied.

  “I wonder if we could meet and talk more extensively about the people he dealt with?” I asked.

  She paused for a few moments and then said, “Sure. Why not? You can buy me lunch,” she offered.

  “I’d be happy to do that, Ms. Woodbury.”

  “Call me Tina,” she replied.

  “Tina.”

  “The Densmore is a nice restaurant. They serve a great filet mignon. Let’s meet there at twelve-thirty,” she said.

  The Densmore is a fine restaurant. It’s possibly the finest in central Maine. It’s certainly the most expensive.

  “How will I recognize you?” I asked.

  “I’ll be wearing a green blouse and a smile,” she said.

  She had definitely warmed up in a hurry. She was either excited to meet me or salivating over the idea of a piece of meat wrapped in bacon.

  “Twelve-thirty,” I replied. “I’ll be there.”

  “So will I,” she said in a breathy voice, and then hung up.

  “Hmm, a hundred dollar lunch with a sultry divorcee,” I thought. “This should be interesting.”

  I wondered how I might manage to extract a DNA sample from her in a restaurant. The chances of her DNA matching either of the two samples taken from the Lavoilette summer home were remote. She parted ways with the governor on bad terms, three years ago. It was highly doubtful that she would have visited him there in the recent past. Still, I needed to cover all the bases.

  Lifting her water glass from the restaurant on my way out the door would be tricky, especially if it were still half full. Her soupspoon, on the other hand, would be an easier target. If she needed to “freshen up” in the restroom at some point, I could switch spoons, and she’d be none the wiser. Even if she didn’t leave the table, I could probably palm it without her noticing, provided she’d had a few drinks. The mind becomes more casual with alcoholic lubrication. At fifteen dollars a martini, however, it could become a costly ploy. I wondered how many drinks I could justify on my expense account.

  • • •

  I arrived at the Densmore at precisely twelve-thirty. She stood out in the lobby like an oasis in the desert. Among other things, she filled out her green blouse perfectly. There are women, and there are women. Tina Woodbury qualified using every feminine standard. She was the kind of woman who leaves an indelible print on the retinas of sighted men. I wondered how Augusta had managed to keep her down on the farm.

  “Tina?” I asked.

  “None other,” she responded while sizing me up. My knees buckled as she drilled me with her eyes.

  “Table for two?” the waiter asked.

  “Definitely,” Tina responded. Her response was invigorating.

  We sat down and a cocktail waitress stepped in to take our orders.

  “I’ll have a gin sling,” Tina said.

  “Sure, why not,” I added. “Make that two.”

  “So you’re investigating the murder of William Lavoilette? Are you a private detective?” she asked.

  “Yes, I am,” I replied.

  “Perhaps you can help me. My former husband moved out of state two months ago, and my alimony checks have stopped arriving. He left no forwarding address, and I haven’t been able to locate him. Do you do that kind of work?”

  “I certainly do. At the moment I am working full time on the Lavoilette murder, but I could help you out when this case is wrapped up,” I said.

  “Are you like the Canadian Mounties?” she asked.

  “How’s that?” I replied.

  “Do you always get your man?”

  “Sometimes it’s a woman,” I said, thinking she would appreciate a little banter.

  She winked and said, “Do you think you’ll get me?”

  “Are you guilty of anything?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” she replied.

  I tapped my index finger on my lips a few times and tried to imagine what she had in mind. There were too many possibilities, so I dropped that conversational stream and started a new one.

  “How well did you know the governor?” I asked.

  “Very well,” she said provocatively. Everything about Tina Woodbury was provocative.

  “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill him?” I asked.

  “When we broke up, I wanted to. But I got over that,” she said. “I moved on.”

  “Does anyone else come to mind?” I asked.

  “Not really. After he ended our relationship, I never saw him in person again. I have no idea who might have wanted him dead. But if I had to guess, I’d say it was probably a woman.”

  Our gin slings arrived. They came in tall curved glasses with straws, topped with lemon twists and cherries; it was definitely a lady’s drink. I regretted my selection before it hit the table. It tasted fine, but it didn’t do anything for my masculinity. I would have tossed the straw, but then I’d be faced with the problem of screening the fruit with my lips. Tina seemed to appreciate my predicament. Bogey would have ordered a whiskey straight up.

  On the other hand, the straw in her drink offered some promising DNA potential, so I was delighted with her choice. She’d get a new straw with her second gin sling, and I’d have no problem pocketing the first one.

  Halfway through her drink, Tina gave me an inquisitive look and said, “I think I’ve seen you before. Are you a musician?”

  “In fact, I am. I play bass for Ocean Noises.”

  “I thought you looked familiar. I saw you play several months ago in a club in Portland. On Congress Street I believe,” she said.

  “We’ve played in several venues on Congress Street. How did you like the music?” I asked.

  “I was a little tipsy that night, so I don’t remember all that much. You had a female vocalist.”

  “Amanda.”

  “I remember she was really good,” Tina said.

  “She is. Do you want another drink?” I asked.

  “If you’re buying,” she said.

  “I guess I am,” I replied.

  “I’ll have another,” she said.

  I got the attention of the cocktail waitress and ordered, “One gin sling and a whiskey straight up.” I handed her both of our empty glasses, minus one straw.

  Tina did, in fact, order the filet mignon, a forty-five dollar luncheon selection. I settled for pasta primavera, only twenty-nine do
llars.

  I must have caught Tina on a good day. She didn’t seem at all the hostile witness that Rebecca and Richard suggested she would be. On the other hand, she was having her way with me…and my credit card.

  As we ate, I posed a few more questions about the governor, but they didn’t lead to any productive breakthroughs. Eventually, I gave up on the interrogation and decided to enjoy the meal and the company despite the expense. Besides, I already had what I came for.

  I excused myself and left the table for a minute. In the restroom, I carefully put her straw in a zip-lock bag and secured it in the pocket of my sport coat. As I walked back to the table, I was feeling buoyed with my trophy and the drinks. She was sitting with her back to me. I stopped when I got to her chair, peered over her left shoulder and asked her kindly, “Are you enjoying your meal?”

  She turned to me, slightly startled, then smiled and said, “Yes I am. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I’m enjoying myself too.”

  I gave her arm a slight squeeze, then walked around the table and smiled. She smiled back.

  As I sat down she asked, “Your place or mine?”

  I had not intended to be that smooth.

  “Well, I’m afraid it will have to be both,” I said. “You to your place, and I to mine. You’re a very attractive woman, and your offer is more than tempting, but I have a girlfriend, and I’m a faithful kind of guy.”

  She took it in stride.

  “You’re a rare one, Jesse Thorpe,” she said. “You have my number in case you change your mind.”

  “I have more than just your number,” I thought, but I didn’t mention that. Instead, I replied, “Thanks for talking with me. When the Lavoilette case is completed, I’ll call you and see if I can help you get the alimony checks you deserve.”

  I paid the bill and we walked out together, not quite arm in arm, but we gently rubbed shoulders a couple of times on our way to the door.

  “I’m parked over there,” I said, pointing to the right.

  She stepped toward me, put her left hand on my cheek and planted a wet kiss on my lips.