Dead Down East

by Carl Schmidt

  36

  Settling Up

  “Richard Merrill, party of ten.”

  Nathan Percival, the maitre d' at the Kennebec Barbeque & Grille, waited for all of us to assemble, counted heads and then escorted us to a private room near the back of the restaurant. We walked single file through the doorway, Richard in the lead, followed by Cynthia, Billy, Misty, Eric, Randall, Travis, Brock, Angele and me. In the middle of the small room was a single round table covered in pink linen and surrounded by ten chairs. A vase with a half-dozen red roses accented with baby’s breath rested elegantly in the center. We circled the table and took our seats.

  When we were all in place, Jean Pierre made a bold entrance into the room. He was stylishly dressed in a white shirt, black vest, slacks and bow tie. He eyed Richard sitting on the far side of the room and commanded everyone’s attention as he strode toward him.

  “Good evening, Mr. Merrill,” he announced.

  “Good evening, Jean Pierre,” Richard replied. “How are you doing?”

  “Just fine, sir,” he replied. He then scanned the table, registering, no doubt, the curious ensemble of diners.

  “What would you like to drink?” he asked.

  The question was more or less directed to Richard, but we knew it was meant for everyone.

  Richard said, “Ice water all around, of course.” He then turned to his left and asked, “Would you like a drink, Cynthia?”

  “A martini would be nice, Richard,” she replied.

  Jean Pierre jotted down cocktail orders taken clockwise around the table. After Richard requested a Manhattan, Jean Pierre replied, “Very good,” spun on his heels and left the room.

  It had been two weeks since we delivered Mark Prichard to Maine. Aaron Miller and Susan St. Claire had been arrested Monday morning, a few hours after Mark’s arrival at the county jail. He was being held in protective custody somewhere in the state. Aaron and Susan faced their initial arraignment on Wednesday and were being held without bail. They were charged with an assortment of crimes, most of which boiled down to first-degree murder.

  Cynthia Dumais came forward the day after the arraignment and was debriefed by the FBI. She was receiving round-the-clock protection pending the trial, but was allowed to venture out alone upon request.

  The din of chatter at the table subsided slightly as Jean Pierre reentered the room with ten cocktails and a pitcher of water on a tray. Beginning with Richard, he set the drinks down one by one. He then poured water in everyone’s glass; I was at the end of the clockwise loop. After he filled mine, he produced a slice of lemon from within a small metal cup and placed it on the rim of my glass. He turned to Richard and said, “I’ll be back shortly to take your dinner orders.”

  Richard smiled at me, and I nodded.

  “Keep the twenty, Richard,” I said. “You are an excellent judge of character.”

  When the others asked what I meant, I explained our wager. I then looked directly across the table and smiled mischievously at Eric until he began to squirm.

  Eventually, he said, “OK, Jesse, you were right about Rebecca. Here’s your forty bucks.”

  He removed two twenties from his wallet and sent them in opposite directions around the table. When they reached me, I inspected the bills and said, “Nice doing business with you, Eric.”

  “The pleasure was all mine,” he replied. And, no doubt, he meant it. I had paid him four hundred dollars for his role as an FBI agent.

  I turned to Angele and said, “While we’re discussing friendly wagers, sweetheart, I believe you owe me forty dollars as well.”

  “I guess so,” she replied. “I really thought that Dennis Jackson was the killer. Jesse, dear, I wonder if you can extend to me a line of credit? It seems that I have no cash in my purse.”

  She opened it for me to see as if to prove her claim.

  “A line of credit?” I asked. “I don’t know. What can you put up for collateral?”

  “Plenty,” she replied. “I’ll straighten it all out with you this evening.”

  “I’m looking forward to that,” I said.

  Jean Pierre refreshed our cocktails, and the chatter rose to the next level.

  I was pleased that Travis had joined us for dinner. He had been reluctant at first, knowing that Cynthia would be there, but he was ready to celebrate like the rest of us. He had been released from jail on the Wednesday that Susan and Aaron were arraigned. He remained on administrative leave, but was hopeful that he would be back on the force in a few weeks. Randall Bradford continued to represent him in his request to be reinstated as a Maine Trooper. He would not be returning to his previous job of protecting the governor, but Randall was confident that Travis could resume working for the highway patrol.

  Misty had been hired as a consultant by the Portland police department.

  Eric had written two new songs and was petitioning Billy and me to include them on our upcoming album.

  Billy had kept a new girlfriend for the entire week, but they had just had their first disagreement. He wasn’t sure where she was at the moment.

  Richard had accepted a consulting job in Washington D.C. and planned to move there at the end of July.

  One way or another, life was beginning to normalize for most of us.

  There had been a $20,000 reward promised by a wealthy donor for information leading to the arrest and conviction of anyone involved in the Lavoilette murder. Brock had asked me privately to come out of the shadows and line up for the reward. I told him that I didn’t want to jeopardize the case against Susan and Aaron. I asked him to make arrangements to have the money donated anonymously to Rebecca Lavoilette’s favorite charity. He said he’d try, but didn’t know if he could make that happen.

  It was possible that word would leak out about my involvement with Mark Prichard. As a precautionary measure, I began growing a handlebar mustache. That way if my picture turned up in the press, Mark and Susan would be less likely to recognize me. At that point, it might not make any difference at trial. Mark had freely made his statement to the FBI, and while it’s true that three civilians, falsely representing themselves as members of law enforcement, persuaded him to come forward, there was no clear violation of lawful procedure committed by any actual authority figure. Randall Bradford admitted that there could be some possible legal wrangling in the future over the issue if it came to light, but he suspected that it would not carry enough weight to overturn a conviction. He even agreed to represent me free of charge in any related lawsuits. I now topped his list of reliable private investigators.

  Richard insisted on paying the bill for dinner. The rest of us ponied up the tip. Jean Pierre pretended not to notice the tall stack of bills by the rose centerpiece, and he wished us all a good evening as we left the room.

  We went nine separate ways in the parking lot on Water Street. Angele came home with me.

  “Tomorrow is Sunday, Jesse. Do you have any plans?” she asked.

  “Not so fast, Peaches. What about the collateral for your credit line?”

  “Gee,” she said, “I almost forgot.”

  37

  Bali Hai

  My doorbell rang at 7:30 in the evening, October 31st. I had no idea who it could be.

  I live on a quiet country road four miles from the center of town. Trick-or-treaters don’t normally make the rounds this far from civilization, but I carve a Jack-o-lantern anyway. Halloween has always been my favorite annual event. This year Jack had an unusually cheerful face. I wasn’t expecting any revelers, but if one did drop by, the candle-lit toothy grin wasn’t going to scare the caller away. When I turned on my outside light and opened the door, I found a ghost in a white sheet standing on my porch.

  “Trick or treat,” he or she cackled.

  It sounded more like a he than a she, but I wasn’t certain. He, or she, stood about 5’4” tall, so I was guessing it to be a female apparition, but the sheet was puffed out near the ground. The human imposter might be bent at the knees i
n order to appear shorter.

  “I’m sorry, but I didn’t prepare for goblins tonight,” I said sheepishly. “There’s no candy in the house. How about an apple?”

  “Trick or treat?” came the response, louder and more insistent. “It’s a simple question, fella.”

  I still couldn’t place the voice, but there was something familiar in the delivery. I decided to play along.

  “Since you’re asking, I’d prefer a treat if you don’t mind.”

  “Coming right up,” came an eerie reply.

  With that, my ghostly visitor flipped the sheet over her head. Indeed, it was a she—a she without a single outer or under garment to further disguise who or what she was.

  “Peaches!” I cried.

  I stood there in a pleasant state teetering between shock and delight.

  “Honey, it’s freezing out here!” Angele announced as she shivered. “Why don’t you invite me inside?”

  “Just a minute, sweetie. I love what the night air is doing to your…”

  Before I could get the last word of the sentence out of my mouth, she was up against me like a linebacker charging the quarterback. She caught the front door with her heel and managed to shut it behind her and then drove me backward across the living room onto my bark-a-lounger. She ended up on top of me, just the way I like her.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” she replied.

  “That’s a rhetorical question that requires no verbal response,” I said in a self-contradictory manner.

  “So stop talking,” she demanded.

  I did as I was told.

  • • •

  In the morning, after I got out of bed, I noticed the candle had gone out and frost was on the pumpkin. I wrapped myself in a blanket, shuffled down the driveway and picked up the Augusta Chronicle. The headlines read, “Susan and Aaron Take the Plea.”

  I cried out loud, “Halleluiah!”

  The article was full of good news. Aaron Miller accepted a life sentence, rather than face the possibility of the gas chamber. The evidential details, which had been withheld from the media for four months, included the fact that Aaron’s DNA had indeed been found on the fake beard. I had made that part up in my presentation to Mark Prichard, but it turned out to be true. That was especially gratifying.

  Susan St. Claire managed a lighter sentence. She got 30 years. Despite the testimonies of both Prichard and Miller, the District Attorney was not entirely certain he could get a guilty verdict at trial for first-degree murder. So he and Susan struck a deal. Still, 30 years with no parole would keep her behind bars until she was 70 years old. She was likely to be a harmless old lady by then.

  Mark Prichard’s immunity deal was clarified. In order to protect the identity of “undercover agents,” Mark was enjoined to never publicly reveal the details of his apprehension and detention. If he did, he would be subject to full prosecution as an accessory to the murder of William Lavoilette. This meant that Eric, Angele and I would face very little, if any, risk for our illegal impersonations. Even if word leaked out about our caper, Prichard would be prohibited from verifying what we had done.

  “Halleluiah number two,” I shouted. “Now I can shave the mustache.”

  A final note at the end of the news story was like ice cream on blueberry pie. An hour after the plea-bargains were announced in Maine, Mark Prichard was arrested in Pennsylvania. He was being held without bail for the murder of Robert St. Claire. Susan had also been indicted for conspiring to kill her husband. According to Aaron, who was granted immunity in the case, the three of them arranged for Robert to die in an ‘accident’ at a natural gas drilling site near Troy.

  I went to the bedroom and shared with Angele the glad tidings. I knew better than to call Eric this early in the morning. I’d ring him around noon.

  • • •

  Angele and I were enjoying a late breakfast when my phone rang.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Mr. Thorpe, this is Rebecca Lavoilette. Do you have any spare time this morning?” she asked.

  “Absolutely. I’m completely free and at your disposal.”

  “If you would be so kind, please come to my home. I have something for you,” she said.

  She gave me her address and invited Angele to join me there at 10:30.

  As we drove up her driveway, Rebecca was standing outside on the porch to greet us. I was totally surprised when she stepped forward and gave me a warm embrace.

  “Thank you so much for your valiant service to the State of Maine. I am in your debt,” she said.

  “It’s kind of you to be so gracious,” I replied. “I can only imagine how difficult this is for you.”

  She smiled and then looked at my companion.

  “This is my girlfriend, Angele,” I said. “She provided considerable assistance to me on the case.”

  She hugged Angele as well and invited us inside.

  “Would you care for something to drink?” she asked.

  I looked at Angele and we both shook our heads.

  “That’s not necessary,” I replied

  “OK, then. I have an envelope for you.”

  She walked to her desk, picked up the envelope and handed it to me.

  “You’ll find a check inside for $30,000. You graciously requested that I spend the $20,000 reward on my favorite charity. I’ve added $10,000 of my own money, and I want you to have it. You risked your life to bring about justice for William’s death. I won’t take ‘No’ for an answer.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” I said.

  “Just say ‘Thank you,’” Angele suggested.

  “Thank you,” I replied.

  We traded pleasantries for several minutes. Rebecca walked us to the porch, and we hugged again before leaving.

  “That’s one classy woman,” Angele said as we settled into the Forester.

  “Indeed.”

  • • •

  By noon I had written five checks, $5000 each to Angele and Eric, and $1000 each to Billy, Brock and Misty. I wrote “Hazard Pay” on the memo line of each check. The remaining seventeen grand was burning a hole in my imagination.

  It was the first day of November—time to turn the page on my “Island Paradise” calendar. I recognized the new idyllic photograph immediately.

  “It’s Bali Hai,” I said to Angele as I pointed to the picture. “Do you recognize it?”

  “It looks familiar, but I can’t place it,” she replied.

  “Try this,” I said. “She's trouble, Ned. The real thing. Big-time, major league trouble.”

  “Oh, yes,” Angie replied. “It’s the mountain in the background for the final scene of Body Heat. Mattie Walker is sitting in a lounge chair sipping a mai tai with that sultry, self-satisfied look on her face.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “I think it’s an omen. Pack your bags, Angele, we’re going to Kauai.”

  • • •

  Cheap getaway offers sealed the deal. Within forty-eight hours we were in our bathing suits, soaking up the sun on Tunnels Beach.

  “Tourists still call it Bali Hai,” I said, “but locals use its real name, Makana.”

  “It’s beautiful, Jesse,” Angele said in a low throaty voice, sipping her own mai tai and doing an impersonation of Kathleen Turner.

  “Angele,” I said, reading from a travel guide, “it says here that the Hawaiian word, makana, means ‘gift.’ Ancient Hawaiians performed a fire ceremony on the mountain. Men would climb to the top hauling dry, lightweight logs. When night fell, they set the logs ablaze and hurled them into the ocean.”

  “Do you really think they could reach the water from there?” Angele asked.

  “Have you seen some of the Hawaiian linemen on college football teams?” I responded.

  “Not really,” she replied. “Those guys must have been enormous, or maybe it’s just a legend.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” I said.

 
I waded into the warm water. The coast of Maine is rugged, cold and demanding. The north shore of Kauai was soft, nurturing and breathtaking. The air was sweet, and the trade winds swept across the sea. My heart was so buoyant that I felt as if I were floating in zero gravity. I imagined I would be immortal if I only could find a way to stay here permanently.

  Angele, sitting twenty feet from me on the shore, interrupted my thoughts with the suggestion that I would get “island fever” if I stayed longer than a month.

  “Let’s see… Island fever or Maine winter?” I mused, as I tapped my finger on my lips, pretending to weigh those options carefully. “Tough call,” I said.

  “Sorry to interrupt your contemplation, Jesse, but in a week or so, duty will fly us back home,” Angele said with a smile.

  “Have another drink and reconsider,” I replied.

  Angele declined my suggestion. Instead, she sprinted toward me, grabbed me around the waist, and we tumbled into the waves.