by Carl Schmidt
Holly added, “Rick adored Ilsa. Do you really think that he’d risk his life so she could fly away to America with Victor Laszlo?”
“That’s Hollywood,” I replied.
“Well, it does make for a poetic ending,” she said.
“We all like to see the Gestapo snuffed out and the girl set free,” I suggested.
Holly smiled and then got down to business.
“Allied Shipping got back with us just a few minutes ago. They want the full package.”
“Great,” I replied with a toothy grin. “We should be able to make payroll and expenses this month.”
“I left a message for Billy to set up the Skype interviews,” she continued. “I sent him the full list of names and email addresses.”
“I’m sure most of those individuals are Skype savvy, but Billy will walk the others through the hoops and arrange the schedule. In the meantime, you can start the background reports.”
I went online and checked our bank account. A transfer was coming in for thirteen thousand dollars. Frank Richards was true to his word.
Then the phone rang.
“Eric, how’d things go last night?” I asked.
“Jesse, it’s cold up here doing stakeouts in January.”
“That’s the price you have to pay for the wonders of summer and early autumn Down East.”
“We could relocate to California,” he suggested hopefully.
“Sure, but then you’d only see the Sox play when they are in Anaheim or Oakland,” I said.
“Oh yeah,” he replied, as if reality had found a place to roost between his ears. “And what about the Maine mosquitoes and black flies. Are we supposed to stay here and feed them too, Jesse?”
“Somebody has to do it,” I replied.
“Well, Billy dropped in to see Tina last night.”
“How’d that turn out?” I asked.
“Here, I’ll put him on the line. He can tell you all about it.”
“Jesse?”
“Billy?”
“I met Tina last night. She’s a knockout.”
“In more ways than one, Billy. She’s big league trouble. Don’t get any ideas.”
“Don’t worry, Jesse, I haven’t had an idea for almost two weeks.”
“When spring rolls around, you’ll think of something.”
“Ah guess prob’ly.”
“So what happened?” I asked.
“When Tina came to the door, there was some guy standing behind her. She seemed very nervous until I told her who I was, and then she seemed even more nervous. The guy said, ‘Let him in,’ so she opened the door wider, and I walked inside.
“She didn’t bother with introductions, and they both eyed me as if I were a piece of lint on their living room carpet. The first thing I did was unbutton my overcoat; I wanted access to my Smith and Wesson, just in case.”
“I assume you made it out alive.”
“Either that or I’m talking to you from the other side.”
“The connection’s pretty good, so I’m guessing you’re still with us.”
“For now,” he replied.
“And…” I said, more or less in the form of a question.
“And… I told her that she’d be getting her thirteen grand in a day or two.”
“Did that make her happy?”
“Not a whole lot. She asked me for Frank Richard’s home address. I told her we don’t have his home address. I also told her that Frank agreed to pay the alimony on the condition that his whereabouts remains unknown.”
“Good thinking, Billy. OK, what then?”
“She and her friend eyeballed each other without saying a word, and then he got up from the sofa like he was planning to throw me out the door. I suggested that he sit back down, because there was something else I wanted to tell Tina. Instead, he remained on his feet and said, ‘Out with it,’ in a demanding tone.”
“Sounds like a nice fella.”
“He’s a real peach, Jesse.”
I urged Billy on with, “So…”
“So… I said, ‘Tina, I don’t know if you’ve heard the news or not, but a woman was murdered on Saturday night in the Rutland Arms Hotel in Portland. She has now been identified. I heard it on the radio earlier in the afternoon. Jesse wanted me to tell you because he says you knew the woman. Her name is Nicole Shepard.’”
“How did she react?”
“She seemed slightly dazed, but not exactly shook up. It was more like she was surprised I told her, rather than being upset it was Nicole. The guy’s expression didn’t change much at all. He just got a bit more edgy. They stared at each other again, then he turned to me and said, ‘Is that all?’ I told him it was, and I made my way to the door on my own. They stayed on their side of the room, so I let myself out. I didn’t button up my coat until I was safe inside my car and halfway down the block.”
“Thanks, Billy. Good work. What did the guy look like?”
“He’s probably about forty. Tall, nice looking—if you’re into that sort of thing—clean-shaven, with short brown hair and brown eyes. But he does get snarly.”
“I wish I had a picture of him,” I said.
“If I send you a photograph, do I get a raise?”
“Ahhh… Well, I can’t afford a raise, but I’ll get you something nice for Christmas.”
“The past Christmas, or the next one?” he asked.
“The next one.”
Billy vocalized a hum that resonated briefly in mid air, and then faded downward in pitch until it was inaudible. “I guess that will have to do,” he said. “I’ll attach it to an email and send it to you.”
“You have a photograph?” I asked, pleasantly surprised.
“Yeah. In the middle of our conversation, my cell phone rang. Chelsea called, and I needed to talk to her. She’d been avoiding me lately, and I was afraid she might be leaving town. I excused myself and walked into the hallway. Later, as I was going back into the living room, they weren’t looking my way so I snapped their picture on my phone.”
“If we make the big time, Billy, you’ll get that raise.”
“How big do we have to get? Allied Shipping is a huge account,” he suggested.
“Speaking of Allied Shipping,” I said, changing the subject, “did you get Holly’s email?”
“Yeah. I’ll begin setting up the Skype interviews this morning. I take it she can start at any time?”
“Right. Allow twenty minutes per interview. Holly can cut them off at fifteen and prepare for the next one.”
“Will do, Jesse,” he replied. “And—check your email. You just got the photo.”
“Thanks. Can you put Eric back on the line?” I asked.
“Jesse,” Eric said.
“So what happened after Billy left Tina’s house?”
“Nothing. I stayed there for an hour, like you asked, but nothing happened. The lights didn’t change, and no one went in or out. I drove home at eight o’clock and went straight to the hot tub.”
“Thanks, Eric. For the next few days, I’d like you to drive by her house in the morning on your way to work and in the evening on your way home. If you see anything unusual, check it out. If you see a black Jaguar parked outside, call me immediately.”
“All right, Jesse. Are you coming back to Augusta this week? We have band practice scheduled for Thursday evening.”
“I’ll try to make it. When’s our next gig?”
“We have nothing until the 18th. We’re playing at the university in Orono.”
“Thanks, Eric. Gotta go.”
I checked my email and opened the photograph. It wasn’t a great picture, but good enough to pick him out of a lineup, should the need arise.
I spent the rest of the morning researching Xavier LaGrange. Some of the reviews of Xavier’s work in Devils Watch were amusing, though not very flattering. Most of them played upon his work in the soap, Nightdance.
The Boston Globe suggested, “Xavier LaGrange applied plent
y of detergent, but no elbow grease.”
The Boston Herald wrote, “Xavier was sudsing all night; he made the Devil look like Mr. Clean.”
And the Hyannis News commented, “Not enough grime for the crime. Xavier needs to get down and dirty on the Cape. He can soap up when he’s back in LA.”
It’s a wonder that critics live long enough to spend their pensions.
• • •
The sudden death of Armando Perez, the director of the play, stood out as the most significant news story relating to Xavier LaGrange’s month on Cape Cod. The authorities could find no compelling motive for murder, but the evidence in his home suggested that someone else was there the night he fell to his death.
If he had been murdered, it seemed curious that the cocaine was left behind. Perhaps the perpetrator was trying to leave clues pointing to someone else or making it look like a drug-related crime, when in fact it wasn’t.
On the other hand, if his death was accidental, but someone was involved, he or she might have gotten nervous and left in a hurry. In any event, there was no indication in the papers that the police were able to trace the cocaine to its source. There were witnesses who claimed that Mr. Perez had used cocaine on rare occasions, but not in the past couple of years.
A few of the stories indicated that Armando was gay, but at the time of his death, he did not have a steady partner.
There were plenty of photographs to go with the newspaper stories, as well as a wide assortment of picture galleries connected with the Dennis Port Playhouse. Xavier’s mug showed up in dozens of places. After scrolling for almost fifteen minutes, I came across one photograph with Tina Woodbury just barely visible in the background. Five minutes later, I found one with both Tina and Nicole having drinks with two older men. The photographer’s name was Alice Vaughan.
I got her phone number from the website and gave her a call.
“Alice Vaughan Photography,” came a pleasant female voice. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so. Is this Alice?” I asked.
“Yes it is,” she replied.
“Alice, my name is Jesse Thorpe. I’m a private detective calling from Portland, Maine. I’m investigating the death of Armando Perez, the theater director from Dennis Port. At the moment, I am looking online at some of the photographs you took during the party on the night he died. They are in your Theatre Gallery Number Seven. I have a few questions I’d like to ask, if you’re not too busy.”
“By all means, Mr. Thorpe. How can I help?”
“Did you happen to know Mr. Perez personally?”
“We had a business relationship. He paid me to take pictures at some of his parties. He put them on his website and advertising brochures. I knew him on a first name basis, but we weren’t exactly friends.”
“The coroner’s inquest was inconclusive,” I said. “What are your feelings about the case? Do you think it was an accident?”
“I have no idea. It was a shock for sure, and the circumstances were peculiar, but other than the mysterious cocaine left in his home, there was nothing to indicate murder.”
“Right. That’s what I gathered from the reports,” I said. “Are all the pictures you took at the party in that online gallery?”
“Heavens no. I took hundreds of photographs that night. There are only twenty or so on the web.”
“Do you still have the others?” I asked.
“Sure, I keep digital files of all my photographs, except for the ones I delete in the initial editing process.”
“Is there any way I could see all of those pictures?”
She thought for a few moments and then said, “I have a client arriving in a little while, but by tomorrow, I could upload them to a separate web page for you to view.”
“That would be a great help,” I said. “I’d be happy to pay you for your trouble.”
“It’s not much trouble. Besides, if there’s a way for me to help with the investigation, I’d be happy to oblige. I liked Armando. His death saddened the community. For your convenience, I’ll load them in low resolution. After you have seen them, if you want to have certain shots in full resolution, just give me a call, and I’ll send them to you. They are ordered by date and time, so they’ll appear on the page in sequence. You’ll be able to see the party from beginning to end like a fly on the wall.”
“Perfect,” I said.
I thanked her, and we hung up.
26
Every Picture Tells a Story
Except for my lunch date with Angele, I spent the rest of the day online. A number of things came to light.
Xavier LaGrange was born and raised in Las Cruces, New Mexico. I had assumed his last name was French, but I discovered that his father was actually Italian, and his mother was Hispanic. He studied theatre and dance at the University of New Mexico for two years, but dropped out when he was offered his first acting job on a remake of an old western movie, Comanche, which was being filmed near Santa Fe. The original was released in 1956. The remake was never finished. Halfway through the filming, the leading actor suffered a serious stroke, and the project was abandoned.
After that, Xavier got some small parts in television and films. When he was twenty-four, he took a leading role in Nightdance and stayed with that program for eight years. His part in the Bond film promoted his career enough that he decided to leave the world of soap operas to concentrate on the big screen. So far, his success has been modest at best. He’s landed a number of minor character roles, but nothing much to write home about.
In anticipation of the photographs that Alice Vaughan had promised, I turned my attention to the production of Devils Watch. I wanted to be able to identify the main characters.
Four actors had major roles. I researched each one and saw them all in some of Alice’s online photographs of the opening night party.
Xavier’s understudy in the play was Allan Roth. I saw several photographs of him on his IMDb page, and he was easy to spot at the party. In one picture, he and Armando were alone on the patio. I also identified the two producers and the executive producer of the play as well. Clearly it was a gala affair.
The leading detective in the investigation of Armando’s death was Captain Ralph Baker of the Dennis Port Police Department. I contacted him by phone late in the afternoon, but he was unable to shed new light on what had happened that night after the party broke up.
At four-thirty in the afternoon, I was about to call it a day when my phone buzzed. It was Ms. Vaughan.
“Alice, thank you for getting back with me so quickly,” I said.
“Mr. Thorpe, I have uploaded those photographs you wanted to see. It was considerably easier than I thought it would be. I’d forgotten that I had prepared a DVD of all those pictures in average resolution for the Dennis Port authorities. All I needed to do was create a page and upload the disk. My page-maker software aligned the pictures in a chronological array from left to right and down the page. I have just sent you an email with the link. I hope this helps you.”
“Thank you. It is very kind of you to put this together for me.”
“I’m curious,” she added. “What prompted your investigation?”
“I wish I could discuss it with you, but my client’s identity is privileged. If the case is adequately resolved, I may be able to fill you in at that time. I’m sorry I can’t say any more than that.”
“I see,” she said. “Well, good luck.”
“Thanks again, Alice.”
I opened the email message and clicked on the link. It took about two minutes for the page to fully load. It contained a total of 186 photographs displayed in three columns and sixty-two rows. As I scrolled down the page, the party emerged as a two-hour silent video of stills. It was an interesting documentary, once I developed a sense of how to read between the columns.
In 1971, Rod Stewart recorded the song, “Every Picture Tells a Story.” If that old crooner was correct, then 186 pictures should depict an epic—or, at the very least,
a mini-series.
Moods shifted throughout the night, and the players roamed from one room to another. Some groups and pairs remained stationary, while others mingled continuously throughout the evening. I estimated that there were about fifty people in attendance. There were dozens of pictures with Tina and Stephanie/Nicole. They were together some of the time, but they circulated independently as well.
After several runs through the array of photographs, I lost track of time. Holly had left the building at five o’clock. At six, Angele bounded into the room and asked, “Are you going to sleep here tonight, Jesse?”
“No, honey,” I replied. “I’ve been absorbed in a series of photographs from the opening night party on the Cape. A photographer posted 186 pictures that she took that night. They span from the time the first guests arrived at ten o’clock, till the end of the party, just after midnight.”
“Let’s go home, Jesse. It’s been an exhausting day, and I’m getting hungry. You can look at them again after supper.”
“Sure thing. My eyes are starting to cross anyway. I’ve been on the computer the entire day.”
After we ate, I dozed off on the couch. When I woke up, I was alone in the living room. It was just after nine o’clock, and it looked as if Angele had already turned in. I went to her study, got online and reopened Alice’s web page.
This time, I decided to single out individuals and follow their progression through the party.
I chose Xavier first. There must have been at least fifty photos with him in the frame. In most of them, he seemed to be Alice’s primary subject. He had a drink in his hand only once that I could see, so, unless he was doing shots off camera or arrived drunk, he probably was fairly sober that night. I did, however, detect a couple of mood swings. In the beginning he seemed withdrawn, but in the middle of the party he looked high as a kite. By the end, he was sullen.
Not so with Tina and Stephanie. They were in full bloom the entire evening. From the progression of pictures, I gathered that the two of them arrived together, but left separately. Stephanie wasn’t in any pictures after 11:20. Tina was there until the end and was attached to an older guy. The very last picture of the entire series showed Xavier by himself in an empty room.