The Maine Nemesis

by R Scott Wallis

  ​The conversation turned to Augie Alameda, who, upon returning to New York, was arrested for aiding and abetting the operation. Although he never met or knew who he was working for, he had a history of helping move money around for menacing operations, dating back some twenty years. He was a one-stop money laundering operation, of sorts. He was not being cooperative, the FBI agent informed the Sheriff, but a mountain of evidence that Alameda had in his apartment was helping shine a light on dozens of previously cold cases and he would certainly do some hard time.

  ​Both Maribelle and Augie were being held without bond and both were expected to stand trial for their crimes. The hunt was still on for Patty’s actual murderer, but the agents felt like they were getting close, having interviewed several people who were able to connect the money to an independent hitman who worked the northeast on a contractual basis.

  ​The agent ended the call after telling Kristin that he’d be back in touch if he needed anything additional from Wabanaki.

  ​“I guess that’s all good news, huh?” Kristin said.

  ​Skyler was not so sure. “I just wonder how long it will be before Maribelle’s family figures out that Leonard and I had something to do with uncovering their crimes.”

  ​“We’re going to have to watch our backs, is all,” Leonard said. “I bet Ricardo Solis is relieved, if he’s still alive. The agent didn’t mention him.”

  ​“If I were Solis,” Kristin said, “I’d be packing up and getting out of Dodge.”

  ​“He lives in Miami,” Leonard said.

  ​Skyler rolled her eyes. “Thank you, Sheriff Grant, for letting us listen in. I’m glad this is wrapping up. Maybe Wabanaki can get back to normal now.”

  ​The Sheriff stood up, indicating that their meeting was over. “You know, guys, Wabanaki is never going to be the same again. And I need to get out there. Every hotel is sold out. Every restaurant is booked solid. Tourists are spending money here faster than the shop keepers can reorder stock. It’s a whole new town.”

  ​“Well, at least you won’t be bored,” Skyler said, shaking the woman’s hand.

  ​Leonard hugged Kristin. “Good luck, lady. You’re going to do an amazing job here.”

  * * *

  ​With the few bags of stuff they hadn’t already shipped, and Leonard’s old dog sleeping in the back seat, the couple climbed into Skyler’s Jeep and began the trek south. On the way out of town, they passed the Old Wabanaki Chowder House and saw a dozen or so people hanging around on the front porch waiting for tables.

  ​“Good for them,” Skyler said softly.

  ​“I guess,” Leonard said. “But I’m never stepping foot in that place again.”

  ​“Me either.”

  THE END

  Skyler Moore and friends will return for

  another adventure…in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

  DEAR READER

  I must express, right here and right now, how very grateful I am that you just read my new book. I am truly humbled. There are about a gazillion other stories you could have chosen; I’m thrilled that you spent some of your precious hours reading mine.

  If you liked it, you might be excited to know that I’m busy writing Skyler’s next TWO adventures and that they’ll both be out later this year. Look for “The New Mexico Scoundrel” on May 31, 2019, and “The Nevada Saboteur” in the Fall.

  I invite you to pop over to www.rscottwallis.com for the exact publication dates, to learn more about me, and to sign up for my V.I.P. Reader group by entering your email address. I promise not to inundate you with email—I’ll only write when I have something super important to share with you. Once or twice a season at most, I promise.

  Finally, if you liked “The Maine Nemesis,” I would be honored if you’d leave a short review online. Amazon, and other book retailers, make it super easy and reviews help other readers discover the book…and that is essential for us indie authors.

  Thank you again!

  -- Scott

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First off, thank you to the incredibly talented Jonathan Dixon for his indispensable guidance. Also, a big fat thank you must go to my amazing Advance Team (always in BOLD). Your feedback and reviews are paramount to the success of this series—I appreciate your support more than you will ever know. A special shout out here to Carolyn and Holly!

  Thanks, too, to my uncles and aunt for once upon a time moving to Scarborough, Kennebunkport, and Manchester, giving me the opportunity to experience glorious Maine summers as a child and young adult. To my parents Richard and Dale Wallis—as well as Marci and Ally Norkin-Schöepel—for sharing their love of all things aviation. To Laura Wallis and Jay Cooper for forever inspiring me with their collective abundance of creativity. To Cedric Terrell, who always makes me look better than I really do. I also feed off of, and greatly treasure, my decades-long friendships with Kristin, Rob, Jeri, Michael, Jim, Monica, Chris, Jacqueline, Elaine, Carlos, and others too numerous to mention here, but who I think of often (that should cover everyone, the author meekly thought to himself).

  And, finally, to Dale Blades for being by my side when I needed him most…and agreeing to stick around for all the adventures yet to come.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  R. Scott Wallis is endlessly inspired by his surroundings and adventures. He’s a pop-culture podcaster, a serial entrepreneur, an enthusiastic philanthropist, and a wide-eyed world traveler. Scott grew up in Williamsburg, Virginia, and worked for 25 years in Washington, D.C., before recently discovering that the American West is where he is most at home. When he’s not sailing on a cruise ship—or dreaming of happy summers spent in Maine—he lives in Las Vegas, Nevada.

  Learn more at www.rscottwallis.com

  Photo by Cedric Terrell

  SNEAK PEEK

  THE NEW MEXICO SCOUNDREL

  Book Two in the Skyler Moore Thriller Series

  Available May 31, 2019

  PROLOGUE

  Just moments before sunset, Georgia Reece, a renowned and much sought-after opera singer, who had performed with famed opera companies from Milan to Sydney, arrived home after a shopping spree downtown. She gathered the many bags of clothes and accessories, her Louis Vuitton purse, and a half-full Starbucks cup—which she’d already decided would be swapped out for a glass of wine once she was settled—and made her way into her new house.

  Once behind the towering front door, she dropped her packages and purse to the floor. Georgia was faced with a horrific mess and she was having a hard time processing what she was seeing. Despite a commanding presence on the stage—her celebrated coloratura soprano voice once made a Serbian colonel, known around the world for his excessive brutality, weep openly—Georgia was an extremely reserved and restrained person when she was alone, and she painstakingly created an ultra-private oasis within her own walls.

  That oasis had been violated and smashed that chilly December afternoon.

  She walked warily from room to room, unable to process the senseless destruction. Drawers were ripped from every piece of furniture, the contents scattered on the floor. Most of the paintings were off their hooks. Couch pillows, papers, and clothing were strewn everywhere. Even pasta and crackers were dumped from their ripped-open boxes in the kitchen. It just made no sense. What on Earth were they looking for in the cracker boxes?

  It dawned on her that she should be more nervous than mad as she discovered more messes around every corner. Could the perpetrator still be in the house? Why hadn’t she activated the previous owners’ alarm system yet? Should she run back to the safety of her locked car?

  But the house was numbingly quiet, so she continued, cautiously, with a fireplace poker in one hand and the Starbucks cup in the other.

  When she reached the Great Room, she found the entry point. Glass from a ten-foot-high window was shattered all over the stone floor and a ceramic vase that had been on the patio outside lay on the cowhide rug, broken in several large pieces.

  It was the grey a
shes on the floor in front of the fireplace that finally sent her into despair. She set down her weapon and coffee and fell to her knees and quietly sobbed as she used her bare hands to scoop her mother’s remains into a pile. Dumping potpourri from a crystal bowl—one of just a few of her possessions still intact—she salvaged as much of the ashes as she could. And when the gruesome task was finished, she washed her hands, then dialed ‘911’ on her cell phone. She explained to the woman who answered that her home had been ransacked and she was promised that a police cruiser would be dispatched immediately.

  Georgia had closed on the house just ten days earlier. It was her first home purchase, having only lived with her parents and in dorm rooms, various rented apartments, and properties owned by her two late husbands.

  Both men had been cruelly taken from her way before their time—one succumbed to cancer three years after they wed and the other dropped dead of a heart attack on their honeymoon.

  Moving to New Mexico to buy the large house on the mountain-side overlooking downtown Santa Fe, was her way of starting over. It was therapeutic. A new beginning. A new chapter in which she longed for serenity, peace, and, most hopefully, an escape from the deaths that repeatedly interrupted what was otherwise a lovely life. Not only was she unlucky in the husband department, but she’d been forced to say goodbye to both of her parents prematurely. Most recently it was her beloved mother, the woman who was now partially contained in the crystal potpourri bowl and partially littered all over Georgia’s brand-new floor.

  It was almost too much for her to bear. But by the time the doorbell rang, she was out of tears.

  Two officious, by-the-book Santa Fe Police Department officers walked through the house with Georgia, asking questions along the way. She explained that she was new to the neighborhood and knew few people in town. She had no known enemies. And, surprisingly, she couldn’t identify anything in the house that was missing.

  “The jewelry appears to be untouched,” she said when they arrived at the large walk-in closet. “It’s not ridiculously expensive stuff, but there’s several thousands of dollars worth of stuff in here.” She picked up the diamond necklace that had been a wedding present from her second husband. “This was insured for $10,000, for example.”

  “Oh, right. I see. Not ridiculously expensive,” one officer said.

  “Was there a handgun in the house?” the other officer asked.

  “Never.”

  “Cash?”

  “A few dollars,” she said, shaking her head. “I never have cash on hand.”

  “Stock certificates, bonds, anything like that?”

  “All in a safe deposit box back in New York.” She began to sit down on the side of the bed, but an officer stopped her.

  “Don’t disturb anything, please.”

  “There’s what looks like a painting by Picasso in the living room,” the other officer said. “That can’t be real.”

  “It is,” she said calmly. “Is it still there? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “If I noticed it, you can assume it’s still there,” he said.

  “I’m sorry. I’m a little shaken up. My mother’s ashes were dumped on the floor.”

  There were many more questions, but no one could come up with a motive. An evidence team was ordered up from Albuquerque with the hopes that the perpetrator may have left a usable fingerprint behind.

  “I’d consider getting a security system, ma’am,” the older of the two officers suggested. “Unfortunately, break-ins are on the rise in this neighborhood. It could be that this was just a bunch of kids who had no idea what any of this stuff was worth. They might have just done this as a thrill. Out of boredom or something or other.”

  “Boredom? Well, isn’t that great,” she said. “But, yes, I think upgrading the security is going to be the first thing on my to-do list. I have something here; I just haven’t activated it yet.”

  “I’d get that window replaced A.S.A.P., too, ma’am. It’s supposed to get down into the twenties tonight. We might even get some snow.”

  She was unsure who to turn to for that kind of task and it was already dark outside. She was stronger than this, and she’d certainly dealt with worse tragedies, but nevertheless, she began to cry again. Feeling sorry for the widow, one of the officers called his construction worker brother-in-law to see if he could come to her rescue.

  “I appreciate that more than you can imagine,” she said after the officer got off his phone.

  “It’s the Santa Fe way, ma’am. Just part of the job.”

  “It’s not, I’m sure. But thank you for going above and beyond the call of duty. I really do appreciate it.”

  An hour later, while the forensics team dusted doorknobs and glass doors for prints, a weathered looking, middle-aged man, dressed in paint-splattered, well-worn clothing and heavy construction boots arrived in an ancient pickup truck with several large pieces of plywood. When Georgia went out to the front driveway to greet him, his mouth dropped open.

  “Miss Reece,” the man said, approaching with two extended arms. He took hold of her hands and his heavily tanned face beamed. “I am such a huge fan. I’m so sorry that this has happened to you.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’m afraid I don’t know your name, kind sir.”

  “Diego, ma’am. Diego Ferrera. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I’ve been an opera fan since I was un pequeño chico. My mother was obsessed with the music and my brothers and I grew up listening to little else. I saw you in Rigoletto this past summer. Your performance was nothing less than breathtaking.”

  “Estoy muy halagado, mi amigo,” Georgia said in a perfect Spanish accent as she led him hand in hand through the house and into the Great Room. “And I appreciate you coming to my aid this evening. As you can see, I have a large hole in the back of my house.”

  “We’ll have this patched up in no time,” Diego said. “And I’ll get someone to replace that window pane tomorrow. There’s a great glass company in town. We can get it done.”

  “My hero.”

  “Anything for you, Miss Reece. Anything.” And the man got to work.

  One of the original responding officers walked up to Georgia’s side. “Are you someone famous?”

  She despised that question but was relatively used to it. “I guess so. In some rather small circles. I’m an opera singer.”

  “Ahh,” the officer said. “Never been to an opera. I hear the Santa Fe Opera is a pretty cool venue though.”

  “It is, indeed. Very unique, with its open-air theater. Every seat has little screens so that theatergoers can read along in English. You should give it a try some time. It’s breathtaking up there.”

  “I’m more of a metal fan.”

  “I understand. Opera certainly isn’t for everyone.”

  “How famous are you? Do you have fans?”

  Georgia raised an eyebrow. “Well, Diego here seems to be a fan. People do know me, sir. Some seem to even like me. What are you getting at?”

  “Could this mess be the result of your fame?” the officer asked as he gestured around the room. “A deranged fan or something of the kind?”

  “I couldn’t even fathom that, officer. I’ve heard from a few people over the years, but nothing that stood out as questionable or disturbing in any way. No one has ever harassed me in public or at one of my homes. I travel freely, and I’m only recognized in public a very tiny fraction of the time. I’m very rarely on television or in magazines. Most people don’t know this face.”

  “Diego knew your face.”

  “Like I said, it’s very rare and it surprises me every time it happens.”

  “Well, it might be worth exploring,” he said flatly. “And I’d get that security system activated just as soon as you can.”

  Georgia found it very difficult to sleep that night. It might have been because she left every single light on in the house. It might have been because the house still looked like a tornado had ripped through it. Or, it could ha
ve been because there was a complete stranger sleeping on her living room couch. Diego insisted on staying when she commented that she didn’t feel safe in the house but wasn’t too keen on checking into a hotel. And while she was both unnerved and touched by his gesture, she didn’t know how to turn down his magnanimous offer. He was a police officer’s brother-in-law who loved Rigoletto, so he couldn’t be all that bad, she decided.

  CHAPTER ONE

  In the English basement office of her Washington, D.C. brownstone, Skyler Moore was finishing up some paperwork after a long day of conference calls and meetings that had all but completely drained her energy. She’d been working non-stop for months, foregoing her usual late-autumn vacation to see to an ever-growing client list. She’d recently hired two new gung-ho associates, but the work continued to pile up. Her boutique public relations business was booming—mostly because she signed superstar pop singer Carissa Lamb to her roster—and the focus of the company had rapidly transformed from mom-and-pop products and small non-profits, to all-things celebrity and entertainment.