Lifeline

by Gerry Boyle

  “So what happened?”

  “I followed them. I followed them and they were headed for Albion, but then they turned. It was a left and they went up this long hill, and I was catching up to get their license-plate number.”

  “Did you get it?”

  “Yeah,” Roxanne said, her face flushed in the flashing lights. “And I got their boot. It smells like gasoline.”

  We found the fire chief and told him the story and he had a portable radio and he called the state police. The state police dispatcher in Augusta took the information and then we heard it broadcast to state police in Waldo and Kennebec counties. A couple of minutes later we heard that the registration had come back to a 1984 Monte Carlo registered to a woman in Kennebec. Not ten minutes after that, we heard the state police dispatcher tell patrol cars that the car had been stopped by Winslow police.

  There were two male occupants, the Winslow police reported. One wasn’t wearing shoes.

  26

  Roxanne had her salmon, but not until almost midnight. We waited and watched while the firefighters slowly beat down the flames. When the fire finally surrendered, a little before eleven, the house was a sodden, blackened, stinking mess.

  With three walls standing.

  Around eleven, Roxanne went back in Clair’s truck with Clair and Mary and my stuff, stacked in the back. I hung around the house for another hour or so, watching as the volunteers packed up their hoses and airpacks. I helped another guy lift a generator onto the back of a pickup truck. The other guy was in his forties and very strong, in that quiet, capable Maine way. He eased the generator down and then turned back and reached for his cigarettes.

  “You own this place?” he said.

  “No, I rent it. Owner’s in New Mexico. Millie. Hasn’t been here in a couple of years. Totaled, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, hell, yes. You got walls, but that’ll just give the ’dozer man something to shoot for. Somebody got an ax to grind with you or what?”

  “Appears that way, doesn’t it,” I said.

  “Coulda been worse. You could’ve been asleep. Or your wife there.”

  “We’re not married. But it still could’ve been worse.”

  He drew on his cigarette thoughtfully.

  “That’s what I always tell people when their house burns. If everybody’s out and you’re standing outside with me watching, count your blessings.”

  He headed back to the crew and the fire trucks. I stood and counted.

  Up to one. Roxanne.

  I told the fire chief that I was heading back to the Varneys’. He said he’d be there a while longer, that he didn’t expect the fire investigator from the state to be there until the next morning, at the earliest. But he said the cause was pretty cut-and-dried.

  “They took your gas can there and they doused the wall and lit it,” the fire chief said. “And that was all she wrote. Who was it, anyway?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’m going back to call and see if they’ll tell me.”

  “Seems like you’d have a right to know,” the chief said.

  “Seems like it, doesn’t it.”

  But it wasn’t that easy. When I got back to the Varneys’, Roxanne was sitting at the table as Mary cooked the salmon and peas and asparagus. Roxanne was sipping a glass of white wine. She looked very tired, but even when she was very tired, she was beautiful. I went to her and gave her a squeeze around the shoulders.

  “I’m sorry, Jack,” Roxanne said.

  “I’m not,” I said. “Like one of those firemen was telling me, if you’re on the outside watching it burn, you should count your blessings. I’m counting right now.”

  “Amen,” Mary said.

  Clair came into the kitchen, smelling of smoke.

  “You call?” he asked me.

  “Not yet. I’ll try state police first.”

  The dispatcher in Augusta had just come on. He said he’d call Winslow and his own unit to see who was handling the investigation. I gave him my name and the Varneys’ number and said I wanted to know who had burned my house down. In that unflappable tone that cops have, he said he’d do his best.

  So we waited. Clair said he’d unloaded my stuff in his barn but the cash was in his safe.

  “If I’d known you had a safe, I would have treated you with more respect,” I said.

  “It’s never too late to start,” Clair said. “You want a drink?”

  “Can we let our guard down now?”

  “Does lightning strike twice?”

  “I’ll wear my rubber-soled shoes,” I said.

  Clair got two Budweisers from the refrigerator. He handed one to me and we both leaned against the counter and opened them.

  “To life,” I said, raising my bottle. “And Roxanne Masterson, private investigator.”

  Mary put a loaded plate in front of Roxanne.

  “I can’t believe you did that,” Mary said. “What if they’d stopped and jumped out and tried to stop you or something?”

  “I wouldn’t have stopped,” Roxanne said.

  “Maybe there’s a reward,” Clair said.

  “I think we just got it,” I said.

  So we leaned and drank while Roxanne ate. Mary got out crackers and pepper cheese and dilled green beans and put them on a plate. We nibbled as Clair told me about a guy he knew who would take down the house and shed. He asked if Millie the artist would rebuild. I said I doubted it. Clair asked if I’d rebuild here on the road. I said I thought so. I didn’t say I had no idea how I’d pay for it.

  And then the phone rang.

  Mary answered. “It’s for Jack,” she said.

  I took the phone. “McMorrow,” I said.

  “McMorrow, this is Detective LaCharelle.”

  “You’re calling to apologize for keeping my truck.”

  “No, but you can have it back now.”

  “You know who did it?”

  “Nope.”

  “What’s the good news, then?” I said.

  “I heard your name on the radio tonight and I thought I’d help out. That’s what. Winslow PD apprehended the two individuals.”

  “I heard that.”

  “Well, the two subjects were interviewed here at the Winslow Police Department. They didn’t want to cooperate at first, but when we told them they’d been seen on your road out there, one of them implicated the other for setting your house on fire. It’s a situation where one’s fingering the other. I think we’ll get pleas out of both of them.”

  “Who are they?”

  “The one doing the talking is a Byron Blaisdell. He’s twenty-three—not a major scumbag, but no stranger to the police around here.”

  “And who’s the other one?”

  “I think you know the other one. Name’s Leaman. He’s got warrants, a probation hold. He’s going bye-bye for a long time if this one sticks.”

  “So what did Blaisdell say they did?”

  “Went looking for you, but you didn’t answer the door. He says Leaman saw the gas can and started sloshing it all over the house there. Put a match to it and boogied. I guess they were leaving when somebody spotted them and called it in. Who was it, one of your neighbors?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You could say that.”

  “Well, I’ll need a statement from him and a statement from you. Your history with Mr. Leaman. I understand you’ve had an earlier altercation.”

  “Sure did,” I said. “The guy’s psycho.”

  “And that’s his friggin’ good side.”

  “When do you need this?”

  “Tomorrow morning would be fine. How ’bout Kennebec PD? They’ll be in Kenhegan County Jail until Monday. Arraignment in Fourth District Court.”

  “Tate?”

  “I guess,” LaCharelle said. “Why?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “We just didn’t exactly hit it off.”

  “From what I hear, that happens with you.”

  “It’s a gift. I don’t have to work at it.”


  “Yeah, well, how ’bout you meet me at the PD by eight o’clock. Can you get in touch with your neighbor, give him that message?”

  “I think so.”

  “Okay, then. Hey, listen. Sorry about your house.”

  LaCharelle’s condolences were stiff and awkward, but seemed sincere. I sensed an opening.

  “Thanks,” I said. “What can you do, you know? At least they didn’t come at three in the morning.”

  “They would have if they’d thought about it,” LaCharelle said. “You’re just lucky they’re dummies.”

  “Very lucky,” I said. “Hey, while I have you, what about Donna Marchant? You close to an arrest?”

  “This off the record?”

  “Very.”

  “Yeah, we’re close. A day or two maybe. AG would like one more piece, but if we don’t get it, we’ll go without it.”

  “I ran into him today,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Tanner,” I said. “He says he didn’t do it.”

  “No shit,” LaCharelle said. “Stop the presses.”

  “I kind of believe him.”

  “I don’t,” he said.

  “But what if he’s telling the truth?”

  “Hey, you want to lose sleep over it, go ahead. What we’ve got is—this is off the record—we got a guy who admits to being at the scene, admits fighting with the deceased, admits trying to strangle her at the approximate time of death.”

  “But he says she was alive when he left.”

  “Hey, there’s a defense,” LaCharelle snorted. “ ‘Yeah, I was the only one there. Yeah, I tried to kill her, but I didn’t try hard enough.’ ”

  “What if there was a witness who said she heard the fighting and then saw Jeff leave and could still hear dishes clinking and stuff after he was gone.”

  “You mean the old lady, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Hey, he walks out, he walks back in. His alibi sucks. Five or six drunks who couldn’t remember what day it was when they last saw him, never mind the time.”

  “What about the bartender?”

  “Won’t help Tanner. She says she remembers he was there at some point, but he didn’t stay long. He could have gone back to the apartment and killed Marchant ten times that night. Just because some old lady only saw him beating on her and leaving doesn’t mean anything. He could have gone around the block and come right back.”

  “What about the little girl?”

  “Hey, McMorrow. That’s enough. You got me going, but that’s all off the record. Don’t screw me, or you’ll live to regret it.”

  “What about the sister?”

  “What about her?” LaCharelle said.

  “She was there. What’d she see?”

  “Jesus, McMorrow. You’re so interested, come to the friggin’ trial.”

  “It’s not the trial I’m interested in, it’s the defendant. I hope you get the right one.”

  “We’ve got the right one. We’ve got the only one. We’ve got the guy who killed her.”

  “I’m not so sure,” I said.

  “Well, then we’ll be sure you’re not on the jury,” LaCharelle said. “Tomorrow. Eight o’clock. And tell your neighbor.”

  I told her and she said she’d be there. We talked with Clair and Mary a little bit more and then the adrenaline drained from all of us and we decided to go up to bed. Mary said we’d be in the guest room, which was in the ell of the house, to the rear. She said we could stay there as long as we wanted. And she meant it.

  The room was cozy, with eaves and a big double bed with fresh white sheets, lots of pillows, and a white down comforter. Roxanne put her overnight bag on the floor and just stood there by the bureau, her eyes closed, her hand rubbing her forehead. I came over and put my arms around her, and she pursed her lips and a tear leaked onto her cheek.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “We’re here.”

  “Oh, I know. It’s just—I don’t know, it’s just a lot. It’s just too much.”

  “I know.”

  “I’d like to just shut out the world,” Roxanne said.

  “So let’s go to sleep.”

  Roxanne slipped out of her dress and her underwear and was beautiful and naked for a moment before she dropped a nightshirt over her neck. It was pale pink and short and feminine and, on another night, in another situation, might have led to more than sleep. But she slid into the bed and pulled the blankets up to her chin.

  “I’m cold,” Roxanne said.

  I took off my shirt and jeans and realized they stunk of smoke. My shorts did too, so I took them off and put the whole pile outside the door in the hall. I slipped into the bed, unfolding the comforter over both of us. Roxanne turned her back to me and nestled closer. I draped an arm over her and felt her exhale and almost shudder.

  “I’m sorry about the house,” she said quietly.

  “There are more where that came from,” I said.

  There was a moment of silence, of just Roxanne’s breathing, her back nudging against my chest.

  “You know what I’ll miss?” she said.

  “What?”

  “Making love there. We made love well there.”

  “We make love well everywhere.”

  “But now that’s just a memory.”

  “Everything’s just a memory eventually,” I said. “That’s what life is. Piling up memories.”

  “We’ll have some good ones, won’t we?”

  “Already do. And we’ll be together tomorrow. We’ll wake up together. Have breakfast together. Go to the state police and give the detective a statement together. Go try to talk to Marcia together . . .”

  “Talk to Marcia?”

  “I need to talk to her. To Adrianna, too.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to know what they saw. Because I want them to know that I don’t think it was Jeff. So that if Jeff is found guilty, they know, or at least have been told, that they still might not be safe. But then, Mary suggested that Marcia did it. Killed Donna so she, Marcia, could have Adrianna.”

  “Kill her own sister?”

  “It happens. But they seemed pretty tight. I don’t know. Marcia would be a perfect parent to do an adoption, wouldn’t she? Stable. Steady income. But she has this thing about Adrianna.”

  “The drive to have children can make people do some pretty crazy things,” Roxanne said. “Maternal instinct gone haywire. Like those women who steal babies from hospitals.”

  “Why don’t men do that?”

  “I don’t know. But what if she did do it? Like Mary was saying, to have her own child.”

  “Then maybe that will show through.”

  “I don’t think you should go there,” Roxanne said. “And I don’t think I should go there either.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said, my head beside hers on the pillow.

  “But you’ll go anyway,” Roxanne said.

  “You’re probably right about that too.”

  And then Roxanne was quiet and, in a minute or so, her breathing took on a gentle rhythm and I felt her legs twitch as they relaxed and she slept. That made one of us.

  I heard the Varneys’ mantel clock strike two. Then three. I was sorting the names and faces and picturing Jeff with his hands on Donna’s throat, then Marcia with her hands there too. I thought that maybe Jeff was just a good liar and I was a chump, and then I thought that maybe Marcia had found Donna unconscious and had just finished her off. And then the clock was chiming again and the light was streaming into the room and my eyes opened to see Roxanne against the white sheets, the sunlight on her hair and her nightshirt draped over her breasts.

  “Damn,” I said.

  I lifted my arm and turned it to see my watch. It was a few minutes before seven and Kennebec was a good half-hour drive, even on a Saturday morning. I leaned over and kissed Roxanne on the cheek, once and then again, and she stirred and smiled. She pulled the comforter up and I let her enjoy the moments before the
memories would flood in. I watched and they did and the smile turned to a frown.

  “We’re late,” I said. “It’s almost seven.”

  “So?” she said, still groggy.

  “And we have to be at the police station by eight.”

  “Okay. Just let me . . . just let me . . . wake up.”

  I got up and went to the dormer window facing the barn. Clair walked out of the barn dressed in jeans and a red chamois shirt and boots. Downstairs I could hear the rattle of dishes and the clank of pans. Roxanne flung back the covers, showing a lovely stretch of legs.

  “Yikes,” I said.

  “You going to take a shower?” she said.

  “With you, I would.”

  “I feel like that was in another life,” Roxanne said, and she slipped by me and into the bathroom. I heard the door close and the water hiss.

  Another life, indeed.

  We had English muffins and juice standing up. Mary poured our tea and coffee into those conical mugs they use on boats. Roxanne said her friend Skip had a cupboard full of them. Mary told us to drive carefully and we went out, walking down through the field to the charred remains of the house. It stood there, stinking in the sun, like a nightmare that should not have been there when we woke up. I stood and stared.

  “Come on, Jack,” Roxanne said. “We can look it over when we get home.”

  So we drove past the rubble, black against the green foliage, and out onto the dump road and up to the highway. We were quiet until we got to Albion village, slowing as we drove down Main Street past the stores and the church, and speeding up as we moved out into the farms and fields.

  “You nervous?” I said, breaking the silence.

  “I don’t think so,” Roxanne said, her legs crossed, a tan espadrille suspended in the air. “I’ve testified in court so many times. Talking to a detective doesn’t seem like much. Of course, the cops are usually on my side when I go to court. Why don’t I get that feeling in this one?”

  “Because I haven’t picked a side,” I said. “And they’re not sure where I fit in.”

  “You don’t fit in.”

  “You finally noticed?”

  “No, I noticed the first time I laid eyes on you,” Roxanne said.

  “Too late to back out now.”

  “Yup.”