A Priestly Affair (Jesse Thorpe Mysteries Book 2)

by Carl Schmidt

  “I’m sure you must have learned something at BU.”

  “Let me see. Did I learn anything there?”

  He rested his chin on the back of his hand and stared blankly over my shoulder for several moments. When he refocused his steely eyes on me, he said, “Well… I remember picking up two pointers on the first day of class. After that, I just wasted my time and money.”

  “Two pointers? That’s it? All right, out with it, Archie. What are they?”

  “The second thing I learned was, ‘Don’t trust anyone who’s still breathing.’”

  “Ah, ha!” I replied, restraining an urge to laugh out loud. “I’ll try to remember that. So what was the first thing you learned in PI school?”

  “Never blink.”

  7

  Feminine Logic

  I had parked my Forester in a municipal lot on Spring Street, halfway between Franco’s Deli and my new Portland business office. Archie and I went separate ways after lunch, and I walked six blocks through a sea of red brick buildings on sidewalks of snow and slush before finally reaching Free Street.

  Angele’s law firm set me up with a room on the third floor of their building. They even stenciled my name on the glass door.

  Jesse Thorpe & Company

  Private Investigations

  We have a symbiotic relationship. I get the office rent free, all utilities included at no charge—phone, Internet, cleaning—the works. I even have my own key to the front door. In return, I provide Schroeder, Wilson and Fines with eight hours of my services each month. If they need me for more time, I bill them at my regular rate, $58 an hour. I suspect they pass this off on their clients at $100 or more, but I’m not privy to their billing practices, and Angele either doesn’t know or is sworn to secrecy.

  The law firm decided to cash in on my recently acquired celebrity status and add my name in small print to their front door at street level. The arrangement works out well for both of us. “All of us,” I should say, since Schroeder, Wilson and Fines has a long list of working stiffs. There are about twenty-five junior partners, associates, paralegals and secretaries working on the first two floors. I share space at the top with the three namesakes of the company, who are, more often than not, basking in sunnier climes during the winter months. I have yet to catch a glimpse of either Schroeder or Fines. Lawrence Wilson dropped in once, for about twenty minutes, three weeks earlier.

  Angele works at the firm grooming young lawyers for the real world. In private, she likens her position to that of a sophisticated escort service. She welcomes spoiled and privileged young men, who managed, by hook or crook, to pass the bar, and she transforms them into flesh and blood attorneys. She insists that her training program is really an exercise in un-training. She takes the newbies and strips away the unsavory human tendencies they picked up preening and drinking at Harvard Law School, while spending daddy’s money on fast cars and faster women. Most of them, she says, can’t even tie their own shoes, let alone a Windsor knot.

  As I walked through the front door, I saw Angele leaning over the desk of a new recruit. She had the computer mouse in her hand, and they both were studying the monitor. It was Friday afternoon, so for all I knew they might be playing online poker. In any event, neither of them saw me come in, and Angele was facing the other away as I walked by.

  I allowed my left hand to brush smoothly along her backside where it matters most. Suddenly, she shot straight up and turned to see who was taking liberties. Her glare morphed into a wink, but by then, I was on my way up the stairs.

  Angele laid down the law when I accepted the office space: absolutely no PDA, as our parents used to call it. No kissing, no hugging, and certainly no groping. I may have crossed the line just a touch with my left hand as I walked behind her, but I was prepared to argue in court that the width of the aisle between the desks didn’t meet the minimum standards set down in the MUBEC, Maine’s Uniform Building and Energy Code. On the other hand, I couldn’t quibble with the claim that Friday evening’s foreplay had commenced at 1:48 that afternoon. It was precisely 1:50 when I turned the knob on my office door.

  Andrew Farnsworth was scheduled to drop in for a consultation at 2:30. Since I had managed to polish off the entire Reuben, a dill pickle and three glasses of beer, I was hoping to grab a quick nap in my cubicle before he arrived.

  No such luck.

  Through the glass on the door, I could see the back of a woman sitting in front of my desk. As I entered the room, her shoulders and head turned slowly in a manner that suggested she was in charge. I recognized her face right away, but something about her had changed in the six months since we had had lunch together.

  “Filet mignon and a gin sling,” I said, pointing a friendly finger at Tina Woodbury.

  “You remember,” she replied with a smile.

  “The check left an impression on me.”

  “It was a little pricey, I suppose, but I thought we lifted the atmosphere at the Densmore to new heights,” she said, still smiling.

  “Rarified air, it was,” I replied, “and worth every penny. But something has changed. Did you cut your hair?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “How sweet of you to notice.”

  “I distinctly remember your long hair,” I said.

  “I had it cut on a whim shortly after our luncheon date. It was actually you who inspired me to do it.”

  “Really? Why is that?” I asked.

  “The logic is kind of roundabout.”

  “I’ve had some experience with feminine logic, Tina. Why don’t you circle it around me?”

  “OK. We’ll see if you get tied up,” she said.

  “I’m looking forward to it,” I replied.

  “Well… I noticed you were especially courteous with the cocktail waitress when you ordered the second round of drinks.”

  “I was just doing what my mother taught me to do.”

  “That, and then some, I imagine,” she ventured with a twinkle in her eye.

  “I’m evolving,” I replied.

  “In any event, you handed her both of our glasses, but I noticed that you palmed the straw from my drink and put it in your pocket when you thought I wasn’t looking.”

  “Really? You saw that?”

  “Yes I did. At first I didn’t know what to make of it. I figured it was some kind of fetish or obsession. For a while, I even felt honored that you cared enough about me to save a personal memento, even if it was only a straw that I had put in my mouth. But that logic began to break down. You struck me as a reliable and thoughtful kind of guy, not someone who goes gaga over trivial things.”

  “I’m with you to this point,” I said encouragingly.

  “Good. Finally, it dawned on me. You are a private detective, and I was a person of interest in a murder investigation. I put two and two together and decided that you were trying to capture my DNA. By the way, I saw the movie, Sea of Love. Did you?”

  “Oh sure. Al Pacino and Ellen Barkin. They made a steamy pair,” I said.

  “Yes, but Al Pacino and John Goodman were cops. They invited female suspects to have drinks, and when the ladies left, they took their water glasses and had them analyzed as evidence.”

  “If the women had ordered gin slings, they probably would have just saved the straws,” I ventured. “I’m impressed. You sized me up remarkably well. But what does that have to do with cutting your hair?”

  “There’s DNA in our hair, isn’t there?” she asked.

  “Well, I don’t want to get into a scientific discussion of mitochondrial versus nuclear DNA, but, yes, hair sometimes contains traces of DNA.”

  “I just wanted to be sure in the future that I could come and go without leaving a trace,” she concluded.

  “Hmm,” I said. “I’m a little tied up now.”

  “Let’s leave it that way,” she replied.

  “Clearly I underestimated your powers of logic and perception. In the future, I’ll be more careful around women like you.”

/>   “Women like me?”

  “Oops,” I stammered. “I’ve never met a woman like you, but there must be one or two out there waiting to be discovered.”

  “Do you still have the straw?” she asked.

  “No, but I do have a printout of your DNA profile,” I confessed. “You were, after all, a possible suspect at the time—a delightful and engaging one, to be sure—but private investigators have to cover their bases.”

  “You didn’t really think I could have murdered the governor, did you?”

  “I didn’t know what to think. But I know for certain, now, that you didn’t commit that particular crime,” I said, trying to get a rise out of her with the inflection in my voice. “So, what brings you down to Portland and into my office?”

  “I assume you remember our discussion over lunch last June,” she said. “As you may recall, my ex-husband skipped town eight months ago, and I still haven’t heard from him. He owes me twelve thousand bucks in alimony. The little weasel.”

  Tina’s eyes had turned from pleasantly sparkling to decidedly piercing in a matter of moments. Our conversation, apparently, was getting down to brass tacks.

  “And you’d like me to find him?” I inquired.

  “I’d like you to do more than just find him,” she replied, “but that will do for starters.”

  “All right,” I said.

  I opened the file cabinet behind my desk, pulled out two forms and handed them to her.

  “On the top is a missing person questionnaire,” I said. “Take it home with you and fill it out as completely as possible. I’ll need every bit of information you can provide: photographs, family addresses, his profession or trade skills, and so on. The second document is our standard contract. I’ll require a $500 retainer to be included when you return these forms. Incidentally, if we manage to bring your ex into compliance, or into court, you will be entitled to your full alimony payments and all expenses you incurred tracking him down.”

  “What form of payment do you require up front?” she asked coyly. The words, “up front,” had an unusually spicy ring to them.

  “We take credit cards or checks,” I responded in a professional tone. “Cash is fine too, if you prefer.”

  “I was hoping you might accept something more personal in trade.”

  “The IRS is a stickler for dollar amounts,” I replied. “Besides, my accountant, Angele Boucher, doubles as my girlfriend. She doesn’t allow me to accept alternative methods of remuneration. She says it complicates her bookwork.”

  “I was hoping your personal status had changed,” Tina said ruefully.

  “We’re happy as clams,” I replied.

  “Can’t blame a girl for trying,” she sighed. “OK, I’ll return the forms to you in a few days. I’ll be in Portland for another week. I’m staying with an old college girlfriend of mine. I noticed your band is playing at the Rusty Tavern on New Year’s Eve. We’re planning to see your show.”

  “I promise not to pick up your glass or straw after you leave,” I said. “Your DNA is pretty much the same as it was six months ago.”

  She smiled and asked, “Do you charge extra for the standup routine?”

  “No, but it’s my job to keep the clients happy,” I replied, smiling back. “Thank you for dropping by. I’m confident we can track down that deadbeat ex of yours. We have a high rate of success in this kind of case. I can also recommend a lawyer in Augusta, or several here in Portland, if you need legal help once we locate him. On the other hand, a strongly worded letter from a private investigator often does the trick. We’ll do everything we can to resolve this for you.”

  I got up from my chair and reached out a hand to shake hers. But when she took mine, she pulled me closer and gave me a full-body hug instead. “See you on New Year’s Eve, Jesse,” she murmured.

  She then turned and walked out the door, as I caught my breath.

  • • •

  The somnolence brought on by the Reuben and the beers had been laid completely to rest with a new and zesty client on the radar screen. It was 2:25, so a nap was out of the question. Besides, I was no longer sleepy; Tina Woodbury had put my internal system on overdrive.

  I had five minutes to brace for my next appointment, Andrew Farnsworth.

  I sat at the desk and reviewed my notes regarding Jeannette Farnsworth’s disappearance. Time passed quickly, and the clock kept ticking for another half-hour, but Andrew didn’t show. The phone rang a little after three o’clock.

  “Hello, this is Jesse Thorpe. Can I help you?”

  “Mr. Thorpe, this is Andrew Farnsworth. I just spoke on the phone with my sister. She got one or more of your messages and finally decided to give me a call. She’s been depressed and is on drugs, but hasn’t been harmed by anyone. That’s some measure of relief. She’s been in Madison, Wisconsin, bingeing with a friend.”

  “If you’d like, I’ll locate a rehab center in Madison,” I said. “We can probably arrange for a free consultation with a professional.”

  “I already suggested that; she’s not interested. For now, there’s not much more I can do,” he said in a resolute way. “Thank you for your services. Do I owe you any more for your time and efforts?”

  “No you don’t. Your last bill covered all the services we provided, and we received your check today. It’s sitting on my desk,” I said. “I am sorry it took so long to locate Jeannette, but I am happy we managed to reach her.”

  “Goodbye,” he said and hung up.

  That cleared my docket for the day.

  8

  An Eagle Tattoo & the ACLU

  Marla Vickory had a menacing edge to her stride and a disconcerting look on her face as she sauntered through the door of my office Monday morning, a little after ten o’clock. She tossed her leather jacket on the sofa and eyed me suspiciously. Then she sat down facing Angele, who was standing behind the desk offering a lonely outstretched hand.

  In the Western Hemisphere, it is customary to take such a hand and shake it with one of your own. Apparently that form of greeting was not part of Marla’s repartee. Instead, she gripped the arms of her chair firmly at the midpoints, held her forearms at a ninety-degree angle to her biceps and hunched her shoulders up and back. Her pose suggested that at any moment she might suddenly leap forward and take flight. The red and blue eagle wings tattooed on the nape of her neck hinted at that possibility as well. I had never actually witnessed a human being leave the ground under his or her own power and stay aloft long enough to qualify as “flying,” so the odds against liftoff were fairly high. Even if she managed to get airborne, her flight pattern would have been highly confined. My office is barely fifteen feet square.

  “Why do you want to do private investigative work?” Angele asked as she withdrew her hand and sat down behind the desk.

  “It’s all about the excitement,” Marla replied.

  Before Angele could respond with question number two, Marla took control of the interview with one of her own.

  “Who’s the guy on the sofa?” she asked, lifting her left hand off the arm of the chair and jerking a thumb in my direction.

  “That’s Jesse Thorpe,” Angele replied.

  “His name is on the door; why isn’t he asking the questions?” Marla inquired.

  “Because I am, or at least I’m trying to,” Angele replied, regaining the upper hand, if only for a heartbeat.

  “And who are you?” Marla asked.

  It was a tough call whether Angele would treat her question as rhetorical or downright snotty. I was beginning to enjoy the show.

  “My name is Angele Boucher. You would have discovered that piece of information had you accepted my previously outstretched hand and introduced yourself in the usual way.”

  “I don’t do usual, honey,” Marla replied.

  The air was pregnant with anticipation. I sat quietly and waited to see what might happen next.

  Angele didn’t flinch. She kept her eyes riveted on Marla for a length of ti
me sufficient to recite the preamble to the Constitution, then finally asked, “Are you computer literate?”

  “I don’t text, if that’s what you mean,” she replied.

  “Have you ever heard of Google?” Angele asked.

  “I don’t Google either.”

  “Do you own a firearm?” Angele continued extemporaneously.

  “Oh yeah! There’s a 9mm Luger in my jacket over there,” she said, pointing a finger in my general direction.

  “Do you have a license to carry a concealed weapon?” Angele asked.

  “What’s it to you?” Marla retorted.

  “Your pistol wasn’t visible when you entered our office. Maine law requires a permit for that.”

  “Well, you can fuck that, sugar. A girl needs protection.”

  Without missing a beat, Angele asked, “Have you ever fired your Luger?”

  “Dozens of times,” Marla replied, “but only twice at living human beings.”

  I imagined we were nearing the point in the proceedings where Angele announces, “I believe we’re done here,” but Angele had more ground to cover.

  “Did you manage to hit either one of them?” she asked.

  “Rodney Sands was speeding off on his Harley at the time. I’m pretty sure he got away clean. Arthur Vickory was not so lucky. He took one in the shoulder and dropped to his knees where he belonged.”

  Marla turned in her chair, looked me in the eye and cautioned, “Never slap a woman unless you follow through and deck her. Arthur should have known better.”

  “Arthur has the same last name as you, Marla,” Angele noted. “Are the two of you related?”

  “Artie’s my husband now. It’s a funny world. At the time, he was my fiancé. He learned his lesson a lot quicker than it took to heal his shoulder. He went to the hospital a week later to clear up the infection, but he refused to allow the doctor to remove the bullet lodged in his shoulder blade. It gives him something to talk about in bars, and he uses the scar as an excuse to remove his shirt in front of women.”