A Priestly Affair (Jesse Thorpe Mysteries Book 2)

by Carl Schmidt

  “No problem. I’m frying other fish at the moment. Last time I checked, Tina and Leo were south of New York on the New Jersey Turnpike. If they keep at it, they’ll be in Miami sometime tomorrow.”

  “They must have stopped somewhere for the night,” he suggested.

  “Yes, they did, midway between Hartford and New York City. At 10:40, they pulled into the parking lot of Skinny Dick’s Halfway Inn.”

  Eric thought about that for a minute and then said, “I guess you’re not all the way in until you get to the Big Apple.”

  “That sounds about right, Eric.”

  41

  A Regular Rig

  At noon, I reached Xavier LaGrange by phone. He was on a Hollywood set, between scenes. He took my call from his trailer.

  I gave him the full rundown. I told him I was reasonably confident that Joe Dunham and Sophia Stockbridge were involved in Nicole’s death and that Joe was the one making the blackmail calls. I also said that it was entirely possible that Joe had murdered Tony Doyle on Sunday evening, but I admitted that Angele’s imagination was stretched out considerably when that notion lodged itself inside her head.

  “I’d like to contact a friend of mine in the Maine Police Department and talk to him about Tony,” I said. “Your name won’t come up. I’ll just suggest that Tony may have been murdered and that Joe Dunham might be involved. If we get lucky, Joe and Sophia could be tied up with serious legal problems. Blackmailing you would be put on the back burner for sure. In fact, the fire on the stove might go out permanently.”

  It occurred to me that Xavier’s good fortune in this case required that Tony be a lot less fortunate. It also crossed my mind that I had made many assumptions about three people that I had never met. On the other hand, I heard Tony’s voice loud and clear on Xavier’s phone in New York and inside Tina’s home. I wouldn’t grieve over his demise in the same way I mourned the passing of Mother Teresa or Nelson Mandela.

  “Sure,” Xavier said. “Give your friend a call. I haven’t slept well since Nicole was murdered. I’ll try anything at this point.”

  “All right,” I replied. “We’re still on for the Skype connection tomorrow at five o’clock your time. Even if the Waltham Police move on the tip, it’s unlikely the dominos will fall on Joe Dunham by then.”

  I called Brock as soon as I hung up with Xavier. I tiptoed around my client’s name, and I didn’t mention Nicole either. Brock is a friend, but he’s also a Maine Trooper. Nicole Shepard’s murder was the hottest crime in the state. There was no way Brock would sit still if her name came up. In fact, he might already know that I was involved in the case.

  When I had finished relating my version of the Tony Doyle story, he said, “Is there something else you’d like to tell me, Jesse?”

  “No, Brock,” I replied. “There isn’t.”

  “How is it that you happened to come across this information?” he asked.

  “I come across lots of stuff in my line of work.”

  “Are you licensed in Massachusetts?”

  “No, but crime doesn’t respect borders; it spills across state lines. I have clients to protect from all sorts of threats.”

  “I’d like to help, but I don’t want to look silly,” he said cautiously.

  “Listen, Brock. I know you might be sticking your neck out a bit on this, but trust me, my client’s neck is pinned to the chopping block.”

  It was quiet at the other end of the line for a while.

  “Brock?” I said, still waiting for a reply.

  “OK, Jesse. I guess I owe you. By the way,” he added, “what do you know about the Nicole Shepard murder?”

  “Just what I hear on the local news.”

  “As I recall, you rarely tune in to the local news,” he replied.

  “Exactly,” I said.

  “OK. I’ll give the Waltham Police Department a call. If this guy is as bad as you say he is, he might already be on their radar.”

  “Thanks, Brock. Get back with me if they share anything with you.”

  “All right, but don’t hold your breath. When it comes to information, every police department has the same motto.”

  “And what is that, Brock?”

  “It’s better to receive than to give.”

  • • •

  I poked my head into the spare room where Holly was conducting her interviews. She happened to be on Skype at that moment speaking with a woman in Sweden. I left her a note without disturbing her conversation. I was stepping out for an interview of my own.

  I drove over to the Rutland Arms Hotel and was happy to see that Kitty Wells was on duty at the desk. The lobby was deserted except for the two of us.

  “Do you have a minute, Kitty?” I asked.

  “Why, if it isn’t Mistah Thawp. Business or pleasuah?”

  “My business is a pleasure, at least it is most of the time. But, as you already know, a murder is involved, so I’m not exactly overjoyed. And, you can call me ‘Jesse.’”

  “Be happy to, Jesse. So you’ve come back to talk about Nicole Shepahd?”

  “I hope that’s all right.”

  “I break for lunch in ten minutes. How ‘bout springin’ for soup and a sandwich?”

  “I’d love to,” I replied.

  She looked over her shoulder, just the way she did the first time I was there, and said, “I’d be more free to talk at Coburn’s Deli ‘round the cawnah. Why don’t you stroll on down theyah and ordah a tuna melt with chowdah? I like that with chips and lemonade, if it’s all right with you.”

  “Sounds good, Kitty. See you in ten minutes.”

  “I’ll be theyah,” she said.

  I walked over to the deli, went inside and sat down. It was just before noon, and there were only a few patrons in the place. A waitress—Louise, according to her nametag—walked up to me immediately and offered me a menu.

  “That’s not necessary,” I said. “I know what I want.”

  “What’ll it be, handsome?”

  “I want two identical lunches. A tuna melt, chowder, chips and lemonade.”

  “What kind of chips would you like?”

  “Pick your two most popular flavors and put one on each plate.”

  “That will be up in about ten minutes,” she said.

  “Perfect. That’s when my friend will join me.”

  “Sounds like you’ll be eating with Kitty,” she replied.

  “How’d you guess?” I asked.

  “She orders the same thing every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. On Monday, Wednesday and Friday, she has the club sandwich and bean soup.”

  “Kitty must be a regular gal,” I suggested.

  “She a regular rig, if you know what I mean. Watch yourself, though. She can talk a man right down to his socks,” she said with a wink.

  “I won’t let it get that far, Louise. It would be a little cold in here without my shirt and pants on. Besides, the sign on the door indicates I wouldn’t be served in that condition. Just wondering, though… Do you really need that sign during winter? I can’t imagine customers showing up in January without shoes and shirts?”

  “A fella dropped in last week with no shirt on. I believe he was trying to impress Ramona, our other waitress, with how tough he is.”

  “Did it work?”

  “I guess prob’ly. She went out with him and missed her next three shifts. When she came back on Friday, Mr. Coburn didn’t have to ask where she’d been; he could tell by the look on her face.”

  “What kind of a look was that?” I asked, as if I were clueless.

  “She was dazed and disheveled, but ready to work.”

  “And the guy?” I asked.

  “He had his fill and went back home to his wife in Presque Isle.”

  A crowd was forming in front of the register. Louise held up one finger, turned around and went to greet them.

  I let my gaze drift toward the kitchen and got a glimpse of Ramona talking to the chef. One look and it was clear why the g
uy from Presque Isle took off his shirt. It was also clear why Mr. Coburn was willing to take her back. She was an eyeful with an appealing attitude. She could take a man down to his socks without saying a word.

  Our dueling tuna melts arrived just as Kitty made her entrance. After she set the plates down, Louise left the table and met Kitty up front. They chatted for a minute or two, and, one after the other, each of them glanced my way during their conversation. My ears weren’t exactly burning, but they were warming up. When they finished talking, Kitty waltzed to our table and sat down. The first thing she did was to switch the bags of chips. Apparently she preferred salt and vinegar over honey barbecue. In retrospect, it made perfect sense.

  “I see you met Louise,” Kitty said. “She can tell ya stories.”

  “She told me a couple already,” I replied.

  Kitty wrapped her paws around her sandwich without disturbing her fork.

  “So, you doubled up on the ordah,” she said between bites. “Good choice. It’s the best chowdah in Pawtlan. You’ll love it.”

  She was right about that.

  When we were halfway through the meal, I decided it was time to get the interview rolling. I pulled out two 8x10 photographs and put them on the table for Kitty to see. One featured Joe Dunham, the other, Sophia Stockbridge.

  “Kitty,” I asked, “Did you happen to see either of these two in the Rutland Arms Hotel on the day of the murder?”

  As she studied the pictures, she took her napkin and wiped a trace of cheddar cheese off the side of her mouth. The lines on her forehead squeezed together, which obviously helped her think more clearly.

  “It’s possible,” she said finally. “The guy looks familiah. I don’t know ‘bout the woman, though. I watch men closah.”

  “Is it possible that he sat in the chair by the front door on that Saturday afternoon?” I asked.

  “I talked with the police ‘bout all of this on Sunday,” she replied. “Now it seems like I remembah moah about what I said, than what I actually saw. A guy rushed in ‘bout foah o’clock and sat down theyah. That’s a fact. It couldah been the man in the pictuah. It’s hawd to say. I had no idea at the time I’d have to remembah faces. It’s like bawn doahs.”

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  “Aftah the cows ah gone, ya know you should’ve shut em.”

  Kitty had to be in her early twenties, but if you were talking to her on the phone, she could have passed for seventy-five. Homespun wisdom rolled off her tongue like butter on a hot griddle or a stolen kiss in Paris. She spoke as if she’d been ‘round the world for generations and yet still was entranced by its quirky humor.

  As I watched her negotiating circumstances, I was graced with an appreciation for her narrative and breezy disposition. And, too, I wondered if her spirit would remain as animated in the twittering decades to come. I certainly hoped so. Nothing compares to a smile on a friend.

  42

  The Extinction of Woolly Mammoths & Tony Doyle

  “That does it, Jesse,” Holly said. “The Allied Shipping interviews are finished. I uploaded the last one to their server at 2:30, and I just emailed the full set of personal profiles to their main office.”

  “Thanks for a marvelous job, Holly,” I replied. “You’re timing is perfect. This evening we should find out where we’re headed with Xavier’s blackmail. Take the rest of the day off. If anything significant happens tonight, I’ll call you. Otherwise, I’ll see you here in the morning. I’ll probably have to remain in Portland until this is resolved.”

  “Doesn’t your band have an engagement this weekend?” she asked.

  “We’re supposed to play in Orono on Saturday. I hope I can make it, but it depends on the LaGrange situation. My band mates can go on without me; they did that once before. I caught hell from Willie, our drummer, but some things can’t be helped.”

  As Holly moved toward the coat rack, Ranger took his cue. The moment she reached for her scarf, he hopped up from his blanket, wagged his tail and positioned himself next to the door. Holly smiled, put on her coat, and the two of them left the office.

  It was 4:30 Wednesday afternoon. The sun had just set, and an orange glow was pouring through our southwest window overlooking the street. The days were growing longer now, but only in gradual increments. Winter entrenches itself Down East and battles the sun for supremacy. It dominates the annual rivalry well beyond the equinox, into late April or early May, when the spring thaw portends an optimistic turn of events.

  It’s one thing to cope in the cold with the soft and convenient accommodations available to us in the twenty-first century; it was quite another thing to have endured Maine’s winter in the distant past. The glaciers retreated only twelve thousand years ago, and Woolly Mammoths were hunted to extinction shortly thereafter. For nearly all of the hundred and twenty centuries that have followed, survival has been driving human activity in this neck of the woods.

  As I stared out the window, I wondered if those who choose extortion and violence as a way of life today are not somehow acting upon biological imperatives of an earlier time. It suggests that our collective DNA has not yet been purged of ancient impulses. The transition from survival of the fittest to open cooperation is yet to be anchored in the human heart. A new age may be dawning, but the sun is still below the horizon.

  As I contemplated the Iron Age and the discovery of fire, my own personal fire starter slipped in silently through the door behind me and tiptoed to my side. She whispered in my ear, “Jesse… You look like Atlas.”

  “Angele,” I murmured. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  I turned partway around. She put her hands behind my head and kissed me gently.

  “I guess love has arrived after all,” I said.

  “After what all?” she asked.

  “After the disappearance of the Woolly Mammoth,” I replied.

  Angele gave me a quizzical look without finding a reply.

  “Atlas?” I finally echoed. “Didn’t he truss the world on his shoulders?”

  “Exactly.”

  “That’s a heavy load, Angele. I wonder what the heck he was standing on.”

  She kissed me one more time for good measure and then said, “Let’s go home. We’ll have a hot meal and prepare ourselves for Xavier’s showdown with Joe Dunham.”

  We both turned to the window for a last look at the orange haze. After a minute, Angele finished her thought.

  “I think Xavier should be confrontational on the phone and call Joe by his name. That worked well when you spoke with Tony Doyle.”

  “I agree,” I said, “but rather than being confrontational, it might work better if Xavier comes across as relaxed and confident. He needs to take charge of the negotiation as much as possible, and put Joe—if it really is Joe—on the defensive.”

  “Maybe Joe will figure the whole thing is too risky and give up after he sleeps on it for a couple of nights,” Angele suggested.

  “Well, we’ll see. It’s hard to predict how a killer will react. He’s invested up to his eyeballs, so I don’t really expect him to fold his hand without a showdown. I just want Xavier to have some leverage.”

  • • •

  After dinner, Angele and I passed the time reading. Angele was finishing Ann Patchett’s novel, Bel Canto. I was midway through Ken Wilber’s, Quantum Questions, a collection of mystical writings by the world’s greatest physicists from the first half of the twentieth century. I had reached Erwin Schroedinger’s, “The Mystic Vision,”…

  “…For eternally and always there is only now, one and the same now; the present is the only thing that has no end.”

  …when the phone rang, dragging me away to yet another aspect of now.

  “Jesse, I have some interesting news for you,” Brock said.

  “What’s that?” I replied.

  “You were right about several things. First, Anthony Doyle has been murdered. The Waltham Police discovered his body a few hours ago inside his home. He’s
been dead at least a couple of days, perhaps longer.”

  “He was alive and well at 7:35 Sunday evening, Brock, but not long after that.”

  “Just long enough, apparently, to open his safe. And as you suggested, there was a single set of footprints in the snow leading from the walkway to the bush by the front porch. It looks as if the perpetrator stood there for at least several minutes, because the snow is well trampled by one pair of boots.

  “And another thing…” he added. “The remote control for his garage door is not in his car.”

  By the time we reached that point in the conversation, Angele had put down her book and was standing at my side, antsy as a hamster on a training wheel.

  “Is that Brock?” she asked excitedly.

  “Hold on a second, Brock,” I said.

  I covered up the mic on the phone and said, “Yes, Angele. You were right. Tony Doyle was murdered in his home, and his attacker waited for him in the exact spot you pointed out on the Google photograph.”

  Back on the phone, I said, “OK, Brock. What else did the Waltham Police say?”

  “For one thing, they want to know who you are,” he replied.

  “No can do…at least not yet. My client is in danger at the moment. I hope to fill you in before long, but for now, I just can’t. Did they check out Sophia Stockbridge’s home?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied, “but I doubt it; they are still at the crime scene. They will probably want a warrant before going there; that’ll take some time. But really, I don’t know what their next move will be.”

  “Thanks for trusting me on this one, Brock. It’s important for us to know what’s happening.”

  “We’ll stay in touch,” Brock added, “and if you want to talk directly with the Waltham Police, I can give you the name of the lead detective.”

  “Why don’t you give it to me now?” I said.

  “It’s Laura Flanagan.”

  I wrote down her name and number. Angele glowed with the news that a woman was in charge.