Dead Down East (14 page)

Whenever I finish talking to Angele on the phone from
my desk, I always record an adjective of the day in the appropriate
square on the calendar. It’s my job to determine which adjective in
the English language best describes Angele’s mood at the moment we
hang up. Adverbs are permitted in the mix as well, but prepositions
are no longer allowed. I’ll explain.

This past winter was unusually cold, but an island
getaway still wasn’t in my budget. So in an attempt to keep warm, I
started entering some hot and suggestive prepositions onto the page
entitled, “February.” Among these were: beneath, within, over,
upon, under, inside and between.

Angele wandered into my office on the last day of
that month and wrote “none of the above” in red lip liner on the
28
^th
square. In her defense, it was not a particularly
good time of the month for her. She made it clear that until I
booked a trip to some tropical isle, prepositions were banned from
the “Island Paradise Brochure” hanging on my wall.

She came by a week later. I hadn’t turned over a new
leaf, per se, but I had turned over the offending page on my
calendar. It was March, and there was just one entry so far. On the
4
^th
I wrote “RAVISHING” in all caps. It was my way of
making amends for the prepositional indiscretions of the previous
month. She studied the latest entry and then eyed me suspiciously
for a few moments. But she couldn’t keep the smile from spreading
to her cheeks. My gambit had worked. My bedroom doesn’t have a
slow-turning ceiling fan, and it’s 1705 miles north of Key Largo,
but that night it didn’t matter.

• • •

I gazed to my left and noticed that I had not yet
turned the calendar to June. There were eight entries for May:
exotic, jiggy, angelic, seductive, sassy, voluptuous, irreplaceable
and preposterous. And with that I dialed her number. Angele picked
up on the first ring.

“What’s up? I haven’t heard from you in days,” she
said slightly piqued.

“Sorry, honey. I’ve been rather busy with a new
client.”

“Well, that’s a good thing. What’s the deal?”

“Do you remember Cynthia Dumais? She hired me a
couple of years ago, about the time when you and I first hooked
up.”

“I think so. You confronted the disgruntled,
ex-husband stalker.”

“Right. Well, now she has a new stalker, a Peeping
Tom of sorts. She got spooked and wants to hide out at my place
until it gets resolved. I’ve set up cameras at her place. Her house
is now under surveillance. I’m not sure how long this will last,
but she is staying in my spare room.”

“Do I have to come over and explain to her the rules
of the house?” she asked.

“I think she can figure out the rules for herself,
but you’re free to come over, of course. In fact that would be
great. Cynthia is half French, like you. Maybe we can arrange a
ménage à trois
. Can you get away?”

“No can do,” she said. “And forget the
ménage
,
Jesse. I don’t think you could handle it. Besides, I’m conducting a
performance evaluation all week in the Portland office. I still
hope to get away on Thursday, but that will depend on whether the
three new lawyers in the firm can get off their academic duffs and
learn how to deal with real people. One of them is particularly
badass. I think he resents taking directions from a woman.”

“Angele, maybe you are intimidating him.”

“I sure hope so,” she said.

“That’s one of your more exhilarating traits,” I
suggested. “You’re intimidating.”

“That’s why I earn the Benjamins,” she replied.
“Sorry, but I’ve got to go. Just hearing your voice again, however,
inspires me to keep rolling with the newbies at the firm. We’ll do
some rolling of our own on Thursday night, if I can make it.
Just the two of us!
Bye, Jesse.”

“Bye, Angele,” I said, but I think she had already
hung up.

It was time to roll over May. I picked up a pen and
wrote, “intimidating” on the June 3
^rd
square. “This
could be an interesting month,” I thought.

• • •

It was almost two o’clock, and I hadn’t eaten
anything since breakfast. I walked through the hall and found
Cynthia sleeping on the couch. No doubt she was still jet-lagged by
the weekend’s events. I threw together a tuna fish sandwich, and
rounded it out with chips and a Guinness, then took lunch into my
office and ate while I continued researching the governor’s life.
Richard’s call came in at 3:38. I was very eager to hear how it
went with the FBI.

“Hi, Richard,” I said, noting his name on the caller
ID.

“Hello, Jesse. I wanted to let you know that
Cynthia’s name did not come up in the interview. That was quite a
relief. They just asked me a lot of general questions about any
possible political or personal enemies William might have had.
Since William had made it clear to his security team that he would
be alone over the weekend, I guess they assumed that that was true.
So for now, to my knowledge, Cynthia’s name is not on the
radar.”

“That’s great. That will give us some time to proceed
undercover. I’ll see you tomorrow at lunch. One of my primary
interests is to learn about the women in William’s life. I’m aware
that William and his wife were estranged, and had been for a number
of years. Try to recall any women who had affairs with William over
the past five years. No doubt he had political enemies, but I want
to focus on the women in his life first. You know the well-known
old phrase, ‘
Cherchez la femme
.’ It may be old, but it’s
well-known for a reason.”

“Right. I’ll review the list and see what specific
information I have on them. Be forewarned, it’s not a short
list.”

“I won’t hold my breath,” I said. “See you
tomorrow.”

“Goodbye, Jesse.”

I pulled the names of Michelle Jackson and Emily
Haywood from my notes. These were the two women that Cynthia said
could possibly have spent personal time with the governor. I
managed to get both of their numbers from the phone book. The
listing suggested that Emily was single. There were a few other
Haywoods living in Augusta, but none at her home address. Michelle,
on the other hand, had a husband named Dennis. Emily was the “shy
one.” I decided to try her first. I’d hone my interviewing skills
on the one without a significant other. She picked up on the first
ring.

“Hello, this is Emily,” came the sweet reply.

“Hello, Emily, this is Jesse Thorpe. I have been
hired by Richard Merrill to investigate the murder of Governor
Lavoilette. I wonder if you’d be so kind as to answer a few
questions about this sad affair?”

“Oh my! Why are you calling me?”

“I spoke with Richard earlier today, and he gave me a
list of people who had personal contact with the governor. Your
name was on the list.”

“Well, yes, I did meet the governor a couple of
times. The first time was at a party right after his election. My
boyfriend at the time was Timothy Austin. He had worked for Mr.
Lavoilette during the campaign. Tim did a variety of jobs, but
primarily he was Mr. Lavoilette’s driver. He drove him all over the
state to meetings, speeches, television debates, wherever he had to
go. Tim was out of town a great deal, especially near the end of
the campaign. I was invited to join Tim and celebrate Mr.
Lavoilette’s victory at the party.”

Emily stopped talking as if that were the whole
story. So I stepped back into the conversation.

“Richard gave me the impression that you saw the
governor at least a few times after he took office,” I
suggested.

“Well, actually just once,” she said slowly, and then
paused for a few moments.

“Timothy and I broke up during the winter. Shortly
after our breakup, I got a call directly from the governor himself.
He invited me to come and work for him. I thought it was strange. I
had only met him the one time, and we didn’t talk at all about
work. I had a good job at the Maine State Credit Union, and I still
work there. But he insisted I come for lunch and talk to him about
a job possibility. So I went. Richard Merrill was there too. It was
just the three of us.”

“What was the job offer?” I asked.

“That was the odd part. We ate and chatted for about
forty-five minutes. He never actually told me what the job was. He
just asked me a lot of questions about my own work. I guess it was
just a general interview. Afterward, he thanked me for coming over
and said he would get in touch with me again soon. He never
did.”

“Just wondering, Miss Haywood, was anyone else
present during your lunch?”

“There was one police officer who sat in the room
while we ate, but I assumed he was just there for security reasons.
Other than that, no.”

“Was that the last time you actually were with the
governor?” I asked.

“Yes. It was just those two times. I’m a little
surprised Mr. Merrill even mentioned my name.”

“I guess he is just trying to cover all the bases.
Thank you very much for your time.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Thorpe,” she said, and we hung up.

It’s a little creepy working a job that rewards
lying. After all, Richard Merrill never put Emily’s name on a list.
That came from Cynthia. I’d like to think that my heart is in the
right place, but this does give me pause. I’ve always had contempt
for those who lie for the sake of convenience. My lie did help me
get some interesting, and possibly useful, information. And, no
doubt, I’d be doing it again in the days—or even minutes—to come. I
guess I’ll have to get used to it. I hope that lying doesn’t become
so comfortable that I let it seep into the everyday
modus
operandi
of my life. If that happened, self-loathing would not
be far behind. I reserve most of my loathing for politicians,
insurance salesmen and Wall Street bankers. I certainly don’t want
to end up on my own list.

I had another call to make. I held my nose and dialed
Michelle Jackson’s number. It rang four times.

“Hello. This is Dennis Jackson.”

“Hello,” I said. “I’m trying to reach Michelle
Jackson. Do I have the correct number?”

“Yes, you do. May I ask who’s calling?”

“My name is Jesse Thorpe. I’m a friend of Richard
Merrill.”

There was a long pause at the other end, and then
click
.

“Ouch,” I thought, out loud. I must have struck a
nerve.

For the rest of the afternoon and early evening, I
researched the governor’s political fights, trying to sort his
allies from his enemies. Eventually I had compiled quite a list,
but a nagging thought ran through my head the entire time. The FBI
should be doing this, not Jesse Thorpe. My forte is
women
,
not politics. That’s where I had a leg up on the FBI…maybe two.

By 7:30, I was getting hungry, so I headed for the
kitchen. As soon as I opened the office door, I smelled some
incredibly inviting aromas wafting from that direction. Cynthia was
at the stove. Four burners were lit. There was some pasta boiling
in a pot, some onions caramelizing in a pan, a steamer hissing
through the seal of its lid and a creamy white substance taking
shape in a saucepan. Cynthia was stirring the sauce as I entered
the room.

“What have you got going there, Cynthia,” I
asked.

“It’s fettuccine Alfredo. Right now I’m making the
roux.”

“Nothing to rue about here,” I offered, my clumsy way
of saying thanks for a home cooked supper.

I detected a faint chuckle, which was all the reward
one could expect for such an obvious pun. So I added, “Thanks so
much for doing this. I lost track of time and now I’m starving. I
go for a piece of toast, and find my kitchen has morphed into an
Italian bistro. Maybe we should get married.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Jesse.”

“Anything you say. I never argue with a woman with a
ladle in her hand. Would you like me to open a bottle of wine?”

“That would be nice,” she said.

“What goes with Alfredo, red or white?”

“White,” she said, with enough certainty to satisfy
any skeptic. “A Pinot Grigio is good, but any white is fine.”

“White it is then,” I said.

I was a little embarrassed that all my wine bottles
were standing straight up in the pantry. And most of them didn’t
have corks. I had intended to build a wine rack three years ago. I
even purchased the cedar to construct it, but the wood is still
sitting in my workshop. The cedar now has aged longer than every
one of my wines.

Fortunately I had a white one. As I was opening the
bottle, I said, “The wine is from Trader Joes, but don’t let that
fool you. Joe knows wines. He travels extensively throughout Napa
and Sonoma counties.” I paused and then added, “Look at
this…apparently he also goes to France. This one is a Bordeaux,
‘Chateau Bonnet 2011, Sauvignon Blanc.’”

I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about, but
I can read a label. I held the bottle to the light to be sure it
wasn’t red. Steve Martin once opined, “Those French have a
different word for
everything
.” I knew what “Blanc” meant,
but it never hurts to double check.

“That will be fine,” Cynthia said, “but didn’t Joe
retire about twenty-five years ago?”

“Maybe it was Joe Junior.”

“I see,” she replied. Cynthia was kind enough to
sound as if she meant it.

I pulled the only two wineglasses I own from the
shelf and wiped them clean with a dishtowel when Cynthia wasn’t
looking. I then poured a glass and handed it to her. She stopped
her rouxing long enough to take a sip. She then gave me a gentle
but serious look and said, “I really appreciate your help. I know
I’m a client, but you’re now my friend as well. Thank you so
much.”

“You’re welcome, Cynthia. From here on out we are
just ‘friends.’ I’ll be there for you when you need me. By the way,
Richard called a few hours ago. Your name did not come up in his
interview with the FBI. So, no worries there for the moment.” Then
I added, “I’ll stop being a pest and let you finish here. I’m going
to check the news to see if there are any new developments.”