Dead Down East (27 page)

“And…” she said again, this time with more
anticipation.

“He’s left handed…and…he keeps a Colt .45 in the top
right drawer of his desk,” I said.

“What?” she said. Her face lit up.

I described my encounter with the Jacksons and then
added, “You remember our bet, don’t you? It’s not a lock, but
you’ll probably need to come up with forty bucks. I don’t think he
killed the governor.”

“Why? Because he said he was at a party on Saturday
night? Dennis Jackson is a violent man, Jesse.”

“He was with Michelle and thirty-five other people
that night.”

“He could have hired a killer,” Angele protested.

I decided not to debate that possibility. First, I
needed to cope with the kale smoothie. It’s easier to clear hurdles
one at a time.

Our Friday gig at the Raincloud was relatively
uneventful. Saturday night in Bangor is another story.

The evening started routinely enough. We
played mostly on key, and the crowd was enjoying themselves. Maybe
it was the beers more than the music, but there were no complaints
until we were well into our second set. That’s when some clown at a
table in the back called out, “Play ‘White Winter Hymnal’ by
Fleet Foxes
.”

That’s a mouthful to say, even when sober.
But the guy managed to get well over half of the syllables correct.
Very impressive. Also, I appreciated his choice of music, even if
he was hammered—and he obviously was. But under the circumstances,
we had to ignore him and started in on our cover of “Just Breathe”
by
Pearl Jam
. He either failed to hear us play “White Winter
Hymnal” during our first set, or he was suffering from short-term
memory loss.

We were barely into the first verse when our “friend”
stood up, nearly toppling his table while maneuvering himself into
a semi-erect position, and then shouted, “I said, ‘White Winter
Hymnal.’”

That time he pronounced it perfectly, but the
band played on. That’s show business.

As we reached the bridge, “Stay with me…let’s
just breathe…” he obviously had no intention of taking the song’s
philosophical advice. An empty beer bottle flew in our direction
along with the comment, “You’re fucking trash!”

This must have woken a patron nodding off in
front, who then added, “And no more fucking James Taylor. He’s a
fucking liberal twit.”

That was three “fuckings” in less than four bars of
music.

Ocean Noises
has a strict policy of
playing on through two “fuckings,” but never three. When that
happens, we stop the music and hope the bouncer remembers how to
conduct the birthday parlor game, Musical Chairs. If he does, he
knows enough to remove a chair—and in this case two—while informing
the squatters they are OUT. According to the rules, the bouncer
should then escort them both from the Sea Breeze onto Main
Street.

I was at the microphone so I summoned the
bouncer. “Stan, would you please show these two musical
connoisseurs the way to the front door?”

Unfortunately, Stan was in the restroom at that
particular moment in time, a distinct miscalculation on my part.
Things generally went downhill from there. When the fun had finally
run its course, we had one amplifier that never amped anything
again, and Billy Mosher’s KingKORG Synthesizer had an ugly scratch
across its face. Other than that, we escaped relatively
unscathed.

Landon O’Reilly, the disgruntled conservative patron
sitting up front, didn’t fair as well. A Fender Bass Guitar has a
weight distribution not unlike a sledgehammer. Though, oddly
enough, this fact is not included in the instruction manual. If
Landon retains any of the common sense God gave him, he’ll think
twice before messing with a bass player again. I feel obligated to
add that I had some help in the proceedings. Amanda Cavenaugh’s
right knee found its way to Landon’s groin the moment he boarded
the stage. Immediately after that, I swung my guitar like a
seven-iron and hit him on his right shoulder. He fell back onto the
dance floor, did an unusual version of the two-step, and collapsed
into a tidy heap while holding on to his manhood. I was encouraged
to hear Landon groan. It was living proof he had not yet
expired.

We explained to Sergeant Clemson of the Bangor City
Police Department that we didn’t want to press charges; we only
wanted to get packed up and go home.

In retrospect, we decided that the hubbub had
more to do with the Red Sox than our skills as musicians. Earlier
in the week, the Sox were swept by the Yankees at Fenway. Then to
rub salt in the wound, they were shut out on Friday night by
Toronto, the doormat of the American League East that year. The
boys were just blowing off steam.

Before driving back to Augusta, I chatted
with Brock. He hadn’t managed to get a date for our Friday gig in
Gardiner, but he showed up in Bangor Saturday night with Anita
Reston in tow.

“Anita, nice to meet you,” I said, after the
introductions.

“Looks as if your golf game is improving,
Jesse,” Brock said.

“Where were you hiding during the scuffle,
Brock? We could have used your physical presence up there,” I
said.

“I was stuck in the bleacher seats. I grabbed
the loudmouth in the back and took him outside. Before I could get
to the other guy, I saw Amanda knee him as he rushed the stage. Did
you hire her as your bodyguard?” he asked.

“She can really handle herself, can’t she?” I
replied.

“In any event, I figured you were in good
hands. After all, you’re a private investigator. They teach karate
and wrestling holds in PI school, don’t they?”

“Not really,” I said. “But I’ve learned a few
tricks watching Humphrey Bogart films. Which reminds me…what’s the
latest in the Lavoilette case?”

“You know I can’t discuss an ongoing murder
investigation,” he protested.

“Anita, please excuse us for just a minute, I
need to speak alone with Brock,” I said.

“Certainly,” Anita replied.

I took Brock by the arm and led him around a
corner and into an alley.

“You’re not going to rough me up are
you?”

“Not unless I have to,” I said.

“OK. Off the record?” Brock asked.

“Of course,” I assured him.

“Travis Perkins is not talking. However,
there might have been an eyewitness to the murder. We’ve received
two anonymous tips that have led the FBI to find the murder weapon
and some other items of interest. You wouldn’t happen to know
anything about that, would you, Jesse?”

“Not a thing, Brock.”

“Nobody thinks Travis is directly involved.
He wouldn’t be stupid enough to use his own gun or supply it to the
killer. But until he helps us out, he’s going to stay locked
up.”

“What about the motive? What’s the prevailing
theory?” I asked.

“Lot’s of political angles are being
discussed, but nothing substantial has surfaced in that department
that I’m aware of. There are some indications that the governor was
having an affair, maybe even more than one. The FBI have checked
out a few possibilities, including Michelle Jackson and Lori
Trumbull.

“Michelle and her husband, Dennis, have an
alibi for Saturday night. Besides, Michelle hasn’t been seen around
the governor for at least a year. According to Richard Merrill,
Lori Trumbull might have been sleeping with the governor a couple
of years ago, but he wasn’t sure. Other than that, there aren’t any
significant personal leads.”

Brock continued, “There’s one other possible
motive, but it is remote. When William Lavoilette and Richard
Merrill were going to college, they were in a fatal car crash.
Alcohol was involved. Officially, William was driving. But we are
certain that Richard was driving, and he had been drinking. The
parents and other family members of the girl who was killed all
know the facts. So it’s almost certain there was no simmering
hostility directed at William for the crash…maybe at Richard, but
not at the governor.”

“Thanks, Brock. I appreciate your help. I’m
working a few angles of my own on behalf of my client. If anything
breaks that doesn’t hit the newswire, please let me know. It could
save me a whole lot of trouble.”

“I won’t be able to call you with anything,”
Brock said.

“Just call me. I’ll work out a way to see you
privately,” I said.

“OK. But this is my job, Jesse. You’ve got to
be completely discreet.”

“You can count on me, Brock.”

We left the alley and parted ways.

The ride back home in the van was a lively
affair. Amanda received high fives from everyone. Billy chided me
for using my bass guitar as a weapon. I guess he thought I
shouldn’t have risked any further damage to the band equipment. I
explained that my hands are my livelihood. He wasn’t buying it.

God rested on the seventh day. I wasn’t going
to break with that tradition in any significant way. I figured She
knew what She was doing.

“Jesse, it’s Kathleen. Michael and I would
love to have you over for Sunday dinner. We are sorry you had to
leave us so abruptly last week at Bear Spring. Bring Angele if
she’s in town. She’s the sweetest! We’ve already called your mom,
and she wants to come as well.”

There were two messages on my phone machine.
That was the second one. I played the first one again, to revisit
the ambiance.

“Mr. Thorpe, this is Dennis Jackson. Please
accept my sincere apology. I’ve been under a lot of stress. Just
last month our son, Scottie, was diagnosed as autistic. Our family
life has been turned upside down.”

There was a pause at this point, but I could
hear Michelle in the background imploring Dennis to keep
talking.

“Michelle and I want to send you a check for
two thousand dollars. We hope that will adequately compensate you
for the unpleasantness and for the damage to your car. If you will
let me know your mailing address, I’ll send the check off tomorrow.
Again, I’m really sorry for everything.”

His contrition seemed genuine enough, and
hearing Michelle in the background was reassuring, but there was no
way I would be giving Dennis Jackson my home address. It was eight
in the morning. I’d allow Billy a little more time in the sack and
then tickle his money bone with a proposition.

A couple hours later…

“Hello, Jesse?”

“Yeah. It’s me.”

“Some night, eh?”

“It was interesting. Is your KORG
playable?”

“I tested it out as soon as I got home. It
has a scratch, but it plays fine. By the way, if your music career
doesn’t pan out, you could always take up golf.”

“Golf?”

“The way you swung that bass, Tiger’s got
nothin’ on you.”

“I think I hooked that shot just a bit,
Billy. Listen, how would you like to earn a finder’s fee?”

“What do I have to find?” he asked.

“A check for two thousand dollars in your
mail box.”

“What’s my fee?”

“Ten percent.”

“Why would I find a check in my mailbox?”

“Because I don’t want Dennis Jackson to know
where I live.”

“Who’s Dennis Jackson?”

“Do you want the two hundred dollars or not?”
I asked.

“Dude, what’s this all about?”

“It’s complicated. Let’s just say it’s life
imitating fiction…you know, a lotta ins, lotta outs, lotta
what-have-yous.”

“I get it. The Big Lebowski. This sounds
dangerous. Will there be a severed toe in the envelope?”

“Probably not,” I said.

“We’d better make it twenty percent,
Jesse.”

“Fifteen.”

“Eighteen.”

“Seventeen.”

“Seventeen and a half.”

“Deal,” I said. “But I could rent a post
office box for a lot less than that.”