Dead Down East (39 page)

It was a depressing story, to be sure, and I was
growing uncomfortable that he might change his tune when he got
before the authorities in Augusta.

“Tell the agents the whole story, Mark,” I said,
trying to reassure him. “They’ll want to know all of this. The
court will consider everything carefully. You’re doing the right
thing. If we had approached Aaron first, he’d have let you both
swing.”

“That’s for sure, the sorry son-of-a-bitch,” Mark
said. “I really don’t have any choice. It’s just a hard pill to
swallow.”

That was reassuring.

At 8:30 PM we took the Lewiston exit off the Maine
Turnpike and proceeded north on route 202. When we were just north
of the city limits, we pulled to the side of the road and
blindfolded Mark. We explained that for security reasons, we did
not want him to know the precise location where he would be
spending the night. He complied without protest.

It was a little past nine when we arrived at Camp
Billy. We kept Mark blindfolded as we escorted him inside. He was
introduced verbally to Brock Powell. Cynthia and Billy remained
silent through the proceedings.

Dinner was ready for us when we arrived. Billy dished
up a plate for Mark, and Brock took him to the root cellar. That
would be his quarters for the night. He could eat and sleep on a
cot. Once inside, Brock removed the blindfold and read him the riot
act. Before retiring, he would be allowed one blindfolded trip to
the bathroom. After that, he would be locked away till morning.

The rest of us celebrated. Billy poured margaritas.
When we were sufficiently lubricated, he served his
specialty—chicken enchiladas, Spanish rice and beans. I was
thoroughly amazed that Angele made a one-night exemption to her
otherwise strict vegan diet. I suspect that the tequila had
something to do with her relaxed standards. Privately she explained
that we were all so elated that she didn’t want to put a damper on
the festivities. She also confessed that she enjoyed Billy’s
gourmet presentation.

“Richard Merrill, party of ten.”

Nathan Percival, the maitre
d' at the Kennebec Barbeque & Grille, waited for all of us to
assemble, counted heads and then escorted us to a private room near
the back of the restaurant. We walked single file through the
doorway, Richard in the lead, followed by Cynthia, Billy, Misty,
Eric, Randall, Travis, Brock, Angele and me. In the middle of the
small room was a single round table covered in pink linen and
surrounded by ten chairs. A vase with a half-dozen red roses
accented with baby’s breath rested elegantly in the center. We
circled the table and took our seats.

When we were all in place, Jean Pierre made a bold
entrance into the room. He was stylishly dressed in a white shirt,
black vest, slacks and bow tie. He eyed Richard sitting on the far
side of the room and commanded everyone’s attention as he strode
toward him.

“Good evening, Mr. Merrill,” he announced.

“Good evening, Jean Pierre,” Richard replied. “How
are you doing?”

“Just fine, sir,” he replied. He then scanned the
table, registering, no doubt, the curious ensemble of diners.

“What would you like to drink?” he asked.

The question was more or less directed to Richard,
but we knew it was meant for everyone.

Richard said, “Ice water all around, of course.” He
then turned to his left and asked, “Would you like a drink,
Cynthia?”

“A martini would be nice, Richard,” she replied.

Jean Pierre jotted down cocktail orders taken
clockwise around the table. After Richard requested a Manhattan,
Jean Pierre replied, “Very good,” spun on his heels and left the
room.

It had been two weeks since we delivered Mark
Prichard to Maine. Aaron Miller and Susan St. Claire had been
arrested Monday morning, a few hours after Mark’s arrival at the
county jail. He was being held in protective custody somewhere in
the state. Aaron and Susan faced their initial arraignment on
Wednesday and were being held without bail. They were charged with
an assortment of crimes, most of which boiled down to first-degree
murder.

Cynthia Dumais came forward the day after the
arraignment and was debriefed by the FBI. She was receiving
round-the-clock protection pending the trial, but was allowed to
venture out alone upon request.

The din of chatter at the table subsided slightly as
Jean Pierre reentered the room with ten cocktails and a pitcher of
water on a tray. Beginning with Richard, he set the drinks down one
by one. He then poured water in everyone’s glass; I was at the end
of the clockwise loop. After he filled mine, he produced a slice of
lemon from within a small metal cup and placed it on the rim of my
glass. He turned to Richard and said, “I’ll be back shortly to take
your dinner orders.”

Richard smiled at me, and I nodded.

“Keep the twenty, Richard,” I said. “You are an
excellent judge of character.”

When the others asked what I meant, I explained our
wager. I then looked directly across the table and smiled
mischievously at Eric until he began to squirm.

Eventually, he said, “OK, Jesse, you were right about
Rebecca. Here’s your forty bucks.”

He removed two twenties from his wallet and sent them
in opposite directions around the table. When they reached me, I
inspected the bills and said, “Nice doing business with you,
Eric.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” he replied. And, no
doubt, he meant it. I had paid him four hundred dollars for his
role as an FBI agent.

I turned to Angele and said, “While we’re discussing
friendly wagers, sweetheart, I believe
you
owe me forty
dollars as well.”

“I guess so,” she replied. “I really thought that
Dennis Jackson was the killer. Jesse, dear, I wonder if you can
extend to me a line of credit? It seems that I have no cash in my
purse.”

She opened it for me to see as if to prove her
claim.

“A line of credit?” I asked. “I don’t know. What can
you put up for collateral?”

“Plenty,” she replied. “I’ll straighten it all out
with you this evening.”

“I’m looking forward to that,” I said.

Jean Pierre refreshed our cocktails, and the chatter
rose to the next level.

I was pleased that Travis had joined us for dinner.
He had been reluctant at first, knowing that Cynthia would be
there, but he was ready to celebrate like the rest of us. He had
been released from jail on the Wednesday that Susan and Aaron were
arraigned. He remained on administrative leave, but was hopeful
that he would be back on the force in a few weeks. Randall Bradford
continued to represent him in his request to be reinstated as a
Maine Trooper. He would not be returning to his previous job of
protecting the governor, but Randall was confident that Travis
could resume working for the highway patrol.

Misty had been hired as a consultant by the Portland
police department.

Eric had written two new songs and was petitioning
Billy and me to include them on our upcoming album.

Billy had kept a new girlfriend for the entire week,
but they had just had their first disagreement. He wasn’t sure
where she was at the moment.

Richard had accepted a consulting job in Washington
D.C. and planned to move there at the end of July.

One way or another, life was beginning to normalize
for most of us.

There had been a $20,000 reward promised by a wealthy
donor for information leading to the arrest and conviction of
anyone involved in the Lavoilette murder. Brock had asked me
privately to come out of the shadows and line up for the reward. I
told him that I didn’t want to jeopardize the case against Susan
and Aaron. I asked him to make arrangements to have the money
donated anonymously to Rebecca Lavoilette’s favorite charity. He
said he’d try, but didn’t know if he could make that happen.

It was possible that word would leak out about my
involvement with Mark Prichard. As a precautionary measure, I began
growing a handlebar mustache. That way if my picture turned up in
the press, Mark and Susan would be less likely to recognize me. At
that point, it might not make any difference at trial. Mark had
freely made his statement to the FBI, and while it’s true that
three civilians, falsely representing themselves as members of law
enforcement, persuaded him to come forward, there was no clear
violation of lawful procedure committed by any actual authority
figure. Randall Bradford admitted that there could be some possible
legal wrangling in the future over the issue if it came to light,
but he suspected that it would not carry enough weight to overturn
a conviction. He even agreed to represent me free of charge in any
related lawsuits. I now topped his list of reliable private
investigators.

Richard insisted on paying the bill for dinner. The
rest of us ponied up the tip. Jean Pierre pretended not to notice
the tall stack of bills by the rose centerpiece, and he wished us
all a good evening as we left the room.

We went nine separate ways in the parking lot on
Water Street. Angele came home with me.

“Tomorrow is Sunday, Jesse. Do you have any plans?”
she asked.

“Not so fast, Peaches. What about the collateral for
your credit line?”

“Gee,” she said, “I almost forgot.”

My doorbell rang at 7:30 in the evening, October
31
^st
. I had no idea who it could be.

I live on a quiet country road four miles from the
center of town. Trick-or-treaters don’t normally make the rounds
this far from civilization, but I carve a Jack-o-lantern anyway.
Halloween has always been my favorite annual event. This year Jack
had an unusually cheerful face. I wasn’t expecting any revelers,
but if one did drop by, the candle-lit toothy grin wasn’t going to
scare the caller away. When I turned on my outside light and opened
the door, I found a ghost in a white sheet standing on my
porch.

“Trick or treat,” he or she cackled.

It sounded more like a
he
than a
she
,
but I wasn’t certain. He, or she, stood about 5’4” tall, so I was
guessing it to be a female apparition, but the sheet was puffed out
near the ground. The human imposter might be bent at the knees in
order to appear shorter.

“I’m sorry, but I didn’t prepare for goblins
tonight,” I said sheepishly. “There’s no candy in the house. How
about an apple?”

“
Trick or treat
?” came the response, louder
and more insistent. “It’s a simple question, fella.”

I still couldn’t place the voice, but there was
something familiar in the delivery. I decided to play along.

“Since you’re asking, I’d prefer a treat if you don’t
mind.”

“Coming right up,” came an eerie reply.

With that, my ghostly visitor flipped the sheet over
her head. Indeed, it was a she—a she without a single outer or
under garment to further disguise who or what she was.

“Peaches!” I cried.

I stood there in a pleasant state teetering between
shock and delight.

“Honey, it’s freezing out here!” Angele announced as
she shivered. “Why don’t you invite me inside?”

“Just a minute, sweetie. I love what the night air is
doing to your…”

Before I could get the last word of the sentence out
of my mouth, she was up against me like a linebacker charging the
quarterback. She caught the front door with her heel and managed to
shut it behind her and then drove me backward across the living
room onto my bark-a-lounger. She ended up on top of me, just the
way I like her.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” she replied.

“That’s a rhetorical question that requires no verbal
response,” I said in a self-contradictory manner.