Dead Down East (4 page)

Angele is half Greek (her mother’s side),
which accounts for most of the fire. She’s just like her mother,
only a lot more my age. Her father is French—French Canadian to be
precise—which, I suppose, accounts for her liberal romanticism.
Fire and romance—every man’s fantasy. Maybe I’ll go up in flames,
but my instincts are to follow my heart and throw caution to the
wind.

“Angele,” I said, “I miss you already.”

“Me too, darling.”

Music to my ears.

“I’d love to chat, Angele, but someone has
been trying to get hold of me since last night. I have over twenty
missed calls from a single number that I don’t recognize. I think
I’d better find out who it is and what he, or she, wants. For now,
I plan on getting back home on Thursday afternoon. Can you come
over Thursday evening and stay after band practice?”

“I’ll be there,” she said. “I’ll try to get
off on Friday so I can stay over for a late morning breakfast.”

“It’s a date, Peaches. See you then.”

“Bye,” she said.

I looked again at my messages and missed
calls. The caller rang my phone a couple dozen times throughout the
night, but didn’t leave a single message. I found that odd. The
caller ID provided me with the number, but the name was private. I
scrolled through my address book; none of the numbers matched.
Apparently somebody I don’t know knows me well enough to stay up
all night hoping to talk to me. My curiosity was piqued, to say the
least. I highlighted the number and hit “send.”

Before my phone registered a second ring, a woman’s
voice came on the line, and in an excited, but muffled tone, she
said, “Jesse, is that you?”

“Yes,” I said tentatively. “I’m sorry I don’t
recognize your number. Who is this?”

“Cynthia Dumais,” she said.

And that’s all she said for an unusually long
stretch of time. I guessed she was giving me a chance to recall who
she was, or perhaps she was collecting herself before following up
with the story she’d been hoping to tell for the past ten hours. In
that space of time, I quickly recapped our relationship.

About two years earlier, Cynthia hired me for
personal protection. She had been divorced for about a month when
her former husband, Travis Perkins, began to show up in the
evenings and hang around her home. He wouldn’t knock at the door or
call out to her, but he would stroll along the street, often
pausing one or two houses away and just stand there staring at her
house. Sometimes he would make his appearance very late at night.
When this behavior became a habit, Cynthia decided to confront him.
She asked him to leave, but he simply replied, “It’s a free
country.”

Now that’s the sort of response you’d expect
from a pest in junior high school with thick glasses and a bad
haircut, not from a Maine State Trooper, entrusted with the task of
protecting the governor and his family.

Rather than begin the arduous process of
filing for a protection order, she decided to hire me on a
short-term basis to position myself in her front yard for the few
minutes every day when she came home from work. This was in
December, and it was pitch dark by the time she arrived home at
5:30. I’d show up at 5:15, wait for her to drive up, and escort her
inside. I had done this for about a week before I first laid eyes
on Travis.

He just “happened” to be walking by the house
when Cynthia arrived. It was freezing cold that night, so it was
more than a bit peculiar that he “happened” to be there at that
time. I recognized him from a photograph that Cynthia had given me,
so I approached him directly and asked, “What are you doing
here?”

“I just
happened
to be in the
neighborhood.”

I replied, “If you just
happen
to be
here again, I’ll file a complaint with the Maine State Police, and
they might just
happen
to think you are unfit for your
present employment.”

Travis responded briskly, “Who are
you
?”

I produced one of my PI business cards, and
that, more or less, put an end to the whole affair. He didn’t show
up the next week, and Cynthia decided that the issue was probably
settled. She thanked me for my help, paid for my services, and that
was the last time I heard from her—until now.

As I quickly replayed my relationship with Cynthia
Dumais, I didn’t fail to take note of Travis Perkins’ relationship
with the governor. Bells began to ring inside my head, and the
word, “governor” lit up the gray matter like “Tilt” on a pinball
machine.

“Cynthia, what’s going on?” I asked, now
almost as agitated as she.

Again there was a long pause. This time I was
certain she was gathering her thoughts. I braced myself for a messy
explanation.

“Jesse, I’m in trouble. Big trouble!”

“Does it have anything to do with the
governor?” I asked.

“Yes,” she exclaimed in a muted scream. “How
did you know?”

“I just added things up. Your ex-husband is a
security guard for the governor, or I should say, ‘He
was
a
security guard for the
former
governor.’ You began calling
me a half-hour after William Lavoilette was murdered, and you’ve
called me over twenty times throughout the night and into the
morning.”

“Jesse, please help me right away. I may be
in real danger. I need you to come and get me.”

Now it was my turn to pause and take stock. I
found Cynthia to be a very levelheaded, professional woman. She was
in her late thirties and had been employed her entire adult life.
She worked in a title company for several years after graduating
from the University of Maine. When she turned thirty, she got her
real estate license and has been selling both personal and
commercial properties ever since. I see her name on “For Sale”
signs all over Augusta.

“Jesse, are you still there?” she asked as if
panicked and desperate.

“Yes, I’m still here. I’m just getting my
bearings. How are you involved?” I asked.

“I can’t explain it over the phone. It’s too
complicated. Believe me, I need your help right away. I’ll pay
whatever you ask. But,
please
…come pick me up. I need your
protection. I can’t go home until I am able to find out if it is
safe for me there.”

“Safe from whom? Travis Perkins?”

“I don’t know whom. I just can’t explain it
all now. Jesse! Help me!”

“OK,” I said, “Where are you?”

“I’m on Sebascodegan Island, just south of
Brunswick, not far from Harpswell Islands Road, State Highway
24.”

“That’s precisely where the governor was
murdered last night,” I said.

“Well, that’s where I am, and that’s where I
have been…all night.”

I really didn’t know what to imagine, or what
to say. There was no way Cynthia could be responsible for the
governor’s death, but obviously she was involved in some way. It
was beginning to look as if I was going to get involved as well. I
tried one more time to get a clearer picture of the situation.

“Can’t you just tell me a little more about
your situation?” I pleaded.

“I’m not a suspect, if that’s what you mean.
But I simply can’t tell you any more right now. I’ve got to stay
low and out of sight until you get here. Please come!”

“OK. I’ll come and find you. But when I get
there, you’ll have some explaining to do. If I don’t feel
satisfied, I will drive away and leave you where you are. Is that
clear?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’ll leave here in about ten minutes. I
should be able to find route 24. Where do I go once I get on the
island?”

“I am in the woods behind the Cranberryhorn
Cemetery off Cundys Harbor Road. Drive to the cemetery and call me
from there. If I have to move for any reason, I’ll let you know
where I am when you call.”

“It will take me about two hours to get there. It’s
9:30 now, so I should arrive just before noon. I’ll call you when I
find the cemetery. Keep your chin up,” I said, in the most
reassuring tone I could muster. I was more than a little
apprehensive myself, but I hoped it might provide her some
comfort.

“Thanks, Jesse. Oh…and please don’t tell
anyone
about me. No one! Until I can sort this out, I have
to be invisible.”

“You have my word.”

“Thank you so much,” she said, almost
crying.

And with that we both hung up.

• • •

I walked briskly down to the lake. When I
reached the cabin, Michael was in the hammock on the porch staring
out at the lake, absorbed in his private thoughts. Tyler was
sitting on the top step and spoke to me as soon as we made eye
contact. “Do you still want to go out fishing this morning like we
planned, Jesse?”

“Unfortunately, Ty, something’s come up. I
just received an important call from a client, and I have to leave
right away.”

“What kind of client?” Tyler asked.

“It’s a long story. I’m sorry to say that it
is also confidential. I would love to talk about it, but I’ll have
to wait and see what develops before I can do that. I hate to sound
so secretive, but it’s something I am obliged to do at the moment.
I have to grab my things and dash off.”

Kathleen had come out of the cabin while we
were talking, and was considerate enough not to press me for any
details. She said quite simply, “Gosh, Jesse. I’m sorry you’re
going. We love spending time with you.”

“I’m sorry too,” I said, “but duty
calls.”

“If you’re free in the next couple of days,
come on back. We’re only a stone’s throw from Augusta,” Kathleen
noted.

“I’d love to, but that seems unlikely. I’ll
just get my things. And, Michael, would you mind keeping my Orvis
and tackle box with you for now. I’m in a hurry and won’t be
needing my fishing gear for a spell. In fact, Tyler, you can use my
rod if you like. I saw you eyeing it this morning. The reel is
loaded with some sharkskin fishing line. You’ll enjoy how easily it
slides through the guides.”

With that, I slipped into the cabin, gathered
up my clothes and bathroom kit, and returned to the porch in less
than a minute. We said our farewells, and I walked quickly to my
bronze, 2006 Subaru Forester. Before starting the engine, I turned
on my Garmin and waited for it to pick up a signal. When it came
online, I entered the Cranberryhorn Cemetery on Cundys Harbor Road,
Harpswell. A map appeared displaying the road south of Brunswick. I
checked out the area on the map to get some idea of the roads on
Sebascodegan Island and then started the Forester. I backed out of
the driveway and headed up the hill toward the dining hall.

As I neared the top of the hill, Becky said,
“In two hundred feet turn right on Jamaica Point Road.”

I call my GPS, “Becky” after Becky Lawrence,
a quirky redhead I dated in Andover more than a decade ago. The
voice on the GPS reminded me so much of her that I couldn’t resist
giving it her name. The real Becky’s voice was her most peculiar
and unlikely feature. She spoke in a matter-of-fact, monotone sort
of way, while her body spoke a completely different dialect. It was
very curious, and I found it difficult to reconcile these two
features. I never completely sorted that out, but I still think of
her fondly. Nowadays she stays locked up in my Subaru, ready at my
beck and call. All I have to do is turn her on, and like most of
the other women in my life, she tells me where to go.

I wouldn’t need directional advice until I
reached Brunswick, so I stopped at the top of the hill and turned
her off. “We’ll talk later, Becky,” I said.

I sat there for just a moment and let the car
idle. I wanted to review my decision to rescue Cynthia. But really,
I had no choice. I hadn’t committed any crime, yet, and I’m sure
Cynthia hadn’t either. I didn’t know if it was the gentleman’s
thing to do, or sheer stupidity at work, when I agreed to pick her
up at the cemetery on Sebascodegan Island, but whatever it was, I
would soon be dealing with the consequences. God only knew what lay
ahead. Well, Cynthia Dumais might have had some idea about that as
well, but she wasn’t letting it out. That cat was still in the
bag.