Dead Down East (40 page)

“So stop talking,” she demanded.

I did as I was told.

• • •

In the morning, after I got out of bed, I noticed the
candle had gone out and frost was on the pumpkin. I wrapped myself
in a blanket, shuffled down the driveway and picked up the
Augusta Chronicle
. The headlines read, “Susan and Aaron Take
the Plea.”

I cried out loud, “Halleluiah!”

The article was full of good news. Aaron Miller
accepted a life sentence, rather than face the possibility of the
gas chamber. The evidential details, which had been withheld from
the media for four months, included the fact that Aaron’s DNA had
indeed been found on the fake beard. I had made that part up in my
presentation to Mark Prichard, but it turned out to be true. That
was especially gratifying.

Susan St. Claire managed a lighter sentence. She got
30 years. Despite the testimonies of both Prichard and Miller, the
District Attorney was not entirely certain he could get a guilty
verdict at trial for first-degree murder. So he and Susan struck a
deal. Still, 30 years with no parole would keep her behind bars
until she was 70 years old. She was likely to be a harmless old
lady by then.

Mark Prichard’s immunity deal was clarified. In order
to protect the identity of “undercover agents,” Mark was enjoined
to never publicly reveal the details of his apprehension and
detention. If he did, he would be subject to full prosecution as an
accessory to the murder of William Lavoilette. This meant that
Eric, Angele and I would face very little, if any, risk for our
illegal impersonations. Even if word leaked out about our caper,
Prichard would be prohibited from verifying what we had done.

“Halleluiah number two,” I shouted. “Now I can shave
the mustache.”

A final note at the end of the news story was like
ice cream on blueberry pie. An hour after the plea-bargains were
announced in Maine, Mark Prichard was arrested in Pennsylvania. He
was being held without bail for the murder of Robert St. Claire.
Susan had also been indicted for conspiring to kill her husband.
According to Aaron, who was granted immunity in the case, the three
of them arranged for Robert to die in an ‘accident’ at a natural
gas drilling site near Troy.

I went to the bedroom and shared with Angele the glad
tidings. I knew better than to call Eric this early in the morning.
I’d ring him around noon.

• • •

Angele and I were enjoying a late breakfast when my
phone rang.

“Hello,” I said.

“Mr. Thorpe, this is Rebecca Lavoilette. Do you have
any spare time this morning?” she asked.

“Absolutely. I’m completely free and at your
disposal.”

“If you would be so kind, please come to my home. I
have something for you,” she said.

She gave me her address and invited Angele to join me
there at 10:30.

As we drove up her driveway, Rebecca was standing
outside on the porch to greet us. I was totally surprised when she
stepped forward and gave me a warm embrace.

“Thank you so much for your valiant service to the
State of Maine. I am in your debt,” she said.

“It’s kind of you to be so gracious,” I replied. “I
can only imagine how difficult this is for you.”

She smiled and then looked at my companion.

“This is my girlfriend, Angele,” I said. “She
provided considerable assistance to me on the case.”

She hugged Angele as well and invited us inside.

“Would you care for something to drink?” she
asked.

I looked at Angele and we both shook our heads.

“That’s not necessary,” I replied

“OK, then. I have an envelope for you.”

She walked to her desk, picked up the envelope and
handed it to me.

“You’ll find a check inside for $30,000. You
graciously requested that I spend the $20,000 reward on my favorite
charity. I’ve added $10,000 of my own money, and I want you to have
it. You risked your life to bring about justice for William’s
death. I won’t take ‘No’ for an answer.”

“I don’t know what to say,” I said.

“Just say ‘Thank you,’” Angele suggested.

“Thank you,” I replied.

We traded pleasantries for several minutes. Rebecca
walked us to the porch, and we hugged again before leaving.

“That’s one classy woman,” Angele said as we settled
into the Forester.

“Indeed.”

• • •

By noon I had written five checks, $5000 each to
Angele and Eric, and $1000 each to Billy, Brock and Misty. I wrote
“Hazard Pay” on the memo line of each check. The remaining
seventeen grand was burning a hole in my imagination.

It was the first day of November—time to turn the
page on my “Island Paradise” calendar. I recognized the new idyllic
photograph immediately.

“It’s Bali Hai,” I said to Angele as I pointed to the
picture. “Do you recognize it?”

“It looks familiar, but I can’t place it,” she
replied.

“Try this,” I said. “She's trouble, Ned. The real
thing. Big-time, major league trouble.”

“Oh, yes,” Angie replied. “It’s the mountain in the
background for the final scene of
Body Heat
. Mattie Walker
is sitting in a lounge chair sipping a mai tai with that sultry,
self-satisfied look on her face.”

“Exactly,” I said. “I think it’s an omen. Pack your
bags, Angele, we’re going to Kauai.”

• • •

Cheap getaway offers sealed the deal. Within
forty-eight hours we were in our bathing suits, soaking up the sun
on Tunnels Beach.

“Tourists still call it
Bali Hai
,” I said,
“but locals use its real name,
Makana
.”

“It’s beautiful, Jesse,” Angele said in a low throaty
voice, sipping her own mai tai and doing an impersonation of
Kathleen Turner.

“Angele,” I said, reading from a travel guide, “it
says here that the Hawaiian word,
makana
, means ‘gift.’
Ancient Hawaiians performed a fire ceremony on the mountain. Men
would climb to the top hauling dry, lightweight logs. When night
fell, they set the logs ablaze and hurled them into the ocean.”

“Do you really think they could reach the water from
there?” Angele asked.

“Have you seen some of the Hawaiian linemen on
college football teams?” I responded.

“Not really,” she replied. “Those guys must have been
enormous, or maybe it’s just a legend.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” I said.

I waded into the warm water. The coast of Maine is
rugged, cold and demanding. The north shore of Kauai was soft,
nurturing and breathtaking. The air was sweet, and the trade winds
swept across the sea. My heart was so buoyant that I felt as if I
were floating in zero gravity. I imagined I would be immortal if I
only could find a way to stay here permanently.

Angele, sitting twenty feet from me on the shore,
interrupted my thoughts with the suggestion that I would get
“island fever” if I stayed longer than a month.

“Let’s see… Island fever or Maine winter?” I mused,
as I tapped my finger on my lips, pretending to weigh those options
carefully. “Tough call,” I said.

“Sorry to interrupt your contemplation, Jesse, but in
a week or so, duty will fly us back home,” Angele said with a
smile.

“Have another drink and reconsider,” I replied.

Angele declined my suggestion. Instead, she sprinted
toward me, grabbed me around the waist, and we tumbled into the
waves.