Dead Down East (16 page)

“Sometimes,” I said, and winked. “I’ll clear out of
here and let you do your thing. I want to check the news and see
what’s cookin’ there.”

But…like it is so often, there was nothing really new
on the news this morning.

Cynthia added some chiles and salsa to the eggs. I
liked that. They made me think of Angele. Of course, lots of things
were having that effect on me. I hadn’t seen her now for about ten
days. I checked my watch and did the math. Make that
eight-and-a-half days. When she left here in the evening, Sunday
before last, she took my heart with her, as is her custom. I’ve
been pining ever since.

Cynthia and I ate together in the breakfast nook next
to the kitchen. We were both finishing our coffee when I asked, “Do
you happen to know if Richard went to college?”

“Oh, yes,” Cynthia replied. “He went to Harvard. He
got both his undergraduate and law degrees there.”

I filed that away.

“I have a little more research to do this morning
before meeting Richard for lunch. Has anything else occurred to you
about William’s life that might help with our investigation?” I
asked.

“Not really. Other than the two women I already
mentioned, and, of course, Rebecca, I don’t know of any other women
that William might have known personally. As I told you, he and I
didn’t talk about women or politics. All that I know about his
political fights, I gleaned from the media. Probably the two most
contentious political issues he faced involved gold mining on Bald
Mountain and fracking for natural gas.”

“I have researched both of those issues,” I said. “It
seems that William was opposed to the mining of gold, and he wanted
the state to wait and see about fracking. He was delaying his
decision until more definitive studies were done to determine how
that process might affect our drinking water and the water in lakes
and rivers.”

“Right. I’m sure there are dozens of other political
issues lurking about. Fortunes are made and lost by political
decisions,” Cynthia noted.

“Yes, that whole area of the investigation is
virtually limitless. Until something obviously political pops up on
the radar, I’m going to pursue the personal angle. The state police
and the FBI are much better equipped to survey the political
landscape. I’ll look into the money, personal grudges and
women.”

Cynthia didn’t flinch. I wondered if she plays
poker.

I excused myself and went to my office. The fatal car
accident had happened at 11:00 PM on October 17, 1987. That was a
Saturday night. Richard was probably home from Harvard for the
weekend. Since he apparently had a date that evening, there was a
good possibility that it was a high school friend. I pulled up
Ancestry.com, a popular site in the PI trade, and ran a search for
both Lisa Hilliard and Virginia Latham. I began by assuming they
were both from Bath. I knew they were born in 1968, give or take a
year.

In short order, I was able to locate information on
both women—their birthplaces, dates, and their parents’ names. I
also discovered that Virginia graduated from Morse High School,
just like William. Bob and Laura Latham were the parents of
Virginia Latham, and they still lived in Bath. I decided to give
them a call. Laura picked up on the second ring.

“Good morning.”

“Hello, is this the Latham residence,” I asked.

“Yes it is. I’m Laura Latham. Can I help you?”

“My name is Jesse Thorpe,” I said. “I live in
Augusta, and I am investigating the murder of William Lavoilette.
I’m looking into his early life to get a better idea about his
background. I understand that William and your daughter, Virginia,
were friends in high school. Is that correct?”

“I can’t believe someone would want to kill William.
He was such a great guy. Yes, Virginia knew William well. They
dated for two years in high school and for another year while
William was in Bowdoin.”

“I see. Do you remember William very well?”

“Certainly. He was very pleasant and bright. Both Bob
and I liked him a great deal. We were disappointed when Virginia
and William broke up. But that was a long time ago.”

“Did you see much of William after he graduated from
Bowdoin?”

“Occasionally we would see him around town. But it
wasn’t long before his charter boating business expanded along the
coast. After that, he wasn’t around here that much. And, of course,
he was married by then. Virginia was married as well. They didn’t
stay in close contact at that point. I remember talking to Virginia
about William when he was running for governor. She said she hadn’t
heard from him in nearly ten years.”

“Well, Mrs. Latham, thank you so much for your time.
I hope I didn’t disturb you so early in the morning.”

“No problem. I’m an early riser. Goodbye.”

Next came the Hilliards. Frank and Jennifer Hilliard
were Lisa’s parents. According to Ancestors.com, Frank Hilliard
passed away in 2004. I was able to locate five Jennifer Hilliards
in Maine, but only one seemed to be the right age. She lived in the
Portland area. I gave her a ring.

“Hello.”

“Jennifer Hilliard?”

“Yes. Can I help you?”

“I hope so. My name is Jesse Thorpe. I live in
Augusta, and I am investigating the murder of Governor Lavoilette.
I am doing some research on the governor’s friends and associates
while he was in high school. I came upon the tragic story of the
traffic accident that took Lisa’s life. First, I just want to be
sure if I have the right Jennifer Hilliard. Are you Lisa’s
mother?”

There was a long pause, and then she said, “Yes. Lisa
was my daughter.”

“I’m sorry to dredge up painful memories for you,
Mrs. Hilliard. Would it be all right if I ask you a few
questions?”

“It’s OK. This all happened very long ago.”

“Thank you,” I said. I hesitated a moment and then
asked, “How well did Lisa know William?”

“I don’t really know. Lisa was dating Richard Merrill
at the time of the accident, and Richard was a good friend of
William. I have no idea how well Lisa knew William.”

“I’m puzzled by something,” I said. “The accident
report indicated that William was driving and Lisa was sitting in
the front passenger seat. William’s date was in the back seat, and
it was Richard’s car. I wonder if William really was driving the
car?”

“No. He wasn’t. Richard was driving. We all knew
that. William’s parents knew. Richard’s parents knew. We all knew.
But Richard was drunk, and William was sober. Frank wanted Richard
punished, but I persuaded him to just let it go. Nothing was going
to bring Lisa back. By the time the police arrived on the scene,
William and Richard had already agreed to change the story. Even if
we had spoken up about it, I doubt it would have changed anything.
We had no direct proof anyway. Years later I spoke with Virginia
Latham. She confirmed that Richard was driving.”

“Thank you so much for taking the time with me, Mrs.
Hilliard. I am sorry that I had to discuss this tragic story with
you, but I’m trying to find out all I can about the governor’s
early life.”

“It’s OK. It appears they may have caught his killer.
I liked Governor Lavoilette. I hope they fry Travis Perkins.”

“They may very well do that, Mrs. Hilliard. Have a
good day.”

That was that. It appeared that the accident did not
engender any simmering hatred for William. All the interested
parties, including Lisa’s siblings, must have known that William
was not driving that night. It did, however, indicate that Richard
was very much indebted to William. It also suggested that William
was a stand up guy and a solid “friend in need.” Other than that,
it didn’t seem relevant to the murder investigation.

One thought occurred to me, however. At some later
point, if I needed to test Richard’s openness, I might mention that
I had seen the report about the accident. I could then ask some
innocent sounding question such as, “What happened that night?” It
would be interesting to see what version of the story Richard would
tell. For now I just filed it away. There was no need to put him on
the spot just yet. I needed to build a relationship with Richard
Merrill, not tear it down.

With no further leads at the moment, I decided to get
reacquainted with my bass guitar. I went into the barn where our
band practices during the warmer months. It’s a large open space,
and we can turn up the volume and cut loose. I tuned my guitar and
put on one of our demo CDs. For old time’s sake, I began with “The
Reach,” a song about the sea, written by Dan Fogelberg. In our high
school band, this was one of our signature tunes. I love the bass
part. It’s so lyrical.

“It's Maine, and it's autumn, the birches have just
begun turning…”

I finger-plucked the morning away.

“I’ll have the Shrimp Louisianne and a martini,”
Richard said.

“Certainly, Mr. Merrill,” Jean Pierre replied,
without jotting anything down. He then turned to me with definite
flair and asked, “…and for
you
?”

When he presented us with our menus, almost fifteen
minutes earlier, Jean Pierre announced his name as if it were well
known throughout the tri-state region. It was clear who was in
charge at our table, and any attempt to upstage him would involve
consequences. On the other hand, I did not care for the precise
tone he used with his “… and for
you
?” It implied that I was
the “other guy” at the table. I chose to answer his question with a
question of my own.

“How’s the ‘Slab of Ribs,’ Jean Pierre?”

It was an appropriate and
promising question on three fronts. First, never before had I tried
the ribs at the Kennebec Barbeque & Grille. Second, it
demonstrated that I respected his judgment. And third, if anyone in
the house had an opinion about anything, including the ribs, Jean
Pierre would.

“I don’t eat red meat,” he announced, erecting
himself in a way that reminded me of the Eiffel Tower.

“Good,” I said. “I’ll have the Slab of Ribs and a
glass of water…with a lemon twist.” As I spoke the words, “lemon
twist,” I swirled my index finger dramatically skyward in an
attempt to gain the upper hand in our
tête-à-tête
.

Jean Pierre stood perfectly still for a few
tantalizing moments, slowly wrote down our orders, and then
sashayed Eiffel back to his tower.

I nonchalantly studied Richard’s face to see how he
felt about our waiter’s performance. His lack of a specific
reaction suggested that this was standard fare.

“Jesse,” he asked, “if it’s all right, can we discuss
your fee before we get down to the details of our case?”

“Sure,” I replied. “My standard rate is $320 a day
plus expenses. For cases that carry a substantial risk of physical
danger, the rate goes up accordingly. Clearly this case falls under
that category.

“I received a call from Travis Perkins this morning.
He wants to hire me as well. So, at the moment, I have three
separate clients on the same case. My rate will be $200 per day for
each client.”

“Fair enough. Here is $2000,” Richard said, as he
folded a typewritten check and handed it to me across the table.
“This will get us started.”

“Thank you, Richard,” I said, and I slipped the check
into my wallet.

“OK,” he said, “where should we begin?”

I looked around to see that our conversation would be
sufficiently confidential. We were in a booth in the corner, and no
one else was sitting nearby. Nonetheless, I spoke in a hushed tone,
“When we spoke on the phone yesterday, you indicated that William
had affairs with several women and that you would prepare some
information about them for me.”

“Yes,” Richard said, matter-of-factly. “Last night I
made out a list of names with addresses and phone numbers for most
of them. I have also recorded the approximate dates of the affairs
and some noteworthy characteristics about each relationship.”

Richard handed me a typewritten spreadsheet. It was
two full pages. There were seven names, including Cynthia’s, each
with considerable detail. I surveyed the list briefly, folded it
twice and put it in my shirt pocket.

“Thank you, Richard. You’re very efficient. I
appreciate that. This should drive my investigation for quite a
while. I would like to ask a few questions about each woman on the
list, but let’s find a more private place for that. I also need to
know about Rebecca.”

“Yes. After lunch, we’ll go to my office, and we can
discuss those details.”

“I presume you’ve heard that Travis Perkins was
arrested this morning,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Do you have any thoughts about that?”

“He is certainly the most likely suspect in my
opinion,” he said. “What did he say when he contacted you?”