Dead Down East (25 page)

“Alonso, come here boy. I’ve got something for you,”
I said enthusiastically.

Unless he could detect the smell of ribs radiating
through my refrigerator door, around the corner and into the living
room, Alonso couldn’t know exactly what I was talking about. On the
other hand, I’m sure he knew something good was about to come his
way because he wagged his tail and followed me to the kitchen with
his tongue hanging out.

I gave him the scraps from the ribs, but not the
bones. They’re a little risky for dogs; the bones can splinter into
small pieces. The meat was gone in about four seconds.

“Be careful, Jesse,” Billy cautioned. “When he finds
someone who gives him real food, his M.O. is to move in. That’s how
I got him in the first place.”

“Really?” I replied. “I thought you adopted him.”

“Oh, no,” said Billy. “He adopted me.

“Four months ago, Bob Kaprowski was taking Alonso for
his evening constitutional. When they reached my house, Bob stopped
in for a few minutes to tell me about his break up with Francine.
Actually, it was less of a ‘break up’ and more of a ‘Drop dead,
Bob.’ She had split town with the car, the cash and the pot, and
headed for Nashville. The only thing she left behind was the
dog.

“I happened to be on my way to the garbage can to
dump some sirloin trimmings. Alonso blocked my exit and stared at
me with his ‘I haven’t eaten in weeks’ look. So I said, ‘fetch’ and
tossed the fat and gristle into the backyard.

“While Alonso was dining, I offered Bob some tequila.
Two hours later we were both hammered. Bob left sometime that
night. I woke the next morning to find Alonso whining out back like
a lost dog.

“I kept my doors shut all day. By evening he was
gone. That was a Wednesday. Friday morning I found him camped on my
porch. I called Bob, but he was halfway to Tennessee.”

Just then, Eric let himself in through the front
door, “Do I smell ribs?”

I pointed at Alonso, “You’re a couple minutes late,
Eric.”

“The band’s all here,” Billy announced, and the five
of us made our way to the barn.

Ocean Noises
has five musicians. Besides Eric,
Billy and me, there’s Willie Franklin on drums and Amanda
Cavenaugh, who sings and plays flute. She rounds out the band very
nicely. Truth is, she’s the best musician in the group, and we are
lucky to have her. She sings leads and backup like a dream.
Deadly Finds
, a band out of Portland, has tried to steal her
away from us for over a year. Fortunately, she’s been hooked up
with Willie for quite some time. If they ever break up, we’ll be an
all male band without a following. She’s the real attraction.

While we were tuning, Billy announced that we would
be playing in the Raincloud on Friday, and Sea Breeze Brewing
Company on Saturday. We tried our opening number. It was obvious
from the get go that we were rusty, especially me. The long
stressful week was hard to shake. It took me an hour to get a
groove. Eric and Billy cut me some slack. They both knew I was on a
case. Willie was not so forgiving.

“If it weren’t for the barn, we’d start looking for a
new bass man,” he said with a glare.

“Sorry, Willie, I’ve had a tough week. I’ll be
alright by tomorrow night.”

Amanda sang like an angel, and that lifted me up. By
ten o’clock I was high on the music, and my playing came alive. The
anchor rope cut loose from my brain; my fingers started
dancing.

“Sounds good, Jesse,” Willie said finally.

We practiced till midnight and called it quits.

Amanda planted a kiss on Billy’s cheek and another on
Eric’s. She never lingers with either of them anymore. They read
too much into it and tend to lose touch with reality. Her routine
with me is different.

She moved in slowly and took her time. When I was out
of breath, she broke away and smiled like Mae West. Her eyes said,
“Come up and see me sometime.”

“See you tomorrow night, Amanda,” I said, with barely
enough air to finish the sentence.

She was still smiling as she turned to her official
partner and said, “Let’s go, Willie.” The whole band knew what that
meant.

“Amanda,” I said, as she was making her way to the
door, “bring him back in one piece. We need him tomorrow
night.”

Without turning around, Amanda raised her index
finger shoulder high to acknowledge my request.

“Good luck, Willie,” I said, but he probably didn’t
hear me.

Billy tried to sneak out without Alonso, but I caught
him at his car and said, “You forgot something.”

“You can keep him if you like, Jesse. You feed him
better than I do.”

“Maybe, but you two were made for each other.
Besides, he looks more like you than he does me.”

“I resemble that remark,” he said meekly. Billy uses
that phrase about once a month.

I opened the door for Alonso to jump in, handed Billy
a twenty-dollar bill and said, “Thanks for the photographic work
and the business cards, Billy. This should cover the lobster
dinner.”

“Twenty is only enough for one,” he pleaded.

“Eat half, and bring the rest home to Alonso,” I
said.

Billy pressed his lips together, stared ahead and
drove off into the night.

It was nine-forty five
Friday morning when I pulled into the parking lot of Jackson
Alliance Construction Company. For moral support, I slipped Rhonda
into my shoulder holster underneath my loose fitting sport coat and
walked through the front door. I thought to myself, “Let the games
begin.”

A receptionist greeted me the moment I entered, “Mr.
Treadwell?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Jackson is ready to see you. You can go right
in,” she said, pointing to a door on her left.

Dennis stood up from his desk as I walked into the
room. He offered his hand.

“Mr. Treadwell,” he said, “how was your drive from
Boston this morning?”

“Call me Noah,” I said.

“Call me Dennis,” he reciprocated.

“Traffic was heavy on the turnpike. It’s June. Lot’s
of people drive to Maine this time of the year.”

“Have a seat beside me so we can view the screen
together.”

I sidled up to him and sat down. Dennis looked
dashing in a rugged sort of way. He had on an “I’ve just come into
an inheritance,” cognac colored, suede bomber jacket. Everything
else in his trousseau was perfectly coordinated.

“So you have some property next to the Pine Ridge
Golf Course. Sounds like an exciting project. On the phone you
didn’t indicate the total acreage of your parcel.”

“We have forty acres. For the first phase we plan to
build on the ten acres that border the first four holes of the back
nine.”

“We?” he asked. “Do you have partners?”

“Only one. His name is Justin Cook.”

I watched him very carefully as I pronounced the
name. He didn’t flinch in even the slightest way. He was either
completely innocent of the Lavoilette murder, or he had ice water
in his veins.

Without missing a beat, he brought up an aerial view
of the golf course and zoomed in on the area I had described.

“I’m familiar with the back nine. I’ve played there
many times,” he said.

I used my finger to outline our parcel and said, “As
you can see, there’s a considerable amount of work to be done
before we can begin construction. We’ll need some roads and
utilities, of course. My partner and I want to get an estimate for
the full project to secure financing.”

For the next thirty minutes, Dennis supplied me with
a number of building options, floor plans, landscaping ideas and a
variety of amenities. He took me on a virtual tour of his extensive
portfolio. While facing several challenging construction and
financing related inquiries, I did my best not to sound foolish.
Fortunately, I knew how to swing a hammer.

I bided my time on a tightrope of questions and
answers, waiting for a chance to shift gears. When the moment
seemed right, I said, “A number of times over the years my dad has
mentioned his experience with the assassinations of the Kennedys
and Martin Luther King, Jr. To this day, he remembers exactly where
he was when he heard the news for each one. I suppose I’ll always
remember where I was when I heard about the murder of Governor
Lavoilette.”

A curious look crept over his face as I said that,
but I proceeded anyway, “I was on the porch of the dining hall at
Bear Spring Camps, on my way to breakfast. What a shock.”

I gave him a few heartbeats to compare stories with
me, but he didn’t take his cue.

“How about you?” I asked, as innocently as
possible.

“Oh. I was with my wife at a party on Saturday night.
There were thirty-five or forty of us at the Cavendish Club. Around
eleven o’clock a news bulletin came on the television in the bar.
Word spread quickly through our crowd. We stood around for about
fifteen minutes catching the story, and then the party broke up. My
wife and I drove home,” he said. Then he added, “I suppose I’ll
remember that moment for a spell.”

He said it all as a matter of fact. His face did not
display any emotion. He asked me to take a seat opposite him at the
table so he could run a few numbers for me on the condo
project.

For the next minute, he scrolled through some screens
on his computer, and on two occasions glanced up at me with a
studied look on his face. He then opened a drawer at the side of
his desk, reached in and pulled out a Colt .45. He didn’t point the
gun directly at me, but he kept his finger on the trigger and did a
fine Michael Douglas impersonation, “Mr. Thorpe, do you have any
idea who you are fucking with?”

“Apparently not,” I replied, which happened to be the
first honest thing I’d said all morning.

“I’ll be blunt, and you’ll keep you mouth shut.
Comprende?”

I nodded, indicating I understood Spanish and
resisted the urge to reply, “Si Señor.”

“I had one brief moment with the scumbag, William
Lavoilette. That was that. I made a generous donation to his
campaign and voted for the asshole. Then he moved on my wife. I
don’t give a shit who put the bullet in his chest, and I wouldn’t
be at all surprised if it was some guy with a pretty wife or
girlfriend, who stumbled her way to his bed.”

He glared at me and continued. “You called me once
before, and I hung up. Today you’ve taken up almost an hour of my
time pretending to be Sherlock Holmes. If you bother me again, I’ll
let my finger do the talking. Is that clear, pal?”

I wasn’t sure if his question freed me from his
original instruction to keep my mouth shut. I split the difference
and gave an affirmative nod while I squeaked out a humming sound
corroborating my gesture. My lips never moved.

“Now, get out of my office,” he said firmly.

I was more than happy to oblige. Rhonda was breathing
heavily under my jacket, but she knew enough to stay put. It was
only eleven o’clock at the O.K. Corral. High noon was an hour
away.

I backed to the door with my hands half raised,
turned slowly and made my exit like a dog with his tail between his
legs. It was the first time I’d ever been threatened with a loaded
gun. Like my dad’s memory of the three assassinations in the 60’s,
I was sure I’d remember that Colt .45 in the years to come.

• • •

I had one more chore, and I needed to complete it as
quickly as possible. I wanted to check out Dennis’ story of the
Saturday night party with his wife. There was clearly some risk
involved, and now I wished I had interviewed her before I had met
with Dennis.

I decided to drive halfway to Michelle’s home and
then call. This would give Dennis time to call her first, if he was
going to do that. I figured I could judge from her response whether
they had discussed me or not.