Dead Down East (26 page)

It was a ten-minute drive from Dennis’ office to
their home. After five minutes, I pulled over and called.

“Hello.”

“Hello, is this Michelle Jackson?”

“Yes it is,” came the sweet reply. So far so
good.

“My name is Jesse Thorpe. I have been hired by
Richard Merrill to investigate the murder of Governor Lavoilette.
Do you think I could have a few minutes of your time?”

“Yes, of course,” she said. “It’s just awful.”

“Would you mind if I came over? I’d rather discuss
this in person.”

“That’s fine. I’m off work today. Do you need my
address?” she asked.

“No, I believe I have it. Woodfield Terrace
Drive?”

“That’s it.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes.”

Woodfield Terrace Drive curved to the right at the
end of the road as I reached the elegant Jackson home. They must
own several acres of land. From their front porch there wasn’t any
other house or building in sight.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Jackson,” I said, once
I was inside.

“I don’t know how much help I can be,” she replied.
“I assume Mr. Merrill told you about my husband and Governor
Lavoilette. Dennis and I have worked through our issues. We want to
put the whole episode behind us.”

“I’m just trying my best to get up to speed with the
governor’s personal life. I’m not here to cause you any
embarrassment.”

I paused for a moment to consider how to proceed. I
decided to get right to it.

“Could you tell me where you were when you heard the
governor had been murdered?”

“Yes. Dennis and I were at a party at the Cavendish
Club on Saturday night. Once the story hit the news, the party
broke up and we went home.”

She reached into her purse and pulled out her iPhone.
She asked me to sit down next to her as she scrolled through
pictures of the festivities. One photograph showed several people
standing around watching a TV screen displaying a picture of
William Lavoilette.

“Why did you take that picture?” I asked.

“It seemed like a photograph for a scrapbook. My
father told me that he and all his friends knew exactly where they
were when they first heard that JFK had been assassinated. Now I’d
have an actual photograph to record where I was when the governor
was murdered. I knew William. He was a wonderful man.”

“How
well
did you know him?” I asked. I
assumed that my inflection would convey the full intent of my
question.

“I’m ashamed to say this, but we slept together a few
times. It was totally my fault. During the first meeting of his
second campaign, William was unusually attentive to me. Eventually,
he took me aside and asked if I would stay after the others left.
He said he had a specific assignment for me, but I knew it was more
than that. I was so attracted to him that I didn’t want to leave. I
certainly did not intend for it to happen, but it did.

“Dennis and I have two children. We are committed to
our family. William was very appealing, but the night that Dennis
confronted William at the campaign office was the last time either
of us saw the governor.”

That was really all I needed to hear. I just wanted
to get a DNA sample and be on my way. I’d try the bathroom
first.

“Do you mind if I use your restroom? I’ve been on the
road a couple of hours.”

“Sure. It’s down the hall on your left.”

I made my way to the bathroom and was delighted to
see a hairbrush on the counter. I pulled off several long stands
that seemed to match her color of hair and slipped them in a small
zip lock bag I had in my pocket. I flushed the toilet, ran some
water and then returned to the living room.

“I’d like to discuss a few other things, Mrs.
Jackson, but I just received a call from my wife. Our daughter fell
off her bike and was taken to the hospital. It’s not serious, but I
want to get there right away. Perhaps we can talk later.”

“By all means. I’m sorry about your daughter,” she
said.

I was out of there in a heartbeat. Two or three beats
later it skipped. I hurried out the door, across the porch and down
the stairs without so much as a flutter, but when I looked up for
my Forester parked at the curb, I found Dennis Jackson sitting on
the hood holding a tire iron in his lap.

“Dennis,” I said. “What brings you into the
neighborhood?”

Dennis was not in the mood for a chat. He reached
into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pair of designer
sunglasses—Gucci probably, perhaps Ray-Ban—and slipped them on his
face. He then eased himself down off my car and took hold of the
tire iron in both hands. It was at that exact moment that I
discovered he bats from the left side. He had a definite hitch in
his swing, but managed to beat the daylights out of my headlight.
Plastic and glass flew off in several directions.

Dennis then turned his head to see me, intending, I
believe, to comment on his slugging percentage. I interrupted his
train of thought.

“Allow me to make the introductions,” I said.
“Rhonda, this is Dennis Jackson. Dennis this is Rhonda
Giannini.”

I gave Mr. Jackson a few moments to appreciate the
gravity of his situation. I held my black, Snubnose Smith and
Wesson .38 Special with its dark brown wooden grip firmly in my
right hand. With my left, I reached into my coat pocket and pulled
out my iPhone.

“Say cheese,” I said, as I began to shoot some video
of the proceedings. “I’ll want a record of this for the insurance
company and for the police, if necessary.”

The front door of the Jackson home flew open behind
me, and Michelle shouted out, “Dennis, what are you doing?”

“Yes, Dennis,” I echoed. “What
are
you
doing?”

He couldn’t find anything pertinent to say. The three
of us stood there, awkwardly waiting for cues.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” I said. “First, I
want you to keep hanging on to that tire iron with both of your
hands.” I wiggled my .38 Special in Dennis’ direction for emphasis.
He complied.

“Michelle, I want you to walk over to your husband,
slowly
, and stand behind him.”

As Michelle moved into place, I positioned myself so
I could see them both clearly.

“Michelle, reach into his pocket and remove his
wallet. Then throw it over to me.”

She located it in the inner pocket of his bomber
jacket and tossed it my way.

“Thank you. Now, Michelle, please pull the top of his
jacket over his shoulders and down to his elbows. Oh, and Dennis,
don’t let go of that tire iron just yet.”

When that part of the choreography had been completed
as directed, I said, “Michelle, if you will, please back away a few
steps.”

She did.

“Dennis, how could you?” she hissed again.

I reached for the wallet without taking my eyes off
of Dennis. There were several crisp Franklin notes in the main
fold.

“I guess in your line of work lots of cash changes
hands. I won’t interfere with that tradition. I’ll be taking four
of these. One meets my deductible exactly. Two should cover a
loaner. I’ll need a car while my Forester is being repaired. The
fourth one is for pain and suffering.”

“I’m not done with you, Thorpe,” Dennis finally
said.

“Precisely,” I replied. “Now, kindly walk over to the
yellow Beemer parked behind my car. The Red Sox are looking for
some right handed pop off the bench. Swing from the opposite side
this time. Let’s pretend that your right headlight is the ball. Hit
it out of the park.”

“I won’t,” he said defiantly.

I raised my cell phone and said, “Once I finish
dialing 911, I’ll be committed to full disclosure of what has just
happened here. Wouldn’t it be simpler all around if you’d just
follow instructions?”

Dennis glared at me and walked slowly to the front
fender of his car.

“No bunting,” I cautioned.

Dennis took a light swing, but there was not much
damage.

“Foul ball!” I announced. “Take another cut, and
don’t hold back this time. You are trying my patience.”

Reluctantly, Dennis swung harder. From the looks of
things he hit a grounder up the middle. Some glass flew and some
metal bent.

“I guess we’ll have to settle for a single,” I
said.

His shoulders slumped and his head drooped. I knew
exactly how he felt.

“I will be going now. But I’m sure you understand
that I’ll need to frisk you first. Rhonda is not fond of
competition. Drop the tire iron, place both your hands on the hood
of your car and spread your legs…just like in the movies.”

Dennis was not carrying a weapon, and from the feel
of things he wasn’t happy to see me either. Mae West would have
been disappointed.

As I pulled away in my Forester, Dennis was lying
face down in the grass, as I had instructed, and Michelle stood
beside him with tears in her eyes. After a moment’s reflection, I
complimented myself on the foresight not to put any physical
address on my PI website. The thought of Dennis Jackson dropping by
was decidedly unappealing.

When I was a mile down the road, I stopped and called
Angele.

“Jesse! Are you in town?”

“Let’s do lunch,” I suggested.

“Is that the best you can do?” she whispered.

“I’ve got a couple of hours. I guess we could do
other things,” I offered.

“You could start with me. I can meet you at my place
in five minutes.”

“See you there, Peaches.”

“Fruit salad it is then,” she said, and I heard her
wink.

I didn’t want the Dennis Jackson episode to interfere
with our noon rendezvous, so I’d save that story until after Angele
and I had been reunited.

The front door was open when I arrived, and Angele
was waiting on her bed for me without a stitch on.

“This is a great way to unwind after a difficult
morning at the office,” I said unbuttoning my shirt.

Angele’s smile grew wider each time another piece of
my ensemble hit the floor. My last sock ended on the foot of her
bed, and I eased myself gently on top of her. She kissed me like
she hadn’t seen me for months and opened wide. When I was fully in
place, she arched her back and purred, “Unwind away!”

• • •

After the unwinding, the bed gradually came to a
complete stop at the gate, and the seat belt sign was turned off.
We floated among the islands for a few minutes before Angele broke
the silence, “Jesse, other than your parents, you’ve never talked
much about your family. You are a real moaner in bed. You sound
like a Native American chanting for rain.”

“I was just warming up my vocal chords for our gig
this evening.”

“Really? In that register?”

“OK. Since you asked, I’m one-eighth Penobscot. My
great-grandfather, Windgate, grew up in Georgia. He skipped to
Maine after his divorce from Sarah Lightfoot in 1915. He left her
with five kids and a struggling peach farm in the Peach State.”

“A peach farmer! That’s must be why you call me
‘Peaches.’”

“In the realm of fresh fruit, nothing tops a ripe
peach,” I said.

“You just did, Jesse.”

I left that remark dangling and carried on with the
story of my lineage.

“Originally, Windgate’s surname was Oglethorpe. After
he was in Maine for a month, he moved in with a woman named
Virginia and took up potato farming in Aroostook County. Windgate
said he never cared for his last name. It made him sound more
lecherous than he actually was. He dropped the ‘Ogle’ and became
Windgate Thorpe. I imagine he changed his name for other reasons as
well. He never heard from Sarah again, and she never received any
alimony checks from Down East. Virginia Pelagie, my
great-grandmother, was a direct descendent of Mary Pelagie, the
famous Penobscot Indian known as Molly Molasses.”

“So you descended from a peach and potato farming
deadbeat dad and a Native American. That explains several things.
Among them, your moaning is probably responsible for half the rain
in New England.”

“Angele, you moan every bit as loud as I do. And it
rained here long before I arrived on the scene.”

“Don’t get defensive, Jesse. I don’t mind the rain.
Besides, I love it when you moan. It’s a baritone song of
love.”

“What’s for lunch?” I asked, deciding to change the
subject.

“A kale smoothie, brown rice and tofu.”

“I love it when you talk dirty,” I suggested.

“Tryin’ my best to keep you vibrant, honey.”

“By the way, Angele, I dropped in to see Dennis
Jackson and his wife this morning.”

“And…” she said, waiting for me to continue.

“I found out three things. He was at a party with his
wife on Saturday evening when William Lavoilette was murdered.”

I paused before telling the second thing.