Dead Down East (32 page)

I let that thought sink in and gave Susan a chance to
nibble at the bait. I sipped my cappuccino and she sipped hers.
Something was definitely brewing in her pretty little head.

“I could guarantee a very large campaign
contribution, if the Governor could guarantee something in return,”
she said, while looking around as if to be sure no one could hear
us.

“What exactly do you have in mind?” I asked.

“Northland Natural Gas and Down East Pipe and Fitting
are both protected for the time being under Chapter 11,” she said.
“We have a fair amount of working capital, but we won’t be able to
operate for more than two years if there’s no change to the status
quo. We need one of two things to happen. Either we must start
hydraulic fracturing for natural gas, or run extensive pipelines
for tar sands; otherwise, we’ll have to shut down completely. Once
we sign contracts for either one of those projects, we’ll be in
position to raise millions to support our operations.”

“Honestly, the tar sands project is a long shot,
given that brief time-frame,” I replied. “If James Frye is elected
governor, it could happen in perhaps four or five years. Right now,
the Keystone Pipeline is stalled until our illustrious president
makes a move in the right direction. I’m confident it will
eventually get completed, but don’t hold your breath. There is a
proposed section running from Montreal to Portland, but that is at
the very end of the Keystone line, which means it is not going to
happen any time soon.”

I paused for a moment to see how she’d react. She
made no response, and didn’t even blink, so I continued, “The
better wager is on fracking. There is very little scientific
evidence of serious water problems resulting from hydraulic
fracturing. The documentary,
Gasland
, has been largely
discredited. Not much is standing in the way of natural gas
exploration in Maine—except fear. If James Frye gets an opportunity
to run the state for the next four years, you’ll get your
opportunity to start drilling.”

There was just enough truth in what I said to cause
an energy lobbyist to drool. A subtle smile found its way across
Susan’s face.

“We are not the only natural gas company standing in
line,” Susan said finally. “What kind of an edge could we have on
the competition when the bids for drilling rights start filing
in?”

“That depends on the size of the campaign
contribution,” I said. I glanced around cautiously as I spoke. I
was confident that I had passed the audition with my comment and my
furtive gesture.

“What position would we be in if we donated a hundred
thousand dollars?” she asked bluntly.

I thought for a moment and said, “You’d be at or near
the front of the line.”

“When would you need it?” she asked.

“Yesterday.”

“I’ll get back with you on that,” she said, and I
handed her my latest business card, compliments of Billy
Mosher.

“I’ll take that,” I added casually, pointing to her
empty coffee cup. “I’ll drop it in the trash when I get back to my
office.”

She handed me her cup. I cradled it as I would a
newborn, underneath its bottom. I didn’t want my DNA to mingle with
hers.

“I’ll call you tomorrow to let you know where we
stand on a contribution,” she said. “We’ll have to discuss the
details of the money transfer.”

“We’ll work something out,” I said confidently.

We both stood up.

“My ride is parked on Capitol Street,” she said,
pointing to the north.

“I’ll wait to hear from you,” I replied, as I turned
and headed west toward the State House.

• • •

It was four-thirty. I had just enough time to drop
off the coffee cup at Paternal Affairs before they closed. I also
had a Ziplock bag in the glove compartment of my battered Forester
containing several strands of Michelle Jackson’s hair, including a
few with follicles.

I handed the two samples to a young woman at the
front desk and requested that I be called as soon as the analyses
were completed. I reminded her that I had submitted two other
samples the previous week. I asked her to combine all the results
in one folder. She said they should have it done by Thursday,
Friday at the latest.

From Paternal Affairs I drove across town to Ben’s
Body Shop. I had made an appointment the day before to drop off the
Forester. He had a loaner ready for me when I arrived. Ben took one
look at the fender and asked, “What did you run into, Jesse?”

“A guy with a substandard attitude,” I replied.

“We’ll have it ready on Wednesday,” he said, and
added, “Stay away from that guy until then.”

“Will do, Ben.”

• • •

I was welcomed home by the smell of lasagna baking in
the oven. Cynthia was in the living room watching the news.

“Supper’s ready,” she said.

“I’m ready too,” I replied.

I opened a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

“White goes well with a hearty lasagna,” Cynthia
said, concurring with my choice.

“Angele has taught me a thing or two about wine. If
it weren’t for her, I’d have chosen a red because it matches the
color of the sauce,” I said.

Cynthia smiled and produced two green salads to go
with the pasta.

“Thank you for supper, Cynthia,” I said.

I reviewed the day’s events with her. She seemed
eager to hear every detail. Rebecca’s account of Tina Woodbury
interested her almost as much as my encounter with Susan St.
Claire. I was a little uneasy about discussing these women with
her, but I thought it important to keep her up to date with my
progress.

“I respect Rebecca’s opinion,” she said. “She’s level
headed and is a good judge of character. I must admit that while I
was seeing William, I had a soft spot for her. If they had still
been in love, even a little bit, I never would have allowed myself
to get close to William.” She paused a moment and added, “I’m ready
to hear about the other women in William’s life.”

“I’ll see what I can find out about Tina online
tonight,” I replied. “According to Richard, the breakup between
Tina and William was not pleasant. She sent him abusive letters and
made harassing phone calls for two months after they separated.
Richard referred to her as a ‘gold digger.’”

“How will you approach her?” Cynthia asked.

“I’ll be direct at first. I’ll call her tomorrow and
see if she is willing to talk. If she’s not, I’ll contact her
ex-husbands and see what they can tell me. If that fails, I’ll have
to resort to subterfuge. In the case of Dennis Jackson and Susan
St. Claire, I assumed false identities. That was the only way I
could get a foot in the door. If necessary, I’ll create a new
persona for Tina.”

We finished eating and had a second glass of wine
together. Cynthia excused herself and retired to her room. I
cleaned up the dishes and went to my office.

The videos from Cynthia’s home showed no unusual
activity, so I began researching the life of Tina Woodbury. I
browsed for almost two hours and found very little. Her name popped
up in a few obituaries, and I had her home address and phone number
from Richard’s notes. Other than that, I couldn’t find anything
noteworthy. I decided to call Angele.

“I bet that Susan St. Claire and Aaron Miller are
guilty,” she said after hearing my account of the day.

“You already have twenty riding on Dennis Jackson,” I
said.

“I want to amend my wager,” she pleaded.

“My bookie never allows me to change my mind once
I’ve placed a bet,” I said.

“Your bookie?” she said incredulously. “Who is
that?”

“He’s short, dark and smarmy. I don’t know his name,
but I’m pretty sure he’s enrolled in the witness relocation
program. They don’t all retire to Phoenix, Arizona you know.”

“If you want to pull my leg, Jesse, that’s OK with
me, but do it when we are in bed—not over the phone.”

“Sorry, honey, just foolin’ with ya.”

“I love you anyway, Jesse. I’ll leave my bet on
Dennis Jackson to show you that I’m a good sport. Just remember
that I told you it was Susan St. Claire and Aaron Miller who killed
William Lavoilette.”

“Sure thing, Angele.”

“I’m trying to take off work on Friday. If I do, I’ll
come up Thursday evening and stay through the weekend,” she
said.

“I’ll be waiting,” I replied.

“Love you, Jesse.”

I locked the house and hit the sack.

“Hello,” she said with a hint of irritability.

“Hello. Is this Tina Woodbury?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“My name is Jesse Thorpe. I’ve been hired by Travis
Perkins to investigate the murder of William Lavoilette,” I said. I
decided to leave Richard Merrill’s name out of the conversation.
That might stir up unsavory memories.

“Oh yes…Travis Perkins…the Maine State Trooper,” she
replied.

“Right,” I said. “We’re convinced he is
innocent.”

“Who’s
we
?”

“I’m working with his lawyer, Randall Bradford.”

“I don’t know how I can help. How did you get my
name?” she asked.

“Mr. Perkins provided the names of some personal
friends of Governor Lavoilette. I’m hoping you might be able to
shed some light on the governor’s enemies. Are you aware of any
death threats he might have received?”

“No,” she replied.

“I wonder if we could meet and talk more extensively
about the people he dealt with?” I asked.

She paused for a few moments and then said, “Sure.
Why not? You can buy me lunch,” she offered.

“I’d be happy to do that, Ms. Woodbury.”

“Call me Tina,” she replied.

“Tina.”

“The Densmore is a nice restaurant. They serve a
great filet mignon. Let’s meet there at twelve-thirty,” she
said.

The Densmore
is
a fine restaurant. It’s
possibly the finest in central Maine. It’s certainly the most
expensive.

“How will I recognize you?” I asked.

“I’ll be wearing a green blouse and a smile,” she
said.

She had definitely warmed up in a hurry. She was
either excited to meet me or salivating over the idea of a piece of
meat wrapped in bacon.

“Twelve-thirty,” I replied. “I’ll be there.”

“So will I,” she said in a breathy voice, and then
hung up.

“Hmm, a hundred dollar lunch with a sultry divorcee,”
I thought. “This should be interesting.”

I wondered how I might manage to extract a DNA sample
from her in a restaurant. The chances of her DNA matching either of
the two samples taken from the Lavoilette summer home were remote.
She parted ways with the governor on bad terms, three years ago. It
was highly doubtful that she would have visited him there in the
recent past. Still, I needed to cover all the bases.

Lifting her water glass from the restaurant on my way
out the door would be tricky, especially if it were still half
full. Her soupspoon, on the other hand, would be an easier target.
If she needed to “freshen up” in the restroom at some point, I
could switch spoons, and she’d be none the wiser. Even if she
didn’t leave the table, I could probably palm it without her
noticing, provided she’d had a few drinks. The mind becomes more
casual with alcoholic lubrication. At fifteen dollars a martini,
however, it could become a costly ploy. I wondered how many drinks
I could justify on my expense account.

• • •

I arrived at the Densmore at precisely twelve-thirty.
She stood out in the lobby like an oasis in the desert. Among other
things, she filled out her green blouse perfectly. There are women,
and there are
women
. Tina Woodbury qualified using every
feminine standard. She was the kind of woman who leaves an
indelible print on the retinas of sighted men. I wondered how
Augusta had managed to keep her down on the farm.

“Tina?” I asked.

“None other,” she responded while sizing me up. My
knees buckled as she drilled me with her eyes.

“Table for two?” the waiter asked.

“Definitely,” Tina responded. Her response was
invigorating.

We sat down and a cocktail waitress stepped in to
take our orders.

“I’ll have a gin sling,” Tina said.

“Sure, why not,” I added. “Make that two.”

“So you’re investigating the murder of William
Lavoilette? Are you a private detective?” she asked.

“Yes, I am,” I replied.

“Perhaps you can help me. My former husband moved out
of state two months ago, and my alimony checks have stopped
arriving. He left no forwarding address, and I haven’t been able to
locate him. Do you do that kind of work?”

“I certainly do. At the moment I am working full time
on the Lavoilette murder, but I could help you out when this case
is wrapped up,” I said.

“Are you like the Canadian Mounties?” she asked.