Dead Down East (33 page)

“How’s that?” I replied.

“Do you always get your man?”

“Sometimes it’s a woman,” I said, thinking she would
appreciate a little banter.

She winked and said, “Do you think you’ll get
me?”

“Are you guilty of anything?” I asked.

“Not yet,” she replied.

I tapped my index finger on my lips a few times and
tried to imagine what she had in mind. There were too many
possibilities, so I dropped that conversational stream and started
a new one.

“How well did you know the governor?” I asked.

“Very well,” she said provocatively. Everything about
Tina Woodbury was provocative.

“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill
him?” I asked.

“When we broke up, I wanted to. But I got over that,”
she said. “I moved on.”

“Does anyone else come to mind?” I asked.

“Not really. After he ended our relationship, I never
saw him in person again. I have no idea who might have wanted him
dead. But if I had to guess, I’d say it was probably a woman.”

Our gin slings arrived. They came in tall curved
glasses with straws, topped with lemon twists and cherries; it was
definitely a lady’s drink. I regretted my selection before it hit
the table. It tasted fine, but it didn’t do anything for my
masculinity. I would have tossed the straw, but then I’d be faced
with the problem of screening the fruit with my lips. Tina seemed
to appreciate my predicament. Bogey would have ordered a whiskey
straight up.

On the other hand, the straw in her drink offered
some promising DNA potential, so I was delighted with her choice.
She’d get a new straw with her second gin sling, and I’d have no
problem pocketing the first one.

Halfway through her drink, Tina gave me an
inquisitive look and said, “I think I’ve seen you before. Are you a
musician?”

“In fact, I am. I play bass for
Ocean
Noises
.”

“I thought you looked familiar. I saw you play
several months ago in a club in Portland. On Congress Street I
believe,” she said.

“We’ve played in several venues on Congress Street.
How did you like the music?” I asked.

“I was a little tipsy that night, so I don’t remember
all that much. You had a female vocalist.”

“Amanda.”

“I remember she was really good,” Tina said.

“She is. Do you want another drink?” I asked.

“If you’re buying,” she said.

“I guess I am,” I replied.

“I’ll have another,” she said.

I got the attention of the cocktail waitress and
ordered, “One gin sling and a whiskey straight up.” I handed her
both of our empty glasses, minus one straw.

Tina did, in fact, order the filet mignon, a
forty-five dollar luncheon selection. I settled for pasta
primavera, only twenty-nine dollars.

I must have caught Tina on a good day. She didn’t
seem at all the hostile witness that Rebecca and Richard suggested
she would be. On the other hand, she was having her way with me…and
my credit card.

As we ate, I posed a few more questions about the
governor, but they didn’t lead to any productive breakthroughs.
Eventually, I gave up on the interrogation and decided to enjoy the
meal and the company despite the expense. Besides, I already had
what I came for.

I excused myself and left the table for a minute. In
the restroom, I carefully put her straw in a zip-lock bag and
secured it in the pocket of my sport coat. As I walked back to the
table, I was feeling buoyed with my trophy and the drinks. She was
sitting with her back to me. I stopped when I got to her chair,
peered over her left shoulder and asked her kindly, “Are you
enjoying your meal?”

She turned to me, slightly startled, then smiled and
said, “Yes I am. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’m enjoying myself too.”

I gave her arm a slight squeeze, then walked around
the table and smiled. She smiled back.

As I sat down she asked, “Your place or mine?”

I had not intended to be
that
smooth.

“Well, I’m afraid it will have to be both,” I said.
“You to your place, and I to mine. You’re a very attractive woman,
and your offer is more than tempting, but I have a girlfriend, and
I’m a faithful kind of guy.”

She took it in stride.

“You’re a rare one, Jesse Thorpe,” she said. “You
have my number in case you change your mind.”

“I have more than just your number,” I thought, but I
didn’t mention that. Instead, I replied, “Thanks for talking with
me. When the Lavoilette case is completed, I’ll call you and see if
I can help you get the alimony checks you deserve.”

I paid the bill and we walked out together, not quite
arm in arm, but we gently rubbed shoulders a couple of times on our
way to the door.

“I’m parked over there,” I said, pointing to the
right.

She stepped toward me, put her left hand on my cheek
and planted a wet kiss on my lips.

“Thanks for lunch, Jesse,” she said softly.

I could taste the bacon. Canadian, I believe.

As I walked to the car, a debate took shape inside my
head.

My right-brain shouted, “What’s wrong with you, pal?
You’re a man, and she’s quite a woman.”

My left-brain retorted, “Shut the **** up! You are a
professional detective working a murder investigation, and you’re a
gentleman. Take your saliva sample to Paternal Affairs and go home.
Oh, yes…and drive carefully; you’ve been drinking.”

I suspect my right-brain would have slapped me a good
one if it could have.

My left-brain usually wins arguments. My right-brain
rarely gets involved intellectually. More often than not, it
performs subtle, non-verbal maneuvers. Usually it prevails, but not
today.

I dropped off the sample and drove home. I kept the
loaner under the speed limit all the way.

Wednesday came and went uneventfully. Thursday was
another story.

It began quietly enough…breakfast with Cynthia…bacon
and eggs. Lots of bacon. I needed to use up every last strip by
late afternoon. Angele would be arriving in the evening; she
managed to get Friday off. I would also have to run the exhaust fan
in the kitchen long enough to clear the air.

Things began to get noisy about nine forty-five in
the morning. That’s when the first call came in on my cell. The
Caller ID indicated it was from Susan St. Claire. I let it go to
voice mail. I wanted to be fully prepared before making a response.
She left no message.

Five minutes later, it rang again. This time she did
leave a message. She shouted a string of obscenities but eventually
became cogent, “I’m not sure who you are, but I have a good idea.
If you taped our conversation on Monday, you’re in for more trouble
than you bargained for.”

Gulp!

She railed on with more obscenities and finally hung
up.

About ten minutes later my cell rang a third time. It
was from a Stephen Grimes. That name was not familiar, so I let it
go through again. The message clarified the first two calls.

“Mr. Williams, this is Stephen Grimes. I have just
spoken with Susan St. Claire. She indicated that you represented
yourself as an aide to Governor James Frye. We have turned the
matter over to the Maine State Police. If you wish to discuss this,
call me. I work for the governor. He is not pleased.”

I, on the other hand,
was
pleased—not by this
sudden turn of events—but rather because I had taken the precaution
of using a prepaid cell phone for my call to Susan St. Claire. My
Boy Scout training was paying dividends.

Cheryl Greenwood, at the bottom of my list, was not a
likely suspect. That affair lasted all of two months, five years
ago, and she had not been heard from since. Furthermore, Rebecca
had referred to her as “sweet,” and Richard wrote “harmless” beside
her name.

The next several hours were spent trying to track
down Barbara Davis. She was the sixth name on the list of seven
women who had affairs with Governor Lavoilette. I tried the phone
number listed on Richard’s sheet; it was no longer in service.
There was no phone listing for a Barbara Ann Davis, her full name,
in the state of Maine. There were thirty-two “Barbara Ann Davis’s”
with Facebook accounts. Some were “Barbara-ann.” Others were
“Barbara Ann.” Still others had a hyphen either before or after the
“Davis.” I called Richard and asked to see if he could identify her
from any of the Facebook profiles. He looked for fifteen minutes
and came up empty.

By four-thirty my search for Ms. Davis was moot.
That’s when I found out who killed William Lavoilette and why.

• • •

I received a call from Brenda, of Paternal Affairs,
at four o’clock. She had the results of my “paternity search.”

“Paternity search?” I said. “What paternity
search?”

“You provided us with four samples for DNA analysis,
didn’t you, Mr. Thorpe?”

“Yes. But there’s no paternity involved,” I
replied.

“Perhaps you should come down to our office and pick
up the DNA analyses. Mr. Fleck will discuss the results with you,”
Brenda said.

I drove my loaner to Ben’s Body Shop and picked up my
renovated Forester. I was happy to have my own car back. I was a
little tired of motoring with extreme caution. It was a short drive
from there to Paternal Affairs.

Brenda was at the main desk. She directed me to the
office of Larry Fleck. Larry stood up at his desk when I entered
the room.

“I understand there is some mix up with your DNA
results,” he said. “Brenda tells me that your samples were not
intended to be a paternity search.”

“That wasn’t my intention, but I’m definitely
interested in what you have found,” I replied.

“Well, we assumed that the first sample you submitted
was the child. Granted, it was a little peculiar that the sample
was a blood stain on a piece of cloth, but then, over ninety-five
percent of our clients want to determine the paternity of a child,
either a newborn or in utero. You didn’t actually indicate your
purpose for the tests, so apparently we made a false assumption,”
Larry said.

“I see,” I replied. “So what did you find?”

“We discovered that there is a 99.8% chance that the
donor of your first sample is directly related to the donor of your
fourth sample. It is almost certain that they are parent and child,
or siblings. There is a very slight chance that they are cousins,
but either siblings or parent and child are far more likely.”

So Susan St. Claire and Justin Cook are brother and
sister. Ergo, Justin Cook is either Mark Prichard or another
brother.

“You’re sure?” I asked.

“Within the stated probabilities…
yes
,” he
replied firmly. “Our method of sampling usually produces a result
that is approximately 99% certain. In this case, we have a much
higher correlation. As you probably know, DNA profiles of siblings
are not perfect matches, but they show strong similarity and common
banding patterns. In the case of identical twins, of course, the
DNA matches perfectly. The degree of certainty of a match depends
on whether we find inherited genes that are not ordinarily present
in the general population. When two samples have a match for one or
more rare genes, the certainty of the biological relationship
increases. In this case, we found two gene matches that are
exceptional. Our 99.8% certainty is a cautious estimate. It is
probably more like 99.95%, but we prefer to err on the conservative
side.”

“Mr. Fleck, you have performed an invaluable service.
When my investigation is completed, I will share the outcome with
you. I’m sure you will be interested. For now, I can’t thank you
enough,” I said.

“We do this every day, Mr. Thorpe,” he said. “We are
delighted we were able to assist you.”

I was absolutely giddy as I left the building. There
was little doubt in my mind that “Justin Cook” was Mark Prichard,
and I was convinced that Aaron Miller pulled the trigger on William
Lavoilette. Susan St. Claire probably orchestrated the whole
affair.

My giddiness gave way to sobriety as I reflected more
closely on the situation. While it appeared conclusive that this
trio was responsible for the governor’s death, there was very
little evidence to support this “fact.”

If my assumptions were correct, then Mark Prichard
stole Travis Perkins’ gun, but we had no direct proof of that. All
we had was a bloodstain on a shirt and some photos of Mark and
Travis fishing together on the day of the murder. That, and Travis
Perkins’ claim that Mark must have stolen his weapon. In fact,
Travis Perkins’ home was unlocked the entire day of the murder.
Anyone could have stolen his gun. As far as the FBI was concerned,
it would be just as plausible that Travis Perkins arranged the
fishing trip to set up Mark Prichard. Although it would seem
ridiculous for Travis to use his own gun in the murder,
nevertheless he had a more clearly defined motive for wanting the
governor killed. His ex-wife was William’s mistress. Travis might
have chosen Mark because he was Susan St. Claire’s brother, and
Susan had had a brief, though fiery, affair with William
Lavoilette.