Dead Down East (5 page)

Leaving a trail of dust behind me, I drove up
Jamaica Point Road to the corner. I slowed down for the stop sign
and gazed for a moment at the old Richardson farm, minus the barn
that had recently been torn down. The Richardsons were related to
the original owners at Bear Spring Camps.

If you take the time to trace the family
trees, you’ll discover that out here most everyone is related. Lots
of Mayflower folks drifted down east to Maine, long before it
became a tourist destination. French Canadians poured in from
Québec, especially as the 19
^th
Century gave way to the
20
^th
. The locals are largely the descendants of those
who stayed on and survived the winters. That’s why Mainers are so
hardy; winter weeds out the sickly and the weak. Global warming
might be upon us, but in this neck of the woods you still need an
overcoat and boots to get by. The tourists come and go, but true
Mainers stay, either by force of habit or lack of imagination. Most
of us love it here, and the rest are simply too stubborn to
leave.

I made my way along the country roads heading
south. In a few minutes, Lake Messalonskee came into view on my
left, triggering a wave of entertaining memories. When I was a
teenager, the Belgrade Lakes came alive in late spring. Local girls
slipped out of the woodwork in droves, like bears emerging from
hibernation. Now, almost two decades later, a lingering collection
of faces, temperaments and inclinations drifted through my
attention. On any other day, I would have meandered easily below
the speed limit, keeping pace with my laid-back memoirs, but not
today. Just north of Augusta, I left the country road behind,
turned onto Interstate 95 and back into the matters at hand.

I briefly considered swinging by the
farmhouse to pick up my .38 Special, but I decided against it.
Cynthia had been up all night, so I felt it was important to get to
her as quickly as possible. Something else had occurred to me; I
might have to drive through a police roadblock on Sebascodegan
Island. There’d be some explaining to do if they searched the car
and found a gun. At this point, I had no plausible explanation for
that possibility. In fact, as yet I had no plausible explanation to
offer the police for my being there. I’d use the twenty-five miles
of interstate and ten odd miles of country road that lay ahead to
craft my cover story.

I traveled down a few blind alleys in my
otherwise fertile imagination until I finally settled upon a
working hypothesis. I rehearsed it for several minutes until it
sounded convincing.

“Officer, I’m here to join my girlfriend on
the island. She’s been visiting friends for the week, and I finally
managed some time off from my construction job to join her. (If he
wanted to call my boss, that story line should hold up.) What’s
that? Where is she staying? … I don’t have the exact address, but I
know that it’s a house very near Cranberryhorn Cemetery on Cundys
Harbor Road. When I reach the cemetery, I’ll be calling her.”

This should get me through the war zone, I
thought. As for getting off the island on our way back north, I’d
have to cross that bridge when I came to it. Literally.

I sailed on down the highway and reached
Brunswick by eleven o’clock. When I found Highway 24, I fired up my
GPS. From here on out, I was on unfamiliar roads. As soon as she
booted up, Becky announced, “In four point three miles, turn left
on Cundys Harbor Road.”

Four miles later I crossed a short bridge
onto Sebascodegan Island. There were beautiful coves on either
side. The area was thickly wooded, and the few houses along the
road were barely visible. I cut my speed, realizing my turn was
fast approaching. Then, up ahead, I saw a number of highway patrol
cars flanking the road. On the left side, there was a barricade
across what appeared to be my left turn. A uniformed officer stood
in the middle of the road holding up an arm. He wanted me to
stop.

This jolted me quite literally into the
present. I hoped there was another turn further down the road that
would get me to the cemetery. I rolled to a stop next to the
officer. As I lowered the window, he stepped forward, peered in at
me, and said, “There are two FBI agents ahead who will be asking
you some questions. Please drive slowly and stop when you reach
them.”

“Sure thing,” I replied.

I eased forward. Just as I was coming to a
stop in front of the two men, Ms. Lawrence spoke up, “In fifty feet
turn left on Cundys Harbor Road.” I was sure that they heard Becky
as clearly as I did.

“Hello, I am Officer Edward Handley from the
Federal Bureau of Investigation. Can I have your name, address,
phone number and the purpose of your travel?”

“Sure,” I said. I gave him all the personal
information and then I added, “I’m here to pick up my girlfriend.”
For now I figured the less I say, the less I’d have to defend if
things got more complicated.

While I was speaking to Officer Handley,
another agent standing next to him was entering my information on
what looked to be an iPad. This was a bit unsettling, in as much as
I now realized I had just become part of a federal murder
investigation. My private investigator’s license was literally a
keystroke away from popping up in our conversation.

Handley then asked, “What’s your
destination?”

“I’m going to a home on Cundys Harbor Road
very near the Cranberryhorn Cemetery. I don’t have the address, but
I’ll be calling my girlfriend as soon as I reach the cemetery.”

Handley replied matter-of-factly, “As you can
see, this entrance to Cundys Harbor Road is barricaded. This is a
crime scene. Let me have a look here.”

With that he put his hand into the lapel
pocket of his uniform and pulled out a map, pre-folded to our exact
location, and studied it briefly.

“That’s OK, officer, I’m sure Becky will
recalculate a route for me,” I said.

His eyes flashed quickly around the car then
settled back on me, “Becky?”

At first I thought he was addressing her, but
then I realized he was asking me, “Who is that?”

I was doing my best to think quickly and remain calm
in spite of what had suddenly unfolded. My heart was racing so fast
that my metabolic clocks were working double-time, having a
pronounced and elongating effect on my senses. My palms were
clammy, and I realized that in my rush to leave camp this morning I
didn’t use deodorant. My underarms were definitely moist.
Undoubtedly I was emitting a noxious odor.

As a result of my elevated heart rate,
everything around me appeared in slow motion—another consequence,
no doubt, of Einstein’s Special Theory of Relativity. I made a
concerted effort to keep my facial expressions from becoming
exaggerated, my voice from moving an octave above normal, and my
speech from sounding like Bugs Bunny. A mantra rumbled from the
back of my mind, “stay calm…stay calm…stay calm,” while my hands
remained clasped to the steering wheel in the “10 and 2” driving
position that old ladies and NASCAR drivers use. Sure, it made me
look a little nervous, but it concealed my sweaty palms.

And if that weren’t enough to keep me busy, I now had
to recalculate my story to conform to Becky’s so that Officer
Handley would have no reason to suspect I was making it all up as I
went along.

“Jesse Thorpe, get a grip. You are a private
investigator, licensed and bonded for Christ’s sake. Make a parting
comment so you can be on your way. Cynthia Dumais is dying a slow
death in the Cranberryhorn Cemetery. If you don’t get your butt
into gear, the caretaker will find her body, dig a hole and bury
her on the spot,” I said to myself. To Handley I said, “Becky? Oh,
that
! Becky is the name I use for my GPS unit. I have it set
for the Cranberryhorn Cemetery.”

Officer Handley eyed me with a measure of
suspicion, but carried on in professional mode. “The map shows that
there are only two ways to get onto Cundys Harbor Road,” he said.
“The first one is blocked as you can see. You’ll have to drive
about two hundred feet down the road, then double back and use the
south entrance. That’s the only other way to get to the
cemetery.”

When he finished speaking, he continued
scrutinizing me closely. I could feel his eyes boring into my
hidden agenda. Then came a moment of grace…suddenly, I remembered
the two social devices for disarming adversaries.

“Sorry for any confusion, officer, I’m still
in shock over the murder of our governor. I guess I just can’t
think very straight. Thank you for being so helpful.”

My simple apology and compliment worked like
magic. Officer Handley’s face relaxed into an easy smile as he
replied, “No problem, we’re all on edge here. You’re free to
go.”

And with that, I slowly pulled forward. When
I was about fifty feet past the first turn, Becky reasserted
herself with, “Recalculating.” I had an urge to grab her by her
adaptor cord and rip it out of the socket, but I didn’t want to
make any sudden movements that might induce Officer Handley to
think that things weren’t copasetic.

I put on my left turn indicator. A hundred
feet down the road, I made a sharp left and entered Cundys Harbor
Road from the south. I noticed that Handley was keeping his eye on
me all the way. As the harbor road curved to the right, I watched
him in the rear view mirror until his image disappeared behind a
line of trees.

Becky’s announcement indicating that I was
nearing my destination was her last refrain. It was now time to
give her a rest. I reached into the console and pulled her plug. I
could go solo from here.

I drove slowly along the harbor road for
almost a mile, making a careful survey of each home, until the
Cranberryhorn Cemetery appeared before me. I pulled onto a short
gravel driveway, stopped the car, and killed the motor. There were
perhaps a couple hundred headstones standing like sentries on both
sides of Harbor Road, but as yet I saw no signs of life. That’s
relatively commonplace in a cemetery, but I was hoping to see at
least one person. Actually, I was hoping to see exactly one person,
no more, no less.

I reached for my cell phone and dialed
Cynthia’s number. She answered on the first ring and muffled an
insistent question, “Jesse, is that you in the car that just drove
up?”

“It is,” I said with a mixture of relief and
anticipation.

“I’ll be right there.”

Cynthia Dumais slipped out from behind a wall
of trees that bordered the Cranberryhorn Cemetery. She had on a
pair of black jeans and a suede jacket. She was carrying a brown
leather overnight bag in her hand and a grim expression on her
face.

She glanced up and down the road cautiously
and then walked directly to the car. She opened the back door, set
her bag on the floor, and then opened the front passenger door, sat
down and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath, let out a sigh as
she opened her eyes and in a shaky voice whispered, “Thank
you.”

“Are you OK, Cynthia?” I asked. Obviously,
she wasn’t. It was just something to say.

“I guess so,” she responded. “But I’m
exhausted. Can we go now?”

If I thought that I was going to get some
quick and straight answers from Cynthia about her involvement with
the governor’s murder, I was mistaken. I was thinking, “Hey, I’ve
just abandoned my vacation, driven for two hours, and then lied my
way through an FBI roadblock in order to extract you from this
mess. The least you can do is explain yourself.” I thought that,
but I didn’t say that. What I said was, “We’ll be going shortly.
You’ve obviously been through a traumatic and threatening
experience. We need to get you off this island and safely back to
Augusta as quickly as possible. That, however, presents us with a
certain
delicate
problem.

“I have checked the map thoroughly. We have a
choice of driving north to Brunswick or south, along a more
circuitous route, to Harpswell Neck Road. Either way, we have to
get back onto Highway 24, and that means we must return on Cundys
Harbor Road. Unfortunately, there is a police roadblock ahead about
a mile from here. I’m almost certain that that is where the
Governor of Maine was murdered last night. Two FBI agents and a
number of Maine State Police vehicles and personnel are posted
there ready to interview anyone entering or leaving the island.

“I encountered them just a few minutes ago.
My arrival raised a yellow flag, but not a red one. I needed to
give my name, address, phone number and the reason for my visit in
order to pass through. They took down all of that information; it’s
now part of an FBI file.

“The color of the flag will be entirely different
when we try to exit. Anyone who is leaving might have seen or heard
something last night. So… Where exactly have you been for the past
twenty-four hours, and with whom? We can’t make a move toward that
intersection until we create a coherent story. We have to get the
narrative worked out perfectly if we hope to pass through the
gauntlet.