Dead Down East Read Online Free

spending time with Michael.”
    “Hungry?” she asked.
    “You bet!”
    “All right then, let’s go to breakfast,” she
said.
    “I need to wash up first,” I replied. “You
can start walking without me. I’ll catch up.”
    Michael and Kathleen’s younger son, Tyler,
now twenty-four years old, arrived from Boston the night before. He
came out of the cabin and said, “Hi, Jesse. You guys got an early
start.”
    “I love it when it’s quiet.”
    “I do better when the sun’s going down,”
Tyler said. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m really a Wyeth.”
    “I’m sure you are, Tyler,” I said, “You’re
probably just a late bloomer.”
    “I’m not an early one, that’s for sure,” he
replied, as he shuffled down the steps and onto the path.
    I washed my hands quickly and hurried out of
the cabin. I jogged a bit and came along side of Kathleen, who was
bringing up the rear. We walked together along the lake in front of
a few cabins and then crossed through a parking space onto the dirt
road that leads to the dining hall.
    “You know what I like best about staying
here?” Kathleen asked.
    “No cooking or cleaning?” I suggested.
    “Well, yes, that is nice. But what I like
best is that we totally lose contact with the outside world.”
    “Me too,” I said.
    In the cabin there is no TV, no WiFi, not
even a radio to feed our hunger for information. The outside world
can do whatever it pleases. Inevitably, like a top wound up 14.7
billion years ago, it just keeps on spinning a path of its own. But
in the cabin or on Great Pond, time stands still. I had joined
Michael, Kathleen and Tyler only the evening before, but in less
than twelve hours, my tether to the world was already losing its
grip.
    As we approached Jamaica Point Road that
passes in front of the main house, we could see quite a number of
cars parked on both sides of the road. The camp was nearly full.
Michael and Tyler were about twenty feet ahead of us as we crossed
the road. We followed them up the steps to the long, enclosed porch
in front of the dining room.
    Through the open doorway we could hear the
dining hall humming with chatter, perhaps a bit louder and more
animated than usual, although morning and breakfast is always a
boisterous affair. Phil Brookings and his wife Darlene were sitting
on the porch. Phil and Darlene live in Portland and have been
coming here for decades. They usually arrive in mid-May and stay
for about a month. Several of the other faces seemed familiar, but
I wasn’t sure of their names. Phil seemed downcast. He stared at us
with a bewildered look, and then said with considerable
consternation, “Can you believe it?”
    “Believe what?” Michael asked.
    “You haven’t heard ?” he said, as if he
couldn’t believe that either.
    “Not a thing,” said Michael. “Since supper
last evening, we’ve been completely isolated at the lake. What
happened?”
    “William Lavoilette was murdered last
night!”
    Michael froze like an ice statue. We all did.
When this news had fully sunken in, Michael muttered, “ Oh, my
God! ” The words tumbled out of his mouth and fell to the
floor.
    Tyler, Kathleen and I just stood there,
stunned by what had happened. We sat down around Phil and began
plying him for details.
    Phil took a deep breath and continued, “So
far, there has been very little information available from the
media. Apparently he was shot to death at about 10:30 last night,
just south of Brunswick on Sebascodegan Island, a few minutes drive
from his summer cottage. He was found lying on the side of the road
about 20 feet in front of his car. There are no suspects in
custody. In fact, there are no suspects at all. But the police and
the FBI are not about to give out details that might compromise
their investigation.”
    The sadness on Kathleen’s face was palpable.
She turned to her husband and whispered, “Oh, Michael, the governor
is dead!”
    We wandered through the maze of guests in the
dining hall and