Dead Down East Read Online Free Page B

the
occasional clinking of silverware on plates and coffee cups on
saucers.
    As if thinking aloud, Kathleen muttered,
“Cherchez la femme.”
    “That’s always a possibility when it comes to
crimes of passion,” Michael said.
    Each of us shared what little we knew about
William’s wife, Rebecca Lyndon Lavoilette, who, to our knowledge,
was the only woman intimate with the governor. William and Rebecca
appeared to be happily married. He met her while they were at
Bowdoin College in Brunswick, Maine. He majored in Earth and
Oceanic Science, and she majored in Environmental Studies. They
were married shortly after they graduated and continued to live
near Brunswick for the next ten years, where he began to build his
boating business.
    As the First Lady, Rebecca had been a little
stiff and formal, especially when compared to her husband’s amiable
style, but I imagined this to be a normal reaction of an otherwise
shy person in the limelight. As William became more and more
successful, she became increasingly philanthropic, donating much of
her time and energies to a number of charities across the
state.
    The Lavoilettes had no children. Rebecca
miscarried twice in the early years of their marriage. After the
second, her doctors told her she could not safely carry a child to
full term. If this put any strain on their marriage, it was not
apparent to the public.
    We finished breakfast without pointing a
finger at any plausible suspect. We discussed the possibility that
a political rival might have gotten desperate, but we quickly
dismissed that as highly unlikely.
    We left the table and made our way outside. I
decided it was time to call Angele Boucher, the “first lady” in my
life.
    I walked across the lawn in front of the
dining hall and sat down on a bench…then turned on my cell phone
and checked for messages. There were several, along with nearly
thirty missed calls. I scanned the list quickly and saw that almost
all of them were made from the same number, a private caller I
didn’t recognize. The first one came in at eleven the previous
night, and the last one was placed only minutes before. “He or she
is rather persistent,” I thought. But I figured whoever it was
could wait a few more minutes while I talked with Angele. Pleasure
before business works fine for me.
    Angele picked up right away and asked
excitedly, “Jesse, have you heard?”
    “About the governor?”
    “Yes,” she replied.
    “I just found out this morning at breakfast.
It’s a real shame.”
    “It’s more than a shame. It’s horrible,”
Angele shot back.
    Among other things, Angele Boucher is a
social activist. She’s a fiery one. That, by the way, is what
attracted me to her in the first place—not her political fire, just
her heat . She can turn a winter blizzard into a sauna with a
single look. That particular metaphor morphed into a physical
reality last fall behind my house when I brought together a stove
and chimney, a water tank, some planks of redwood, and other
assorted building materials and created the “Thorpe Relaxation
& Recreation Arena.” I call it an “arena,” not so much because
of its size—it’s only 8’x12’—but because of the events that
transpire there on frosty evenings. Many were the nights last
winter when a snowy chill dissolved in a hot tub of pre-marital
bliss.
    Angele is half Greek (her mother’s side),
which accounts for most of the fire. She’s just like her mother,
only a lot more my age. Her father is French—French Canadian to be
precise—which, I suppose, accounts for her liberal romanticism.
Fire and romance—every man’s fantasy. Maybe I’ll go up in flames,
but my instincts are to follow my heart and throw caution to the
wind.
    “Angele,” I said, “I miss you already.”
    “Me too, darling.”
    Music to my ears.
    “I’d love to chat, Angele, but someone has
been trying to get hold of me since last night. I have over twenty
missed calls from a single number that I don’t