Dead Down East (8 page)

It was Eric’s idea to give my .38 Special a
proper name.

Eric Cochrane and I put together our first
band,
Mystic Notions
, when we were in high school. He and I
assembled our second band,
Ocean Noises
, shortly after I
returned to Augusta from Andover.

We began playing gigs in the spring of 2005, but it
took time to develop a following. Financially speaking, the first
couple of years were very lean. In fact, it was almost a year
before we recouped the cost of our sound system. In the meantime, I
needed to supplement my income if I wanted to hold onto the
farm.

I had learned some rudimentary carpentry
skills during my years at Colby. I had worked for three summers at
Bear Spring Camps as a handyman doing a variety of repairs on the
cabins. There was plumbing, painting, electrical installations,
tiling, roofing and even leveling to be done. Several of the cabins
tilted noticeably each spring from the freezing of the lake and the
heaving of the bank. These skills helped me secure a few
construction jobs, but the work was not steady and in the winter,
almost nonexistent. That’s when I got the bright idea to become a
private investigator. I took the necessary courses and got my PI
license.

Eric and I hung out together a lot in those
days, and when I told him I needed a handgun for my new profession,
he insisted on going with me to make the purchase. I wouldn’t say
that Eric is a “gun nut” per se; he’s more like an all-purpose
nutcase, with a specialized interest in the sundries found in
pawnshops. He claimed to know a fair amount about handguns, and
wanted to help me make the best possible choice. He also had his
eye on a red and white Stratocaster that had recently shown up at
Capitol Pawn and Jewelry on Water Street. That particular Fender
guitar was very flashy. He thought it would provide us with a
little more stage presence. So we drove down to Water Street to do
some shopping.

There was a considerable number of handguns
available at Capitol Pawn, but one stood out for both of us. It was
a shiny black Snubnose Smith and Wesson .38 Special with a dark
brown wooden grip. Before I could even open my mouth, Eric asked
the proprietor to bring it out of the case so he could get his
hands on it. For Eric it was love at first touch. If I had
preferred a different gun, I probably could not have prevailed in
an ensuing argument. Fortunately I liked his choice. Even Sam Spade
would have concurred, I thought. It’s a beauty.

Eric passed on the Stratocaster. It was priced a
little beyond his budget—our budget, actually—in as much as the
band had a strict policy of splitting all profits and expenses
equally. So I bought the weapon of Eric’s choice, and we drove it
home.

A license is not required to purchase or own
a handgun in the state of Maine. However, a license is required to
carry a handgun. I had already acquired that license, and it was
“on my person.” I was in full compliance with the law. As a PI,
“being in compliance” is an important state to be in. I would
estimate that over the past six years, my tenure as a private
investigator, I’ve been in that state over 50% of the time, give or
take.

A month before purchasing my firearm, I had broken up
with my latest heartthrob. She was a fiery brunette with green eyes
and an overcharged libido. Now that I think about it, I seem to be
attracted to combustible women. It might be a logical consequence
of the long New England winters, coupled with the fact that I’m
often late paying my gas bill. For whatever reason, the queue of
ladies in the narrative of my life resembled a row of Roman Candles
on the Fourth of July. And while she and I never discussed the
possibility of marriage or the pastries that accompany wedding
receptions, among all of my exes, Rhonda Giannini definitely took
the cake on her way out the door. By the time Eric and I got home
from our shopping spree, my .38 Special had a Christian name.

The logic of Eric’s choice of monikers was
irrefutable. Sure, it is commonplace to give weapons a feminine
appellation. It was also true that Ms. Giannini had the personality
of a loaded gun with a hair trigger, ready to go off at the
slightest touch. But there were three other features that sealed
the deal.

First, Eric reminded me of the night Rhonda
and I met. She and one of her friends, whose name now escapes me,
hung around to introduce themselves to us one Saturday night after
we had finished our show in Portland. The girls had nothing better
to do than to ride home with us, fifty-five miles to Augusta, at
one o’clock in the morning. Fortunately, my farmhouse has two
bedrooms. Unfortunately, the walls are paper-thin. According to
Eric, on several occasions throughout the night, the headboard on
my bed went
bang
against the wall, and shook the house.

Second, Rhonda had
recently left me in the lurch for another innocent bystander, one
Bradley Windgate, a restaurateur from Bar Harbor. Eric was quick to
point out that while Bradley was not especially handsome, he was
considerably more “loaded” than I, which was more than just a
little annoying. Naming my piece,
Rhonda
, was a way of
restoring what little dignity remained for me in her absence. She
would now be relegated to my side. I could take her out whenever I
wanted, and—as Eric put it—“fondle her” at my own discretion.
Despite the seamy quality of Eric’s choice of words, I have to
admit he had a point.

And finally, Eric brought to my attention the
palpable fact that Rhonda was indeed, very well endowed by her
maker. Coincidentally or not, our weapon of choice was a .38
Special.

Rhonda was definitely that.

I put her back in the dresser, stretched out
on my bed, and drifted into the arms of the angels. If I was going
to worry about consorting with murderers, it could wait until my
nap was over. For now, I relished the opportunity as Hamlet did so
long ago, “To sleep! Perchance to dream.”

And dream I did.

• • •

I barely remember putting my head on the
pillow. I went out like a light and quickly slipped into a deep
sleep.

I was floating in a fog, searching for
something. I was anxious about finding it, but I didn’t know what
“it” was. I only knew it was important.

I became aware of a distinct humming sound
coming from somewhere behind me. It sounded like a small single
engine plane. It wasn’t loud, just smooth and persistent. As I
listened to it closely, I felt as if it were resonating inside the
back of my head. I drifted along, propelled by this sound for what
seemed a very long time.

Eventually the sound faded as if the plane
had disappeared across the horizon. When the humming had completely
ceased, I couldn’t hear a thing. I was now distinctly aware of the
silence left in its wake.

To this point, I had been alone in the dream.
I was not aware of any other person. But the silence ushered in the
premonition that someone was near me. The hair on the back of my
neck stood up. Then she spoke, “
Cherchez la femme
.” The
sound of the word, “
femme
,” trailed off slowly. I imagined a
woman fading into the night.

Then I realized that it was Kathleen who
spoke those three French words. There was no mistaking her voice.
It had the same cadence and the precise tone. I couldn’t see her,
but I knew, beyond any doubt, it was Kathleen. She spoke with no
emotion. The most surprising feature of her voice was that it was
so absolutely clear and unmistakable.

Even as I dreamed, I remembered that Kathleen
had spoken this phrase during our conversation earlier in the day.
When she said it at breakfast, I had dismissed it as a bit
presumptuous. We certainly didn’t have any facts to support the
assumption that a woman was involved. But now it seemed almost
certain, even obvious. Perhaps it is the nature of the feminine
mind to be able, in rare moments, to see beyond the confusion of
possibilities and arrive directly at a pristine, unassailable
truth.

While in the dreaming state, this feminine
outlook felt comfortable and elegant. By comparison, my everyday,
linear methodology seemed tedious and not nearly as effective. It
was inspiring to think that if I could somehow use both halves of
my brain at one time, rather than just the analytical half by
itself, I might be able to arrive at authentic conclusions, instead
of plodding along in pursuit of them.

I knew that I was dreaming, and I also knew
dreams evaporate with the light of day. So I began instructing
myself, resolutely, to not forget this…to bring this way of
thinking back with me. I wanted to begin seeing the whole and not
just the straight lines extending to points. The last thing I
remember was commanding myself to remember. Then I was back.

My dream had the texture of a near death
experience. While it lasted, I felt disembodied, impervious to the
laws of physics. Perhaps I might one day remain “out there,” if I
could find a way to resist the pull of gravity, and reject the
appeal and the attraction of this planetary existence—what Van
Morrison refers to as
glamour
. That was beyond my reach at
the moment, but it wasn’t beyond my imagination. In fact, in the
euphoric remnants of my dream, death seemed an inviting alternative
to earthly life.

Dazed by this overview, I looked around my
room and was confounded to see everything just as I had left it. It
was dusk. I wasn’t sure what day it was. According to the clock on
my side table and the twilight in the western sky, it was nine
o’clock in the evening. I could only assume it was the same Sunday
that I had left behind. If that were true, then I had been in space
for several hours.

The thought returned, “
Cherchez la
femme
.” I wondered, “Does this apply
here
—on earth?” I
figured it must.

My heart suddenly quickened as I thought of
Cynthia sleeping in the next bedroom. She most definitely was
une femme
.

It was clearly a case of bad news and good
news. The bad news was that danger, perhaps even murder, had wormed
its way into the Thorpe estate. The good news was that I was now
convinced that death was not as unwelcome as it’s cracked up to
be.

In any case, my rustic Maine farmhouse was beginning
to resemble a harem. Not counting Becky, who was resting
comfortably in the console of my Forester, there were four
prominent women in my life. Kathleen, Angele, Cynthia and Rhonda:
an apparition, a lover, a client, and a .38 Special.

The rain had stopped. The evening was cool and
subdued. I eased out of bed and put on a flannel shirt. As I
entered the living room, Cynthia was standing at the window looking
at the road below and Leroux Pond beyond that. The sun had already
set.

She turned as I came into the room and managed a weak
smile. “It’s like a dream,” she said.

“It sure is,” I replied, confident that I was on the
same page.

I wanted to give her a hug, to console her from the
shock and grief she was feeling, but that was a road too far. I
offered her a cup of tea.

“That would be nice. It’s getting a little chilly,”
she said.

I went into the kitchen and rummaged through the
drawer that held the only tea in the house. “Will peppermint
do?”

“Sure,” she said.

Cynthia remained where she was, staring out the
window, while I put on the kettle, got two cups from the cupboard
and began watching the pot that never boils.

The next few minutes were quiet, inviting an inner
dialogue to fill the space between my ears. It began with the trial
scene in
My Cousin Vinny
: