The Charlie Parker Collection 1

  ‘I was trying to make an appointment,’ I said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m a lost soul, looking for guidance.’

  ‘If you’re trying to find yourself, maybe you should go look someplace else.’

  ‘Wherever I go, there I am.’

  ‘That’s unfortunate.’

  ‘I’ve learned to live with it.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem to me like you have much choice, but Mr. Paragon does. If he doesn’t want to see you, then you should accept that and be on your way.’

  ‘Do you know anything about Grace Peltier, Detective Lutz?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘I’ve been hired to look into the circumstances of her death. Someone told me that you might know something about it.’ I let the double meaning hang in the air for a time, its ambivalence like a little time bomb ticking between us. Lutz’s fingers tapped briefly on his belt, but it was the only indication he gave that his calm might be under threat.

  ‘We think Ms. Peltier took her own life,’ he said. ‘We’re not looking for anyone else in connection with the incident.’

  ‘Did you interview Carter Paragon?’

  ‘I spoke to Mr. Paragon. He never met Grace Peltier.’

  Lutz moved a little to his left. The sun was behind him and he stood so that it shone over my shoulder and directly into my eyes. I raised a hand to shade myself and his hand nudged for his gun again.

  ‘Ah-ah,’ he said.

  ‘A little jumpy, aren’t you, Detective?’ I lowered my hand carefully.

  ‘Mr. Paragon sometimes attracts a dangerous element,’ he replied. ‘Good men often find themselves under threat for their beliefs. It’s our duty to protect him.’

  ‘Shouldn’t that be the job of the police here in Waterville?’ I asked.

  He shrugged. ‘Mr. Paragon’s secretary preferred to contact me. Waterville police have better things to be doing with their time.’

  ‘And you don’t?’

  He smiled for the first time. ‘It’s my day off, but I can spare a few minutes for Mr. Paragon.’

  ‘The law never rests.’

  ‘That’s right, and I sleep with my eyes open.’ He handed my wallet back to me. ‘You be on your way now, and don’t let me see you round here again. You want to make an appointment with Mr. Paragon, then you contact him during business hours, Monday to Friday. I’m sure his secretary will be happy to help you.’

  ‘Your faith in her is admirable, Detective.’

  ‘Faith is always admirable,’ he replied, then started to walk back to his car.

  I had pretty much decided that I didn’t like Detective Lutz. I wondered what would happen if he was goaded. I decided to find out.

  ‘Amen,’ I said. ‘But if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to stay here and read my magazine.’

  Lutz stopped, then walked quickly back to me. I saw the punch coming, but I was against the car and all I could do was curl to one side to take the blow to my ribs instead of my stomach. He hit me so hard I thought I heard a rib crack, the pain lancing through my lower body and sending shock waves right to the tips of my toes. I slid down the side of the Mustang and sat on the road, a dull ache spreading across my stomach and into my groin. I felt like I was going to vomit. Then Lutz reached down and applied pressure from his thumbs and forefingers just below my ears. He was using pain compliance techniques and I yelped in agony as he forced me to rise.

  ‘Don’t mock me, Mr. Parker,’ he said. ‘And don’t mock my faith. Now get in your car and drive away.’

  The pressure eased. Lutz walked over to his car and sat on the hood, waiting for me to leave. I looked over at the Paragon house and saw a woman standing at an upstairs window, watching me. Before I got back into the car, I could have sworn that I saw Miss Torrance smile.

  Lutz’s white Acura stayed behind me until I left Waterville and headed north on I-95, but the pain and humiliation I felt meant that the memory of him was with me all the way to Ellsworth. The Hancock County Field Office, home of Troop J of the state police, had dealt with the discovery of Grace Peltier’s body. It was a small building on U.S. 1, with a pair of blue state trooper cars parked outside. A sergeant named Fortin told me that her body had been found by Trooper Voisine on a site named Happy Acres, which was scheduled to be developed for new housing. Voisine was out on patrol but Fortin told me that he’d contact him and ask him to meet me at the site. I thanked him, then followed his directions north until I came to Happy Acres.

  A company called Estate Executives was advertising it as the future setting for ‘roads and views’, although currently there were only rutted tracks and the main view was of dead or fallen trees. There was still some tape blowing in the wind where Grace’s car had been found, but that apart, there was nothing to indicate that a young woman’s life had come to an end in this place. Still, when I looked around, something bothered me: I couldn’t see the road from where I was standing. I went back to the Mustang and drove it up the track until it was in more or less the same position that Grace’s car must have occupied. I turned on the lights, then walked down to the road and looked back.

  The car still wasn’t visible, and I couldn’t see its lights through the trees.

  As I stood by the roadside, a blue cruiser pulled up beside me and the trooper inside stepped out.

  ‘Mr. Parker?’ he asked.

  ‘Trooper Voisine?’ I extended a hand and he took it.

  He was about my height and age, with receding hair, an ‘aw shucks’ smile, and a small triangular scar on his forehead. He caught me looking at it and reached up to rub it with his right hand.

  ‘Lady hit me on the head with a high-heeled shoe after I pulled her over for speeding,’ he explained. ‘I asked her to step from the car, she stumbled, and when I reached over to help her I caught her heel in my forehead. Sometimes it just don’t pay to be polite.’

  ‘Like they say,’ I said, ‘shoot the women first.’

  His smile faltered a little, then regained some of its brightness.

  ‘You from away?’ he asked.

  ‘From away.’ I hadn’t heard that phrase in quite some time. Around these parts, ‘from away’ meant anyplace more than a half-hour’s drive from wherever you happened to be standing at the time. It also meant anyone who couldn’t trace a local family connection back at least a hundred years. There were people whose grandparents were buried in the nearest cemetery who were still regarded as ‘from away,’ although that wasn’t quite as bad as being branded a ‘rusticator’, the locals’ favorite term of abuse for city folks who came Down East in order to get in touch with country living.

  ‘Scarborough,’ I answered.

  ‘Huh.’ Voisine sounded unimpressed. He leaned against his car, removed a Quality Light from a pack in his shirt pocket, then offered the pack to me. I shook my head and watched as he lit up. Quality Lights: he’d have been better off throwing the cigarettes away and trying to smoke the packaging.

  ‘You know,’ I said, ‘if we were in a movie, smoking a cigarette would automatically brand you as a bad guy.’

  ‘Is that so?’ he replied. ‘I’ll have to remember that.’

  ‘Take it as a crime stopper’s tip.’

  Somehow, largely through my own efforts, the conversation appeared to have taken a slightly antagonistic turn. I watched while Voisine appraised me through a cloud of cigarette smoke, as if the mutual dislike we instinctively felt had become visible between us.

  ‘Sergeant says you want to talk to me about the Peltier woman,’ said Voisine at last.

  ‘That’s right. I hear you were the first on the scene.’

  He nodded. ‘There was a lot of blood, but I saw the gun in her hand and thought: suicide. First thing I thought, and it turns out I was right.’

  ‘From what I hear, the verdict may still be open.’

  He blanked me, then shrugged. ‘Did you know her?’ he asked.

  ‘A little,’ I replied. ‘From way back.’ br />
  ‘I’m sorry.’ He didn’t even try to put any emotion into the words.

  ‘What did you do after you found her?’

  ‘Called it in, then waited.’

  ‘Who arrived after you?’

  ‘Another patrol, ambulance. Doc pronounced her dead at the scene.’

  ‘Detectives?’

  He flicked his head back like a man who suddenly realizes he has left out something important. It was a curiously theatrical gesture.

  ‘Sure. CID.’

  ‘You remember his name?’

  ‘Lutz. John Lutz.’

  ‘He get here before, or after, the second patrol?’

  Voisine paused. I saw him watching me carefully through the cigarette smoke before he replied. ‘Before,’ he said at last.

  ‘Must have got here pretty fast,’ I said, keeping my tone as neutral as possible.

  Voisine shrugged again. ‘Guess he was in the area.’

  ‘Guess so,’ I said. ‘Was there anything in the car?’

  ‘I don’t understand, sir.’

  ‘Purse, suitcase, that kind of thing?’

  ‘There was a bag with a change of clothes and a small purse with makeup, a wallet, that kind of stuff.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  Something clicked in Voisine’s throat before he spoke.

  ‘No.’

  I thanked him and he finished off his cigarette, then tossed the butt on the ground, stamping it out beneath his heel. Just as he was about to get back into his car I called to him.

  ‘Just one more thing, Trooper,’ I said.

  I walked down to join him. He paused, half in and half out of the car, and stared at me.

  ‘How did you find her?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, how did you see the car from the road? I can’t see my car from here and it’s parked in pretty much the same spot. I’m just wondering how you came to find her, seeing as how she was hidden by the trees.’

  He said nothing for a time. The professional courtesy was gone now, and I wasn’t sure what had replaced it. Trooper Voisine was a difficult man to read.

  ‘We get a lot of speeding on this road,’ he said at last. ‘I sometimes pull in here to wait. That’s how I found her.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘That explains it. Thanks for your time.’

  ‘Sure,’ he replied. He closed the door and started the engine, then turned onto the road and headed north. I walked out onto the blacktop and made sure that I stayed in his mirror until he was gone from my sight.

  There was little traffic on the road from Ellsworth to Bar Harbor as I drove through the gathering dusk of the early evening. The season had not yet begun, which meant that the locals still had the place pretty much to themselves. The streets were quiet, most of the restaurants were closed, and there was digging equipment on the site of the town’s park, piles of earth now standing where there used to be green grass. Sherman’s bookstore was still open on Main Street, and it was the first time that I had ever seen Ben & Bill’s Chocolate Emporium empty. Ben & Bill’s was even offering 50 percent off all candies. If they tried that after Memorial Day, people would be killed in the stampede.

  The Acadia Pines Motel was situated by the junction of Main and Park. It was a pretty standard tourist place, probably operating at the lower end of the market. It consisted of a single two-story, L-shaped block painted yellow and white, numbering about forty rooms in total. When I pulled into the lot there were only two other cars parked and there seemed to be a kind of desperation about the ferocity with which the VACANCIES sign glowed and hummed. I stepped from the car and noticed that the pain in my side had faded to a dull ache, although when I examined my body in the dashboard light I could still see the imprint of Lutz’s knuckles on my skin.

  Inside the motel office, a woman in a pale blue dress sat behind the desk, the television tuned to a news show and a copy of TV Guide lying open beside her. She sipped from a Grateful Dead mug decorated with lines of dancing teddy bears, chipped red nail polish showing on her fingers. Her hair was dyed a kind of purple-black and shined like a new bruise. Her face was wrinkled and her hands looked old, but she was probably no more than fifty-five, if that. She tried to smile as I entered, but it made her look as if someone had inserted a pair of fishhooks in her upper lip and pulled gently.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Are you looking for a room?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ I replied. ‘I’m looking for Marcy Becker.’

  There was a pause that spoke volumes. The office stayed silent but I could still hear her screaming in her head. I watched her as she ran through the various lying options open to her. You have the wrong place. I don’t know any Marcy Becker. She’s not here and I don’t know where she is. In the end, she settled for a variation on the third choice.

  ‘Marcy isn’t here. She doesn’t live here anymore.’

  ‘I see,’ I said. ‘Are you Mrs. Becker?’

  That pause came again, then she nodded.

  I reached into my pocket and showed her my ID. ‘My name is Charlie Parker, Mrs. Becker. I’m a private investigator. I’ve been hired to investigate the circumstances surrounding the death of a woman named Grace Peltier. I believe Marcy was a friend of Grace’s, is that correct?’

  Pause. Nod.

  ‘Mrs. Becker, when was the last time you saw Grace?’

  ‘I don’t recall,’ she said. Her voice was dry and cracked, so she coughed and repeated her answer with only marginally more assurance. ‘I don’t recall.’ She took a sip of coffee from her mug.

  ‘Was it when she came to collect Marcy, Mrs. Becker? That would have been a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘She never came to collect Marcy,’ said Mrs. Becker quickly. ‘Marcy hasn’t seen her in . . . I don’t know how long.’

  ‘Your daughter didn’t attend Grace’s funeral. Don’t you think that’s strange?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. I watched her fingers slide beneath the counter and saw her arm tense as she pressed the panic button.

  ‘Are you worried about Marcy, Mrs. Becker?’

  This time the pause went on for what seemed like a very long time. When she spoke, her mouth answered no but her eyes whispered yes.

  Behind me, I heard the door of the office open. When I turned, a short, bald man in a golf sweater and blue polyester pants stood before me. He had a golf club in his hand.

  ‘Did I interrupt your round?’ I asked.

  He shifted the club in his hand. It looked like a nine iron. ‘Can I help you, mister?’

  ‘I hope so, or maybe I can help you,’ I said.

  ‘He was asking about Marcy, Hal,’ said Mrs. Becker.

  ‘I can handle this, Francine,’ her husband assured her, although even he didn’t look convinced.

  ‘I don’t think so, Mr. Becker, not if all you’ve got is a cheap golf club.’

  A rivulet of panic sweat trickled down from his brow and into his eyes. He blinked it away, then raised the club to shoulder height in a two-armed grip. ‘Get out,’ he said.

  My ID was still open in my right hand. With my left, I took one of my business cards from my pocket and laid it on the counter. ‘Okay, Mr. Becker, have it your way. But before I go, let me tell you something. I think someone may have killed Grace Peltier. Maybe you’re telling me the truth, but if you’re not, then I think your daughter has some idea who that person might be. If I could figure that out, then so could whoever killed her friend. And if that person comes asking questions, then he probably won’t be as nice about it as I am. You bear that in mind after I’m gone.’

  The club moved forward an inch or two. ‘I’m telling you for the last time,’ he said, ‘get out of this office.’

  I flipped my wallet closed, slipped it into my jacket pocket, then walked to the door, Hal Becker circling me with his golf club to keep some swinging distance between us. ‘I have a feeling you’ll be calling me,’ I said as I opened the door and stepped into the lot.

&nb
sp; ‘Don’t you bet on it,’ replied Becker. As I started my car and drove away, he was still standing at the door, the golf club still raised, like a frustrated amateur with a huge handicap stuck in the biggest, deepest bunker in the world.

  On the drive back to Scarborough I ran through what I had learned, which wasn’t much. I knew that Carter Paragon was being kept under wraps by Miss Torrance and that Lutz seemed to have more than a professional interest in keeping him that way. I knew that something about Voisine’s discovery of Grace’s body made me uneasy, and Lutz’s involvement in that discovery made me uneasier still. And I knew that Hal and Francine Becker were scared. There were a lot of reasons why people might not want a private detective questioning their child. Maybe Marcy Becker was a porn star, or sold drugs to high school kids. Or maybe their daughter had told them to keep quiet about her whereabouts until whatever she was worried about had blown over. I still had Ali Wynn, Grace’s Boston friend, to talk to, but already Marcy Becker was looking like a woman worth pursuing.

  It seemed that Curtis Peltier and Jack Mercier were right to suspect the official version of Grace’s death, but I also felt that everybody I had met over the past couple of days was either lying to me or holding something back. It was time to rectify that situation, and I had an idea where I wanted to start. Despite my tiredness, I didn’t take the Scarborough exit. Instead, I first took Congress Street, then headed onto Danforth and pulled up in front of Curtis Peltier’s house.

  The old man answered the door wearing a nightgown and bedroom slippers. Inside, I could hear the sound of the television in the kitchen, so I knew I hadn’t woken him.

  ‘You find out something?’ he asked as he motioned me into the hallway and closed the door behind me.

  ‘No,’ I replied, ‘but I hope to pretty soon.’

  I followed him into the kitchen and took the same seat I had occupied the day before, while Peltier hit the mute button on the remote. He was watching Night of the Hunter, Robert Mitchum oozing evil as the psychotic preacher with the tattooed knuckles.

  ‘Mr. Peltier,’ I began, ‘why did you and Jack Mercier cease to be business partners?’

  He didn’t look away, but his eyes blinked closed for slightly longer than usual. When they opened again, he seemed tired. ‘What do you mean?’