Flim Flam

By Carl Schmidt

FLIM FLAM is an engaging and witty thriller set in Maine. Scott Decker, a young entrepreneur from the Lewiston area, is murdered in his home, and a trove of gold bars is missing from his wall safe. Scott's former high school sweetheart hires Jesse Thorpe to find out what happened. Witnesses suggest that Scott may have made his fortune in the opioid trade, but his family and closest friends insist that can't be true. Suspects abound, including Scott's ex-wife, his business partner and several associates from a local militia. Jesse's investigation spans six years and takes a number of surprising twists along the way.
This fourth novel in the Jesse Thorpe Mystery Series is yet another delightful and engaging detective story, brimming with lively banter, femme fatales, local charm and quirky situations. Sophisticated readers will appreciate the confluence of forensics, science and droll repartee. And, as usual, Jesse's band of eclectic compadres are there for him when things get dicey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carl Schmidt
• Release date: Jul 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005133122

Carl Schmidt

Carl Schmidt graduated from Denver University with a degree in mathematics and physics. As a Woodrow Wilson Fellow he studied mathematics at Brown University.Carl lived and traveled widely throughout Asia for seven years, including two years as a Peace Corps volunteer in the Philippines and five years in Japan, where he taught English.Carl has spent dozens of summers in Maine, on lakes and in the woods. He chose it as the setting for these novels because he loves its rugged natural beauty and the charming idiosyncrasies of Mainers. He has also written and recorded three musical albums. This, along with his formal education, proved invaluable when molding the persona and voice of Jesse Thorpe, the narrator of Dead Down East, and endowing him with both a creative eye for detail and a sense of humor.Dead Down East is the first novel in the Jesse Thorpe Mystery Series, which includes A Priestly Affair and Redbone. In 2001, New Falcon Press published his non-fictional book, A Recipe for Bliss: Kriya Yoga for a New Millennium.Currently, he is a freelance writer living in Sedona, Arizona with his lovely wife, Holly, and their faithful German shorthaired pointer, Alize.

Book preview

Tough Break

If you don’t change direction, you may end up where you’re headed.

~ Lao Tsu

Orange billows on turquoise lit the evening sky, followed by crimson haze on lapis, then gray, fading gradually to inky black. Sunsets from the porch of my Augusta farm home often inspire wonder and awe. This one didn’t. Instead, it sent an unfamiliar chill through my spine. It was the second of March. Just hours away, my thirtieth birthday lay in waiting, as nightfall foreshadowed an uncertain future. Maine was between seasons, our band was between drummers, and I was between mortgage payments, professions and decades.

Generally speaking, I’m an optimistic guy. Put some coffee in my cup and a little sun on my face, and I step into the morning without hesitation or dread. But now, alone in the dark, the silence was disquieting. Several hours earlier, just as dawn was breaking, that sunny outlook took a beating.

Randy Combs and I had been hired to add a greenhouse to the back of a hundred-year-old home on Winthrop Street. We had completed the footings and slab the day before; an early spring thaw provided a narrow window to dig a trench and pour the concrete. But, with a nor’easter bearing down on the coast, we figured to have little more than a day—two at the most—to mortar a stem wall, frame the addition and top it with a roof. Randy commandeered the forklift laden with building materials, while I held aside a series of tree limbs to give him enough room to slip between the east side of the building and a row of pines. As he rounded the southeast corner, the pallet—already listing almost fifteen degrees on the grade away from the house—clipped the edge of the gutter downspout and jostled the load. A single 28-pound block of concrete bounced a few inches, paused briefly on its edge, and finally decided to go all the way over, landing on my left Timberland, which was temporarily suctioned into some mud. The boot cushioned the blow somewhat, just not quite enough. I heard the metatarsal pop and felt a shot of pain through my foot.

A couple hours later in the emergency room at Maine General, Dr. Wilson Abbott told me I’d be right as rain in four to six weeks. In the meantime, I’d have to hobble around on a semi-rigid post-op shoe, and carpentry work was out of the question for at least a fortnight. That’s exactly what he said. "Carpentry work is out of the question for at least a fortnight."

I knew how long that would be, but it was only the second time I’d ever heard that particular word spoken aloud in a sentence. The first came two years earlier during Vanessa Stephens’ animated recitation as Lady Capulet, while rehearsing for the Bangor production of Romeo and Juliet. I recall the reading distinctly.

She had been practicing her lines night and day, concurrent with our plunging recklessly into passion and romance. She uttered the celebrated remark, quite unexpectedly, in the middle of a climactic bedroom moment. "A fortnight and odd days," she wailed.

I remember thinking at the time that there was very little chance that I could keep at it that long. Instinctively, I remained silent, in part to suggest that I might have the required stamina, but mostly to not sound foolish in the event that I had misinterpreted her exclamation.

To the doctor’s instructions, I responded ruefully, No carpentry for two weeks?

Rawight, he replied, in his thick British accent. An’ keep it elevated an’ iced till the swelling goes down.

• • •

Shortly after 6:30 that evening, as I was limping back into the house for another shot of Jack Daniels, my cell phone rang. Before I had a chance to say hello, Eric Cochrane was peppering me with questions.

"Jesse! Hey! How are you doing, buddy? Are you in pain? Will you be able to play on Saturday night? Randy called and told me what happened. Bummer."

Eric and I formed our first rock band in high school. He’s the lead guitar player for Ocean Noises, our current ensemble—or what’s left of it. I play bass and Billy Mosher plays the keyboards. Justin Thyme, our drummer for the previous six months, left us in the lurch the week before. None of us actually knew his real name, and at this point, we no longer cared.

The lidocaine has worn off, Eric, but I’m coping with ice, whiskey and ibuprofen. As for Saturday, I should be able to make it, but who’s going to play the drums?

I’m workin’ on it, Jesse, he replied, in a weary and slightly discouraged tone. "I’ve been talkin’ to Willie Franklin. He says that he might be able to fill in for us…if we pay him enough."

How about Amanda? Are they still a couple?

It’s a revolving door, of course. But at the moment, he’s beggin’ to get back in. Naturally, I asked him about her, but he said he hadn’t seen her for a couple of weeks, and she wasn’t returning his calls.

If we could get her to join us, Willie would come along for sure, I said. Why don’t you give her a ring?

I did already and left a message, he replied, not sounding particularly hopeful. We’ll need a little luck.

I could use some of that myself, I muttered.

Keep your chin up, Jesse. It can’t be that bad.

For starters, I’m out of work and my mortgage payment is due on the tenth. I needed the greenhouse job to cover it. I’m behind on my phone, electric and propane bills. Even the wood pile is thinning out.

You could ask your mom for a loan.

I don’t want to do that again. She helped me out last winter, and I still owe her almost a grand.

Getting any calls for detective work? he asked.

I got one call last week from a lady who said she needed protection from her ex. After listening to me for a minute or so, she asked me my age. When I told her, she took a pass. She said she was looking for ‘a more responsible man.’ Incidentally, that’s why I took my photo down from the website. It might inspire interest among the younger crowd, but they’re not the ones hiring private investigators.

You know I’d help you out if I could, but I’m tapped.

No worries, I said. Something will turn up.

2

A Tale of Woe

I’d have preferred staying in bed another hour or two, but my throbbing toe was an unrelenting call to painkillers. I strapped my foot into the orthopedic shoe and tested its mobility before standing up and limping down the hall to the kitchen. I started a pot of coffee and checked the medication shelf. There was no more Advil, so I took some Tylenol and then started a fire in the wood stove to cut the chill. I was working on a second cup when my office phone rang. Fortunately, I didn’t have to get up; I had a cordless receiver on the counter. The caller ID listed a number, but no name.

Jesse Thorpe, private investigations. Can I help you?

I hope so, came a soft feminine reply. After a brief pause, she continued. I located your website last night and would like some clarification.

Her voice sounded halting and tentative.

By all means. As you can probably see from my homepage, I’m licensed and bonded. My office is in Augusta, but I am available to work anywhere in the state. I noticed that you have a Lewiston prefix. Are you calling from there?

No, she replied, but offered no explanation.

OK. What would you like to know? I asked.

Can I meet with you sometime today?

Absolutely. Let me check my schedule.

I knew full well that my calendar was bare, but there was no need to sound desperate. I paused for about ten seconds and then continued, I’m available in the early afternoon. Will that work for you?

Yes, she said.

Would you like to meet me here in my home office, or would you prefer a different location?

Your place will be fine. How about two o’clock?

That will work, Miss…?

"It’s missus. I’m married. I’ll provide you with my personal details when I arrive. I don’t want any publicity, and I need to discuss some things before I commit to your services. I hope that will be OK."

Certainly. Do you need directions?

No, thank you. The map on your site is adequate. I’ll be there at two.

Fine… I replied, but she had already hung up before the word was out of my mouth.

• • •

I graduated with a degree in physics from Colby College, but on a practical whim, I took some criminal justice classes during my junior and senior years. Then, a half decade later, as my employment prospects were stalled, I went back to school and secured enough credits to earn a certificate for private investigation. Finally, after eight months of grunt work with a PI in Portland, I got my license. That put a shingle above my office desk, but the calls weren’t exactly pouring in. In fact, at that point, four months after my website had gone online, I had had exactly two paying gigs.

The first was to protect a woman from a peeping Tom. I spent a week of frosty evenings waiting for the guy to show. When he didn’t, we concluded that either his voyeur stint was over or he had moved on to other windows.

The second was a background check on an enterprising character arranging off-shore investments for tax write-offs. I ran his given name through a number of professional data bases and found nothing significant. But when I submitted his photograph to a company providing forensic facial recognition, his hidden identity surfaced. He was a swindler with an outstanding criminal warrant in the state of Rhode Island. The client saved a hundred thousand dollars, and I received a generous bonus for my work.

• • •

At precisely two o’clock, a black Toyota Tundra turned off the road at the bottom of my driveway, crawled up the hill and parked out front. I hobbled down the steps from the porch to greet an attractive young woman as she emerged from the cab.

Hi. I’m Jesse Thorpe, I said, holding out my hand.

She took it softly and replied, Hi. I’m Amy Leblanc.

She glanced down briefly at my injured foot, then raised her eyes to mine again and winced slightly. I couldn’t tell if she was tendering muted sympathy, caught up in her own difficulties or having second thoughts about my qualifications.

I broke my toe yesterday morning, I said.

I’m so sorry. Does it hurt?

Just a little, I responded, which, of course, was not true. The lower half of my leg was throbbing. On a scale of one to ten, the pain level was at least 8.5. But I couldn’t afford to sound fragile; I needed the work. Shall we go inside? I added quickly. It’s chilly in the wind.

She nodded, and we made our way through the front door, down the hallway and into my office.

Before we get started, would you like anything to drink? Coffee, tea, water?

I’m fine, she said as she sat down in front of my desk. I took the seat in back.

Amy was short, a little over five feet, and looked to be in her late twenties. She had a round face and light brown hair. She was very attractive and vaguely mysterious, not sinister or shadowy, but secretive, and she spoke with a slight Eastern European accent.

All right, Mrs. Leblanc. What can I do for you?

She stared at me for a moment, collected her thoughts, then took a breath and said, Two weeks ago, a dear friend of mine was shot to death inside his home.

Oh, God! How awful.

In the silence that ensued, I remembered reading about a recent homicide. I asked, In East Auburn? There was a home invasion murder there about that time.

"Yes, that’s it. His name is, well, was…Scott Decker. We dated in high school."

My condolences.

Her head sagged and her eyes closed.

I gave her time to recover before continuing, I seem to recall that, as yet, no one has been arrested. Is that still the case?

Yes. Other than what I’ve read in the papers, I don’t really know much about it. I live in Norway, about forty-five minutes from his home. The last time I saw Scott was two or three years ago. We happened to meet at the checkout stand at Shaw’s in Lewiston. He told me that he was having problems with his wife. He wasn’t coming on to me or anything like that. We were just sharing our circumstances. I told him I was married. He said his marriage was coming apart.

So… I said, pausing slightly to surmise the purpose of Amy’s visit. Do you want me to investigate the murder?

Yes. At least, I think so, but I need a few assurances.

OK.

I must remain completely anonymous. This can’t get back to Philippe, my husband. He wouldn’t approve of spending any of our money on this, and he’d certainly get jealous. He knows that Scott and I dated, but as far as he is concerned, it never amounted to much. He’s mostly right, but… How shall I put this? Her eyes drifted down and away from mine as she answered her own question, You never forget your first love.

Of course, I replied.

In the pause that ensued, I couldn’t help but remember my own. Janie Scully—fourth grade. She kissed me on the lips, just once, inside a snow fort in my backyard. At the time, I didn’t know what to make of it, other than it was exciting and dangerous.

How much will this cost? she added, cutting short my reverie.

My hourly rates are posted on my website, but for a prolonged investigation, I offer a significant discount. I charge $48 an hour for the first ten hours of work, plus expenses. After that, it drops to $40 an hour. Keep in mind, however, that if the work becomes especially dangerous, there will be an added fee. Naturally, you would be advised first, and you could decide at that time to continue or not. This is a murder investigation, so that is a definite possibility. We’ll have to see what develops.

That’s acceptable, she said, One other thing.

Yes, I replied, when she was slow to continue.

Who owns the information that you dig up? Do I have exclusive rights to it, or can you release it to anyone else?

That’s a bit tricky. Essentially, you have exclusive rights to the information for as long as you are my client, but there are three caveats. First, if I hire someone to assist me during the investigation, he or she will have access to what I have discovered. Second, when I am interviewing someone, it might be useful to give out bits of information in order to get more. Generally, I keep things close to the vest, but there are times when I may need to prime the pump, so to speak.

Amy nodded approvingly.

And third, if I am questioned by the police or in court, I am obliged to tell the truth. However, your identity and anything you reveal to me is confidential. There is a section on my site explaining this. Have you seen it?

I looked at it briefly. Will you please spell it out for me?

"Sure. Your rights fall under the classification of ‘work-product privilege.’ The contract that we will sign prohibits me from volunteering anything you tell me to any other person—outside my employ—without your permission. I cannot pass it along to the police, the courts, the press…no one. Even if you were involved in illegal activity, I could not tell anyone about it, with one exception."

"Well, that won’t be a problem. But just so I know, what is the exception?"

In a court of law, if I were asked to reveal something you had told me, I could only share that if the person asking the question—usually a lawyer—demonstrated that there was no other possible way to get that information. I hesitated a moment and then added, But, of course, the important thing is that you have hired me to help you, and that’s what I will do.

That’s fine, she said. Just one final thing. You said that I have the rights to the information as long as I am a client. What happens after that?

Why would that matter?

Well, suppose you turn up something that is embarrassing to Scott or his family. I wouldn’t want that to get around.

I see. It’s a bit unusual, but I will be happy to enter into a subcontract with you. At the point when you choose to sever our relationship, you will have paid me a certain amount of money. At a later time, if someone chooses to employ me to continue this investigation, that party will have to pay that exact same amount for me to continue; I won’t be giving any future client a discounted rate.

And if I want all of the information kept secret? she continued.

Then you’d have to double your investment.

Amy grimaced slightly as she said, OK. That’s fair, I guess.

She then reached into her purse, pulled out twenty crisp hundred-dollar bills and asked, Will this be sufficient to get you started?

Yes, I replied, employing a poker face to conceal my elation.

I’ll be paying you in cash. I can’t have my husband seeing any cancelled checks.

Got it, I said. Now, what can you tell me about Scott Decker?

This should help you to get started, she replied, then opened her purse, pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to me.

I laid it on the table and began reading.

At the top was a short list of names, addresses and phone numbers of Scott’s friends and family members. Below that, she noted a few of his passions, which included hunting, motorcycle riding and NFL football. The last line on the page read, Member of Down East Patriots.

I had heard a few stories about this militia over the years. During the previous presidential election, some of their officers made provocative statements, bordering on sedition. Libertarian candidates throughout New England came to their defense, while most Democrats and Republicans kept their distance. The FBI poked their nose into the organization’s financial dealings, including the buying, selling and distribution of arms, but didn’t find enough to warrant filing criminal charges. As of 2004, the Assault Weapons Ban of 1994 was no longer in effect, so the militia’s primary armaments of choice were all quite legal…and lethal.

I opened the file drawer on the side of the desk and pulled out a copy of my standard contract, which included a section covering the intellectual property rights of my findings. Here, Mrs. Leblanc, would you kindly fill this out? While you’re doing that, I’ll check online for information about the case.

OK, she replied.

I placed the four-page document in front of her. She took off her thin leather gloves and picked out a pen from the coffee cup on my desk.

The Sun Journal, Lewiston’s local newspaper, provided a minimal, yet somewhat speculative, account of the Scott Decker murder.

Scott lived in a rural area near the Androscoggin River, a few miles northwest of Lewiston. On the morning of February 20th, a neighbor heard a dog barking inside the Decker home for nearly an hour and finally called the police to investigate. When a patrol officer arrived, he found the deceased lying on the basement floor, shot in the back of the head. The Auburn Police Department provided Decker’s criminal record to the press but refused to discuss any possible suspects or motives for the killing.

Scott Decker had been arrested eight times over the previous decade, three times for fighting, twice for driving under the influence, and once each for burglary, attempted bribery and domestic violence. The fighting incidents were resolved without trials. The DUI cases were misdemeanors, for which he paid two relatively small fines and, for the second one, spent a week in jail. The burglary and attempted bribery charges were dismissed for lack of evidence. For the domestic violence charge, the victim was Yvette Carson Decker, his wife at the time. Scott pleaded no contest and received a suspended sentence.

Friends and family had suggested a number of possible motives for the murder, including robbery, his vengeful ex-wife, a drug deal gone bad, and his recent involvement in a love triangle. There was also a rumor that Scott may have been blackmailing his former business partner, Anton Le Roux.

Excuse me, Mr. Thorpe, Amy whispered, without looking up from the contract. You’re asking for my address. I live with my husband in his mother’s home. Obviously, I don’t want her to hear about this either.

Certainly. Your personal information is just a formality. I understand your need for discretion. You can count on me.

Thank you, she said, without changing the expression on her face, and continued writing on the form.

Her appeal for anonymity was understandable, but its level of importance had piqued my curiosity. I glanced across the desk at what she had written for her home address and ran a quick online search for the owner of the property. The name that came up was Jane Leblanc, which put my inquisitiveness to rest. I returned to the newspaper story.

Throughout Maine, internments for individuals who die in winter are often delayed until spring; digging graves in frozen ground is difficult and costly. But the unusually warm weather we’d had over the previous two weeks had created a window of opportunity—if you could call it that—for Scott Decker. His funeral and burial, which had originally been planned for mid-April, was now scheduled for two o’clock on Saturday afternoon.

Done, Amy said, a couple minutes later. She signed the contract and nudged it in my direction.

I picked it up, read it over briefly and signed my name. I then made a photocopy for Amy, along with a receipt for her retainer, and filed the original.

When can you get started? she asked.

"I have a good friend here in town who works in the Sheriff’s department. I’ll give him a call and see what he can tell me about the official investigation. He’s probably not at liberty to share much beyond what is available to the media, but you never know. I’ll use the rest of the day setting up interviews.

Amy, I noticed that Scott will be laid to rest this Saturday at St. Peter’s Cemetery in Lewiston. Are you planning to attend?

I haven’t decided yet. I don’t want to create a problem with my husband over this, but I would like to pay my respects. She paused a moment and then added, Perhaps you should go.

I have an engagement in Portland that evening, but there’s plenty of time for me to stop by on my way through. I’ll have to decide how to handle this after I’ve talked to a few of the individuals on your list. A private investigator nosing around at a funeral might cause some distress for the bereaved.

We both were silent with our thoughts for several moments, then finally I asked, Is there anything else I should know about the case?

That’s about it, she said.

"Have you read the Sun Journal news story?"

Yes.

They suggested five possible motives. Do you have an opinion about any one of them?

Not really. As you can see from my notes, Scott belonged to a militia. The newspaper didn’t even mention that, but I think you should look into it. I have no problem with the Second Amendment, but those guys can get over the top. They make me nervous.

Definitely. But I’ll begin with family, friends and his ex-wife, Yvette Carson. Do you happen to know her?

No, Amy replied impassively. I never met the woman.

OK. I guess that’s it for now. I will contact you as soon as I uncover anything noteworthy.

I’d prefer it if I called you. That way I’ll be sure Philippe won’t overhear our conversation. If you must contact me, reply to this.

She took a cell phone from her purse and fiddled briefly with her screen. A few seconds later, my cell beeped and I received a text from her phone. Let me know when you’re in town.

Just text me back ‘OK,’ and I’ll know you want to reach me. I’ll call you as soon as I can.

Good idea, I replied.

As I stood up, a shot of pain surged all the way from my broken metatarsal, through my leg and into my hip. I swallowed hard and then walked Amy to her truck.

The sky was dark and ominous; the storm was arriving on schedule. The winds were howling, and the temperature had dropped noticeably.

There’s some snow on the way, but hopefully you’ll be home before it comes down, I offered.

That’s why I drove the truck, she said, and climbed into the cab. In a minute, she was down the hill and out of sight.

I hobbled back into the house and took some more Tylenol.

3

Brock Bends a Rule

I was first introduced to Trooper Brock Powell in the wee hours of a Sunday morning a couple years earlier. Homeward bound, I had just driven a tad too fast over the Kennebec River on Bridge Street. Granted, the posted speed limit on the bridge is 25 miles per hour, but it was nearly 1:30 AM, and there was no other vehicle in sight, at least not until Brock’s cruiser suddenly appeared in my rear-view mirror beneath flashing red lights. More to the point, however, I was temporarily blinded to pedantic legal constraints by an eagerness to get fully acquainted with the passenger sitting beside me, one Heather Paquet, an effervescent brunette I had met two hours earlier in Ray’s Tavern.

I pulled over and stopped my truck. Heather, who had been nestled as close to me as is humanly possible, slithered to the passenger side, glanced over her shoulder a couple of times and then casually buckled her seatbelt; either she was hoping to avoid a secondary traffic ticket of her own, or she was in the early stages of rethinking our relationship potential. A minute or two later, Brock emerged from his black and white Chevrolet Impala and walked to my window.

He looked at me closely, then across to Heather, before uttering the inevitable, May I see your driver’s license and registration?

I handed both to him, and he studied them assiduously. While he was doing that, I was appending the price tag for my Saturday night date with a $263 surcharge for excessive speed and several points on my driving record.

Brock then bit the side of his cheek and asked, Mr. Thorpe, do you play in a rock band?

Huh, I thought, I wonder where he’s going with this?

Yes, sir, I replied dutifully. Ocean Noises.

I thought I recognized you. I caught one of your shows last month in Bangor.

At the Village Place? I asked.

"Yeah. You guys are pretty good. You did that U2 song. You know…the one they used in the movie, Bandits."

It’s a Beautiful Day, I replied.

"Right. I love that song. And Cate Blanchett! Wow, she was something else," he said, with unreserved enthusiasm.

The conversation was now moving in a promising direction, so I chimed in, Billy Bob Thornton was hilarious.

Brock furrowed his brow and tilted his head slightly to one side, suggesting that he was not so enthralled with the goofball hypochondriac. In the brief silence that followed, I wished I had kept my mouth shut. Then Brock got back to the business at hand.

Are you on your way home?

Ahhh, yeah, I offered. That was the plan.

OK. Slow it down. You were doin’ about fifty over the bridge. What’s the rush?

He let his eyes drift over to Heather, once again, and then answered his own question, I suppose you don’t want to turn into a pumpkin.

I was hoping to avoid that, I replied.

When’s your next gig? he asked.

Saturday at the Haymaker in Waterville. I could comp you the cover charge.

That would be a bit irregular. If I get a chance, I’ll stop in. Now, both of you, get out of here.

And we did.

• • •

That you, Jesse? came the voice from the other end of the line.

Yeah. Are you on duty today, Brock?

No. I’m off for two days. I go back to work on Friday. What’s up?

I wonder if you could help me with something?

Sure. If it’s legal, he replied, like a