Who Killed Joe Daigle?: A Murder Mystery in Maine’s St. John Valley.

By Paul Bouchard

The New Yorker’s David Nichols is assigned to find out who killed Joe Daigle, a prominent potato farmer in northern Maine’s St. John Valley. Teaming up with local reporter Bob Dube, the pair explore various theories circulated by townsfolk and discover the complexities of not only the victim, but The Valley he resided in.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781663242334

Paul Bouchard

Paul Bouchard is the author of numerous books of fiction and nonfiction including Priya’s Choice and A Catholic Marries a Hindu. A retired Army JAG officer, he practices law in the Washington, D.C. area.

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Copyright © 2022 Paul Bouchard.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-3832-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-4233-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022912770

iUniverse rev. date: 11/21/2022

Contents

A Murder

An Assignment

The Valley

The Victim

The Wife

La Famille

Bob Dube

A Development

The Broker

Research

An Article

A Money Request

Arbitrage

Family History

Updates

A Sojourn

November 1985

Answers

For the reporters

A Murder

O n a cold late afternoon in mid-October 1985, Joe Daigle, a prominent Frenchville, Maine, potato farmer, was slumped lifeless on the driver’s seat of his stationary, though idling, diesel pickup truck. A coroner’s report would later reveal his chest was the site of a lodged nine-millimeter bullet, while another round had pierced the right side of his face. The headlights of the GMC two-door pickup were on when his body was found, and the doors to the Quonset barn near the pickup were locked. Two weeks shy of his sixty-fifth birthday, Daigle’s lifeless body was curled up, his knees next to his chest, and on the floorboard was his wallet with five twenty-dollar bills in it. And next to the wallet was a short butt of a King Edward cigar, so often perched, when Daigle was alive, on the right side of his mouth.

An Assignment

A fter a long day of attending a conference about municipal bonds, I returned to my Manhattan hotel and checked with the front desk for any messages. This was a few days after Daigle’s murder, which I didn’t know about at the time.

Oh yes, Mr. Nichols. You had two calls, two messages, the hotel clerk told me, and he handed me a piece of paper with two phone numbers and two corresponding names, the first being my wife’s name while the second was that of Joel Steinberg, the managing editor of the New Yorker. I returned to my room, placed my briefcase on the queen-size bed, and called my wife, our phone conversation lasting no more than five minutes. I then called Mr. Steinberg. The Philadelphia Inquirer, where I’m a reporter, allows me to write for other publications, and I knew Mr. Steinberg from two previous articles I’d written for the New Yorker.

I dialed his number, and he immediately picked up.

Hello?

Hello, Mr. Steinberg, it’s David Nichols returning your call.

"Oh great, David. Listen, I think I have a great one for you. A farmer was fatally shot in northern Maine four days ago. The team and I picked it up on the wire, chewed on it for a while, and agreed this could make for a great story. The Bangor Daily News has been covering it. You know Bangor, home of Stephen King?"

Yes, I’ve heard of Bangor. And who’s never heard of Stephen King?

Well, this killing took place two hundred miles north of Bangor. Right up on the international border, in the St. John Valley, with the valley’s southern half in Maine and its northern counterpart in the Canadian province of New Brunswick. Not to be confused with the St. John River in Florida.

Shucks. I prefer Florida to Maine in the fall, Mr. Steinberg.

Well, sorry about that, David, but we’d love for you to set up shop in that valley, snoop around, ask questions, and write a feature article. This is an unsolved crime, and it’s shocking, given that murders don’t happen too often in Maine, especially in the sparsely populated northern portions of the state. You’re the right writer for this story, David. All expenses paid, of course. Ten thousand words, max.

Well, maybe I can make room on my schedule next week and head up there and—

"Fantastic. I knew I could count on you.