Quick Pivot

by Brenda Buchanan

  “Who was speaking for mill management?”

  Earl crouched down and pretended to examine the mower’s muffler.

  “That’s one of the blank spots in my memory. I probably only had grapevine knowledge about the squabble to begin with, but I’ve got no memory about who brought in the outside brick man.”

  “Do you remember why the wall was built?”

  “I don’t, but it wasn’t the kind of thing I dealt with firsthand. I supervised machine maintenance. The wall project would have been buildings and grounds.” He straightened up and glanced out the door, waved at someone I couldn’t see.

  “Gil Parker still around?”

  “After the mill closed he worked for a building management company in Portland. Once he retired he moved south, to Virginia or maybe North Carolina, to be near his grandkids.”

  “Could you find him and ask him to talk with me?”

  Earl cleaned his hands with a rag.

  “His new address is in my desk at home. Whether he’ll talk to you, I couldn’t say.”

  “Who else would be in the know? How about Ken Coatesworth? What was he doing in the late sixties?”

  “Working his way up the ladder. Talking with him would be a waste of time. Ken won’t know anything about the wall. He worked in the office building on the other side of Main Street, probably didn’t step foot inside the actual mill more than once a month.”

  “How about Leo? He was head of security, right?”

  “Leo wasn’t running mill security in ’68. He was a second-shift man, working the big looms on the opposite side of the complex from where the skeleton was found.”

  “No kidding? I didn’t realize Leo ever worked in the mill itself.”

  “Despite the fancy duds he parades around in nowadays, he started out wearing a blue collar.” Earl knelt next to the mower’s rear wheel to adjust something or other. “Got himself hired right out of high school. Peculiar story there. His father and brothers were fishermen, but Leo hated the sea. When he finished up high school he looked for a job on dry land, even though he practically learned to walk on the deck of a boat.”

  I tried to picture Leo in smelly oilskins.

  “He’s not one of those guys who talks about what he came up from.” Earl glanced up at the sound of a passing golf cart.

  We sat in silence for a few moments, while I tried to formulate a question in a way that wouldn’t unnerve Earl. Finally, I spit it out.

  “Is it that you don’t want to ask Ken and Leo about Desmond and the wall, or you don’t want me to ask them?”

  Earl stood, and rubbed his stiff knees. “Both, I guess. I don’t think they’d help you.”

  “What could it hurt?”

  “It’s hard to explain.” He shrugged. “If you insist on talking with them, do me a favor and leave me out of it.”

  “Is that why we’re hiding out here in the maintenance building?”

  He pushed his lower lip out while he considered his words. “Keeping my mouth shut never got me into trouble.”

  Earl walked over to the golf cart and climbed in to the driver’s seat. I kept my voice low as I settled in beside him.

  “I’m not about to tell anyone outside the newsroom that we’re talking, and they all understand confidentiality. I appreciate that you’re going out on a limb for me.”

  “I’m not doing it for you,” he said.

  Chapter Nine

  Monday, May 20, 1968

  Riverside, Maine

  Little men banging big cymbals were marching around in Paulie’s head. He lay on his back, eyes closed, running his tongue across his parched lips, wishing it weren’t Monday.

  After a while—could have been two minutes, could have been a half hour—a full bladder forced him to his feet and into the bathroom. He avoided looking into the mirror. Maneuvering the control knob toward the cool side, he stepped into the shower stall and leaned against its rear wall. Jaysus, his head hurt. Who would have thought Jay Preble—a banker for Chrissakes—could match him drink for drink?

  Sunday noon in the churchyard they’d put the convertible top down and headed for the Maine Turnpike. Once past the toll booth, all law-abiding bets were off. Preble maneuvered into the left lane and gave the MGB its head, seemingly unconcerned about the possibility of a speeding ticket. Paulie figured Preble could afford a fine if he got stopped. He probably made ten times a newspaperman’s salary pushing a pencil at his daddy’s bank.

  When they reached the Lewiston exit, Preble pulled off the highway and drove into town, stopping at a squat brick building hard by the Androscoggin River.

  “I need to talk with a client who needs some weekend advice. Don’t believe the rumors. Bankers don’t take Sundays off.” He clambered out of the car without opening his door.

  Paulie also got out to stretch his legs, wondering what Riverside National Bank client would be doing business in a dive on the tough side of Lewiston. Through a pair of casement windows positioned high on the brick wall he heard rhythmic thumping. A peek in the half-opened door revealed a man with ropy arm muscles hitting a heavy bag. Paulie filed away the observation. Five minutes later Preble emerged with a thin, sandy-haired kid in tow.

  “Paul Finnegan, meet Ken Coatesworth,” he said. “Ken was a couple years behind me at Exeter. He’s now the guy in charge of marketing fine Saccarappa textiles the world over.”

  Paulie couldn’t imagine what this Coatesworth runt was doing at a sweat-soaked boxing gym. He was beyond clean-cut, wearing the prep school uniform of chinos, a rumpled button-down collar shirt and penny loafers. No whiskers showed on his fair skin. The tentative handshake he offered Paulie was that of a teenager, not a man.

  Preble was razzing Coatesworth about not having a date for an upcoming party.

  “What about that blonde girl, Joan somebody?”

  “I’d like to have a date with her, but she made it clear she’s not interested.” Coatesworth delivered this information without a hint of embarrassment.

  “I think Finnegan’s her type,” Preble said. “He’s got a little life on him, something you sure don’t have.”

  The skinny kid looked him up and down. Paulie was angry at himself for his momentary self-consciousness about his wash-and-wear shirt and battered brogans.

  “You may be right,” Coatesworth said. “They probably have a lot in common.”

  Paulie pondered the meaning of that comment while Preble and Coatesworth schemed about how to set him up with this mysterious Joan. He was annoyed at their presumption that he needed help meeting women. True, he didn’t have a steady girl at the moment. But he’d never had any trouble attracting them. Before he could interrupt their plotting to say so, Preble had convinced Coatesworth to take Joan to lunch the next day, and told Paulie to show up at the Riverside Hotel dining room at noon.

  “Believe me, you’ll be thanking me. She’s a beautiful girl.”

  “Then why aren’t you dating her?”

  Coatesworth smirked sideways at Preble. “Because he’s engaged to be married.”

  “It’s true.” Preble opened the driver’s door of the little roadster. “While my fiancée is spending the summer touring Europe with her maiden aunt, I’m looking out for my friends in Riverside, Maine.”

  As he drove back to the turnpike through neighborhoods packed with flat-roofed three-decker houses, Preble seemed pleased with himself, launching into a description of a recent trip he and Coatesworth made to Boston, an evening business venture that seemed to involve more pleasure than work. Then they were back on the highway, where it was impossible to talk over the roar of the engine and the wind. Paulie leaned into the leather seat and enjoyed the ride. His plan to meet Preble was unfolding better than he’d imagined it would. He’d play along at being buddies in order to have the inside track
when Preble solved the money part of the Desmond riddle.

  They drove south as far as Old Orchard, a beachfront town that oozed fryolator grease from its pores. The main drag was lined with tourist emporiums—places that sold sweatshirts, cotton candy and inflatable balls—many of which were open but doing little business. Not so the bars.

  Preble steered them to a waterfront joint where they ate fried clams and drank beer for a couple of hours before moving to a bar where a rougher crowd was pounding down booze as though it were Saturday instead of Sunday. They switched from beer to whisky while Paulie worked his way up the list of guys waiting to take on the resident darts champ, a scrawny man named Bo with hard eyes and a cigarette dangling from his lip.

  Neither Preble nor Bo knew that Paulie held the all-time darts title at the South Portland Coast Guard base, capable of throwing with either hand, dead drunk or Sunday school sober. But they found out. By the time Preble dumped Paulie at his doorstep in Riverside, it was after eleven and he still had thirty fresh bucks in his wallet. Their bar bill had eaten the rest of what he’d won.

  * * *

  When Paulie slipped into the city room it was well past nine. He was sitting low in his chair, trying to remember his Sunday conversation with Tommy MacMahon, when Jake Stuart called his name. Paulie stood as quickly as he could without aggravating his headache and eased his way up to the long table that served as the city editor’s perch. The police scanners were quiet early in the day, allowing everyone in the newsroom to hear Jake’s big voice.

  “You look like you’re a bit worse for the wear this morning. Tie one on last night?”

  “I was working all day yesterday. Had a few once the interviewing was done.”

  “With who?”

  “The interviews? State police lieutenant named MacMahon. Then John D. Preble’s son, who’s working with the FBI to figure out how the money got skimmed.”

  “Either one of ’em talking to you for attribution?”

  “No, but I know a whole lot more than I did on Saturday about what’s happened over at the mill.”

  “Be good if you could write about it. I’ve got a big hole on page one I need you to fill.”

  Paulie felt his ears redden. “There’s a press conference over at police headquarters at eleven o’clock. And I wangled a lunch date of sorts with someone who works in the office over at the mill. A friend of Preble’s paved the way for me to interview her at noon. Yesterday’s footwork means I know what questions to ask.”

  “Let’s hope you can find someone to answer them on the record,” Jake said. “And get yourself a big cup of coffee, will ya? Find some eyedrops too. You expect people to take you seriously, you can’t show up at press conferences red-eyed and shaky.”

  * * *

  Elbow to elbow in a windowless basement room with harsh overhead lighting and a dusty linoleum floor, the reporters speculated about where the case was headed. Paulie and the wire service guys had staked out the front, blocking the radio reporters and the stringers from the out-of-town papers. The TV crews were off to the side, a world unto themselves.

  Chief Fecteau walked in at eleven on the dot and didn’t stay long at the microphones. His task was to explain that the case needed more manpower than the Riverside PD had available. He turned the press conference over to Tommy MacMahon, who went out of his way not to look in Paulie’s direction.

  Maybe Chief Fecteau thought the state boys still had some control over the investigation, but it was clear Paulie’s churchyard guess had been on the money. MacMahon was unable to hide his irritation when he introduced FBI Special Agent Curtis Wellington, a gawky guy in shiny shoes and a black suit.

  Wellington spoke in a low monotone. He confirmed money was missing from the mill but refused to say how much. He said it hadn’t been determined if the missing money was connected to Desmond’s vanishing act. He stressed that all press inquiries were to be directed to him, not the Riverside or state police, yet gave lip service to the notion that it was a joint investigation. Everyone in the room knew that was bull. The FBI wasn’t known for sharing evidence or credit.

  When Wellington segued into a description of the citizen hotline that had been set up, Paulie decided he needed to complete the process of converting MacMahon into a background source. He stared at the statie’s red head until he looked up. Cutting his eyes toward Wellington, Paulie shot MacMahon the kind of look a teammate gives another when it’s clear the game’s been lost. MacMahon responded with eye contact that lasted a half-second longer than necessary.

  Five minutes later the press conference was over. Paulie watched MacMahon step into the men’s room. He counted to thirty before pushing the door open himself. The narrow room was empty except for MacMahon, who was hunched over at the sink washing his hands. Paulie handed him a page torn from his notebook.

  “My home number,” he said in a low voice. “Call if you want to talk.”

  Paulie waited for a full minute after MacMahon left. When he emerged, the big cop was nowhere to be seen. Two wire service men and a reporter Paulie didn’t know were shooting the bull outside the side door of the police station.

  “How are ya?” Paulie slowed his step as he passed the little group.

  “Wondering if that’s good news or bad.” The paunchy AP reporter aimed his chin at the building as he lit his pipe.

  “It’s never good when the FBI jumps in,” the UPI stringer said. “They dribble out information at press conferences and clamp down hard on any local cop who gets caught leaking.”

  “Wellington’s worked a couple of cases I’ve covered.” The deep, confident voice was owned by the mystery reporter. “He’s not such a bad guy once you get to know him.”

  Paulie took in the man’s manicured hands and new shoes, wondering if the tone was something they taught at Harvard.

  “Paul Finnegan, Daily Chronicle.” He stuck out his hand. “You the new guy at the Lewiston paper?”

  “No.” The spiffy guy’s handshake was reluctant.

  “Bangor, then?”

  “Boston Globe.” He said it as if he expected applause.

  “No kidding. Not many Maine stories rate an actual reporter driving all the way up here from the Hub. You must be stringing the story.”

  “Nope, I’m on staff. I hang my hat there on Morrissey Boulevard.”

  Paulie nodded. “Your hook got your name under it?”

  “What hook?”

  “The hook where you hang your hat.”

  Mr. New Shoes blushed to the roots of his strawberry blond hair. “My name’s Bartholomew. Richard Bartholomew.” He reached down and picked up a leather briefcase he’d been holding between his ankles.

  “So Dick, how’d you get yourself onto the staff the Globe?”

  Bartholomew muttered something unintelligible.

  Paulie turned to his audience. “He must have connections. Everything’s political at big-time papers, I’ll bet.”

  “I’ve got to find a phone.” Bartholomew edged away. “See you gentlemen later.”

  “If you’re calling your friend Wellington, tell him we said hello.”

  They watched him cross the parking lot and climb into a late-model Ford Fairlane.

  “The cops aren’t the only ones who fight over turf,” the AP man said as Paulie headed down the street.

  “You got that right,” Paulie said over his shoulder. “Protect it or lose it.”

  * * *

  When Paulie entered the Riverside Hotel’s Fireside Dining Room, Ken Coatesworth stood and waved him over, smiling as though they’d been friends for years. After a handshake far more vigorous than the one he’d offered at the Lewiston boxing club, he invited Paulie to join him and his companion for lunch. One look at the companion and Paulie was glad he hadn’t griped about the setup.

  No two w
ays about it, Joan Slater was a looker. Still fair-haired in her mid-twenties, her generous curves were accentuated by a pale yellow dress in a silky fabric that clung in the right places. As he settled into a chair across the table, Paulie forced himself to keep his eyes on her face.

  Coatesworth let it drop that Joan didn’t just work in the mill office, she was George Desmond’s secretary.

  I see, said the blind man, to his deaf dog.

  Paulie almost uttered the words out loud. Preble drove to Lewiston to arrange for Coatesworth to set him up with a source, not a date.

  Before they ordered, the maître d’ approached their table to inform the mill manager-in-training he had an urgent phone call in the lobby. A few minutes later Coatesworth returned to the table, full of sheepish regret that he needed to return to his desk immediately, insisting they go ahead and have lunch, saying he’d already covered the prospective tab.

  Joan appeared oblivious to the behind-the-scene machinations, causing Paulie to wonder if God graced her with beauty instead of brains. Five minutes later he knew better.

  In addition to being the best-looking woman in the room, Joan turned out to be smart and ambitious. The FBI agents must not have given her the intimidation lecture, because she was eager to talk about her job at the mill and her missing boss. Over the baked haddock special, Paulie elicited details about George Desmond’s habits and character. The curly-haired finance man did not have expensive tastes. He worked long hours, didn’t complain or get rattled when the pressure was on. An avid freshwater fisherman, he read historical novels, listened to country music and was a Red Sox fan. Despite being divorced, he wasn’t cynical about women. Joan described their relationship as close, but brother-sister, never more than that. She had no idea what had happened to him and was determined to find out.

  Paulie wrote down all the facts and opinions Joan Slater provided. Whenever she fell silent, he prompted her with another question, anything to keep her talking. By the time the dessert cart was rolling in their direction, he was scheming how to see her again.