Read Online Deadline by Gerry Boyle - Free Book Online Page A

nothing?”
    â€œNothing at the scene. Except Arthur.”
    â€œAnd they say nothing on him says anything except he got cold and drowned.”
    â€œYou’re telling me that one,” Vigue said.
    His radio went static and he fiddled with the squelch knob.
    â€œWe couldn’t see anything. Couldn’t even tell where he went in,” he said.
    â€œCoffee, Lieutenant?” LeMaire, J. asked, poking his head in the door.
    I could see the end was in sight.
    â€œOkay, Lieutenant. For the record. Are you still investigating the Arthur Bertin death?”
    Vigue stubbed out his cigarette. I could hear the coffee machine buzzing and rattling in the hallway.
    â€œThe death is being treated as an accidental drowning at this time,” he said, speaking as if the words were from a language he was just learning. “At this point, in light of the medical examiner’s ruling,we welcome any information from the public, but do not consider this, the incident, a suspicious death. At this point in time.”
    I wrote in my notebook.
    â€œNow let’s have that in English,” I said.
    â€œHey, if I could tell you any more, I would. You know what I know. We’re still looking into it, but unless something new comes in, it appears to be an accident. As far as what happened to him, that’s anybody’s guess.”
    I put my notebook in my pocket.
    â€œJust doesn’t make sense,” I said.
    â€œHey, you’re in this business as long as I am, and you know that not much makes sense.”
    Not much made sense. It was a nice way to put it. Sort of backward, but it was about the way I felt. Unsettled. Uneasy. Not sure why, or even if unsettled or uneasy were the right words.
    It was almost dark and the mill traffic was moving, lots of trucks backed up at the light before the bridge. I walked back to the office, checked my messages and found only one, from a lady at the regional health agency. Cindy was on the phone, Marion had left, and Vern and Paul were around, judging by the work on their desks, but not in. I looked around and got out while the getting was good. It had been a bad day and I’d had enough.
    I got in the Volvo, choked it and it started, sputtering in the cold. I flipped the useless heater on and circled the block on the mill side, then inched my way up Main Street to the Food Stop, where I went in and grabbed a six-pack of Ballantine Ale from the cooler. I was the reason the store stocked Ballantine; the manager called it “rocket fuel,” and the clerks always had to stop and look up the price, while they knew Budweiser by heart.
    I forgave them their ignorance.
    The night started to take shape a couple of blocks from the house. I’d cook brown rice and stir-fry some vegetables, watch the national news, Peter Jennings, and listen to Dave Brubeck or Bill Evans. And I’d drink a couple of beers. Maybe I’d drink all the beers.
    But then my plans changed.
    The yellow Subaru was in the driveway behind the house. The smell of chili greeted me in the downstairs hallway, and Roxanne met me at the door. She handed me an ice-cold Molson ale and kissed me quickly on the lips. In that order.
    I followed her into the kitchen and put my Ballantines on the counter. Roxanne opened the refrigerator and took out a bowl of guacamole dip. She was smiling, happy and excited. Neither of us had said anything; we just beamed with anticipation of chili, and more.
    â€œI didn’t expect to see you this week,” I said.
    â€œI didn’t expect to be here,” Roxanne said.
    She was picking the foil from the top of a bottle of red wine.
    â€œWere you working over this way?” I asked.
    â€œNope. Waterford.”
    â€œSo what brings you to scenic western Maine?”
    â€œYou.”
    I took a long swallow of ale.
    This was Roxanne’s second visit to Androscoggin and our third meeting. She’d stopped in town the week before on her way from