Dead Down East by Carl Schmidt Page A

sat there for a while
until I added, “I’m so sorry, Cynthia. Would you like to take a
break?”
    “Yes, maybe a break is a good idea,” she said.
    “I don’t want to sound indelicate immediately after
your description of William’s murder, but we haven’t had anything
to eat since we left Brunswick. Would you like something?”
    “I am feeling shaky,” she replied. “Do you have any
soup?”
    “Always,” I said. “I’m the Campbell’s Soup poster
boy. I’ve got tomato and cream of mushroom.”
    “Cream of mushroom sounds good,” she said.
    I slipped into the pantry and pulled two cans of soup
from the shelf. I called from the kitchen, “The mushroom won’t be
very creamy. I finished up all the milk before I left for the
cabin. I wasn’t expecting to be home until Thursday.”
    “That’s fine,” Cynthia said. “I’ve just been through
a near death experience. I’m not in a mood to be fussy about the
cuisine.”
    I opened the cans, emptied them into a pot, added
water and turned on the stove. I took some rye bread out of the
refrigerator and popped the slices in the toaster. “It’s not
gourmet,” I thought, “but it should get us through the night.”
    It was after eleven, but I knew that the evening was
just getting started. We’d both slept through the late afternoon,
and Cynthia’s account of the murder had our juices flowing.
    When supper was hot and toasted, I served it in the
living room. We ate in silence; Cynthia kept to herself, and I
stared into the night. Initially, I had wondered why Cynthia didn’t
want to speak to the police, and especially to the FBI. They would
be able to provide all the protection she might need. Now I was
beginning to get the picture.
    Although she saw the murderer’s face, she apparently
had no idea who he was, and almost certainly there must have been
at least one accomplice. How else could it have been pulled off so
smoothly? So it was entirely possible that they knew she was with
William. And even if they didn’t, once she became an eyewitness,
attention would be focused on her. It was bound to get sordid and
messy. Eventually the public would know the whole story. Her life
would never be the same again; not that it will be anyway. But it
would be much worse for her if the whole story were exposed. I
found her to be both astute and sensitive—an appealing combination
in a woman—and the sensitive part would take a real beating. It was
obvious to me now why Cynthia felt so threatened and didn’t want to
go to the police. If I were in her shoes, I too would find a
private detective and go on the lamb.
    After we finished our dinner, I said, “One thing is
puzzling me. If you were just going to the movies, why do you have
all of your clothes? I assume you didn’t go back to the house by
yourself.”
    I watched Cynthia closely as she answered my
question.
    “William insisted that I keep all my things with us
in the car when we went to the movie,” she said. “The guard was
free to inspect William’s home for security reasons while we were
gone. He might discover my clothing or my overnight case in the
bathroom.”
    “I see,” I said.
    Cynthia didn’t miss a beat. Her explanation was
logical, and her poise was impeccable. It set my mind at ease…for
the moment.
    “If you’re up to it,” I said, “I’d like to know more
about the governor, what he was like, how you met…things like that.
Later we can return to the murder scene and discuss a few
details.”
    Cynthia nodded and said, “OK.”
    “I met William for the first time shortly after he
was elected, three-and-a-half years ago. As you know, my
ex-husband, Travis, is a member of the security staff assigned to
protect the governor and other visiting dignitaries. Between the
time of his election and his inauguration, a dinner party was
arranged for William and his staff to get acquainted with the
security team. The families of all concerned were invited. Travis
and I were both