Читать книгу Wicked Intentions - Kevin Flynn - Страница 16

8

You Know Who I Am

When they woke up on the morning of Monday, March 27, Paquin and Charpentier put their heads together on how to help their new friend, Sheila LaBarre. But the buxom blonde who spent the night in Donald’s bedroom (Donald volunteered to sleep on the recliner in the living room) had already been formulating a plan on how to proceed. Sheila had been running her finger through the yellow pages seeking an attorney. She spotted one running a full-page ad and she made a note of the number and address.

“Angel,” Sheila addressed Paquin that morning, “whatever will I do with my beloved animals?”

“Your rabbits? Amy can watch them for you.”

“No, dear. Not just the rabbits. My horses. I have three of them and two ponies. And my dog, Demetrius. He’s a faithful Dalmatian that comes from champion blood, a registered pedigree. They’re all on my farm and those barbarians will mistreat them. They won’t even feed them, I’m sure.”

Paquin didn’t understand what Sheila was talking about. It was early and she hadn’t had breakfast yet.

“I will sell them to you.”

“What?”

“My animals. I trust you and only you. You can take my horses and my dog.”

“Horses, Mama?” Pam’s daughter sprinted into the room. “Can we have them? Can we?”

Pamela Paquin thought it over. There was no place in her city neighborhood for horses. The costs of caring for such animals were more than her family could afford. And taking possession of such a thing in the middle of a murder investigation seemed an impossible task. Sheila sensed Paquin’s thoughts.

“I’ll provide you with a notarized bill of sale. And I know some places you can board them. I’ll help you with money for hay.”

Paquin felt there was no way she could turn Sheila down. She was sorry for this woman who didn’t seem to have a friend in the world. Paquin thought she was doing a good thing by agreeing to take care of the animals.

Charlie agreed to take Sheila to the Wal-Mart in Manchester. Sheila bought new, more modest clothes for her visit to the lawyer’s. She chose a black blouse, sweater and skirt and a fresh pair of underwear. She grabbed a bottle of hair dye. She also purchased a cellular telephone and a pre-paid calling card. Before they left the store, Sheila went into the ladies’ room and put on the new clothes.

Charlie brought Sheila back to Pam’s home. Sheila seemed nervous and started to complain of an upset stomach. Sandra and Pam agreed to go with Sheila to the attorney’s office. They took Pam’s car and left Sheila’s parked on the street in front of the house.

The three women drove to Manchester’s North End. That part of the Queen City is filled with Victorian homes that had belonged to mill owners and the well-heeled at the turn of the twentieth century. By the turn of this century, many of those burnt brick homes had been changed into quaint office spaces for professionals of every ilk.

Next, Sheila went to the law office of the attorney she found in the phone book. It was another sunny day in New Hampshire. Sure to be cold in the morning, comfortably mild by midday, then brisk again at dusk. A day when the heater knob in the car starts in the red, travels to the blue and then gets twisted back to the red before bedtime. Paquin and Charpentier waited in the car as Sheila made her way inside the building.

“What do you think he’s saying to her?” Paquin asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think Adam is dead?”

“I don’t know!” Charpentier snapped as if she’d just been accused of something. “Do you?!”

“I don’t know!”

“Well I don’t know.”

Pam paused. “What if he is?”

“What if he’s what?”

“What if he’s dead?”

“I don’t know!”

“The lawyer’s going to ask her if she murdered him,” Pam mused.

“Maybe. I would.”

“You’d murder him?”

“Hell no! I’d ask her the same question. If I was a lawyer.”

Another pause. “I don’t think she did it,” Pam eventually said.

“Me neither.”

“She just seems so sweet and nice. She doesn’t seem the type.”

“How would you know the type?”

“Shut up! I don’t know!”

“She was in your house. You let her sleep in Donald’s bed,” Sandra accused.

“You think I’d let a murderer in my house?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? You think I’d let someone who I know committed murder into my house?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“What do you mean then?”

“She let a child molester in her house,” Charpentier said, referring to Sheila. “Who knows about anybody?”

Paquin and Charpentier looked out opposite windows for a moment. Neither watched the clock, so they weren’t sure how long Sheila had been inside. But when her meeting was over, she burst out from the heavy, windowed door of the law office and jumped in the back seat.

“Let’s go,” she said.

“Where?”

“Anywhere. Go.” Sheila’s hands were twitching. She had seemed nervous before, but now her anxiety was amplified.

They drove in silence for a moment. “What did he say?” Paquin finally asked.

Sheila said they had talked about a retainer and the possibility of bail for different murder charges. She said the attorney wanted $60,000 and she wasn’t going to pay that. The lawyer told her she should not talk to the police.

“Is there a bank around here?” Sheila asked. Paquin said there was one downtown. They parked and Charpentier waited in the car while the other two went in the branch together.

“Your name is Lucky,” Sheila said, pointing to the teller’s name-plate. She took it as a good omen. Sheila asked Lucky to close out her account and withdraw all her money. The teller asked if she’d like it in the form of a bank check. No, Sheila said she wanted it in cash. Such a large withdrawal caused a stir on the other side of the counter, as all hands suddenly were on deck to round up available cash. Paquin saw the withdrawal slip. It was for $85,778.21. To facilitate the transaction, Sheila agreed to take some of the money in cash, some in a check. The women walked out of the bank with roughly $35,000 in bills and $50,000 in a banker’s check. Sheila also asked Lucky for an envelope to mail a letter. Paquin saw someone pick up a telephone, and she assumed they were calling the police.

“What will you do?” Charpentier asked when they got back in the car.

“I need to find a lawyer who’s not a thief. That’s the first thing.” They all nodded. Neither Charpentier nor Paquin could imagine spending $60,000 for anything. Sheila’s tone of voice dipped. “I’m being set up for this. I’m being set up for murder and I didn’t do it.”

“We believe you, Sheila. Don’t we, Sandy?”

“Yes.”

Sheila breathed in the love deeply. “You two are angels.”

“Where to now?”

“I have to avoid the police. They may know I was at the bank. We have to keep moving.”

Paquin drove faster. In the back of the car, Sheila flipped open the pre-paid phone card and began punching code numbers into the cell phone to redeem her air minutes.

“We need to feed my horses,” she said.

“What do you mean?” Pam asked. “The horses at the farm? Where the cops are?”

“Yes.”

“But they’ll feed the horses. They’re right there. They’ve got to.”

Sheila began to cry. This show of emotion took the women aback. “No! They don’t know how to take care of horses. They can’t get to me, so they’ll let them starve. Or worse! We have to rescue them.”

“How are we freaking going to do that?” Charpentier blurted out.

Sheila stopped crying. “We need to take care of a few things first.”

Paquin prepared to point the car east, back along Route 101 from Manchester to Epping. She stopped at a gas station to fuel up and they all got out to stretch their legs and buy some hot dogs for lunch. When the three women with loud voices tumbled out of the silver sedan, heads turned. The other people pumping gas stared. Sheila defiantly met their gazes.

“Oh, yeah. That’s right. You know who I am,” she said. Although at this point her name had only been mentioned in passing in connection with Kenneth Countie’s disappearance and her picture had yet to be broadcast, she acted like everyone recognized her. “That’s right. It’s me. And I’m innocent.”

Before Pam Paquin, Sandy Charpentier and Sheila LaBarre arrived in Epping, they stopped in the town of Raymond. They looked for a bank in hopes of finding a notary. Sheila directed Pam to pull into a supermarket on their right. She said it had a small bank window near the checkout. She chose not to go to the full-sized, full-service bank that was on the other side of the street.

A young bank employee dressed in a clean blue shirt and necktie was the only male working among a handful of female tellers. They were busy giving away water bottles and fanny packs in an effort to drum up business for their line of checking products. The guy spotted them walking through the automatic doors.

“I need someone to notarize this document for me,” the lady with the blonde hair and Southern accent said. It was handwritten on one sheet of lined paper. Its words and phrases were mysteries to Paquin and Charpentier, but the two were endlessly impressed that Sheila could compose such a thing off the top of her head.

The top read “State of New Hampshire, Rental Management Agreement.” It listed the addresses of three apartments Sheila owned in Somersworth and gave authority to Sandra Charpentier to manage them and collect rent. Like the other quasi-legal documents Sheila drew up in her life, it was over the top and interspersed with pointed personal notations:

…it is agreed that Sandra will manage these two properties to rent by Tenancy At Will, 30 day notice either party no reason require, pro bono, as a favor to her friend Sheila….Keys are inside green 1995 pickup truck in Barn at 70 Red Oak Hill Lane, Epping, NH. Sandra is also to receive any other keys inside farmhouse to cars, trucks, anything belonging to Sheila LaBarre.

It was also noted that the agreement was revocable in written form by Sheila. It was a document she knew would be read and challenged, just like the bill of sale for the horses she presented Paquin.

They made one more stop before heading to the farm. Sheila’s nerves had turned into a full-blown case of diarrhea.

The three took back roads through Epping, winding their way toward the LaBarre farm. Paquin and Charpentier weren’t sure what they were going to do when they pulled up to the yellow taped gate they had seen on TV. It occurred to Paquin (who was beginning to feel like a fugitive herself) that this visit to the farm seemed like a risky move. Perhaps Sheila wasn’t thinking clearly anymore. She’s nervous as hell. Are we going to get there and they pull their guns out on us? I don’t want to get shot for this woman!

Sheila said there were five horses on the farm. The Shetland ponies were named Shehasta and Whinny. The caramel-colored gelding, quite appropriately named St. Serious, was quiet and smart. Truth, a dark brown standardbred female, was the prettiest of the herd. The oldest had been on the farm for as long as Sheila had been living there. Caldonia, a huge draft horse that her late husband Bill LaBarre had bought at auction, was now scared and gimpy. The chiropractor always massaged and manipulated the horse to relieve her pain. He used to say the horses were proof that chiropractic techniques were real medicine, for with horses the placebo effect is eliminated.

Being with the horses, feeding them, brushing them, watering them, always had brought back warm memories of the man who took her in. Tears filled her eyes as she thought about returning home to the animals she loved so much.

The car began to climb the lane. Paquin regarded the farms, the same fields that Assistant Attorney General Peter Odom saw the day before. A city girl herself, she paid no mind to the horse trailers coming the other way. But Sheila leaned forward in her seat, grabbed hold of the door in preparation to spin to the left as the trailer passed them.

“Those are my horses!”

“What?”

“Those sons of bitches! They’re taking my horses! Turn around!”

Paquin and Charpentier looked at each other. Charpentier shrugged her shoulders and Paquin stopped the car. She took five points to make her three point turn, then shot off after the trailer.

“What do we do?” Paquin asked.

“Make them pull over. They can’t take my horses.”

Charpentier asked, “What if they’re cops?”

She paused. “Those are no longer my horses.” There was a lump in her throat. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “They belong to Pam. She’s got a bill of sale.”

Paquin pulled their car alongside the truck pulling the trailer. She honked the horn; Charpentier motioned for the driver to pull over. They all stopped on the side of the road. Sheila waited in the car, crouched down in the backseat.

“Go talk to them,” Sheila said to Paquin.

“I’m not going! She’s going,” she said pointing to Charpentier.

“I’m not going! You’re going!”

“You’re going with me!”

“They’re your horses now, Pammy!”

“Stop it!” Sheila verbally separated them. “You both go. And don’t let them see me.”

Paquin and Charpentier got out of the car and walked back to the truck. Their nervous energy started fueling their courage. “Where are you taking those horses?” Paquin asked the driver.

“They’re going to Stratham, to the SPCA.”

“Those are my horses.” Paquin now was convinced they were hers.

“Are you,” he looked down at a clipboard for a name, “Sheila LaBarre?”

“No. She sold me those horses. I have a bill of sale. They’re mine.”

“You can’t have them.”

“Why not?!” Charpentier joined in. “They’re hers!”

“They’ve been seized by the police. If you want them, you’ve got to go talk to them.”

“Epping Police?” They had both heard Sheila rail against the department and the chief who had it in for her.

“I’ve got to bring the rest of them to the shelter in Stratham. If you talk to the police, I’m sure you can work something out.”

The two women looked at each other, unsure of their next step. They knew Sheila would not want to go to the police station, but she was damn set on getting those horses.

“Are they okay? The horses?”

“They’re old. But I think they’re going to be fine. We’ll give them a checkup, give them some hay and groom them.”

Paquin and Charpentier shuffled back to the car and got in. Sheila remained low behind the backseat bench, waiting for some kind of report. None came.

“What did he say?” she finally blurted.

“If we want the horses, we have to go talk to the police.”

“The police? Why?”

“They’ve seized them. But he thinks if we show them the bill of sale, we might be able to get them back.”

“What do you want us to do, Sheila?”

She thought some more. “You’re going to get those horses. Let’s go.”

The car pulled back into traffic and disappeared down the twisting road. In the cab of the pickup, the animal rescue worker was on his cell phone. The 911 operator had put him in touch with the Epping dispatch center.

“There are two women inside the car. It’s a New Hampshire license plate, number….”