Wicked Intentions. Kevin Flynn
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