Past Tense (12 page)

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Authors: William G. Tapply

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BOOK: Past Tense
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I nodded. “Evie was here, yes.”
He sat on the bed beside me and dangled his arms between his legs. “I'm going to overlook the fact that you've been lying
to me, Mr. Coyne,” he said softly. “But I strongly advise you not to lie anymore.”
“Actually, I didn't lie,” I said. “I was quite precise. I told you I didn't find her. What happened was, Evie found me. She came here.”
“I know the difference between the truth and a lie,” he said. “You lied. Why?”
I shook my head and said nothing.
“You think she killed Paul Romano, right?” he said.
“No, of course not. Why would she?”
“You tell me.”
“She wouldn't,” I said. “Evie wouldn't kill anybody.”
Vanderweigh blew out a quick breath. “Listen,” he said. “The longer Ms. Banyon hides out and slinks around and keeps finding herself in places where people get killed with knives, the worse it looks for her. Whether she's innocent or not, the sooner she talks to us, the better off she'll be. Meanwhile, she's acting guilty as hell.”
I nodded. I had told Evie the same thing.
“And you,” he said, “are looking more and more like an accomplice. Maybe a killer. At least somebody who's obstructing justice.”
“Oh, for Christ's sake, I'm a—”
“No, damn it. You listen to me.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I don't give a shit whether you're a lawyer or the chief fucking justice of the Supreme Court, Mr. Coyne. I've got two vicious murders here, and you and Evelyn Banyon are right in the middle of both of them, and neither of you is cooperating. You're lying and she's hiding.” He looked at me and shook his head. “I ought to arrest you, you know that?”
“What good would that do?”
“It would give me satisfaction,” he said.
I smiled. “Please don't.”
“So where is she, then?”
“Evie? I don't know.”
“Listen—”
“I really don't know,” I said. “I don't know where she's been staying down here, and I don't know where she went this morning. She ran into the bathroom when Dwyer knocked on the door. I guess she slipped away when I was over there talking with you. She didn't tell me anything. She just came here to tell me to go home.”
“Like she doesn't want to get you involved.”
“Not really. More like she wants to do whatever she's doing by herself. Evie is a very strong-willed person.”
“But you arranged to meet her here, spend the night with her.”
“I didn't arrange it. I didn't even know she was in Cortland. She came to my room last night when I was dozing. I didn't expect it.”
“What time was that?”
“I didn't notice,” I said. “Like I said, I was asleep.”
“Before or after ten o'clock?”
“After, I guess.”
“And she spent the night with you?”
I nodded.
“A safe place to hide, she figured.”
“Certainly if she'd killed Romano, this motel where you found his body would hardly be a very safe place to hide.”
“So she wanted your help.”
“No, I told you—”
“What is she doing?”
I shrugged. “She came here to my room to tell me to go home. She wanted me
not
to try to help her. All I can tell you is that she's frightened. She thinks you've pegged her for Larry Scott's murder.”
“Smart girl.” Vanderweigh sighed and stood up. “Tell you what, Mr. Coyne. If you promise me you'll bring her to me next time you see her, I won't arrest you. Deal?”
“No deal.”
“No?”
“If I see Evie again,” I said, “I will once again suggest that she talk to you. I can promise you that much. But I won't force her, and I certainly won't rat her out.”
“‘Rat her out'?” He laughed quickly. “Did you say that?”
I smiled. “I guess I did.”
“You're not going to do what she wants, are you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Go home.”
“No,” I said. “I'm not going home. Not yet.”
“Good.” Vanderweigh went over to the door, put his hand on the knob, hesitated, then turned to face me. “You know,” he said, “Roger Horowitz was right.”
“What about Horowitz?”
“He said you were a pain in the ass.”
“He was joking,” I said.
“Horowitz,” said Vanderweigh, “never jokes.”
A
fter Vanderweigh left, I took a shower and then walked over to the motel office. An elderly man sat behind the counter reading a magazine. A radio sitting on a shelf behind him was tuned to a religious service.
“I'm in room ten,” I told him. “I'd like to have it for another night.”
He looked up at me. He wore thick black-rimmed glasses. Behind them, his magnified eyes looked startled. “We got plenty of rooms,” he said. “You like number ten, it's yours. I'll need your credit card again.”
I handed it to him, and he ran it through his machine and gave it back to me.
I thanked him and headed for the door.
“Hey, you hear about the excitement?” he said.
I turned. “What excitement is that?”
“Murder, right out back. Happened last night sometime. Some rich doctor got his throat cut in our parking lot. They
found him sittin' in his car. They figure that woman who killed one of our local boys a week ago done it.”
“Why?” I said.
“Huh?”
“Huh?”
“Why did she do it?”
He shrugged. “Damned if I know. One of them sex things, I suppose.”
I bought a Sunday
Globe
from the machine out front, then headed for the diner. I had gone less than a mile when I noticed the Cortland PD black-and-white in my rearview mirror. It stayed on my tail all the way, and when I parked in front of the diner, it pulled in two cars over from me.
I grabbed my newspaper, went over to the cruiser, and tapped on the window. It slid down. A female officer was sitting there grinning up at me.
“Why don't you come in, have breakfast with me,” I said.
“I already ate,” she said.
“Have some coffee, at least.”
“I don't think I'm supposed to socialize with you.”
“We don't have to talk,” I said. “We can share my Sunday paper. You can have the front page. I got first dibs on the sports.”
She smiled. “No, thanks. I'll just sit right here. Don't you go slipping out the back door on me, or they'll have my ass, okay?”
“Sure,” I said. “I always cooperate with law enforcement officers.”
The diner was mobbed at seven-thirty on this Sunday morning in August. They had two waitresses on duty, and they were working hard. They looked like high-school kids. Both of them were wearing green uniforms like the one Ruth had worn.
This would be my third straight meal here. Lunch, then supper, and now breakfast. A number of the patrons glanced
up and squinted at me as I stood there looking around. None of them nodded or waved at me, but at least my arrival didn't bring conversations to a halt in midsentence. I was beginning to feel like a regular.
I found an empty stool at the end of the counter, propped the sports section up in front of me, and a minute later a mug of coffee appeared beside it. I looked up. One of the young waitresses stood there with her pencil poised.
I didn't bother looking at the blackboard. “Three eggs,” I said, “over easy, on corned-beef hash, wheat toast, home fries, giant OJ. I like the whites cooked and the yolks runny. Keep the coffee coming.”
She scribbled on her notepad, turned away, hesitated, then turned back to me. “You're that guy, aren't you?”
“What guy?”
“I thought they arrested you.”
“Not me. I didn't do anything.”
She shrugged. “Not what I heard.”
“I guess you've got the wrong guy,” I said.
She narrowed her eyes at me for a moment, then moved away. A couple of minutes later, I saw her down at the other end of the counter talking with a customer and jerking her head in my direction.
The eggs were perfectly cooked, the hash was crispy, everything was still hot, and the orange juice was freshly squeezed. Only at a truckers' diner.
It seemed unlikely that Dr. Paul Romano's murder was unrelated to Larry Scott's, although what that relationship was had to be pretty indirect. This second one, I knew, made it look worse for Evie. All the police had to do was come up with some plausible motive for her to cut Romano's throat and they'd have a terrific case.
Well, it didn't look that good for me, either. It's what happens when you're in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Could I come up with something the police couldn't find? Lieutenant Neil Vanderweigh didn't miss much. On the other hand, he seemed mainly interested in proving our guilt—Evie's and mine. My aim was to discover somebody else's guilt.
I had agreed to visit Dr. Winston St. Croix at eleven. He had dated Evie, and it was his retirement and the sale of his medical practice that had brought Paul Romano to Cortland. The doctor probably knew everyone in town. Maybe he'd have some insight.
And I remembered Larry Scott's mother. Mary was her name. According to Charlotte Matley, Evie and Mrs. Scott had been friends. It would be interesting to know if Mary Scott still considered Evie her friend.
I sopped up the last of the egg yolk with my last home fry, downed my orange juice, drained my coffee mug, and looked at my watch. Eight-fifteen. I had over two hours to kill before my appointment with Dr. St. Croix.
I put my newspaper under my arm, slid off the stool, left two dollar bills under my plate, and went down to the cash register at the end of the counter.
My waitress came over. “Was everything okay?”
“Perfect,” I said. I gave her a twenty-dollar bill. “Give me two large coffees to go, please.”
I took the coffees outside and went to the cruiser, which was still parked beside my car. The officer rolled down her window and looked out at me. “For me?” she said. I noticed that her nameplate read V. KERSHAW.
I handed one of the Styrofoam cups to her. “The least I could do. It looks like you've got a pretty boring day ahead of you. I brought cream and sugar, too.”
She reached out and took the coffee. “Why, thank you. That's very sweet.”
“What's the ‘V.' for?”
She frowned. “Huh?”
“Your name.” I pointed at her nameplate.
“Oh. Valerie. Val. I don't think we ought to be on a firstname basis, though. Do you?”
“Well,” I said, “if you're going to tail me all day …”
She smiled.
“Seems like a waste of valuable person-power,” I said.
“Nothing much ever happens in this town,” she said. “Give us a homicide and we are mobilized.”
“If the idea is that I'm going to lead you to Evie Banyon,” I said, “I can assure you that she won't show her face around me as long as there's a cruiser up my butt. Maybe you should be more subtle about it.”
“I appreciate the advice,” she said. “But they told me to stick close to you. They didn't say anything about subtlety. I got the feeling if I tried to be subtle, you would, too. My job is to keep my eye on you, so that's what I guess I'll do. I hope you don't mind.”
“The whole damn town has had its eye on me since I got here,” I said. “I'm getting used to it.”
“You're a marked man, Mr. Coyne. Driving that fancy BMW makes it easy for people to mark you.”
I smiled. “Maybe you can do me a favor.”
She nodded. She'd taken off her cap. It sat on the seat beside her. She had black hair and dark, vivacious eyes. “Fetch me coffee, then ask for a favor,” she said. “There's always a catch, isn't there?”
“Can you tell me how to find Mary Scott's house?”
She frowned. “Scott?”
“She's Larry Scott's mother. She—”
“No,” she said quickly, “I know who she is. I'm just not sure I should be, um, abetting you.”
“I don't intend to murder her.”
“I suppose not.”
“If I do, you'll be right there to catch me. A feather in your cap.”
“Yes,” she said. “Good point.” She took the top off her coffee, poured in some cream, dumped in a packet of sugar, and stirred it with the plastic straw I'd given her. “I can't have you follow me there,” she said. “If you did, then I wouldn't be following you. I've got my orders.”
“What if I promised not to slip away?”
“No,” she said. “That's not good enough. I'm not supposed to trust you.” She sipped her coffee, wrinkled her nose, and added more sugar. “Mrs. Scott's place isn't hard to find. Head north out of town and take the first right after the old drive-in movie theater. She lives about a mile down the road on the right. You can't miss it. Big old falling-down barn out back, a couple of car bodies rusting in the side yard.”
“If I make a wrong turn or something,” I said, “just flash your lights at me.”
“Why, of course,” she said. “Protect and serve.”
I got into my car, pulled out of the parking lot, and turned north on Route 1. Valerie Kershaw's cruiser pulled out behind me and followed me back through town, past the village green and Charlotte Matley's office, past the road to Dr. St. Croix's place, past the garage where I had my valve stem replaced, and past the site of the old drive-in movie theater. Then I slowed down, and a couple hundred yards later I spotted a narrow roadway on the right. I turned onto it. Behind me, the cruiser's directional was blinking, and Officer Kershaw turned in behind me.
It was one of those winding two-lane country roads such as you find in rural parts of central Maine, with frost heaves and potholes and narrow sloping sandy shoulders and big old oaks arching overhead. On both sides it was bordered by stone walls and shaded by thick second-growth woods.
In any Massachusetts community more prosperous than Cortland, house-sized openings would've been bulldozed out of those woods, and more or less identical colonial-style houses would've been erected. The road would be widened and straightened and repaved, and GO SLOW CHILDREN and SCHOOL BUS STOPPING signs would pop up at every bend. But here in sleepy little Cortland, it was just a paved-over old dirt road, originally some nineteenth-century farmer's cart path, following the earth's contours through overgrown pastureland and uncut woodlot, and for nearly a mile there were no dwellings.
I rounded a bend and started down a long slope, and then I spotted a black mailbox beside the road. At that moment, Officer Kershaw flashed her cruiser's lights.
The name Scott was painted sloppily on the side of the mailbox. I pulled to the side of the road and stopped. The house was a nondescript square bungalow with a screened-in porch along the front. It was two stories tall, with a brick chimney on one end and a television antenna on the other. Its white paint was stained and flaking, and there were holes in the screening. The front lawn stood about a foot tall. A rotary lawnmower sat in the middle of it. To the right of the house, a gravel driveway led straight back from the road to a big weathered barn in back. Beside the driveway, knee-deep in weeds and half covered with vines, the skeletons of two ancient automobiles sat up on cinderblocks.
The red Ford Escort in the driveway appeared to be three or four years old. The pickup truck parked behind it looked much older. Its bed was half full of cordwood.
I got out of the car. Officer Kershaw had stopped ten or fifteen yards behind me. I waved in her direction, then headed down the driveway to the house.
When I got to the pickup truck, I noticed a pair of scuffed
workboots sticking out from under it. The boots appeared to be attached to a pair of legs, and the legs were wearing faded blue jeans.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“Who's that?” came a growly voice from under the truck's chassis.
“I'm looking for Mrs. Scott. Is she home?”
The boots moved, and then a body slid out from under the truck.
His face and arms were streaked with grime, and he wore several days' worth of thick blond stubble. His squinty blue eyes were set too close together. He had a round, squished-in nose, a small mouth, and not much chin. His greasy straw-colored hair hung over his ears. He was, I guessed, in his early twenties.
He shaded his eyes with his hand and frowned up at me. He wore a gold hoop in his left ear.
I remembered Larry Scott from our encounters at the Cape. I wouldn't soon forget the image of his dead eyes staring up at the sky that morning by our cottage in Brewster. Larry had blue eyes and straw-colored hair and a compact, muscular body. He had been a handsome guy. This one, I guessed, was Larry's brother.
Larry had been the good-looking, quick one. This guy was the big, strong one. He had cut the arms off his T-shirt to show off his biceps. They were as big around as my thighs.

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