Past Tense (15 page)

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Authors: William G. Tapply

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BOOK: Past Tense
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“Like Larry Scott,” I said.
He shrugged. “Larry Scott seemed bent on doing Evie harm, all right. He made her life miserable. She stopped allowing me to squire her about because he was doing her considerable harm, and she feared he'd do me harm.”
“Did Scott ever threaten you?”
“Not to my face,” he said. “But Evie believed that he intended to harm me.”
“If she kept seeing you,” I said.
He nodded. “She thought we should stop having our dinners together. I agreed with her. I hoped that if she stopped seeing me, Larry would leave her alone. He was an unpredictable and dangerous young man.”
“But he never did you any actual harm.”
He smiled. “There was no reason why he should. Evie and I were friends. That's all.”
“Yesterday you told me that you wished it was more.”
“Oh, sure. Who wouldn't? But I knew better. I may be a decrepit old man, Mr. Coyne. But I am a realist.”
“Doctor,” I said, “when Evie and I—”
“It's Win,” he said. “Please. If you insist on calling me ‘Doctor,' I shall be obliged to call you ‘Esquire.'”
I smiled. “Win it is, then,” I said. “Anyway, when Evie and I were vacationing on Cape Cod a week ago, Larry Scott followed us and confronted us in a restaurant.”
“Yes,” he said. “I've heard all about that. Several highly imaginative versions of that story have circulated through this town, many of which involve Evie stabbing him with a kitchen knife.”
“At one point,” I said, “Scott mentioned you.”
“Me?”
“He said to Evie, ‘I know about your saint,' or words to that effect. I assume he was referring to you.”
“‘Your saint.' That's flattering. I'm hardly a saint, and I don't think Evie ever thought of me as saintly.” He smiled. “I'm sure she was fully aware of the devilish thoughts she inspired in me.”
“I was thinking of your name.”
He looked at me. “Oh, well, sure. Maybe. I didn't think of that.”
“So if he was referring to you,” I said, “what could he have known about you that he wanted to tell Evie?”
“How in the world would I know what was in that poor, obsessed boy's head?”
I shrugged. “I don't know. I thought maybe you'd have an idea.”
St. Croix shook his head sadly. “Larry Scott wanted Evie and she didn't want him. It's a simple as that. She went out with me a few times, and he was blind jealous. He thought I was his competition. He made her life so miserable that he finally drove her out of town. I guess he thought if slandering me would win her back, he'd do it.”
“But there was nothing he might have known—about you, I mean—that would have caused him to follow Evie to the Cape to tell her?”
He smiled at me. “You're cross-examining me, you know.”
“I apologize,” I said.
“What difference would it make, anyway?” he said. He tapped his legs. “I certainly didn't kill Larry Scott.”
“I didn't think you did.”
“Or Dr. Romano, either.”
“Of course not.”
“I'm not sure that Detective Vanderweigh is convinced,” he said.
“Detective Vanderweigh suspects everybody,” I said. “Even me.”
Dr. St. Croix closed his eyes for a minute. “Multiple sclerosis is a terrible disease,” he said quietly. “It cripples your body, but as far as I'm concerned, what's worse, it begins to eat away at your sanity. Depression, of course. But I've found that in the past several months I've also become increasingly short-tempered and distrustful. I have to monitor myself constantly against paranoia. I've yelled at poor, loyal Claudia, of all people, more than once. And now, I'm sitting here looking at these useless legs and these pitiful trembling hands, and I'm
telling myself to stop thinking what I'm thinking, that I have no reason to distrust you.” He blinked at me. “Do I?”
“No,” I said. “No reason to distrust me at all.”
“And I'm wondering if I should've distrusted Dr. Romano a bit more.”
“Did you distrust him?”
“Yes, of course. As I said, nowadays I tend to distrust everybody. I admired his enthusiasm, his idealism. But at the same time, I couldn't quite believe that some bright, eager young doctor from New Jersey would really be interested in taking over this dead-end little small-town pediatric practice. You see? It's sick and reprehensible to have a part of your brain thinking the worst of people. I never used to be that way.”
“Some people are always that way,” I said.
“Never do harm to anyone,” he said. “That starts with thinking well of people, giving them the benefit of the doubt.”
“Well,” I said, “Larry Scott—”
At that moment, Claudia Wells came into the room. She pointed at her wristwatch. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” she said, “but it's time for your meds, Doctor.”
“Leave us alone, woman,” said St. Croix. “Brady and I are talking.”
Claudia looked at me and rolled her eyes. “He's the world's most difficult patient.” She turned to him. “I'm going to give you your shot, and I don't want any back talk.”
I stood up. “I should get going anyway.”
“Please stay,” said St. Croix.
“No,” said Claudia, “Mr. Coyne is right. He should leave now. He can come back.”
“I told you,” said the doctor to me, “she's a monster. She can't wait to haul down my pants and stick a needle into my bottom. You will come back?”
“I don't know how much longer I'll be in town,” I said. “But if I get a chance, sure, I'll come back.” I bent to St. Croix and held out my hand. “I've enjoyed talking with you.”
He took my hand and held onto it. “Me too,” he said. He glanced at Claudia. “It's good to talk to a man for a change.”
I smiled and turned to leave. Claudia started to follow me. “I can find my way out,” I said.
She nodded. “Do come back,” she said softly. “He likes you.”
“I like him, too.”
I paused on the front steps to light a cigarette. As I started down the fieldstone pathway to the parking area beside the house, Valerie Kershaw pushed herself away from her cruiser and headed toward me.
She met me at my car. “You've got to follow me, Mr. Coyne.”
“I thought you were supposed to follow me.”
She shrugged. “We changed the rules.”
“Why?”
“Detective Vanderweigh needs to talk with you.”
I
followed Valerie Kershaw's cruiser back into town. She pulled up in front of a cluster of new-looking, rectangular brick buildings. Town hall, library, police station, public works, firehouse, all lined up next to each together, directly across the village green from Charlotte Matley's office.
I parked my car, got out, and waited for Valerie to come over.
“You want to cuff me, bring me in?” I said.
She rolled her eyes. “Come on. This way.”
She led me into the police station, past the front desk where a woman in civilian clothes said hello to her, and down a short corridor. She stopped at a door, peeked in through the glass, then opened it and held it for me.
I stepped in. Detective Vanderweigh and his partner, a young, blond guy—I'd met him in Brewster, but I couldn't recall his name—were sitting beside each other in
leather chairs at a long oak conference table. They appeared to be studying the documents that were stacked in front of them.
Vanderweigh looked up over the tops of his reading glasses, smiled quickly, put the palms of both his hands on the tabletop, and pushed himself halfway into a standing position. “Mr. Coyne,” he said. “Have a seat, please. Thanks for joining us.”
I took a chair across the table from the two of them. “I wasn't given much choice,” I said.
“What happened to your face?”
“Bumped into a door.”
Vanderweigh shrugged. “You remember Sergeant Lipton.”
I nodded at the other man. “Sure. You never forget your interrogator.”
Lipton reached his hand across the table, and I shook it.
I looked around the room. The two big windows overlooking the village green had no wire mesh over them. The walls were paneled in knotty pine. There were two television sets with VCR hookups on one table, a coffee machine and a microwave oven on another, and a computer and a fax machine and two telephones on a desk. The chairs were comfortable, and there were no cigarette scars on the tabletop. “Not bad,” I said, “for an inquisition room.”
“This is a conference room,” said Vanderweigh. “We want to confer with you.”
“Does this mean I'm no longer a suspect?”
He smiled. “If you like.” He cleared his throat. “Does the name Owen Ransom mean anything to you?”
I thought for a minute, then shook my head. “No.”
“Ever been to Carlisle, Pennsylvania?”
“Actually,” I said, “I have. There are some good trout streams in that part of Pennsylvania. Who's Owen Ransom?”
“‘Who was Owen Ransom,'” said Vanderweigh. “He's deceased.”
I looked from Vanderweigh to Lipton. “You gentlemen being homicide detectives and all, I would surmise that this Owen Ransom did not die of natural causes.”
“No,” said Vanderweigh. “He got his throat cut.”
“In an automobile behind a motel, by any chance? Sometime recently?”
He nodded.
“So Dr. Paul Romano's real name was Owen Ransom.”
“Owen Ransom was not a doctor,” he said. “Owen Ransom was a clerk at a hardware store.”
“In Carlisle, Pennsylvania?”
“Yes,” said Vanderweigh.
“Being well-trained detectives,” I said, “you checked his wallet, looked at his driver's license and credit cards and other personal effects.”
Vanderweigh nodded. “Sure. First thing we do with a homicide victim. Try to identify him.”
“So Romano was using a fake name,” I said. “You knew that when you talked to me this morning, I'll bet.”
He smiled and shrugged.
“You're even more devious than I gave you credit for.”
“We ran those Jersey plates on the Oldsmobile,” said Lipton. “Turns out to be a rental. Came from Budget, at the Newark airport. Name on the paperwork they had was Owen Ransom, from Carlisle, Pennsylvania. We talked to the police in Carlisle. They confirm our identification.”
“So,” I said, “you want me to tell you why some hardware clerk in Pennsylvania would rent a car in New Jersey, drive to Cortland, Massachusetts, pose as a doctor, pretend to want to buy a small-town pediatric medical practice, and end up with his throat cut in a motel parking lot.”
“Well,” said Lipton, “yes. Do you know?”
“No, I don't.”
“You encountered Mr. Ransom a couple of times yesterday,” said Vanderweigh. “Can you remember anything he said, any offhand comment he might have made—”
“We've already been over this,” I said. “I just thought he was a doctor.”
“In light of this new information,” said Vanderweigh, “any indication that he wasn't who he said he was?”
I thought for a minute, then said, “No. We didn't talk about medical things. Or hardware, for that matter. The only thing we talked about was women, and he did all the talking. He fooled me.”
“You said you didn't like him.”
I shrugged.
“We're trying to figure out who killed him, Mr. Coyne,” said Lipton.
“He was boring and I didn't particularly like him,” I said. “But I didn't kill him. I didn't kill him when I thought he was Dr. Paul Romano, and I still didn't kill him now that you've told me his name was Owen Ransom. What did the police in Pennsylvania tell you about him?”
Lipton shuffled through the sheaf of papers on the table in front of him. He picked one up, glanced at it, then looked up at me. “Owen Ransom, twenty-eight years old. Grew up in Carlisle, Pennsylvania. Ran cross-country for his high-school team. Average student, no trouble of any kind. Couple years of community college. Never married. Parents both deceased. Taught Sunday school at the Congregational church. Lived by himself in a one-bedroom condominium on the outskirts of town. Held the same job at the hardware store for five years.”
“The profile of a madman,” I said.
Vanderweigh smiled. “You'd be surprised.”
“No,” I said. “Actually I wouldn't. So what was he doing in Cortland if he wasn't interested in buying Dr. St. Croix's practice?”
“Well,” said Vanderweigh, “that's the question, isn't it?”
“And what's this got to do with Larry Scott?” I stopped. “Wait a minute. Are you thinking … ?”
Vanderweigh shook his head. “If there's a connection between Ransom and Scott, damned if we can figure out what it is. Except, of course, for the fact that they were both murdered.”
“Owen Ransom could've killed Larry Scott,” I said.
“Why?”
“How would I know?”
“Say he did,” said Lipton. “Then who killed Ransom?”
“Have you talked to Mel Scott?” I said.
“Who?”
“Larry's brother.” I touched the bump on my cheekbone. “He loved his brother. He can be quite emphatic about it.”
Lipton and Vanderweigh exchanged looks. Then Vanderweigh leaned across the table to me. “What about Evelyn Banyon?”
“What about her?” I said.
“Has she ever been to Carlisle, Pennsylvania?”
“Jesus,” I said. “You guys are relentless.” I shook my head. “I have no idea whether Evie was ever in Carlisle, or if she knew this Owen Ransom.”
“You're not much help today, Mr. Coyne,” said Vanderweigh.
“I'm sorry,” I said. “So, how long are you planning to keep Officer Kershaw on my tail?”
“For as long as it takes.”
“You think I'm going to lead you to Evie.”
Vanderweigh nodded.
“Well,” I said, “I don't know where she is.”
Lipton shrugged, then gathered his papers into a stack,
tapped the edges on the table, shoved them into a manila folder, and looked up at me. “You can find your way out okay, Mr. Coyne?”
I stood up. “Evie didn't kill anybody.”
“We'd sure like to talk with her about it,” said Vanderweigh. “Have her tell us that in her own words.”
“I'll pass along your message if I see her,” I said. I headed for the door.
“Mr. Coyne,” said Lipton.
I stopped and turned.
“If you think of something,” he said, “come up with anything, even a wild theory, you just have Officer Kershaw give us a call, okay?”
“I'm an officer of the court,” I said. “I know my duty.”
I left the police station. Valerie Kershaw was standing beside her cruiser talking to a white-haired woman who was holding a large black dog on a leash. I went over to her. “I'm heading back to my motel now,” I said. “I've got to make a couple of calls. Just wanted you to know, in case I inadvertently managed to elude you.”
She looked at her watch. “It's about lunchtime.”
“I'm not really hungry,” I said. “Had a big breakfast. I'm just tired. They woke me up early.”
“I was thinking about myself, not you,” she said. “I'm hungry.”
“Go get something to eat,” I said. “Meet me at my motel.”
She tilted her head and smiled at me. “I'm not allowed to trust you.”
I sighed. “Okay. I believe in supporting our officers of the law. Let's go eat. Follow me.”
We drove to the diner, and when Valerie and I went in together, heads turned and conversations momentarily stopped.
We sat at a booth by the front window where Valerie could keep an eye on her cruiser. Ruth was back on duty. She
seemed not the slightest bit surprised that I had a lunch date with a pretty uniformed police officer.
I had a turkey club sandwich and a glass of iced tea. Valerie had a cheeseburger and Coke. While we ate, she told me that she'd grown up in Gloucester, on the Massachusetts north shore, had gone to Williams College where she'd majored in history, and got her master's in law enforcement at Northeastern.
Her father was a stockbroker and her mother was a high-school math teacher. No one in her family had ever been a cop. She'd been on the job for a year and a half, and she was thinking of quitting and going to law school. She believed her talents were being wasted, following people around all day in Cortland, Massachusetts. She thought she'd make a good prosecutor.
I didn't try to talk her out of it.
When I asked her if she had a boyfriend, she rolled her eyes and looked away, which could have meant that she did but it wasn't working out, or that she used to but it hadn't worked out, or that she hadn't met anybody interesting yet, or that she preferred women.
Or, most likely, that it was a rude question for a murder suspect to ask, and none of anybody's business anyway.
After we finished eating, we drove back to the motel. Valerie parked her cruiser beside my car, and as I opened the door to my room, I saw that she was talking on her two-way.
The maid had come and made the bed and left me clean towels and given the room a squirt of Lysol. All traces of Evie were gone.
I stripped down, took a long steamy shower, then sprawled on the bed. I glanced at my watch. It was a little after two o'clock.
I picked up the phone beside the bed and dialed Julie's home phone. I hoped my secretary would be off to the pool
with Megan, her daughter, on this sunny Sunday afternoon in August. Then I could leave a message on her answering machine and escape her lecture on an attorney's responsibilities to his clients and his secretary.
Edward, Julie's husband, answered.
“It's Brady,” I said. “Julie's not there, is she?”
“No,” he said. “She took Megan to a birthday party.”
“Oh, good,” I said.
He chuckled. “You called her, but you don't want to talk to her?”
“I was hoping just to leave her a message.”
“Do you want me to deliver your message?”
“Just tell her,” I said, “that I won't be in the office tomorrow. She knows what to do.”
“Julie's not going to like it,” said Edward. “You want me to convey your excuse, too?”
“Tell her that I'm down here in Cortland, looking for Evie. She might actually approve of that.”
“She might,” he said skeptically. “Anything else?”
“Tell her I'm sort of snooping around. There's been another murder.”
Edward chuckled. “How do you do it?”
“What? Get into these situations?”

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