Past Tense (18 page)
I lit a cigarette. “I didn't think so. I just asked him a couple questions.”
“It sounded like you knew something, had a theory or suspicion or something.”
“Me?” I laughed. “I don't know anything. I just know that the police think Evie killed two people, and she didn't, and it upsets me.”
“You think the doctor had something to do with those murders?”
“Well,” I said, “somebody did, and it wasn't Evie Banyon.”
“He's in a wheelchair, for heaven's sake,” said Soderstrom. “You can't possibly think ⦔
“I don't know what to think,” I said. “What about you? What do you think?”
“Oh,” he said, “I agree with you. It couldn't possibly be Evie. Or Dr. St. Croix, either. Beyond that, I haven't really given it much thought.” He glanced at his watch. “Well, it's getting around to suppertime. My wife and kids should be back from the lake by now. Time for Daddy to hustle home and cook some hamburgers on the grill.” He held out his hand to me. “Good to see you again. I hope everything works out with Evie.”
I shook his hand. “I'll give her your regards ifâwhen I see her.”
He nodded. “Please do that. Tell her I miss her.”
“That makes two of us,” I said.
After I left Winston St. Croix's place, I went back to my motel and decided I better try to talk to Julie. This time she answered the phone, and she was none too pleased to hear that I'd be playing hooky on Monday. I let her rant about my responsibilities to my clients, the importance of accruing billable hours, the need to attend to paperwork on a daily basis, and my general cavalier attitude toward our business, but when I reminded her that I was in Cortland to help Evie, that mine was a mission of love, and that I hadn't even brought my fishing gear with me, she was quiet for a minute.
“Is she really in trouble?” she said finally.
“They like her for the Larry Scott thing, and they want to question her on this other murder.”
“You've talked to her?”
“Yes. She's here in Cortland.”
“Is she okay?”
“She's got a place to hide out. She's handling it better than I ever could.”
“Well, you do what you've got to do,” Julie said. “I'll take care of everything on this end.”
“Thank you.”
She hesitated. “You really didn't even bring your fishing pole?”
“It's called a rod,” I said. “How many times to I have to tell you? No. I didn't bring it.”
“Hard to believe.”
After I hung up from Julie, I called Kate Burrows in Carlisle, Pennsylvania. When she answered, I said, “Do you work all day on Sundays?”
“Who is this?”
“It's Brady Coyne again.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Well, the answer is, our paper hits the newsstands on Tuesdays, so Sunday is a busy day for me. But that's not why you called. Do you have anything for me?”
“Possibly.”
“Good. Shoot.”
“Questions, really,” I said. “First, a teenage boy committed suicide in Carlisle in 1987. It might be interesting to know who that boy was. Second, Owen Ransom's parents died in a boating accident in August of 1990. I'm wondering if there was anything suspicious about it. Third, a doctor named Winston St. Croix. He's the one Ransom came here to Cortland to see.”
Kate Burrows laughed. “You want me to do some research for you, is that it?”
“There might be a story in it for you,” I said.
“I'll see what I can find out. I suppose you want me to call you.”
“I'd appreciate it.” I gave her the motel number. “If I've checked out, try my office.” I gave her that number, too.
I took what I hadn't yet read of the Sunday paper to the diner. My arrival stopped no conversations, nor did it even raise any eyebrows, that I noticed.
I was getting to be a fixture in the place.
A waitress I hadn't seen before took my order. I splurged on the sirloin tips, medium rare, with french fries and fresh broccoli and a slab of blueberry pie for dessert.
Back at the motel, I watched Mel Gibson and Danny Glover smash up cars, shoot people, and bleed a lot. When the movie was over, I took a shower and crawled into bed.
I lay awake for a long time. Usually I read
Moby Dick
after I go to bed. I've been reading that book for years. I've learned a lot about the whaling industry, and Melville's stolid prose usually takes my mind off whatever it's been on and puts me to sleep.
Moby Dick
after I go to bed. I've been reading that book for years. I've learned a lot about the whaling industry, and Melville's stolid prose usually takes my mind off whatever it's been on and puts me to sleep.
Without
Moby Dick,
I tend to stare up at the ceiling at bedtime. I'm not sure if that would gratify Melville.
Moby Dick,
I tend to stare up at the ceiling at bedtime. I'm not sure if that would gratify Melville.
So I stared at the ceiling, my mind churning around Owen Ransom posing as a pediatrician, boating accidents and suicides in Carlisle, Pennsylvania, and Larry Scott following Evie down to the Cape, and I thought about all the folks I'd met in Cortland, and, of course, I thought about Evie, how the previous night she'd come creeping into my room, how nice it would be if she decided to do it again, and how easy it always was to fall asleep with Evie's head on my shoulder.
But she didn't come creeping into my room.
Eventually, I fell asleep anyway.
When the phone woke me up, there was no light sifting in around the curtains. I fumbled for it in the dark, got it pressed to my ear, and mumbled, “Hello?”
“Hi, honey. Sorry to wake you up.” It was Evie.
I pushed my pillow up and wormed my way into a half-sitting position. “Where are you? What time is it?”
“It's a few minutes after three, and I'm still here in Larry's little room in the barn.”
“I wish you were here.”
“Yes,” she said. “Me too. But it's not safe.”
“I miss you.”
“I know.”
I found my cigarettes and got one lit. “What's up, honey?”
“I found out some things.”
“About Larry?”
“Yes.”
“First,” I said, “say something sweet.”
She laughed softly. “I do wish I was there with you.”
“Me too.”
“Sleeping in your arms.”
“Yes.”
“It was nice last night,” she said.
“It sure was.”
“I'm sorry you got dragged into this mess.”
“I didn't get dragged,” I said. “It was my choice.”
She cleared her throat. “Brady, listen,” she said. “I've been on the Internet on Larry's computer. I don't quite know what to make of it, but it all seems to involve Winston St. Croix.”
“Are you okay, honey?” I said.
“Oh, sure,” she said.
“Those copsâDetective Vanderweigh and Sergeant Dwyerâthey came prowling around the barn when I was there this afternoon. I was worried they'd find you.”
She laughed quietly. “They didn't.”
“Dwyer was a friend of Larry's,” I said. “I was afraid he might know about your little hideout.”
“Well, if he checked it out, he wouldn't've found me or any sign of me there. I was out in the woods.”
I took a drag off my cigarette and blew it up at the ceiling. “So what about St. Croix?” I said. “Or did you call because you miss me?”
“No,” she said. “I do miss you, but that's not why I called.”
She paused for a moment. “Remember that teenage suicide in 1987? His name was Edgar Ransom.”
She paused for a moment. “Remember that teenage suicide in 1987? His name was Edgar Ransom.”
“Aha,” I said. “A relative of Owen Ransom, no doubt.”
“His brother. He was two years older than Owen.”
“You sure? How'd you learn that?”
“I went on Larry's computer and checked the obituaries from Carlisle, Pennsylvania, for November 1987,” she said. “The name Edgar Ransom jumped right out at me. The obit didn't mention the cause of death. It just said âsuddenly.' It listed his surviving relatives. Two parentsâMargaret and Robertâand a brother, Owen.”
“The obits,” I said. “That's brilliant.” I thought for a minute. “So Owen Ransom's brother Edgar commits suicide in 1987 in Carlisle, Pennsylvania, and in 1990 their parents drown, and then eleven years later Owen, a hardware-store clerk, comes to Cortland. Owen's using a false name and posing as a doctor who wants to buy Winston St. Croix's pediatric practice, and next thing you know, he gets his throat cut in back of a motel. It's pretty interesting, but I don't get the connection.”
“Well,” she said, “I found one other thing that might shed some light on the subject.” She hesitated. “I checked the obits for Margaret and Robert Ransom, who died in that boating accident in 1990. According to the paper, they had moved to Carlisle in 1984. Guess where they lived before that?”
“Come on, honey. It's three A.M. I just woke up, and I haven't had any coffee. I'm not good at guessing.”
She chuckled. “Sorry. I should know better.” She cleared her throat. “Before the Ransom family moved to Pennsylvania, Robert Ransom was a schoolteacher at a regional high school in Gorham, Minnesota.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “That's where Winston St. Croix had his medical practice before he came to Cortland, right?”
“Bingo.”
“So,” I said, “it's likely that the Ransoms and Dr. St. Croix knew each other.”
“In fact,” said Evie, “it's likely that both Edgar and Owen Ransom were Winston St. Croix's patients. Their ages would be about right.”
“I talked with St. Croix this afternoon after I saw you,” I said. “He didn't seem to recognize the name Ransom.”
“It was a long time ago,” she said. “He's had thousands of patients.”
“So what does all this have to do with Larry Scott?”
“I don't know yet,” she said. “I'm still working on it. But I wouldn't be surprised if Larry knew all of this. And maybe more.”
“You're thinking about those printouts you found, and that newspaper article. They were Larry's.”
“Yes,” she said. “He'd bookmarked the
Philadelphia Inquirer's
Web address on his computer. He probably found out more than I have so far.”
Philadelphia Inquirer's
Web address on his computer. He probably found out more than I have so far.”
“Like what?”
“Well, obviously I don't know yet. But I'm not done. I'll let you know if I find out anything else.”
“Let me know if you don't, too.”
“Sure.” She paused. “Maybe.”
“Or just let me know that you're okay,” I said. “I worry about you.”
“I know. That's sweet. But please don't try to see me again or contact me. Okay?”
“Listen, honeyâ”
“I mean it, Brady. It's dangerous for both of us.”
“Okay. I guess you're right.”
“I wish you'd just go back to Boston,” she said.
“When I'm ready.”
“I worry about you, too, you know.”
“I know.”
She hesitated. “There's something else,” she said slowly. “I don't know what to make out of it.”
“What is it?”
“I remembered one time Larry mentioning that he had a secret place where he hid his special treasures. He called it his safe. IâI was worried that he might be keeping some, um, personal things in it.”
I wondered what Larry might've had besides those photographs taped beside his bed that would worry Evie. “So,” I said, “did you find Larry's hidey-hole?”
“Yes. There's a loose floorboard under the cot here in this room. He had a lot of money in there.”
“What's a lot?”
“Exactly thirty thousand dollars. All in hundred-dollar bills. They were in a plastic bag in a shoebox.”
I thought for a minute. “Remember that night down the Cape?” I said. “He said something about money.”
“Yes,” she said. “He said he had money. Larry never had money, which gave him a gigantic inferiority complex. He only made minimum wage at the medical center. He thought a hundred dollars was a fortune. The Scotts were always dirtpoor. Mary never got any help from her ex-husband. She's always struggled to make ends meet.”
“So what are you thinking?” I said. “Was Larry stealing money or something?”
“I don't know,” she said. “I guess he might have been. He was certainly capable of it. No matter what I told him, he was always convinced that I stopped seeing him because he was poor, and that I went out with Win because he was rich. Maybe he thought if he had money I'd be more ⦔ She let her voice trail off.
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