Past Tense (23 page)

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Authors: William G. Tapply

Tags: #Mystery

BOOK: Past Tense
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“That how you killed the doctor?”
She smiled. “This much isn't going to kill you,” she said. “It'll just make you nice and relaxed.”
“You're not going to kill me?”
“I didn't say that,” she said.
She jabbed the needle through my shirt and into my upper arm, then bent so close to me that I could smell her perfume. “It would've been so much more fun if you'd done it my way,” she whispered.
“Let's get going,” said Dwyer.
I waited for the drug to hit me. It seemed to come more slowly this time.
Claudia stood up and moved toward the door, and then Dwyer picked up the lighted lantern from the table. He brought it over beside me, unscrewed the bottom, and tipped it on its side. The kerosene poured out of it and splashed on the wooden floor next to the bunk where I lay.
I tried to push myself up, but the dizziness hit me and I fell back. The room began to spin, and in its slow whirl I saw Dwyer drop the still-lighted lantern onto the floor in the pool of spilled kerosene. The glass mantle shattered, and an instant later there was a sudden whoosh of fire. It seemed to fill the room, a spinning explosion of flame right beside me.
I tried to move. I had to get the hell out of there. But I couldn't. My brain wasn't getting through to the rest of my body. I couldn't wiggle a finger.
The smoke burned in my nostrils, and the flames leapt all around me, bright in my eyes, roaring in my ears, fiery on my skin.
I had to get out of there …
But then I felt Claudia's drug. It began as a kind of soft, wet blackness somewhere in my belly. It filled my chest, and began slowly to ooze its way up into my head, and I realized that it really didn't matter after all.
Nothing mattered.
I just wanted to sleep. Sleep would be nice.
I closed my eyes and relaxed.
I
lay there on that bunk surrounded by flames and smoke and blistering heat, and even Claudia's tranquilizing drug couldn't lull me into ignoring the fact that I was about to die.
There was nothing I could do about it. My body was limp and unresponsive to the halfhearted commands I sent to it.
Anyway, it just didn't seem terribly important.
Over the roar and crackle of the fire, I gradually became aware of other sounds—distant explosions, muffled shouts, faraway thumps and bumps and crashes. And then someone was beside me, grabbing at me, hauling on my arm, yelling at me to stand up, to get going, to hurry.
I tried to tell whoever it was that I couldn't move, but not to worry. What was the rush, anyway?
Then I felt myself being dragged through the flames and the smoke, and suddenly we were out of it, and the air tasted sweet and clean.
I lay on my back staring up at the star-filled sky, vaguely aware of people around me and hands prowling over my body.
Then a bright light shone in my face. “He's breathing,” somebody said. It was a female voice.
“Hey, Brady,” said somebody else, a man. “How're you feeling? You all right?”
I tried to smile and nod and say the word, “Drug.” It came out as a croak.
“Give him some water,” said the male voice.
I felt arms around my shoulders, helping me lift my head and prop it up in somebody's lap. Cool, wet water on my face and lips and in my mouth. A damp rag wiping my forehead, neck, and throat.
I squinted against the bright light and turned my face. The light moved away, and then I saw Detective Neil Vanderweigh squatting beside me.
“Did you catch them?” I said.
He nodded.
“Claudia and Dwyer?”
“We got 'em.”
“They killed Larry Scott and Owen Ransom and Dr. St. Croix,” I said, “and they burned down Mary Scott's barn.”
“Did they tell you that?”
“Not exactly.”
“What did they say?”
“Can't you let him rest for a minute?” said the female voice.
I turned my head and looked up into Valerie Kershaw's face. It was sweat-stained and streaked with soot. She was cradling my head in her lap and holding that cool wet rag on my forehead.
I smiled up at her. “Was that you who saved my life?”
“I hauled you out of there, yes,” she said.
I let my head fall back on her lap. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
I closed my eyes. “Claudia gave me a drug, and Dwyer kept hitting me in the stomach,” I said. “I'm awfully tired. Can we talk later?”
“Okay, so what
did
those two tell you?” said Detective Neil Vanderweigh.
We were sitting at the conference table in the Cortland police station. Outside the window, the sky was just beginning to grow light. I was on my third mug of coffee. Caffeine seemed to be an effective antidote to the drug Claudia had shot into my arm, and the three aspirins Valerie gave me had taken the edge off the various aches and pains John Dwyer had left on my stomach and chest, although it hurt like hell when I tried to take a deep breath.
“They didn't tell me anything,” I said. “They asked me questions. Mainly they wanted to know where Evie was.”
“What'd you tell them?”
“Arizona.”
He smiled. “She's not in Arizona, is she?”
“I don't think so.”
“Well,” he said, “it doesn't matter. We know what we need to know.”
“Did they talk?”
He smiled. “Got them separated, mentioned the penalties for murder, arson, and kidnapping, and they were more than willing to blame each other.”
“So you don't need me, then.”
“Oh,” he said, “You were a big help.”
“You set me up, didn't you?” I said.
He shrugged. “Kind of. Sorry about that.”
“I was your fucking decoy, huh?”
“We had you covered. You were never in danger.”
“Oh, yeah?” I said. “Dwyer kept slugging me in the stomach. He could've killed me. Then that drug, and the fire—”
“I said I was sorry,” he said. “Point is, you're okay, and we got the bad guys.”
“So yesterday at Dr. St. Croix's house,” I said, “after you talked with me, you interviewed everybody all over again, asked them new questions, fed them some tidbits about Ransom and Gorham, Minnesota, implying that I had the answers, and then you waited to see who'd take the bait. Right?”
He smiled. “Something like that.”
“You watched my motel room to see who'd show up.”
“Officer Kershaw was hiding in the parking lot.”
“You suspected Dwyer?”
“No,” he said. “Dwyer was a surprise. Claudia Wells wasn't, though. I thought she might've given the doctor an overdose.”
“I didn't quite buy that suicide note,” I said.
“It wasn't a suicide note,” he said. “It was just some scribbles he'd made, thinking about an interview he was going to do. She took it from his desk and left it beside his bed.”
“So Claudia put the poor guy out of his misery, huh? Mercy killing, you think?”
“Nope. Greed. He left everything to her.”
I shook my head. “I was convinced she really cared about him.”
“Oh,” he said, “I believe she did. She's quite emotional about it.”
“So why didn't she just let him finish out his life? He had a disease that was going to kill him. She'd get her money soon enough.”
“It could've taken years,” said Vanderweigh. “By then, the doctor might've been broke.”
“Broke? Why?”
“Larry Scott was blackmailing him.”
I nodded. “And when Claudia found out about it, she killed Scott.”
“She didn't,” said Vanderweigh. “Dwyer killed Scott.”
“Before Scott could bleed the doctor dry.”
“Right. Scott was hitting him for ten grand a month, and the doctor was paying.”
“So Dwyer followed him down the Cape …”
“And saw the perfect opportunity to deflect suspicion onto you and Ms. Banyon.”
I pointed my finger at Vanderweigh. “He did a damn good job of it, too. You bought it.”
He shrugged.
“So,” I said, “Dwyer and Claudia … ?”
He nodded. “They were in it together. When she found out Larry Scott was blackmailing the doctor, she seduced Dwyer, promised to split her inheritance with him, got him to do the dirty work.”
“So where did Owen Ransom fit into it?”
“Ms. Wells was afraid Ransom was going to blackmail the doctor, too. She arranged to meet him that night—the night he annoyed you at the diner. Led him to believe that she was a lonely, small-town girl eager to fuck a studly out-of-town doctor. She's a good-looking woman.”
“Yes,” I said. “I noticed.”
“So she seduced him into telling her his real intention.”
“He was going to blackmail St. Croix, too?”
“It's not clear. Maybe. According to Ms. Wells, he never exactly said. But he had something on the doctor, and he was going to make him pay. She said those were his words: ‘Make him pay.'”
I thought about that. “Revenge, maybe?”
Vanderweigh nodded. “Could be. For what, though?”
“For something that happened back in Gorham, Minnesota, when they were both living there.”
He shrugged.
“So Claudia cut Ransom's throat.”
“Dwyer did that,” said Vanderweigh.
“Didn't Claudia say what these guys had on St. Croix, that they were blackmailing him for?”
“No,” he said. “I don't think she knows. All she knows is that the doctor was paying Scott, so it had to be something real. It started with Scott shortly after the announcement of St. Croix's retirement hit the newspapers. Then along came Ransom. The only solution was to get rid of those two, and then get rid of the doctor before somebody else came along.”
“Nobody could blackmail him if he was dead,” I said.
“Nope.”
“Be nice to know what they had on him, though.”
“Your friend Ms. Banyon might know.”
“She might,” I said. “Wherever she is.”
Vanderweigh bought me breakfast at the diner, which seemed to me to be the least he could do, then drove me back to the Cortland Motor Inn, where my car was waiting for me outside my room. They'd fetched it for me from where Claudia had left it in the woods. She'd followed behind Dwyer when he drove me to the cabin. Their plan was to make it look like I'd decided to spend the night there in Larry's cabin. There were plenty of people who'd heard me complain about my claustrophobic motel room. If Vanderweigh and Valerie Kershaw hadn't rescued me, it would've appeared that I'd had a few beers, flopped down on the bunk, and then knocked over the kerosene lantern. Tragic accident.
I slid out of Vanderweigh's car, and he did, too. It was eight-thirty on a Tuesday morning in mid-August, and already the sun was steaming off the pavement of the motel parking lot.
We leaned side by side against his car.
Vanderweigh squinted up at the cloudless sky. “Gonna be another hot one.”
“Looks like.”
“Guess you'll be heading back to the city, huh?”
“In the blink of an eye,” I said.
“I hope you don't expect an apology from me.”
“You owe me one,” I said, “but I don't expect to get it.”
He turned his head, looked at me for a minute, then smiled. “We'll be in touch with you.”
“The DA will want to depose me.”
“I expect so. Ms. Banyon, too.”
“If you can find her.”
“Oh,” he said, “we'll find her.”
“I hope so,” I said.
I cleaned out my room, paid my bill at the motel office, and a little over an hour later I was in my apartment on Lewis Wharf on the Boston waterfront.
Cortland, Massachusetts suddenly seemed far away and long ago.
I loaded up my electric coffee pot, soaked in the shower, slipped into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and took a mug of coffee and my portable phone out onto my balcony, where there was always a cool, salty breeze coming in off the water, even on a scorching August day.
I called Julie at the office and told her I was home but not feeling well, so I was taking the rest of the day off. She wanted to know all about it, of course. I told her I was too tired to talk and it would have to wait until tomorrow.
Then I tried Evie's number at home.
Her machine answered, as I'd expected. “It's Evie. I can't come to the phone right now, but your call is important to me, so please leave a message and I'll get back to you, I promise.”
I wasn't at all sure she'd get back to me, but I left a message anyway: “It's Tuesday. A lot has happened since I talked to
you, even though that was just yesterday. Seems like a year ago. I want to tell you all about it. Preferably in person. Anyhow, it's all over. Detective Vanderweigh arrested Claudia Wells and Officer John Dwyer this morning for the murders of Larry Scott and Owen Ransom and Dr. Winston St. Croix. Maybe you didn't know about the doctor. I assume you were long gone by the time that happened. The good news is, you and I are no longer suspects, and the people who wanted to hurt us are safely locked up. So wherever you are, honey, you can come home. Will you? I hope you will.” I cleared my throat. “I sure do miss you.”
After that, I called Marcus Bluestein, Evie's boss at Emerson Hospital. I told him that I'd found Evie and then lost her again.
He hadn't heard from her.
Then I hobbled into my bedroom, dropped my clothes on the floor, and crawled in between the cool sheets.
When I woke up, the day had passed and it was dark outside.
The following Friday afternoon I was at my desk still trying to catch up on all the paperwork that had accumulated in the few days I'd been gone when Julie buzzed me.
Marcus Bluestein was on the phone. “I just talked to her,” he said.

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