Dead Winter

by William G. Tapply

  She nodded. “Yes. We can’t go anyplace. Not like a restaurant or the movies or anything. I just can’t take the chance that somebody’ll see us. We got out and walked on the beach for a while. Took off our shoes and squished our toes in the sand. Then—”

  “You went to his boat?”

  She nodded. “He said no one would see us. We could take it out, be alone.”

  “Did you go anywhere before you went to the boat?”

  “No. We drove straight to it. Left my car on the side of the road by the beach.”

  “What was Marc wearing?”

  She cocked her head at me. “What difference is it?”

  “Can you remember?”

  “Slacks. Sport coat.” She shrugged.

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Sure I’m sure. It wasn’t that long ago, you know.”

  “So you went to the boat.”

  She widened her eyes. “Oh, wow. He didn’t want me to see her, but I did. I was right behind him, and when he saw her lying there he sort of jumped back and like gasped and I could see her over his shoulder. I’ve never seen anything…” She hunched her shoulders and pressed her forearms together in front of her.

  “Do you have any idea what time you arrived at the boat?”

  She hugged herself. “Midnight, maybe. I don’t know. Maybe a little later. It was maybe one o’clock when I finally got home. Marc drove me back to my car. Told me not to say anything, he’d take care of it. I mean, he knows if Al ever found out. Oh, jeez, he’d kill me. Or worse. Luckily Al wasn’t there. I went to bed. Hardly slept at all. I pretended to be asleep when Al came pounding in. Drunk. So what else is new, huh?”

  “What time did Al get home?”

  She shrugged elaborately. “What time does he ever get in? When he feels like it. It must’ve been after two. Him and his buddies.” She snorted through her nose. “I had to wake him up before I left to come here. Told him to take care of the kids so I could go make a few bucks to feed them.”

  “Did Marc mention a name when he saw Maggie? Her body, I mean?”

  “I don’t getcha.”

  “As if he had an idea of who might’ve hurt her.”

  She shook her head. “No. I mean, I don’t think so. It was so scary and weird I’m not sure I’d remember.”

  “Can you think of anything you didn’t tell me, Andy?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Anything Marc might’ve said before you got to the boat. Or when he drove you back to your car.”

  She squinted at me. “I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Coyne.”

  “You’re one step ahead of me, then.”

  She smiled quickly. “You think Marc killed Maggie and then called me up so he could pretend to find her body. Then I’d be his whatchacallit, his alibi. Right?”

  “The thought occurred to me, yes.”

  “Well, he’d have to of killed her before nine thirty. They can figure that out, can’t they?”

  “I think so. I’ll check.”

  “Look. I mean, I’m worried for Marc’s sake and all that. But I gotta tell you, I’m more worried about me. You seem like a nice guy. You make me feel like I can trust you.” She shook her head slowly. “If I can’t—I mean, if you’re going to tell people what I just told you—you gotta know that I’m like dead. Really.”

  “They haven’t arrested Marc. I suppose they may suspect him. But I know that Marc doesn’t want you involved. If he didn’t do it, then they’ll have no evidence that would justify their arresting him. In which case, he won’t need you.”

  She nodded. “And if he did do it, then I won’t be able to help him anyway.”

  I knew it wasn’t that simple, but I saw no point in adding to this young woman’s problems. “That’s about it,” I said. I extracted a dollar bill from my wallet and put it at my place at the table. Then I pushed myself back and stood up. “We both have to get to work. I appreciate your honesty.” I held my hand to her.

  She grasped it. “I told you the truth. I really did. I just hope…”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “I mean, if it comes to it, I’d have to say what happened. I realize that. It would only wreck my life.” She tried to smile. “What the hell. It’s a mess already.”

  On my way out of the restaurant I had to step over the outthrust ankles of a big blond guy who was leaning back with his elbows propped on the bar. He made no effort to move, and as I went past him I could sense his eyes following me. When I stepped outside from the dim interior of the restaurant into the bright noonday sunshine, I paused to squint. A voice behind me said, “So whadda ya think you’re up to, pal?”

  I turned. It was the blond man. He wore a grease-spotted T-shirt that stretched taut across his chest. It failed to meet the belt of his jeans, revealing an expanse of pink hairless flab. His beefy face was red. His little pig eyes slitted narrowly. The side of his mouth turned down in an ugly sneer.

  I looked him up and down. “What’s it to you?” Lightning quick with the wisecrack. That’s me.

  “You hittin’ on my old lady in there. I wanna know who the fuck you are.”

  “My name is Coyne, sir,” I said, realizing that this was Andy’s husband, Al, and my responsibility was to protect her. “I sell insurance. Disability insurance. Everybody who works should have disability insurance. It’s important for restaurant personnel. All sorts of accidents can befall a restaurant employee. Disability insurance is especially important for unsalaried workers. You,” I added, smiling at him, “should have disability insurance. Do you have a good plan, sir?”

  “I don’t need no disa-fuckin’-bility insurance, friend, and neither does my wife.”

  “Oh, everybody does. You sure I can’t interest you—?”

  I saw it coming, a straight-armed club with a fist the size of a cantaloupe on the end of it. My brain gauged distance and velocity and instructed my body to dodge and my chin to tuck under the protection of my shoulder. Al’s blow exploded high on the side of my head, and as I staggered and fell backwards, I thought sadly how when I was younger I could have slipped that crude, amateur attack.

  Instinctively I rolled into a fetal position. He kicked wildly at me, but I was moving and he missed. He fell on me, flailing with the sides of his fists. I tried to rise onto hands and knees but his body pressed on me, slippery with our mingled sweat. His breath against my face reeked of last night’s beer and offended as much as his prodding and gouging knees and elbows.

  Abruptly his weight was off me. I pushed myself into a sitting position. My breath burned in my lungs. Damn cigarettes.

  Marc had his forearm levered across Al’s throat. The big guy stood there panting. “Lemme at the bassard,” he rasped.

  “Take it easy, Al,” said Marc. “You got a problem with this man?”

  “He was hittin’ on Andy. Nobody hits on Andy.”

  “I was just trying to sell her insurance,” I said quickly, to clue in Marc. “Mr. Winter here is going to buy some.”

  “That’s right,” said Marc. “This man is an insurance salesman.”

  “I don’t fuckin’ believe that,” muttered Al. But his mouth screwed up stupidly, as if the concept was difficult for him.

  I stood up and held out my hand to Al. “Hey, no hard feelings, sir,” I said. “Little misunderstanding.”

  Al jerked himself out of Marc’s grasp and stood there, bulging arms hanging, his big chest heaving. “I was watchin’ this sombitch in there,” he said, looking at me but talking to Marc. “No fuckin’ way he was sellin’ insurance. I’m gonna find out what the hell’s goin’ on. The tramp’s gonna pay.”

  “Come on,” I said. “Shake my hand.”

  Al turned his head and spat. It landed beside my foot. “I ain’t stupid,” he muttered, and turned and lumbered away.

  Marc and I watched him go. He climbed into a rusted old pickup with wood two-by-tens for bumpers. It started up with a roar, spewing a great cloud of exhaust, and sp
un its wheels in the gravel as it left.

  “You better tell Andy what happened,” I said to Marc after Al’s truck had left. “Make sure she keeps the story straight.”

  He nodded. “Al’ll beat the shit out of her anyhow.”

  “I told him I was trying to sell her insurance.”

  “He doesn’t believe that. He didn’t believe you, he won’t believe her.”

  “We’re stuck with the story. It’s the best I could do under the circumstances.”

  Marc shrugged. “The gals in the restaurant all know Al. They’ll cover for her. I’ll be right back.”

  Marc went inside. I went over to my car. I leaned against it and gingerly touched my skull. I discovered a small tender lump where Al’s fist had connected with what was, fortunately, a glancing blow on thick bone. I found a small tear on the left knee of my pants. My shirt was dirty. Otherwise I seemed to be none the worse for the experience.

  Once upon a time I could handle myself. I played sports. I was quick and strong. I had my share of brawls. I was gifted with quick reflexes, limber muscles, an instinct for self-defense. But this time, I realized, I had been lucky. Al was fat and slow and unskilled. Yet had not Marc interceded I could have been hurt badly. The years had eroded my athlete’s graces, leaving, I had to admit, an out-of-condition middle-aged man at the mercy of bullies like Al.

  Yale Law School did not teach us the gentleman’s arts. There had been times during my practice of the law when I felt it was an inexcusable omission.

  Marc returned. “I told her. She’s petrified of the guy. But she’ll stick to the story. You tried to sell her insurance. She told you she wasn’t interested. Still,” he added, “you ought to be careful. Al’s not a guy to fool around with.”

  “Ah, he’s not so tough.”

  Marc cocked his head and examined me. He grinned. “It’s all relative.”

  “You probably should take care yourself.”

  He nodded.

  We got into the car and headed back to Des’s house. “Andy corroborated your story,” I said.

  Marc nodded. “Of course she did.”

  “You’ve put her into a tough spot.”

  “I didn’t know Maggie was going to get killed,” he said softly.

  I pulled into Des’s driveway. Marc got out of the car and then leaned in. “Why don’t you come in, get yourself cleaned up?”

  “Good idea.”

  Des was seated at the kitchen table eating a sandwich and watching a little portable television. When Marc and I went in, he looked up. “My word! What happened to you?”

  “I had a disagreement with a gentleman on insurance,” I said. “Not everybody believes in the importance of insurance.”

  “You should act your age, Brady,” said Des mildly, and returned his attention to the television.

  I climbed the stairs to one of the upstairs bathrooms. I found myself favoring my right leg, the one with the bum knee. In the mirror I saw where the skin had been scraped off my cheekbone. I took off my shirt and doused my face and chest with water. “Act your age,” I said to my reflection. “Good advice,” my reflection replied.

  I went back downstairs. Des offered me a sandwich, but I declined. “Getting beat up always ruins my appetite,” I said. “Anyway, I’ve got to get back to the office.”

  I told Marc to let me know if the police summoned him again, said good-bye, and went out to my car. Des followed me. “I’ve got to know,” he said to me.

  “I don’t think Marc did it, if that’s what you mean.”

  He nodded. “I thought I was prepared for anything. I mean, after Connie left…”

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “If Marc was with you until nine thirty last night—”

  “I went to bed around nine. Marc was here then.”

  “Then he’s in the clear.”

  “He was with a woman, wasn’t he?”

  I nodded.

  Des shook his head. “If only Connie…”

  “If only my uncle had steel wheels,” I said, “he’d be a choo-choo train.”

  Des nodded doubtfully. I slid into my BMW and pointed it at Copley Square.

  6

  JULIE WAS HUNCHED OVER the computer processing words when I got to the office. She looked up when I walked in, frowned, returned her attention to her keyboard for a few beats, and then did an exaggerated double take.

  “Oh, sir!” she said. She leaped to her feet and made a swooping curtsey. “So wonderful of you to grace us with your presence. Welcome to our humble law office.”

  “Julie, cut the shit, will you? I got about three hours of sleep last night and I’m in no mood.”

  “Several of your clients are in no mood, also.” She glared at me out of the corners of her eyes and returned to her seat. “You got a bunch of messages on your desk, if you feel like looking at them.”

  “I am prepared to get to work,” I harrumphed.

  “Don’t strain yourself.”

  I pivoted and strode toward my inner office.

  “Looks like the truck won,” called Julie.

  I stopped and touched the abrasion on my cheek. “It was a draw.”

  I detoured to Mr. Coffee, poured myself a mug, and took it into my sanctum. Julie had left a pad of yellow legal paper in the precise center of my otherwise clear desk. I eased into my chair, lit a Winston, sipped my coffee, and read the list of phone messages she had noted for me.

  First were the weekend calls from the machine:

  Dr. Adams, Friday P.M., regretting missing you, wondering about your banker’s hours, to try you at home.

  Nathan Greenberg, Sunday, 3:00 P.M., will try again Monday first thing. Urgent, quote-unquote. Did not identify himself further.

  Unidentified woman, sultry voice, claiming wrong number. I doubt it.

  Next Julie listed the calls she had taken during my absence in the morning:

  Dr. Adams again, wanting to report on fishing trip and make you jealous. No need to return call.

  Mr. Paradise, calling from pay phone. Cautions extreme secrecy.

  Mr. McDevitt, wanting lunch. Has new joke. Refuses to share with me.

  Mr. Ellard. Massachusetts Bar. Your professional association, not the joint around the corner. Reminding you of your article on trusts vis-à-vis new tax laws. I told him it was in the mail. I’m typing it now.

  Ms. Winter. No message.

  I picked up the pad and took it back out to the reception area. Julie had the computer clicking like a muted Western Union telegraph. I touched the back of her neck. She turned her head and looked up at me without missing a beat.

  “Take a break,” I said.

  “Can’t. Your article is late.”

  “How’s it sound?”

  “I’m typing it, not reading it.”

  “Oh.”

  “Actually, I fixed it up. It’s pretty boring, but at least it’s now in proper English. Your spelling wobbles.”

  “Of course it’s boring. It’s supposed to be.”

  She stopped typing, sighed, and swiveled around. I placed my hands on the front of her shoulders, bent, and kissed her forehead. “Sorry I was late. Sorry I didn’t call-She shrugged. “It’s what I expect.”

  “Come on. Lighten up, kid.”

  She smiled. “If I didn’t pout, you’d be upset.”

  “True.”

  “Were you really in a fight?”

  “I was attacked by a cowardly bully.”

  “The lady’s husband?”

  “Actually, yes. But it’s not what you think.”

  She grinned. “Sure.”

  “Tell me about these calls,” I said.

  She took the pad from me and squinted at it. “Not much to add.”

  “Who’s this Greenberg?”

  “Don’t know. He didn’t identify himself.”

  “Did he call back?”

  She frowned. “No. He said he would. He was very emphatic about it, actually. Said he’d call early and keep trying unt
il he got through.”

  “Well, I guess he changed his mind. You told Charlie McDevitt to forget about lunch?”

  “I told him I hadn’t heard from you, didn’t know when or if you’d be in.”

  “Doc Adams?”

  “He started to tell me about largemouth brown trout or something.”

  “Bass? Largemouth bass? There’s no such thing as largemouth brown trout, Julie. You fish for brown trout with dry flies or nymphs on rivers like the Deerfield. Now, your largemouth bass—”

  Julie crossed her eyes. “You can’t expect me to keep your fish straight. I have enough trouble with your girlfriends.”

  “The fish are much more important,” I said. “Did Doc say where he went?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I don’t remember.”

  “Come on, Julie. This is important.”

  “For crying out loud, Brady.”

  I held up my hands, a gesture of surrender. “Okay, okay. What about Frank Paradise?”

  She smiled. “As usual. Refused to say his name. Assumes our phone is tapped or something. Tried to talk in code. He’s getting real paranoid, Brady.”

  “He’s always been real paranoid. He’s probably invented something new, watching out for the pirates. What’d Kat Winter want?”

  Julie’s mouth tightened in disapproval. “Oh, she’s so charming. Said it was personal, not professional. Somehow, the way she used the word ‘personal’…” Julie made her voice low and sultry in imitation.

  “She’s a client, Julie. Not to mention the fact that I spent the wee hours last night with her father and brother in Newburyport.”

  “Ah,” she said. “A day of fishing on the high seas and an evening of drinking beer and talking theology. No wonder you’re late.”

  “Marc’s wife was killed last night.”

  Julie stared at me. After a moment, she said, “You’re not kidding, are you?”

  “No.”

  “You really know how to smack a girl between the eyes, Brady Coyne.”

  “I would’ve told you. But you were so damn grouchy I said the hell with it.”

  “What happened?”

  I shrugged. “I’m not sure. The police suspect Marc, of course. He’s in the clear, though, I think.”