Tight Lines

by William G. Tapply

  “Sure. It would be a pleasure.”

  “Well, good,” he said, missing my sarcasm entirely. “It wouldn’t be a pleasure for me.”

  “Are you still investigating?” I said.

  “Me?”

  “You did talk with Dr. McAllister. I gave you other names.”

  “Well, he discounted suicide pretty emphatically, as I’m sure you recall. That’s what we were wondering about.”

  “You don’t plan to talk to anybody else?”

  I heard him expel a breath into the telephone. “Coyne, they don’t pay me these big bucks to work on New Hampshire medical examiner cases, okay? Especially when they aren’t real cases. This is what they call your basic quid pro quo deal. If I help Doctor Dead up there, one day he’ll help me. So I helped. Talked to the authority on the dead woman’s frame of mind. Suicide? No way. Good enough for me. Good enough for the doctor, too, by the way. You might not believe it, because you don’t hang around with the right people, but we actually have murders and rapes and arson fires and bank scams and multi-million-dollar drug deals right here in the good old Bay State. The good doctor up there in New Hampshire wonders about this body they found in a pond that looks like it drowned, and in fact did drown, and because he’s a very meticulous guy with not much work to do, since they don’t have all the murders and rapes and multi-million-dollar drug deals we have, he says, ‘Hey, let’s check out suicide.’ Well, I’ll tell you, if her body showed up here in the Commonwealth, say in Jamaica Pond there, by now Mary Ellen Ames’d be signed, sealed, delivered, and cremated, on the theory that what looks like an accident probably by God is an accident, and on to the next fifty cases.”

  “Christ,” I said. “I’m sorry I asked.”

  “Just so you don’t accuse me of not knowing my job.”

  “Far be it from me.”

  I called Susan right after hanging up with Horowitz. She answered the phone herself with a brisk, businesslike, “Yes?”

  “It’s Brady.”

  “Hello, Counselor.”

  “Hi. Feeling okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “Yeah? Good?”

  “For heaven’s sake,” she muttered. I heard her take an exasperated breath and let it out slowly. “What’s up, anyway? Or did you just call to inquire after my health?”

  “I care about your health, Susan,” I said. “I also wanted you to know. They’re not ready to release Mary Ellen’s body yet. They want to run some more tests.”

  “Brady, what the hell is going on?” she said. “They know who she is, they know she drowned. What more do they want?”

  “They’ve got to decide what happened. It’s the medical examiner’s job. He’s got to rule out—other explanations.”

  “Suicide, you mean.”

  “Well, that, yes. But also, if she was intoxicated or under the influence of a drug, that would help explain why a good swimmer like Mary Ellen might drown.”

  “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Murder. They think somebody murdered her.”

  “I don’t believe they think that. There doesn’t seem to be any evidence of it.”

  “But maybe they’ll find something.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Maybe they will.”

  “And you’ll continue to keep me informed.”

  “I will.”

  “Well, you should know that Willard Ellington is eager to tidy things up.”

  “The Historic Places guy?”

  “Yes. Him. Now that—since Mary Ellen has, um, predeceased me, of course, the place goes directly to the commission upon my imminent demise. He wants to be sure the transfer is smooth and quick. He’s afraid of the whole thing landing in probate.”

  “There will be no delay, Susan.”

  “Well, good. You can reassure him.”

  “Me?”

  “I suspect he will want to discuss it with you.”

  “And I should be polite to him.”

  “How gracious you are is entirely up to you.”

  “Actually,” I said, “it’s entirely up to him.”

  And, as it turned out, it was difficult to be gracious to Willard Ellington, who did, in fact, appear in my office on Tuesday afternoon.

  Julie ushered him into my office and ventured a sly quizzical grin behind his back. This particular sly quizzical grin of hers meant she either didn’t like him, or had found him amusing, or had concluded he was a crackpot. I’d just have to find out which for myself. He took the wood-frame chair beside my desk without my invitation. In fact, by a subtle tilt of his head he managed to invite me to sit in my own chair, thereby taking command of the meeting. Neither of us offered to shake hands.

  “I am here,” he said abruptly, “to discuss the matter of Susan Ames’s estate. I am a busy man, and I have driven here from Concord, taking me away from my business, so I trust we can be direct and to the point.”

  “There is nothing I’d like better,” I said, “inasmuch as I am in the middle of my own business hours myself.”

  Ellington, I judged, was in his mid-sixties. He reminded me of a vulture in both appearance and demeanor. He had a sharp, hawklike nose and a jutting pointed chin and a completely bald head that was a bit undersized for his angular, hollow-shouldered frame. The skin was stretched so tightly over his skull that all the planes and angles of his bones stood out sharply. He had pale bushy eyebrows. They might have been blond or white, I couldn’t tell. His eyes were the color of slate.

  “Very well, then,” he said, after impaling me with those eyes for a moment. “Quite simply, I want to verify that there will be no delay in the transfer of the deed to the Ames place once Mrs. Ames passes.”

  “Her will was drawn up by a competent attorney, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  My remark called for a witty—or at least, sarcastic—rejoinder. After all, that competent attorney had been me, which he, of course, knew. But instead, Willard Ellington said, “Yes. Precisely.” Obviously, a man for whom humor was too time-consuming.

  “Well, Susan Ames seems satisfied with it”—I shrugged—“and she’s paying for it. So I guess it’ll have to do. The Concord Historic Places Commission will get the place once your death dance works its magic.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “That was uncalled for.”

  I shrugged.

  “Susan Ames is elderly,” he said. “Death is inevitable. The Ames mansion, however, is timeless. It belongs to history. It’s a rare thing nowadays for a monument of such historic significance—and in such excellent repair—to become available. I do not want this transaction bungled or delayed in any way.”

  “Well, sir, it’s a damn good thing you reminded me. Otherwise I probably would have bungled the hell out of it.” I gave him my most courteous smile. “And how else may I be of service, Mr. Ellington?”

  “I would like my own attorneys to examine the will.”

  “You can’t wait for Susan to die first?”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Your attorneys helped us frame the language in the will. If Susan wants to release her copy of it to them, I can’t stop her. Frankly, I don’t know what your rush is.”

  “My rush, as you put it, is none of your affair, Mr. Coyne.”

  “But Mary Ellen Ames’s untimely death certainly has worked to your advantage.”

  He thrust his beaky nose at me. “And what are you implying?”

  I shrugged and smiled. “Nothing. I will discuss the matter with Susan. Have your attorney call me.”

  “Very well.” He stood up. “And I thank you.”

  “Oh, it’s been a pleasure.”

  I walked him out of my office and we shook hands just like gentlemen at the door. After he left, I muttered, “Asshole.”

  Julie looked up. “Huh?”

  “I’ve found one person who is rejoicing that Mary Ellen Ames has died,” I said. “I suspect there are others.”

  22 />
  I WAS SITTING AT Julie’s desk at around two the next afternoon. Julie was in my office negotiating the extension of our lease with our landlord. He wanted to jack up the rent. Julie had complaints about the management of the building.

  Julie was skilled at that sort of thing, which worked out well since I had little patience with it. Besides, it fell under her job description. She also handled our insurance, ordered supplies, and generally left me completely free to do the lawyer stuff. Actually, she did a lot of lawyer stuff, too. I had tried once to elevate her status from secretary to office manager. To my bafflement, it just pissed her off. She wanted to be called a secretary. She believed that a sexist male business world had created the negative connotations on the title “secretary.” Secretaries, she said, were vital cogs in the corporate wheel. Without secretaries, said Julie, offices could not function. So why belittle them by giving some of them phony titles?

  Pay secretaries what they’re worth, said Julie. That’s all.

  Secretary, office manager, either way Julie was the boss. She ran the show.

  So while she hammered it out with the landlord, I sat at her desk answering the phone, as she had instructed me to.

  And when it rang, it was I who picked it up.

  “Brady Coyne, attorney at law,” I said, the way Julie insisted I do it.

  “Is that you, Brady?” It was Terri.

  “Oh, hi, General. How goes the battle?”

  “Not very well, I’m afraid.”

  “Susan?”

  “She’s started having a lot of pain. And she’s very despondent. The doctor wants to put her on morphine, but she’s refusing. I think it’s really hitting her now.”

  “That she’s going to die?”

  “Well, yes. That. But also that her daughter is dead. I think up till now she’s kept herself going by sheer will power. Mary Ellen’s death seems to have sucked that out of her. The last few days have been bad. According to the doctor, it’s not going to get any better. There’s a tumor, and it’s just going to keep growing and eating her up. She says it’s kind of like being pregnant. This thing inside of her grows bigger and bigger and then one day—it’s over. Like giving birth. Except she calls it giving death.” Terri laughed quickly. “That’s her. Trying to make a joke out of it. The doctor would like to hospitalize her. She won’t hear of it. She feels that if she goes to the hospital, she’ll never come home.”

  “Oh, boy,” I said. “This is just all around lousy. What can I do?”

  “You’re one of the few people she’d like to see, Brady.”

  “When would be a good time?”

  “Anytime, really. Late afternoon, early evening would probably be best. But whatever is convenient for you.”

  “I think I could be out there later today, if that would be all right.”

  “That would be wonderful.”

  “Look for me between five and six, then.” I hesitated. “Hey, Terri?”

  “Yes?”

  “We still on for Saturday?”

  “Why wouldn’t we be?”

  “I don’t know. Good. Look, I’ll see you this afternoon.”

  “That will be nice.”

  It was actually a little after six before I pulled into Susan’s driveway. Terri answered the door. She smiled and held her hand out to me. “Hi, there.”

  “Hello, General.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You can call me Terri, you know. We factotums don’t like to stand on ceremony.”

  “Okay. How is she?”

  “Eager to see you, I think. She’s in the library having tea. Want some?”

  “Sure.”

  Susan was propped up on the big leather sofa. A bulky comforter was wrapped around her so that only her head was poking out, and she was watching the news on a small tabletop television. Her hair had been brushed and her face made up. But nothing could erase the pain lines etched around her mouth and eyes.

  “Brady,” she said. A hand snaked out from under the comforter.

  I went to her and took it. I bent and kissed her cheek. “Hi, Susan.”

  “Turn off that damn machine and sit with me.”

  I shut off the television and sat beside her. Her hand reached for mine again. I squeezed it gently and kept holding it. “Not too good, huh?” I said.

  “I can’t decide which pain is worse,” she said softly. “The one in my gut or the one in my soul. But you didn’t come here to listen to an old lady’s complaints.”

  “You can complain all you want. I don’t mind.”

  Terri came into the room with a teapot and a mug. She poured mine full and refilled Susan’s, which sat on the table beside the sofa. “Anything else I can get you?” she said.

  Susan shook her head. “No, thank you, dear.”

  Terri left the room.

  “Lovely young lady. Very capable. Beautiful, isn’t she?”

  I nodded.

  Susan looked at me sharply, then smiled. I wondered if Terri had let it slip that she and I had been seeing each other. “I want to do something for her. She has a young daughter, you know.”

  I shrugged. I didn’t know what Susan knew. I figured it was up to Terri to tell her if she wanted to.

  “I’m very fond of her. She doesn’t have a lot of money. I’d like to establish a trust fund for little Melissa Fiori.”

  “That can be done,” I said. “I’ll have Julie put together the paperwork.”

  “We better do it quickly, Brady.”

  I nodded. Before she died, she meant.

  “I’d just as soon give everything to her,” said Susan. “She’s—she’s been like a daughter to me.”

  “Your predatory friend wouldn’t like that.”

  “Willard? You met him, then.”

  “Yes. He was in yesterday. He’s starting to circle around.”

  She smiled. “He is a buzzard, isn’t he? Still, the commission must get the place, regardless of Willard Ellington. But there is a little money there for Melissa, I trust.”

  “There is actually quite a bit,” I said.

  She closed her eyes. “Good. This feels like a good thing. I think of Terri and her little Melissa, and I think of—of Mary Ellen.”

  I sipped my tea.

  “I was thirty-two when Charles and I married,” she said. “He had just turned forty. Both of us, I think, were surprised by it. We had more or less resigned ourselves to single life. I don’t know if it was what they call love. It felt more like convenience. Both of us were independent sorts, fixed in our ways, not accustomed to partnership. I think Charles felt the breath of advancing years on the back of his neck. He had no heirs. His brother did not survive a Japanese prison camp. Both of his parents were dead. We never really talked about it. But the deal, I think, was that I would give him an heir. It took nearly ten years to accomplish. We were both deep into middle age by then. I don’t think either of us had a great capacity for love. At least not the kind of love a parent is expected to have for his child. Not the kind of love Terri has for her Melissa. Maybe if you don’t have much money, you make up for it with love. And, by the same logic, if you have plenty of money you shortchange the child in the love department. I don’t know. I have limited experience. I do know that we didn’t do right by her.”

  “I’m sure you did the best you could,” I murmured.

  “Oh, I’m sure we didn’t,” she said. “We—” She stopped suddenly. I turned to look at her. Her eyes were squeezed shut and her forehead glistened with perspiration.

  “Susan?”

  “Take my hand, Brady.”

  I found her hand. She gripped mine hard. “Oh, shit,” she whispered through clenched teeth. She panted rapidly through her mouth, the way women are taught in natural childbirth classes to control labor pains. When giving birth. Or giving death.

  After a minute or two, her grip on my hand relaxed and she let out a long, deep breath. She opened her eyes and looked at me.

  “Okay?” I said.

  “I
t comes so quickly. I don’t know when to expect it. I’m sorry.”

  “What about medication, Susan? You shouldn’t have to tolerate that.”

  “I do not want to die in some fuzzy drug world. I don’t have much time. I want at least to be aware of what there is left of it for me.”

  I nodded. “I understand.”

  She breathed deeply again. “I’m all right now.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “Anyway, Mary Ellen was a wild, brilliant child. Very bright, very uncontrolled, very manipulative. Neither Charles nor I understood that warmth and love was all she needed. He coped with her willfulness by buying things for her. I did not approve. I believed in discipline. Punishment. So Charles spoiled her and I alienated her. She learned how to play us off against each other by the time she could talk. I have been over it and over it in my mind ever since you told me she—was dead. And I realize now what happened. I tried to blame him. It was his fault. But mine equally. We both killed her. Charles and I. Because, God help us, we didn’t love her. And she knew it.”

  “You’re being too hard on yourself, Susan. Blaming yourself isn’t right. There is no evidence that Mary Ellen committed suicide.”

  “I’m not necessarily talking about suicide, Brady. I just mean the whole course of her life, which took her to the place where she had to die young. Charles and I, we had power over that.”

  “Replaying it doesn’t do anybody any good.”

  “It does me good,” she said. “I want to figure it out. Listen. We put her in private schools. She got terrible grades. All her teachers said she was brilliant, gifted. But her energies went into manipulation, not schoolwork. One of her male teachers got fired when she was thirteen. Do you know why?”

  I nodded. “I guess I can figure it out.”

  “The school persuaded Charles not to press charges. If I’d had my way, that man would have gone to prison. But you know Charles.”

  “No,” I said quietly, “I never knew Charles. You hired me after he died, remember?”

  She touched my arm. “Of course. I’m sorry. Anyway, I was wrong. That poor teacher didn’t victimize Mary Ellen Ames. It wasn’t his fault. He was her victim. She was a mature woman—physically—at thirteen, and more skilled at deceit than most adults. She had an abortion at fifteen, Brady, and another a year later. She somehow graduated and got into college. Her father’s name and her father’s money—and his connections—did it for her. She had terrible grades and astronomical scores on her standardized tests. Anyhow, then Charles died, and she left with that Arab person, and… well, dammit, anyway.”