Past Tense

by William G. Tapply

  Les also used to say, “Detecting is pretty good work, provided you’ve got a high tolerance for boredom and you’re getting paid by the hour.”

  Les was good at his job, and when he thrashed around, it was always with a purpose. His specialty was confronting people, sometimes to antagonize them and sometimes to charm them, just to see how they’d react. Every once in a while, somebody would give away something that Les hadn’t known was there.

  The other thing about Les Katz was that the last time he thrashed around, somebody ran him down with a truck and killed him.

  Les Katz was a good guy, but he was a poor role model. I didn’t have a very high tolerance for boredom, and the only people who paid me by the hour were my clients back in Boston—who were paying me nothing as long as I was thrashing around in Cortland.

  Anyway, I didn’t care for the way Les’s thrashing around had ended up.

  Evie was gone, and solving Larry Scott’s murder seemed less important than it had. It was time for me to go home. First I figured I’d better tell Detective Vanderweigh what I knew about the Ransom family history, not that I understood its significance.

  At the end of the dirt road, I turned south on Route 1, heading for the police station in the center of town. If Vanderweigh wasn’t there, they’d be able to find him.

  I’d have to try to tell him what I knew without dragging Mary Scott into it. She was Evie’s friend, and she had enough problems. She had been harboring a suspected murderer, and I assumed that at some point or other she had lied to the police about it, and even if it was out of love and loyalty, they probably wouldn’t be sympathetic.

  I’d just driven past the old drive-in movie theater when a police cruiser passed me heading in the opposite direction. I watched in my rearview mirror as it made a U-turn behind me. Then its blue flashers went on, then its siren, and it closed the distance between us quickly.

  I flipped on my directional signal and pulled to the side of the road. The cruiser stopped behind me, and Valerie Kershaw got out and came to my window.

  “I was just thinking,” I said to her, “there’s never a cop around when you want one, and here you are.”

  “Here I am,” she said. “Will you follow me, please?”

  “Sure. Where to?”

  “Just follow me.”

  She went back to her cruiser and pulled out in front of me, and I followed her. Five minutes later, we ended up at Dr. St. Croix’s place. Half a dozen vehicles, including another Cortland PD cruiser, were parked in the gravel turnaround and along the side of the road.

  Valerie pulled off the road and got out of her cruiser. I stopped behind her and slid out of my car.

  “What’s going on?” I said to her.

  She shook her head. “They want to talk to you inside.”

  We went up the path to the doctor’s office. Sergeant Dwyer was standing guard outside the door. He nodded to us, stepped aside, and we went in.

  There were half a dozen people in the waiting room. Sergeant Lipton was in the corner by the window talking quietly with a small Asian woman who had two cameras around her neck. An overstuffed middle-aged man in a dark suit stood with them, listening. Claudia Wells and Charlotte Matley were sitting close to each other on the sofa. Claudia was staring down at her hands, which were tugging at a handkerchief. Charlotte was leaning toward her, whispering intently. If they noticed me, they chose to ignore me.

  Thomas Soderstrom was sitting stiffly in a chair on the other side of the room. He looked up when I walked in, blinked at me through his thick glasses, and nodded without smiling.

  In fact, nobody was smiling.

  The one person who was conspicuously absent from the room was Dr. St. Croix.

  I thought I got the picture.

  “What’s going on?” I whispered to Valerie.

  She shook her head.

  “It’s the doctor, right?”

  She didn’t answer me.

  A moment later, Sergeant Lipton looked up, nodded to me, said something to the Asian woman, and came over. He held out his hand. “Mr. Coyne,” he said. “Thanks for coming.”

  I shook his hand. “I wasn’t given much choice.”

  “Detective Vanderweigh wants to talk with you. You can sit down if you want to. It might be a few minutes.”

  “Is anybody going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Detective Vanderweigh will fill you in.”

  Lipton went back to the Asian woman and the overstuffed man. I started for the sofa, where there was room to sit beside Charlotte Matley, but Valerie held my arm. “They don’t want you talking to anybody until Detective Vanderweigh sees you.”

  “The doctor died, didn’t he?”

  She looked away.

  “If he had died of natural causes,” I persisted, “there wouldn’t be a bunch of cops here.”

  “Please, Mr. Coyne,” she said.

  “Well,” I said, “do you think it would be all right if I went outside, had a cigarette? Sergeant Dwyer can keep an eye on me out there. I promise not to flee.”

  She shrugged. “I guess that would be all right.”

  She went to the door and spoke to Dwyer, then nodded to me.

  I went outside and lit a cigarette. “This was that call you got at the Scotts’ house, huh?” I said to Dwyer.

  He nodded

  “Something happened to Dr. St. Croix?”

  “Vanderweigh talk to you yet?”

  “No.”

  “Then I can’t.”

  So I stood there on the stoop, and I didn’t talk to Dwyer, and he didn’t talk to me.

  I finished my cigarette, watched a chipmunk prowl through the flower garden, shifted my weight from one leg to the other, listened to some crows arguing in the distance.

  After a while, Valerie Kershaw came out, got into her cruiser, and drove away.

  A few minutes later, Sergeant Lipton came to the door and said, “Mr. Coyne, you want to come in here now?”

  I followed him into the waiting room. I noticed that another man, this one tall and white-haired, had joined the Asian woman and the overstuffed man in the corner.

  Lipton pointed to Dr. St. Croix’s office. “In there.”

  The door was ajar. I pushed it open and went in.

  Detective Neil Vanderweigh was standing there with his back to me, looking out the window. “Close the door,” he said without turning around.

  I closed the door.

  He turned to face me. “Have a seat, Mr. Coyne.” He gestured at the same chair I had sat in the first time I talked with Dr. St. Croix.

  Vanderweigh looked at me for a minute. I couldn’t read his expression. Then he sighed, sat down on the other side of the desk, and picked up a sheet of paper. He glanced at it, then handed it to me.

  “What’s this?” I said as I reached for it.

  “Take a look, tell me what you make out of it.”

  It was a piece of white, legal-sized paper with writing scrawled on it, obviously a photocopy. I could make out the faint lines that indicated the original had been written on a legal pad. I guessed the handwriting was in pencil, although on the photocopy I couldn’t be sure.

  The writing itself was shaky. It appeared to be a list. It read:

  Can’t continue anymore

  Early days in Gorham—good times

  All those children—loved them all

  Never do harm to anyone

  MS—pain—losing my mind?

  End it on my own terms

  Tired all the time

  Third base—ran like the wind

  Dizziness, double vision

  Something else was scratched on the next line, but I couldn’t decipher it.

  I looked up at Vanderweigh. “Did St. Croix write this?”

  He nodded.

  “Suicide?”

  “Evidently.” He gestured at the sheet of paper I was holding. “How does that strike you?”

  “It’s not your conventional suicide note, but …” I shru
gged.

  “The ME thinks he died of an overdose of the medication he was taking,” said Vanderweigh. “At this point, our guess is that he wrote that”—he pointed at the paper I was holding—“after he injected himself. He died in bed. The notepad was on the floor beside him, along with a pencil and a hypodermic needle. His nurse, Ms. Wells, found him this morning.” He put his forearms on the desk and leaned toward me. “I understand you’ve visited the doctor several times since you’ve been here. Did he strike you as suicidal?”

  “Do you question it?” I said.

  “Unattended death,” he said. “A medical examiner’s case, as you know. He has questions about it. You got any thoughts?”

  “I’m not sure what the questions are,” I said, “but I do know some things.” So I told Vanderweigh about the suicide of Owen Ransom’s teenage brother, Edgar, in Carlisle, Pennsylvania, in 1987, and I told him that the Ransom family had moved to Carlisle from Gorham, Minnesota, in 1984, and I told him that the Ransom parents had died in a boating accident a few years after Edgar’s suicide. I also told him that Dr. Winston St. Croix had opened his first pediatric practice in Gorham, and before he could ask me, I told him that I had talked with the newspaper editor in Carlisle, Pennsylvania, but hadn’t learned much except that the Ransoms seemed to have a lot of money which Owen inherited, and that the other things I’d learned had come from Evie Banyon, and that Evie had discovered them from newspaper clippings and computer printouts she’d found in Larry Scott’s room in the cellar of his barn where she’d been hiding, and which had burned down just that morning.

  “Scott had this information?” said Vanderweigh.

  I nodded.

  “And you’ve had it for how long?”

  “Some of it yesterday, some just this morning.”

  “You got it from Ms. Banyon.”

  “Yes.”

  “When you were here yesterday afternoon,” he said, “you were asking St. Croix some questions.” He stated this as a fact, not a question. I figured he’d already talked to Thomas Soderstrom and Claudia Wells. They would have told him about our conversation.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Questions about these things you’ve just told me.” Again, a statement, not a question.

  “Some of these things. I didn’t know all of them then.”

  “How did he react?”

  “He accused me of cross-examining him. But he seemed to be treating it lightly, like he was was making a lawyer joke out of it.”

  “He didn’t seem upset?”

  I shrugged. “Not really. He was tired. We didn’t stay that long.”

  “‘We’?”

  “Thomas Soderstrom was there, too. And Claudia Wells, of course. They were watching the ball game when I got there, as I’m sure you know.”

  Vanderweigh smiled. “You knew where Ms. Banyon was all along, didn’t you?”

  “Not until yesterday.”

  “But when Sergeant Dwyer and I found you there in the barn, you knew then.”

  I nodded.

  “And you lied to us.”

  “Well, technically …”

  He shook his head. “I could make things very uncomfortable for you, you know.”

  “You already have.”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “Listen,” I said, “I’ve been trying to tell you that you’re wasting your time and the taxpayers’ money focusing your investigation on Evie. She was trying to get at the truth, and she might have, too, if somebody hadn’t burned down that barn.”

  “There’s no evidence that anybody set fire to that barn.”

  “Well,” I said, “think about it.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Thanks for the advice.” He leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers behind his head, and looked at me. “Let’s see. Larry Scott, citizen of Cortland, is murdered down in Brewster. Then a week later, Owen Ransom, hardware clerk from Pennsylvania posing as a doctor from New Jersey, is murdered in Cortland. Then Dr. Winston St. Croix, originally from Gorham, Minnesota, commits suicide. Oh, and Larry Scott’s barn burns down and Evelyn Banyon, who was hiding there, disappears. And let’s not overlook the interesting fact that you have not been far removed from any of these events. So tell me, Mr. Coyne. How does it all fit together?”

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t seem to. Something’s missing.”

  “Something Ms. Banyon might have?”

  “If she does, she didn’t share it with me.”

  “She should share it with me,” he said.

  “Well, I have no idea where she is.”

  He shrugged. “Why should I believe you?”

  “Because I’m an officer of the court. I know my duty.”

  He smiled. “In view of your recent behavior, Mr. Coyne, I’m hardly convinced.”

  “I’ve told you everything I know.”

  “Maybe. Still, I hope you’ve reserved that motel room for another night.”

  “Actually, I was planning on going home,” I said.

  “Do me a favor,” he said. “Stick around another day. I’ll want to consult with you some more.”

  “You can consult with me in Boston,” I said. “I’ve got a law practice to take care of.”

  “And I’ve got a murder case to take care of.” He blew out an exasperated breath, then smiled at me. “Please?”

  I laughed. “How can I refuse?”

  “Good.” He waved the back of his hand at me. “Now get out of here. After what you’ve told me, I’ve got to talk to those people out there all over again.”

  When I walked out of the doctor’s office, Claudia and Charlotte and Soderstrom and Lipton and the others all turned their heads and looked at me expectantly, as if I might have some answers for them.

  I stopped in front of Claudia. She looked up at me with wet eyes.

  “I’m very sorry,” I said.

  She tried to smile. “Thank you.”

  When I went outside, Dwyer was still there guarding the door. “How’d it go?” he said.

  “Fine, thank you.” I started for my car.

  “Hang on there,” said Dwyer.

  I stopped. “What’s the problem, Officer?”

  He held up his hand at me and spoke into his radio. He listened for a minute, then looked at me and nodded. “Okay,” he said. “You have a good day, sir.”

  “It’s off to one helluva start,” I said.

  EIGHTEEN

  I slid into the front seat of my car, let out a big breath, and looked at my watch. To my surprise, it was after four o’clock in the afternoon.

  Time sure does fly when you’re having fun.

  When I got to my motel room, I slipped off my shoes, flopped on the bed, and called the front desk to extend my stay for one more night.

  Then I called my office in Boston. When Julie answered, I told her it looked like I’d be away for at least one more day. Fortunately, she was on another line with a client and couldn’t interrogate me.

  I heard the frustrated disappointment in her voice. She wanted to hear all about it, I knew. But I was relieved. I was in no mood for rehashing everything with her, and if she hadn’t been busy, she’d have given me no choice. Julie burns with curiosity, especially about matters of the heart, and most especially about matters of my heart. She considers it an important part of her job as my secretary to monitor the health of my love life and to prescribe remedies when she diagnoses an ailment.

  For many years after my divorce, Julie had been convinced that I was destined to reunite with Gloria, my ex-wife, and she looked upon any new woman in my life as the enemy of my ultimate happiness. It took her a long time to resign herself to the fact that Gloria didn’t want to remarry me any more than I wanted to get back together with her.

  Julie had a good marriage with her Edward. She believed in marriage, and when I met Alexandria Shaw, Julie thought I should marry her. She might have been right, but it didn’t happen. Alex moved to Maine, and eventually we discovered t
hat absence made our hearts grow less fond. At the time, this convinced Julie that I was destined for a life of solitary misery.

  Now she believed that Evie was my absolute last shot at happiness. She never came right out and said it, but I knew what she was thinking: You’re not getting any younger, you know.

  Actually, I thought she might be right. I’d loved and lost some good women who had seemed to love me and who had accepted my countless imperfections. I didn’t think there could be many more of them around.

  Evie, where are you?

  I bunched the pillow under my head and stared up at the water-stained ceiling of my grungy little motel room. I hadn’t had any lunch. Now it was nearly suppertime, and I thought I should be hungry. But I wasn’t. I felt like I’d swallowed a bottle of Drano.

  Mainly, I was depressed. I’d been thrashing around in this little town for three days—it felt like three weeks—all with the simple and selfish purpose of finding Evie and clearing things up so she and I could resume our tranquil life together. Evie was the reason I cared who’d murdered Larry Scott and Owen Ransom, and who’d burned down Mary Scott’s barn, and why Winston St. Clair had killed himself.

  For me, it was all about Evie.

  Now she was gone again, and this time I had no idea where she was.

  Well, I’d promised Vanderweigh I’d stick around for one more night, and I would. Tomorrow morning I’d go home.

  Meanwhile I had a night to kill.

  I thought of calling Kate Burrows in Carlisle, but I didn’t have anything new to tell her, and she’d promised to call me if she came up with anything.

  As I stared at the ceiling, questions about Dr. St. Croix flitted through my mind. Did he commit suicide? Why wouldn’t he? He knew how to do it. And he was a doctor. He knew what was in store for him.

  Still, that was a strange suicide note.

  Two murders and one suicide. They had to be connected.

  I remembered that Owen Ransom and Winston St. Croix had both lived in Gorham, Minnesota. That was the only connection between them that I knew of. It was an old connection. According to Evie, St. Croix left Gorham in 1980. The Ransom family moved away a few years later.