Muscle Memory

by William G. Tapply

  “She’s already expecting us?”

  “I’m pretty good at my job, Brady.”

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Disappointed you didn’t get to threaten me with lawsuits?”

  “A bit,” I said. “I’ll just have to deal with it.”

  “Shall we go?”

  “Let’s have another cigarette first.”

  She grinned. “Good plan.”

  Dr. Allison was a tiny, fortyish African American woman. She was Jeff to Evie Banyon’s Mutt.

  When Evie introduced us, Dr. Allison stood up from behind her desk and cocked her head at me. Her intelligent brown eyes regarded me solemnly. “Evie assures me that your intent is not litigious, Mr. Coyne.”

  “It’s not,” I said.

  Dr. Allison glanced at her watch, then sat down. “Okay. Let’s get to it. I’ve got rounds in fifteen minutes.”

  “I’ll be heading along, then,” said Evie. She handed me a business card. “Anything else comes up, give me a call.”

  “Thanks.” I tucked her card into my wallet.

  After Evie Banyon left, Dr. Allison said, “Katherine Fallon, right? So what do you want to know?”

  “She was admitted to the emergency room early on the morning of February 14. You treated her.” I shrugged. “Can you just tell me about it?”

  She picked up a manila folder from her desk. “I refreshed my memory,” she said, tapping the folder. “Sometimes things get crazy in the E.R. But actually, I remember the Fallon case very clearly. We saved her life.”

  I nodded.

  “She presented symptoms of acute appendicitis,” she continued. “Abdominal pain, shortness of breath, faintness. I was afraid that it had ruptured. I talked with the woman who brought her in, and she mentioned that Mrs. Fallon had complained of pain in her shoulder. That was the key.”

  “Key to what?”

  “That was the key to my diagnosis. I proceeded with a laparotomy—that’s an incision directly into the abdomen—and I found that she’d begun to hemorrhage. It was a close thing.”

  “It was a ruptured appendix, then?”

  Dr. Allison shook her head. “No, Mr. Coyne. It was a ruptured fallopian tube.”

  I frowned. “How—?”

  “Another hour, maybe less, and she might well have died from the hemorrhaging,” she said. “Or after a few days from peritonitis. Mrs. Fallon had an ectopic pregnancy.”

  As I headed out to the parking lot, I thought about what Dr. Allison had told me. An ectopic pregnancy occurs when a fertilized egg lodges somewhere other than in the uterus, most commonly in the fallopian tube, which was the case with Kaye Fallon. If it’s diagnosed early, it can be terminated by a simple outpatient procedure. But if it’s left untreated, the egg grows until it causes a rupture, massive hemorrhaging, peritonitis. Without emergency surgery, this would almost surely be fatal.

  Well, it didn’t kill Kaye, thanks to Gretchen’s help and Dr. Allison’s skill. At least not directly.

  But as far as I was concerned, the key word was pregnancy.

  I pulled into the Conleys’ driveway a little before four. I parked alongside the red Honda, got out, and went to the front porch.

  Before I could touch the doorbell, Gretchen pushed open the screen door. “Hi, there,” she said. “I heard your car. Come on in.”

  I went in. She was wearing sneakers and a shapeless, ankle-length dress that could only be described as frumpy. Her face was damp and pink, as if she’d been working outdoors.

  She gripped my arm and led me out to the deck. “Iced tea’s all fixed,” she said. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll fetch it.”

  I slumped into one of the big wooden deck chairs, and a minute later Gretchen was back with two tall glasses and a cut-glass pitcher tinkling with ice cubes. She poured the glasses full, handed one to me, put the pitcher on the table, then leaned back against the deck rail.

  I took a sip. “Mm,” I said. “Perfect.”

  She pressed her glass against her forehead. “The heat gets to me,” she said. “Lyn says it wouldn’t be so bad if I lost a few pounds, and I suppose he’s right.” She shrugged. “I try. I really do.”

  This was one of those no-win topics that I’d learned long ago to avoid. “I noticed your car in the driveway,” I said. “I thought you said you didn’t have a car.”

  She waved her hand. “Oh, that’s Neddie’s. It hasn’t run for a month. Broken alternator, I think it is. Lyn insists that Neddie save his money to get it fixed. It’ll cost something like six hundred dollars.” Gretchen smiled wryly. “Well, he’s right, I suppose. Kids have to be responsible. But meanwhile, Neddie just borrows our cars. Takes mine to school most of the time. I’m not exactly clear on what lesson he’s learning by this.”

  I nodded and sipped my tea. Child-rearing theory was another one of those lose-lose topics.

  Gretchen smiled. “I know this is not just a social call, Brady.”

  I nodded. “I just came from Emerson Hospital.”

  She nodded with no expression.

  “Kaye was there back in February. When you told me she’d been skiing in Vermont.”

  Gretchen looked down into her lap.

  “You lied,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said softly.

  “Tell me about it,” I said. “Tell me what happened.”

  She let out a deep breath, then looked up at me. “Kaye called me at around two A.M. A Friday night, it was. Saturday morning. She was crying. She was in terrible pain, she said, having trouble catching her breath. Said she hadn’t been feeling well for a few days. She thought she might have appendicitis or something. I told her to call 911, but she said no, she wanted me to drive her. I tried to argue with her, but she said she didn’t feel like it was an emergency, didn’t want to overreact. By the time I got to her, she was doubled over, crying. Dizzy, her pulse racing, cold sweat. Terrible, terrible pain. It was very scary. I raced her to Emerson. They admitted her and operated right away. They said it was a close call.” She shrugged. “They kept her for four or five days. Then I brought her home. She missed a couple days of school, then she was back on her feet and none the worse for wear.”

  I looked at her. “So why’d you lie about it?”

  Gretchen closed her eyes, rubbed her forehead, then shrugged. “She asked me to. Made me promise.” She bowed her head. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

  At that moment a car door slammed out front, and an instant later the screen door slapped shut. Then Ned appeared on the deck.

  He went to Gretchen, bent over, and kissed her cheek. “Where’s Danny and Erin?”

  “They’re with your father. Planning the funeral.”

  “Oh, jeez,” he said. Then he looked at me. “Why’re you here again?”

  “Neddie,” said Gretchen. “Don’t be rude.”

  “Look,” he said to her, “I’m sorry, but why can’t everybody just leave us alone? Haven’t we all been through enough?”

  “We want to help, don’t we, honey?” She reached up and touched his face.

  Ned shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.” He looked at me. “Sorry about that. Haven’t they caught up with Uncle Mick yet?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Mr. Coyne and I need to talk,” said Gretchen.

  “What about?”

  “Privately,” she said.

  “Oh, right.” Ned shrugged. “I just stopped in to get some stuff. I might not be home for dinner, okay?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Oh, Mom.” He kissed her cheek. “Places to go, people to see, you know?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “Where’s your sister?”

  “I dunno.”

  “You know you’re supposed to bring her home. That’s part of the deal. You use my car, you drive Linda.”

  “Oh, she said she had a ride. I checked with her.”

  “So you’re taking my car?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting so
mething?”

  “Huh?” He frowned. “Oh, right.” He grinned. “Um, hey, Mom? Can I borrow your car this afternoon?”

  “Well, sure. Of course you can. You might put some gas in it. And drive carefully.”

  “Sure, sure. I always do.” He leaned down and kissed her again, said, “Take it easy” to me, and left. I heard him clomp up, then down, the inside stairs, and a minute later he roared away.

  Gretchen looked at me and shook her head. “Will I survive this?”

  I smiled.

  “What difference does it make?” she said softly.

  “What?”

  “Whether Kaye was in Vermont or in the hospital.”

  “Do you know why she was in the hospital?” I said.

  She stared at me for a moment, then nodded.

  “You knew she was pregnant?”

  “Not until then. Not until that night I took her to the hospital. She never would’ve told me.”

  “Gretchen,” I said, “don’t you see—”

  “What?” she said. “That Kaye having an affair was important information?” She shook her head. “Of course I see that.”

  “Then why did you lie?”

  “Kaye was horrified and embarrassed. She made me vow to keep her secret. So when—when this happened, when she was killed, my first thought was to honor my friend’s wish. Nobody but me knew she’d been in the hospital and not in Vermont. I was the only one who knew she’d been pregnant.” She smiled quickly. “I’ve been wrestling with it for a week, Brady. My promise to Kaye, her reputation. And the possibility that somebody who loved her, someone other than Mick…” She tilted her head back and gazed up at the sky.

  “That somebody she was having an affair with,” I said, “might have killed her.”

  She nodded. “Yes. That it might not be Mick. Although Mick still makes the most sense, don’t you think? I mean, if he found out about it…”

  “So who was it?” I said.

  “Kaye’s lover?” Gretchen smiled. “You didn’t really know her, did you?”

  “No.”

  “I asked her, of course. I told her I was happy for her, that she’d found somebody. I teased her. I tried every way I knew. I was dying of curiosity. But when Kaye made up her mind about something, that was it. She’d just smile and get that twinkle in her eye and say he looked like a famous movie star.”

  “A movie star.” I smiled. “Did she indicate whether he was, say, John Wayne? Or Brad Pitt? Or maybe Woody Allen?”

  “Of course not,” said Gretchen. “She was just being evasive. I understood, and didn’t press it.”

  “Not even a hint?”

  She shook her head. “None.”

  “So was she planning to marry this—this movie star? Is that why she was proceeding with her divorce?”

  Gretchen shrugged. “She wouldn’t talk about that. She was very coy about the whole thing.”

  “The man,” I said. “Did he visit her in the hospital? Send flowers? Call her?”

  She shrugged. “If he did, it certainly wasn’t when I was there. The only flowers in her room were ones I brought. As far as I know, I was the only one who knew she was there.”

  I stood up, propped my elbows on the deck rail and my chin on my fists, and gazed off toward the river.

  Gretchen came over beside me. She put her hand on my shoulder. “I am sorry,” she said.

  “You should’ve told somebody right away. The police, me.”

  “I know,” she said. “You’re right. I’ve been… not exactly thinking straight, since I—I saw her body. I guess I’ve been more concerned about protecting Kaye’s reputation than…” She shook her head. “What can I say? I’m sorry.”

  I shrugged. “What about Lyn? Does he know?”

  She nodded. “We always talked about Kaye and Mick. He kept me up-to-date on Mick, and I told him about Kaye. We used to be a foursome, you know. We all liked each other. Even when Lyn… well, he used to drink. Thank God, that’s passed. We had some rough times, but Mick and Kaye were always there for us. Anyway, we never stopped being close with Kaye and Mick. So, sure. I told Lyn that Kaye was involved with somebody. He thought that was nice for her. I made him promise to keep Kaye’s secret.” She smiled. “We both wished Mick would meet somebody, too, but as far as I know, he just kept on loving Kaye.”

  “Yes,” I said. “He still does.”

  She nodded. “So now what happens?”

  “I’ll have to tell Lieutenant Horowitz,” I said. “He’ll proba­bly want to talk with you.”

  “Yes, okay. I understand.”

  “If you think of anything else…”

  “I know. I’ll tell you. I promise. I feel so stupid.”

  “You were just trying to be a friend,” I said.

  “I know, but…”

  “You’re right, of course,” I said. “It was wrong and stupid not to tell us.”

  She smiled. “Thank you for your support.”

  She followed me out to the driveway. I opened my car door, started to climb in, then stopped. “Gretchen,” I said, “do me a favor.”

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  “When you see Danny and Erin, tell them that their father loves them.”

  She frowned. “Well, okay, but…”

  “I talked to him on the phone last night. He’s okay.”

  She smiled. “Oh, gee. That’s wonderful.”

  “For now, anyway.”

  She nodded. “I’ll tell the kids. Of course I will.”

  Fourteen

  IT WAS NEARLY FIVE-THIRTY by the time I pulled out of the Conleys’ driveway. I headed back into the city. Rush-hour traffic was solid in both directions all the way from Crosby’s Corner on Route 2 in Concord, to the bottleneck by the Alewife MBTA station, to the Fresh Pond traffic circle in Cambridge, to Storrow Drive along the Charles, to the up ramp onto the expressway by the science museum, to the exit to the New England Aquarium, to Atlantic Avenue, to my apartment building at Lewis Wharf on Boston’s inner harbor.

  I smoked cigarettes and played Stevie Ray Vaughn CDs very loud while I inched along with the traffic, which helped. But it was still harrowing as hell, and it took about an hour and a half to travel those twenty-odd miles.

  In the old days—the Alexandria Shaw days—she would’ve been waiting for me when I lurched into my apartment, dropped my briefcase inside the doorway, and shucked off my jacket and tie. She’d be sitting on the sofa wearing one of my Yale University Property of the Department of Athletics T-shirts and a pair of my boxer shorts, with her bare legs tucked up under her, sipping from a Sam Adams bottle and shouting out answers as Jeopardy played on my old black-and-white Hitachi TV. Her big round glasses would’ve slipped down to the tip of her nose, and when I came in, she’d peer myopically up at me, poke her glasses up with her forefinger, then give me that beautiful smile and say, “Hi, sweetie.”

  And she’d tilt up her face and purse her lips for a kiss, which I would deliver, and if I held it too long, she’d let her mouth slide away so she could shout, “Ayn Rand” or “the Battle of Fallen Timbers” or “the Canary Islands” at the television. Alex could’ve been a Jeopardy champion, except she kept forgetting to say “What is…?”

  Some spicy aroma would be wafting in from my kitchen, and I’d go to check it out, and it would be lentil soup or twice-baked potatoes or vegetarian chili, something full of vitamins and minerals and low in fat and cholesterol, something delicious even though it was good for me.

  Well, Alex wasn’t there on this Monday evening in June, and she hadn’t been since she’d moved to Garrison, Maine, two years earlier, and now it had been nearly ten months since I’d seen her—Labor Day, to be precise, which was when I’d driven out of her driveway for the last time.

  Ten months, and I still hadn’t figured out exactly what happened.

  I climbed out of my suit and into a pair of jeans, found a bottle of Blue Moon in the refrigerator, and took it out onto my balcony. I flopped into a
n aluminum chair, tilted back with my heels up on the railing, balanced the bottle on my stomach, and closed my eyes.

  All the way home from Concord, while part of my mind rode the rhythms of Stevie Ray’s guitar, the other part had flipped randomly through the facts of Kaye Fallon’s ectopic pregnancy, looking for insight and connection to her murder.

  It still kept coming back to Mick.

  He was my client, innocent or guilty. All the objective evi­dence pointed to guilty. But he’d told me he didn’t do it, and I wanted to believe him.

  I sipped my Blue Moon and watched the gulls cruise on the thermals and the ferry inch across the harbor, and when the bottle was empty, I set it on the concrete floor of the balcony and let my eyes fall shut.

  When I woke up, darkness had seeped in over the harbor. Blinking airplane lights were circling over Logan, and the pinpricks of other lights showed out on the islands.

  I pushed myself out of my chair, went into the kitchen, heated a can of Hormel beef stew, and ate it from the saucepan at the table.

  Then I called Horowitz at his secret number.

  “You in the middle of dinner or something?” I said.

  “Oh, hell, no,” he said. “This is a perfect time for you to interrupt me, Coyne. I was sitting here watching TV with my wife, and we were just saying, Wouldn’t it be great if Coyne’d call again, because, hell, we haven’t talked to him since this morning, and here we are, just the two of us, and when was the last time we had any time together, and it’s really just too fucking weird, being relaxed, having actual time to ourselves here without somebody like Coyne buggin’ me.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Catch you later.”

  I hung up and lit a cigarette.

  The phone rang thirty seconds later. “This better be good,” said Horowitz.

  “Kaye Fallon was pregnant.”

  “The hell she was. I saw the ME’s report.”

  “She had an ectopic pregnancy. Emergency surgery at Emerson Hospital in February.”

  “Ectopic—”

  “That’s a fertilized egg in the fallopian tube.”

  “Christ, Coyne,” he growled. “I know what an ectopic pregnancy is. I mean, I didn’t go to a fancy Ivy League college, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know anything.” He was silent for a moment. “She was pregnant, huh?”