He sat up, pulled a rumpled pack of Marlboro reds from the pocket of his jeans, jammed one into the corner of his mouth, and lit it with a wooden match. He exhaled a big plume of smoke, then tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “So whaddaya want with Mrs. Scott, anyway?” he said.
“I want to talk to her about her son.”
“I'm her son.”
“I mean Larry.”
He turned his head and spit on the ground. “Larry ain't here.”
“I know,” I said. “That's what I want to talk to her about.”
“There's been a million people talking to my mother. She's pretty sick of talking to people. I wish everybody would just leave her alone.”
“What about you?” I said. “Have people been talking to you about what happened to Larry?”
He shrugged. “Me? What do I know?” He scratched his cheek. “Who are you, anyway?”
“I'm sorry. I didn't introduce myself. My name is Brady Coyne. I'm a lawyer.” I held my hand down to him.
He looked at it for a moment, then wiped his hand on his T-shirt, reached up and gave mine a limp shake. “Lawyer, huh? So you gonna sue somebody, get my mother some money?”
I smiled. “No, I'm afraid not.”
“Then what do you want?”
“Well, I'm a friend of Evie Banyon. You know Evie?”
“Sure I know her. She's Larry's friend.”
“Have you see her lately?”
He took a long drag on his cigarette, then snapped the butt into the weeds. “Nope,” he said. “Not for years.”
“You think she killed Larry?”
“I don't know nothing about that.” He jerked his head in the direction of the house. “My mother's in there. I gotta get this fixed.” Then he lay on his back and pushed himself under the truck.
I turned and headed for the house. As I neared the front steps, I saw that a woman was standing behind the screen door. I wondered how long she had been there.
“Mrs. Scott?” I said.
“That's right.” Her voice was soft and hesitant.
“My name is Brady Coyne,” I said. “I'm a friend of Evie Banyon. I wonder if I could talk with you.”
“Was Mel rude to you?”
“Not at all,” I said.
She pulled the screen door open and held it for me. “Please come in.”
I went up the three steps and into the porch. It was crammed with old patio furniture, cardboard boxes, rusted bicycles, and aluminum trash cans. Mary Scott was wearing a pair of baggy blue jeans and a man's white shirt with the tails hanging loose and the cuffs rolled to her elbows. She appeared to be in her mid-forties. She had the same straw-colored hair and blue eyes as Larry and Mel, although there were streaks of gray in her hair and creases at the corners of her eyes.
She had once been a pretty young woman, and now she was a handsome middle-aged woman.
She held out her hand. “I apologize for Mel. He hasn't been himself since ⦔
I took her hand. “I had no problem with Mel.”
“Come in, please,” she said.
I followed her into the living room. It was small and dark, but unlike the outside of the house, the inside appeared neat and clean. A big-screen television sat on a low table in the corner. A dozen or so framed photographs were lined up on top of it.
Mary Scott gestured to the sofa. I sat down.
“Can I get you something?” she said. “Coffee?”
“I don't want to bother you, Mrs. Scott.”
“It's Mary,” she said. “I just perked a fresh pot. How do you like it?”
“Black,” I said. “Thank you.”
She smiled quickly and left the room.
I stood up and went over to the television. Most of the
photos were Kmart portraits of the two boys at various ages. In the earliest one, Larry looked six or seven and Mel was a toddler. Even then you could see that Larry was the quick, bright, handsome one.
I picked up a wedding photo. Mary Scott looked like the high-school homecoming queen in her prom dress, although her smile struck me as hesitant and forced. The groom was barely an inch taller than her. He looked young and bewildered and awkward in his formal white jacket.
“That was Lee,” said Mary Scott.
I put the photo back and turned around. “I'm sorry,” I said. “I didn't mean to snoop.”
“You leave photos out like that,” she said, “it's because you want folks to look at 'em.” She handed me a mug of coffee. “Lee ran off on me. Left me with two wild boys, and I haven't seen hide nor hair of the man in seventeen years.” She smiled quickly. “Well, you didn't want to talk about my no-good husband, I guess.” She sat on the end of the sofa, leaned forward so she could prop her elbows on her thighs, and held her mug in both hands.
I sat on the other end of the sofa. “I'm sorry about Larry,” I said.
She nodded.
“I was there when it happened.”
She turned and frowned at me. “You're Evie's friend, right?”
“Yes.”
“Everyone thinks you two did it, you know.”
“I know that,” I said. “We didn't, of course. I'd like to figure out who did. That's why I'm here in Cortland. That's why I wanted to talk to you.”
“I don't know you,” she said, “but I know Evie. She didn't like Larry very much, and I don't blame her one single bit for that, the way my boy treated her. I would've felt like killing
him myself. But Evie never ⦔ She shut her eyes and shook her head. When she opened her eyes, they were wet. She wiped them with the back of her wrist. “I got to stop this,” she mumbled.
“You and Evie are friends,” I said.
She smiled quickly. “Oh my, yes. I work in the cafeteria at the medical center, you see, and Evie worked there, too. Not in the cafeteria. She worked for Mr. Soderstrom. Evie's a very smart girl, and she had an important job. Anyway, we got to talking, you know, the way you do with folks you run into every day. Evie would time her coffee breaks with mine, and we'd sit together chatting just about every morning. She didn't mind hanging out with a lowly cafeteria worker. We hit it off, Evie and I. Folks're expecting me to be mad at her now, thinking she murdered my Larry. But I'm not mad, because I know Evie couldn't do anything like that.”
“Have you and Evie kept in touch since she moved?”
“Oh, sure. We talk on the phone a lot, and we go out once in a while. I've been up to Boston a few times, and Evie takes me to the museum and we eat out. Sometimes she comes down from Concord to visit, and we drive to Providence the way we used to when she lived here. We like to go eat in a fancy restaurant. No fancy restaurants in Cortland, in case you haven't noticed.”
I smiled. “You do have a good diner.”
“Two bachelor ladies who like to dress up and eat out don't go to a diner, no matter how good the food is.”
“Mrs. Scott,” I said, “have you talked to Evie since Larry was killed?”
She turned away from me and said nothing.
“I know she's here in Cortland,” I said. “The police are looking for her. I bet you know where she is.”
“Maybe I do, maybe I don't” she said. “But I'm going to tell you what I keep telling the police. I don't know where
Evie is or what she's doing, but I do know that she didn't murder my son.”
“Have you been lying to the police?”
She looked at me and smiled. “Part of it's a lie, yes, sir.”
“I've tried lying to them, too,” I said. “They're pretty good at figuring out what's a lie.”
She shrugged. “Maybe I'm better at it than you.”
I sipped my coffee. “This must be upsetting you,” I said. “Talking about it.”
She shook her head. “I'm plenty upset,” she said. “But talking about it doesn't make it any worse. I wish they'd figure out who did it, that's all.”
“I think they're pretty convinced it was Evie,” I said. “Another man was killed here in Cortland last night, you know.”
She nodded. “I must've got ten phone calls this morning, all my friends and neighbors spreading their gossip. Everyone thinks Evie did that, too.”
“I guess they do, though nobody seems to have come up with any reason for it.” I hesitated. “Mrs. Scottâ”
“Mary, please,” she said.
I nodded. “If it wasn't Evie, then who could have killed Larry?”
She gazed at the photos on the television for a minute, then turned to me. “I'll tell you the truth,” she said. “When the police ask me that question, I tell them I have no idea. Larry was a good boy, I tell them. Not an enemy in the world. It's what I think a mother ought to be saying. But you know what, Mr. Coyne?”
“Brady,” I said automatically.
She smiled. “The truth is, Brady, since Larry got home from that war, he was not a very nice person. He drank too much, and he bragged too much, and he lied too much, and except for Mel, who always worshiped his big brother, nobody much liked him anymore. Even me, God help me. I didn't like him
much, either. So I guess there's lots of folks who might not've wanted him around.”
“What did he lie about?”
“He loved to talk about being in that war, how he killed people, how the bombs were going off right next to him, bullets flying around, tanks and missiles and airplanes, how he was a hero.” She blew out a quick little breath. “The truth is, he was nowhere near where the fighting was. He ran a computer, was his job. That's what they taught him in the Marines. Computers. He copied press releases and sent 'em off on his computer. I guess those press releases were mostly lies. Maybe that's where he learned it.” She smiled. “Running computers and telling lies. That's what Larry learned from the Marines. That's what he was good at.”
“What about Evie?” I said. “Did she like him?”
“Evie tried to be nice to him,” she said. “Because of me, I guess.” She gazed over at the photographs on the television. “Larry was a handsome boy. Pretty smart, too. He could be charming. I think she liked him at first. Before she got to know him. And Larry, he mistook that for something else. Hell, it was Evie who got him that janitor job when no one else in town would give him a chance. She was doing me a favor. I sure wish I hadn't mentioned it to her. I should've just told her to steer clear of him. But I confess, I had it in the back of my mind that maybe they'd become friends. I thought she'd be good for him, calm him down, make him sweet like he used to be. I was a bad friend to Evie for not warning her about him.” She lifted her hand, then let it fall to her lap. “My son drove my only real friend out of town. It wasn't her fault, what happened.”
“Attacking him with scissors, you mean,” I said.
She nodded. “They tried to make it like she wanted to kill him. All she was doing was trying to tell him he was driving her crazy and she couldn't take much more of it.” She
blinked several times. “They fired her because of it. What they should've done was lock up my son. If they had, maybe none of this would've happened, and he'd still be alive, and I'd still be having my morning coffee with my friend.”
“Larry lived here with you, is that right?”
She nodded. “He couldn't afford to get a place of his own, that's for sure.”
“I wonder if I could take a peek into his room.”
“Oh, Lord,” she said. “What in the world for?”
I waved my hand. “Just curious.”
“Those policemen said the same thing. Just curious, they said. No, ma'am, they wouldn't touch anything. They just wanted to look around. Then they went trooping up there with their cameras.”
I nodded. Of course the police would check out the murder victim's room. “I won't touch anything, either,” I said.
“It's just a boy's room.” Mary Scott shook her head. “I don't see what so interesting about it. But no harm, I guess. I keep the door shut, like he always did. He never wanted me in there, and since he died, I haven't had any spirit for going in and cleaning it up. Suppose I ought to one of these days.” She pointed. “Up those stairs. Larry's room is the first one on the right. Mel's is down the end of the hall. You'd best not go into Mel's room.”
“Thank you.” I stood up. “I'll only be a minute.”
I climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor. A cardboard sign identical to those you see nailed to trees along just about every country road in New England nowadays was tacked to the first door on the right. It read: POSTED. NO HUNTING, FISHING, OR TRAPPING WITHOUT LANDOWNER'S PERMISSION. I guessed Larry had ripped it off a tree somewhere.