Under those machine-printed words someone had scrawled in red crayon: TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT.
I pushed open the door and stood in the doorway. It was
a small, dark, narrow room. There was an unmade single bed in the corner and a bureau under the only window. Dirty clothes and old magazines were scattered on the floor. A pump-action 12-gauge shotgun was propped up in one corner, and a bundle of spinning rods stood in another. A small bookcase held a twelve-inch television and a boom box and a few paperback books.
About two dozen snapshots were taped to the wall beside the bed.
I kneeled on the bed to look at them.
Evie. Every photograph showed Evie, and she was naked in most of them.
I blinked and looked up at the ceiling. Jesus.
I took a deep breath, turned back, and forced myself to look at them one at a time.
First a close-in headshot of Evie smiling her pretty, familiar smile.
Then Evie sticking out her tongue at the camera.
Evie with her hair falling over the side of her face like a curtain.
A head-and-shoulders shot of Evie with her eyes half-lidded and her tongue licking her lips.
Evie posing in a tank top and shorts with one hand on her hip and the other behind her head.
Evie kneeling on a bed peeling up the bottom of her tank top to show her flat belly and the undersides of her breasts.
Evie, topless, cupping her breasts in her hands.
Evie, bottomless as well as topless now, on her hands and knees on the bedâit was Larry Scott's bed, I realized, this same bed I was kneeling onâlooking back over her shoulder into the camera.
Evie, lying on her back right here on this narrow bed in Larry Scott's room, completely naked, with her eyes closed
and her fingers laced over her belly and her long, auburn hair fanned out over the pillow.
More photos of naked Evie. Evie lying on her belly with her chin propped up in her hands staring into the camera. Evie on hands and knees with her butt in the air. Evie sitting crosslegged yoga-style. Evie flat on her back gazing up at the ceiling smoking a cigarette.
There were twenty-four four-by-six color shots taped there on the wall beside Larry Scott's bed in four rows of six. All of them had been taken in this room, one right after the other.
This is what the police saw. Naked Evie, plastered all over Larry Scott's bedroom. I imagined Detective Vanderweigh and maybe Sergeant Dwyer up here, photographing Scott's display for evidence in Evie's trial, ogling her nakedness, creating X-rated scenarios to account for her killing him.
No wonder they thought she was a terrific suspect.
Oh, Evie.
I stood up, turned my back on the photos, and stared out the window at the big old barn out back and the thick summer woods beyond.
“I went out with him a few times,” Evie had told me by way of explaining Larry when he followed us to the restaurant.
Posing for nude photographs?
“Went out with him”?
That, of course, was Evie's way of snubbing out a discussion before it got started. She hated to talk about her past. She always said that our lives before we met each other were irrelevant. She thought a little mystery was good for a relationship. It was better to preserve some secrets, she said.
I tended to agree with her. I'd made plenty of mistakes and done things I wasn't proud of in my life, and I didn't want anyone to judge me by them. We learn, and we change, and we are all continuously redefining ourselves.
Well, okay. So Evie had posed naked for Larry Scott. She'd probably had sex with him, too. It was none of my business. It had happened before I met her. She was a different person now.
I wished I hadn't come into this room.
I felt like ripping those photos off the wall and burning them.
I walked out of the room, closed the door behind me, and stood there in the hallway for a moment, taking deep breaths, trying to clear the buzzing out of my brain.
Just as I turned for the stairs, the sound of ragged breathing close behind me caused me to instinctively stop and jerk sideways, and that's when a big fist crashed against my shoulder.
I staggered, caught my balance, and pivoted around.
Mel. His face was red and his little eyes were blazing and his fist was coming at me again.
I ducked away from him as well as I could in the narrow hallway. But I had nowhere to go except down the stairs. Mel filled the space, and he was flailing away at me, grunting and throwing wild roundhouse rights and lefts.
With my arms up in front of my face I was able to block most of his blows. But he was inexorably backing me toward the steep stairway. It would take only one fist to the head or face to send me toppling backwards.
Low animal sounds came from Mel's throat, but he didn't say anything. His face was twisted in some insane combination of anger and hatred and fear, and his mouth was working, uttering silent words as if he was cursing to himself. His eyes were narrow glittering slits.
He was a strong, big-shouldered guy, but already he was panting and wheezing, and I figured if I could hold him off for another minute or two he'd exhaust himself and be too tired to lift his arms.
Then a heavy fist smashed against my ear. Lights exploded in my head, and I stumbled.
He came at me like a bull, with his head down and his forearms aimed at me, and it was obvious he intended to ram his head into my chest and drive me backwards down the stairs.
Just as his elbow was about to pound into my face, I dropped to my knees and threw my shoulder against his thighs. I tried to drive him onto his back, the way I'd been taught to tackle in high school.
The momentum of his upper body coming at me might have sent him sailing over my shoulder, and it would've been Mel, not I, who tumbled head over heels down the stairway. But I wrapped my arms around his legs and held on, and he collapsed on top of me.
I scrambled out from under him. He was sprawled on his belly, gasping and muttering and pounding his fists on the floor.
I climbed onto his back and grabbed a handful of his hair. He tried to buck me off. I slammed his face onto the floor. “Mel, goddamn it,” I said, “cut it out. What the hell's the matter with you?”
“You leave my brother alone,” he wheezed.
“Your brother's dead.”
“Shut up. That's Larry's room. He don't want nobody there. He told me. âDon't let nobody in there ever,' he said.”
Mel had stopped bucking and heaving. Experimentally, I let go of his hair. He didn't move.
“Don't hit me anymore, okay?” I said.
“Oh, Jesus, I fucked up,” he said. “Larry's gonna be pissed. He's gonna beat the shit out of me when he finds out. I'm s'pose to keep everybody outta his room. That's my job. He told me, when he ain't here, it's my responsibility to keep people out of his room. Even my mother.”
I slid off him and leaned my back against the wall. “It doesn't matter anymore,” I said. “Larry's dead. He's not coming back. He can't hurt you.”
Mel rolled onto his back and pushed himself into a sitting position against the wall across from me. He slumped there, his chest heaving. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and a dribble of blood trickled from one nostril. “Don't say that,” he mumbled. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then looked at the blood on it.
“What about you?” I said. “Are you allowed in Larry's room?”
Mel shook his head. “Not me. Not my mother. Nobody. You hurt my nose.”
“What about Evie?”
He looked up at me. “What about her?”
“Does Larry allow her in his room?”
He shrugged. “She's the only one.”
“How do you like her pictures?”
He started to grin, then quickly shook his head. “I never looked at them pictures. I never even been in there. Larry don't allow it.”
At that moment I heard the screen door slam. A moment later there were quick footsteps on the stairs, and then Valerie Kershaw appeared. She had her hand on her holstered revolver. “What's going on up there?” she said.
“Nothing,” I said. “Mel and I are just having a chat.”
“Mrs. Scott came running out for me,” she said. “She thought Mel was killing you.”
“Mel wouldn't want to hurt me. Right, Mel?”
Mel frowned for an instant, then shook his head. “Not me.”
She looked from him to me, then shrugged. “You okay, then?”
“Sure,” I said. “We're fine.”
She smiled, then turned and disappeared down the stairs.
“You better get out of here before Larry sees you,” said Mel. “He finds out you was in his room lookin' at his pictures, he'll kill you. He killed people in the war, you know. He don't mind killing people. He wouldn't mind killing me. He told me that.”
I nodded and pushed myself to my feet. “Larry won't kill you,” I said. “I promise.” Then I started down the stairs.
Mary Scott was standing there looking up at me. “Are you all right?”
I smiled. “Sure. I'm fine.”
“I should've warned you about Mel.”
“Mel and I reached an understanding.”
“I'm sure you did,” she said. “He's never been right, you know. And since Larry ⦔
I nodded.
“I worry about Mel,” she said.
“I'm sorry,” was all I could think of to say.
“So did you find anything in Larry's room?”
“You haven't been in there?” I said.
“No. Never. Larry wouldn't allow it whenâwhen he was here. Even when he was little. And now ⦔
“I understand,” I said. “It would be painful for you.” I shook my head. “It might be a good idea if you asked a friend, someone whose judgment you trust, to go in there, clean it up, pack away his belongings, throw out all the junk.”
She smiled. “That's a good idea.”
“You better be sure Mel understands.”
She shook her head. “I apologize for Mel.”
W
hen I walked out of the house, Officer Valerie Kershaw was leaning against the side of her cruiser with her arms crossed over her chest. Although she was wearing sunglasses, I was pretty sure her eyes were smiling.
I went over to her and said, “You could've told me about Mel.”
She pushed her sunglasses onto her head. “I didn't know you planned to scuffle with him.”
I leaned beside her and lit a cigarette. “I didn't plan it. It was spontaneous.”
She peered at my face, then touched her cheekbone. “You okay?”
I touched my own cheekbone where she'd touched hers. It was tender. “I don't even remember getting hit there,” I said. “The heat of battle. I got him a couple good ones, too. He's a troubled young man.”
“Harmless,” she said. “That's the word the folks hereabouts
use. Everybody likes Mary. They feel sorry for her, with those two boys of hers, so everyone's pretty tolerant of them. Mel's mainly not very bright, and he's got a sudden temper, as I guess you noticed. Very handy with gasoline engines, though. Lawn mowers, chain saws, snow blowers, things like that. That's what he does. People drop off something that's busted, Mel fixes it. That barn is full of broken machines that he strips for parts.”
“Harmless, maybe,” I said. “But he tried to push me down the stairs. If he had, he might've done me some harm.”
“Looks like you handled it.”
“Good thing,” I said. “If I'd waited for you to rescue me, I'd be running around with a broken neck.”
“They told me to follow you,” she said, “not rescue you. So what's your itinerary for the rest of the day?”
“So you can find me if I manage to elude you?”
“Exactly.”
I glanced at my watch. It was quarter of eleven. “I've got an appointment with Dr. St. Croix in fifteen minutes. After that I don't know.”
“You know how to find the doctor's place?”
“Yes. I better get going.” I stamped out my cigarette and went over to my car.
It took about ten minutes to drive from Mary Scott's house to Dr. St. Croix's place. The same new blue Camry and old Jeep Cherokee that had been there the previous day were in the parking area when I got there. I went to the front porch. The inside door was open, and through the screen I heard the mumble of television voices coming from somewhere inside. I rapped my knuckle on the frame of the screen door.
A minute later Claudia Wells appeared on the other side of the screen. She was wearing white pants that stopped halfway down her calves, a blue-and-white-striped jersey, and sandals.
Her blond hair was tied back with a blue silk scarf that matched her eyes.
She smiled when she saw me. “Mr. Coyne,” she said. “You made it.”
“I hope it's okay.”
“Oh, yes. The doctor's looking forward to seeing you.” She pushed open the screen door, then lifted her chin and peered over my shoulder. “Oh, dear,” she muttered.
I looked back. Valerie Kershaw's cruiser was parked in the street out front.
“Oh, don't worry about that,” I said. “They're keeping an eye on me.”
“Whatever for?”
“They think I might have murdered somebody.”
“Aha,” she said. “Dr. Romano.”
“You've heard about that, then,” I said.
“A state policeman was here earlier.” She held the door wide for me and stepped back. “Please. Come on in. The doctor's out on the porch.”
I stepped into the house and found myself in the living room. Braided rug, early-American furniture, built-in bookshelves, fieldstone fireplace. A big oil painting of a clipper ship hung over the mantel. The furnishings were unpretentious. They looked expensive to me.
Claudia put her hand on my arm. “What happened to you?” She reached up and touched my cheekbone.
“I bumped into a door,” I said. “Has it ruined my flawless profile?”
She smiled. “It lends your appearance a rather endearing ruggedness. Does it hurt?”
“I'm bearing up quite stoically,” I said. “So how's the doctor doing today?”
“He didn't have a very good night,” she said softly, “and
his session with the police tired him out, I'm afraid. If I have to cut it short, please understand.”
“Do you stay here with him?” I said.
“You mean do I live with him?” She smiled. “Heavens, no. I'm his employee, not his ⦔ She waved her hand. “The doctor is very sensitive about scandal. In this town, if my car stayed in the driveway all night, it would be all over town by sunup the next morning.”
“But you take care of him,” I said.
She shrugged. “I'm a nurse. It's taken him awhile to acknowledge he needs taking care of. MS is an insidious disease.”
“What's his prognosis?”
She looked away and shook her head. Then she said, “Come on. This way.”
I followed her through the living room and dining room to a screened porch on the back of the house. It looked out over a small lawn bordered by flower gardens, with deep woods beyond. A sprinkler was going
tick-tick-tick
, and the water dripping off the plants glittered in the morning sunlight.
Winston St. Croix was sitting in an easy chair with his feet up on a hassock. He was wearing khaki pants and a blue shirt and a red bowtie. His wheelchair was parked in the corner.
A TV against the wall across from him showed several people sitting around a table. They seemed to be discussing the stock market.
When he saw me, the doctor smiled and waved me to the chair beside him. “Ah, Mr. Coyne,” he said. “You made it. Good.” He clicked the television off with a remote, then held out his hand to me.
I went over and shook it. His grip was feeble. “How are you this morning, Doctor?” I said.
He smiled. “My health. I can't think of a more boring topic.” Then he frowned at me. “You've got a nasty contusion there. Bump into something?”
I nodded. “Clumsiness.”
“You should put some ice on it.” He looked over at Claudia Wells, who was standing in the doorway. “Bring us some coffee, my dear, would you please? And an icebag for Mr. Coyne.”
She arched her eyebrows at me, and I nodded. “Black, please.”
She left the room.
The doctor watched her go, then turned his head to me. “Remarkable woman,” he said. “She should've been having babies years ago.”
“She seems quite devoted,” I said.
“Oh, indeed. Altogether too devoted. I keep telling her. Take a cruise. Meet men. Get married. Have children. Claudia loves children. She shouldn't be hanging around with an old invalid like me.” He spread his hands. “She won't listen to me. Women. They just won't listen, will they?”
I thought of Evie and smiled. “The interesting ones don't seem to.”
He reached over and touched my arm. “You heard about Dr. Romano?”
I nodded.
“You met him yesterday, am I right? In my office?”
“Yes.”
“Terrible thing. The police were here earlier. Asked me all sorts of questions. As if I knew the poor man. I only met him yesterday. He was interested in buying my practice, you know.”
I nodded.
“Seemed like a fine doctor,” he said. “Unusual, these days, a young doctor who actually wants to help people. Most of them seem more interested in organs than people, if you know what I mean.”
Claudia came back with a carafe of coffee and two mugs.
She put them on the table between the doctor and me, poured each mug full, and handed one to the doctor. I took the other one. Then she handed me an icebag. I thanked her and pressed it against my cheek.
St. Croix held his mug in both hands. “Thank you, my dear,” he said to Claudia. “Now, Mr. Coyne and I want to talk.”
She shrugged. “I'll be in the living room if you need me.”
After Claudia left, I put the icebag on the table beside me and took a sip of my coffee. The doctor set his mug on the table, laid his head back, and closed his eyes. “I try not to let her know how I'm feeling. She worries too much.” He sighed, opened his eyes, and looked at me. “So where were we yesterday, Mr. Coyne, when we were so rudely interrupted?”
“We were talking about Evie Banyon.”
“Ah, yes. And you were telling me she had disappeared. Something to do with Larry Scott's unfortunate death.”
“The police think she killed him.”
“And you want to find the real culprit, is that it?”
I shrugged.
“Well,” he said, “Evie Banyon wouldn't kill anybody. That's silly.”
“I agree. But now they think she might've killed Dr. Romano, too.”
“Why on earth would she do that?”
“She wouldn't,” I said. “Do you know of any connection between Evie and Dr. Romano?”
“That Detective Vanderweigh was asking me the same questions just before you got here,” he said. “He was giving me way more credit than I deserve. I don't know much about Evie, and I know even less about Dr. Romano. Evie honored me by letting me take her to dinner a few times. But that was several years ago. Dr. Romano came up from New Jersey to talk to me about buying my medical practice. I never saw him
before yesterday. As delightful as Evie Banyon is, she is an unusually private person. I hardly feel that I know her. And I didn't know Dr. Romano at all.” He blew out a breath. “I liked him, though. He reminded me of myself, oh, thirty years ago. Enthusiastic, idealistic, full of energy and ideas.”
“Do you know of any connection between Romano and Larry Scott?”
Dr. St. Croix ran his fingers through his thinning white hair and stared out through the screen. “Just me, I guess.”
“You?”
He shrugged. “Larry Scott was my patient, of course. Twenty years ago, when he was a child. Every child in Cortland was my patient back then. Oh, we were busy in those days, Claudia and I. Seven days a week, Mr. Coyne. Now they've got that new medical center. There's a pediatric group there, and some of the newer folks in town prefer to take their children there. We're still plenty busy, though. I'd love to just keep working, but ⦔ He waved his hand.
I sipped my coffee and said nothing.
“I announced my retirement three months ago,” he said after a minute. “There was a nice story in the local paper, and the Providence
Journal
and the
Globe
both picked it up. âOld-time pediatrician who was actually still making house calls retires.' âEnd of an era.' That sort of thing. They ran a picture of me from several years ago. You wouldn't recognize me, Mr. Coyne. I used to be a good-looking man, believe it or not.”
“I believe it,” I said automatically. “So is there a lot of interest in your practice?”
“I've had some feelers,” he said. “But Dr. Romano was the first one who actually came to talk business with me. He seemed quite serious about it. He was going to come by today to go over my records with me. He was most insistent on seeing my records.” He lifted his hand, then let it fall into his
lap. “Well, I don't blame him for that, of course. We did have to decide what he would pay me.”
“He was prepared to follow through with it?”
“Oh, yes. It was just a matter of arriving at a mutually agreeable arrangement.”
“What about Claudia?”
“He said he hoped she'd stay on, work with him. I told her that after he left yesterday. She was pleased.” He shook his head. “Well, that won't happen, of course. Not now.”
“Could Evie have known Dr. Romano through her job at the medical center?” I said.
“I suppose it's possible.” He frowned at me. “You're not thinking ⦠?”
“No,” I said quickly. “Evie wouldn't harm anybody.”
“She was very kind to me,” he said softly. “You know, Mr. Coyne, when I graduated from medical school, I took an oath. The first principle was, never do harm to anyone. They attribute the oath to Hippocrates, although there's some doubt whether Hippocrates actually created it. Anyway, when you think about it, it's a good way to live your life, whether you're a doctor or a lawyer or an insurance salesman. You want to do some good while you're at it, too, of course. But it's not as easy as it sounds, just doing no harm. I think that's how Evie tries to live her life. She's a good-hearted girl who wants to do no harm, and she doesn't understand anyone who is willing to harm somebody else.”