She smiled. “Point is, Larry was jealous of him. Always called him âyour saint.'”
“I remember that.” I skimmed through the article. The first several paragraphs described St. Croix's old-fashioned way of practicing pediatric medicineâanswering his own phone, making house calls, advising parents on child-rearing issues, donating his services to local schools. He received hundreds of Christmas cards every year from former patients who'd grown into adults. There were quotes from Cortland folks telling stories about Dr. St. Croix braving blizzards to tend to babies with fevers and ear infections, Dr. St. Croix diagnosing
rare illnesses, Dr. St. Croix holding office hours on Sunday afternoons, Dr. St. Croix sponsoring Little League teams.
He was a veritable candidate for sainthood.
According to the article, there weren't any left like him. He was the last of the old-time caregivers. In these days of managed health care and malpractice insurance and assembly-line medicine, the retirement of Dr. Winston St. Croix was, indeed, the end of an era.
I noticed that a few lines about two-thirds of the way through the article had been underlined in pencil. They read: “Dr. St. Croix opened his first office in the little town of Gorham, Minnesota, in 1968. He moved his practice to Cortland in 1980.”
I looked up at Evie and pointed to those lines. “Is this significant?”
“Larry apparently thought so. He underlined them.”
“Why?”
“That's what I've been trying to figure out.” She shuffled among some papers on the desk, then handed one to me. “Here. I found this, too.”
It had been printed off the Internet from the archives of the
Philadelphia Inquirer
. The date was November 13, 1987. The headline read, “Carlisle Teen Suicide Baffles School, Church Leaders.”
I looked up at her. “Carlisle, Pennsylvania,” I said. “That's where Owen Ransom was from.”
“Who's Owen Ransom?”
“When the police came knocking on my door this morning? When you scooted into the bathroom?”
She nodded.
“That was Owen Ransom. They found him in the parking lot out back of our motel. His throat had been cut.” I filled her in on my encounters with the man who had called himself Dr. Paul Romano, his murder, the fact that he was an
impostor, and my conversation with Kate Burrows, the editor of the Carlisle newspaper.
“You've been busy,” said Evie.
“It hasn't produced much.”
She tapped the printout I was holding. “Owen Ransom would've been a teenager in 1987.”
“Well, Owen Ransom didn't commit suicide in 1987,” I said. “I talked with him yesterday.”
I skimmed the article. A high-school freshman, a boy, had hanged himself in the basement of his home on a Saturday night. His parents found him when they got up on Sunday morning. He had left no note.
He had been a popular kid, a member of the basketball team, an honor-roll student. Teachers and friends were shocked. He'd seemed to be a happy, well-adjusted boy.
The article quoted some statistics on teen suicide. The rate had been rising alarmingly in that part of Pennsylvania. Oftentimes the victims were, like this one in Carlisle, apparently happy and well-adjusted youngsters.
The Carlisle school board was directing the administration of the school to develop a plan to identify depressed and potentially suicidal students. Local churches were expanding their counseling and outreach programs for troubled teens.
The article discreetly neglected to mention the name of the suicide victim.
I looked at Evie and shrugged. “I don't get it.”
She shook her head. “Me neither. But it must've meant something to Larry. Here. Read this.” She handed another piece of paper to me. “This was the other thing I found.”
This one, too, had been printed out from the archives of the
Inquirer
. It was dated August 7, 1990. “Carlisle Couple Dead in Boating Accident,” was the headline.
I skimmed the article. The victims were a married couple named Margaret and Robert Ransom. They'd taken a canoe
onto a local lake one summer evening. Their bodies and the capsized canoe were found by fishermen the next day. There had been no storm or wind that night. The couple were survived by a teenage son, unnamed in the article.
“Owen Ransom's parents,” I said.
Evie nodded. “What do you make of it?”
“I don't know,” I said. “But it all revolves around your doctor friend. Your saint. Something about his retirement. Ransom showing up and getting murdered. That canoe accident. The suicide. They're connected. Or at least Larry Scott thought they were.” I hesitated. “And, of course, the fact that Larry was gathering this material, and that Larry himself got killed. That's another connection. Did you find anything else?”
“No, butâ”
At that moment the telephone rang.
Evie looked at it, then she arched her eyebrows at me.
I shrugged.
It rang again. Evie picked it up, put it to her ear, but said nothing. Her eyes shifted from the ceiling to me. Then she said, “Yes, okay,” and hung up.
“That was Mary,” she said. “You've got to get back up into the barn right away.”
“Why?”
“Just go,” she said. “She said make it quick.”
Evie grabbed my arm, opened the door I had come in through, and pushed me to it.
She gave me a quick hug, then I started up the stairs. She left the door open so I could see where I was going.
When I reached the top, she closed the door. In the sudden darkness, I found the latch and pushed the door that opened into the horse stall on the main floor of the barn. I made sure the latch rope was not hanging on the outside of the door. Then I stepped into the stall and pushed the door shut.
I walked out of the stall. The inside of the barn was now brightly lit by the bulbs over the workbench. Mel Scott was sitting there with his back to me, working on a small engine.
He turned, beckoned me over, and pointed at the stool beside him.
I crossed the barn floor and sat on the stool. “What's going on?” I said.
“Just watch what I'm doing,” he said. “This here is the motor from a snowmobile. I'm showing you how to replace the fuel pump, okay? You're interested in this stuff, right?”
I shrugged. “Sure.” I leaned on my elbows to watch him.
Less than a minute later, two silhouettes appeared in the entrance to the barn. They stood there for a minute. Then one of them said, “Hello, Mr. Coyne.”
It was Detective Neil Vanderweigh.
I waved to him. “Hello.”
The two of them came over, and in the light from the bulbs over Mel's workbench, I saw that the other one was Sergeant Dwyer, the Cortland cop.
Dwyer nodded to me and said, “How you doin'?” to Mel.
“Workin' on it,” said Mel.
Vanderweigh jerked his head at Dwyer, who started wandering around the barn.
“What brings you here?” I said to Vanderweigh.
“I'm the cop,” he said. “I get to ask the questions. That was my question.”
“Mrs. Scott invited me over,” I said. “I accepted. There's not a helluva lot to do in this town. Watching a mechanical genius repair a snowmobile engine is pretty entertaining stuff. I'm learning a lot. That's the fuel pump he's working on.”
From the corner of my eye, I watched Dwyer. He was poking around the tractor and the flatbed truck that were parked in the back of the barn.
Vanderweigh pulled a stool up beside me and hitched himself
onto it. “I wondered what you'd do if you found yourself without an escort.”
“So you tracked me down. I'm flattered.”
“Oh, we care deeply,” he said.
Dwyer returned from the rear of the barn and was looking up the stairs that led to the hayloft.
Mel had some small engine parts spread out on the newspaper in front of him. “See this?” he said, poking at something with the tip of a tiny Phillips screwdriver. “See how it's worn here?”
I leaned over to look, then nodded. “Sure enough.”
“So,” said Vanderweigh. “Any new thoughts since last time we talked?”
I thought quickly. If I told him about the suicide and the boating accident that had happened in Carlisle, Pennsylvania, over a decade ago, he'd want to know how I'd heard about them, and that would force me either to lie or to tell him where Evie was hiding. I did not want to lie, and I would never tell him where Evie was.
I could have told him about talking with Kate Burrows down in Carlisle. But that hadn't given me any new thoughts.
I had accumulated a few new facts, but no new thoughts to go along with them.
“If I had any new thoughts,” I said, “I'd've sought you out immediately so I could share them with you.”
Okay, maybe that was a lie of sorts. I preferred to think of it as a slick evasion.
Dwyer had gone up into the hayloft.
“What about Ms. Banyon?” said Vanderweigh.
“What about her?”
“Any new thoughts about her?”
I shook my head. “Same old thoughts. I miss her. She didn't kill anybody. You're wasting your time, worrying about Evie.”
“No idea where she might be hiding?”
I shook my head. “No.”
That was a straightforward lie. I'd just have to try to live with the shame of it.
Dwyer came down the stairs from the hayloft, glanced around the barn, then went over to the horse stalls.
I tried not to watch him. I was afraid I'd give something away if he looked into the third one. I turned to Mel. “So you're telling me that this little doohickey prevented the thing from running?”
“It's worn,” he said. “See here? So the engine kept flooding.”
“Interesting,” I said. “And you figured that out from the way the guy described his problem?”
“It could've been three things,” said Mel. “This was one of 'em.”
I shifted my weight on the stool, and as I did, I glanced over toward Dwyer. He was coming out of the second stall. He moved to the third, went up on tiptoes, and looked over the shoulder-high wall.
I turned to Vanderweigh. “You find out anything more about Owen Ransom?”
He shook his head.
“Find the murder weapon?”
“Nope.”
“Any suspects?”
He shrugged.
I watched Mel reassemble the engine.
Vanderweigh, sitting beside me, watched him too.
Dwyer finished peering into the horse stalls, wandered outside, and after a while he came back inside.
Vanderweigh turned to him. “Well?”
Dwyer shook his head.
Vanderweigh blew out a breath, then turned to me. “You enjoying Cortland?”
“Pleasant little town,” I said. “Friendly folks, plenty of open spaces, nice diner.”
“Planning to stick around for a while?”
“I've got my room for another night.”
“Good,” he said. “Make it easy to keep an eye on you.”
A
fter Vanderweigh and Dwyer left, I let out a long breath. “Too close,” I said to Mel.
“That Dwyer,” he said. “He's a friend of Larry's. They hunt deer together.”
He was still thinking about his brother in the present tense.
“Does Dwyer know about that room down there where Evie's hiding?” I said.
He shrugged. “I don't know. Larry's real private about that place. Anyways, Evie ain't down there now. Dwyer wouldn't've found nothing but an empty room.”
“Where'd she go?”
He looked at me, shrugged, and turned back to his pile of engine parts.
I smiled. Mel and Mary weren't taking any chances with Evie, and that was fine by me.
“What about Evie's car?” I said. “I know she's got it with her, because she came to my motel last night.”
“It's hid good,” he said. “Don't worry about that.”
“She's been holing up in that little room all week?”
He shrugged. “Sleeping there is about it. She and my mother hang out, drinking ice tea, talkin' all the time, the way women do. Mostly about my brother, I guess. They don't want me around.”
“That bald-headed man,” I said to him. “He's a state police detective. He's very smart.”
“Johnny Dwyer ain't no dummy himself,” said Mel.
“Evie's going to have to be careful,” I said. “As long as the detective is around, she better not take any chances. He's looking for her. That's why he followed me here. He thinks she killed Larry.”
Mel looked at me and smiled. “I know that,” he said. “I'm not as dumb as you think. Don't you worry about Evie.”
“I don't think you're dumb.”
He returned his attention to his engine parts. “I acted pretty dumb this morning,” he mumbled.
“We both did,” I said. I slid off the stool. “Guess I'll be on my way. I'm staying in the motel if anybody wants to find me.”
“Gotcha,” said Mel.
I walked out of the barn and followed the driveway to the front of the house.
As I started to get into my car, Mary Scott called to me from the screen porch. I went over, and she came out and stood on the front steps. “Everything okay?” she said.
I nodded. “They didn't find her.”
“She showed you what she found?”
“Yes.”
“Make any sense to you?”
I shook my head. “Your son had been doing some searching on the Internet. I'm sure it all means something, but I don't know what.”
“You'll find out, won't you?”
“I'll try,” I said.
She offered me some iced tea, but I declined. I wanted to talk to Dr. Winston St. Croix again.
One of those big square family vans with sliding doors was parked alongside the Camry and the Jeep in Dr. St. Croix's driveway. I pulled up and stopped beside it, and when I got out, I saw that a couple of children's car seats were strapped in the back.
Claudia Wells came to the door when I rang the bell. She smiled at me through the screen door and said, “Mr. Coyne. How nice. Come on in. The doctor has company, but I know he'll be glad to see you.”
She held the door for me, and I followed her out onto the screened porch.
Winston St. Croix was seated in the same chair he'd been in when I was there in the morning. On the sofa beside him was Thomas Soderstrom, the administrator of the medical center. They were sipping what looked like iced tea and watching a baseball game on the television.
Soderstrom jumped up and held out his hand to me. “Mr. Coyne. How are you?”
I shook his hand. “I'm fine,” I said. “How about you? Got things under control at your office?”
He smiled. “Hardly. Win and I were just complaining about how much we missed Evie.”
I turned to St. Croix. “How're you feeling?”
“A little better,” he said. He winked. “The Sox just got a run, and if the bullpen can hold on, we'll pull this one out. That would make my day.”
I took the chair on the other side of the doctor, so that he was bracketed by me and Soderstrom.
“Can I get you something?” Claudia said to me. “Beer? Coke? Iced tea?”
“Iced tea would be fine,” I said, and she left the room.
We watched the game in silence for a couple of minutes, then Claudia came back, handed me a glass of iced tea, and sat on the sofa next to Soderstrom.
When the inning ended and a commercial came on, St. Croix turned to me and said, “I thought you'd be headed back to Boston by now, Brady. How long do you expect to be around?”
I shrugged. “I've got my room at the motel for another night.”
“Enjoying Cortland?” said Soderstrom.
I smiled. “I like the diner. Wish I'd brought my fly rod, though. There's not a lot to do around here.”
“The lake has good fishing, I hear,” said St. Croix.
“They don't think Evie had something to do with that murder this morning, do they?” said Soderstrom.
I shrugged. “I guess they do.”
He shook his head. “Ridiculous.”
The commercials ended, and the game resumed. We watched the Red Sox set down the Tigers in the ninth. When the last batter flied out to left field, the doctor clapped his hands. Then he fumbled for the remote and turned off the television.
“I do love baseball,” he said. “I played third base in college, you know.”
“Where was that?” I said.
“University of Minnesota. I batted leadoff, believe it or not. I didn't have much power, but I could run.”
“Did you go to medical school there, too?”
He nodded. “It's where I got started.” He gazed up at the ceiling and smiled. “Opened my first office in a little farm community in Minnesota. I was the only pediatrician in a radius of about a hundred miles. Made a lot of house calls in those days.”
“That's where he picked up all his bad habits,” said Claudia.
“So what brought you to Cortland?” I said.
St. Croix turned to me. “There's a television reporter coming down to interview me this week,” he said. “She saw that story about me in the
Globe
, and I guess she thinks she'll get some juicy human-interest stuff out of me. You know, the beloved old doctor, now wheelchair-bound, dying slowly of some insidious disease.” He reached over and patted my arm. “She'll probably ask me these same questions. I must remember to tell her about playing third base.”
“So why
did
you come to Cortland, of all places?” said Soderstrom.
St. Croix lifted his hand and let it fall into his lap. “The usual reason, I guess. Ambition. They needed a pediatrician here, and Boston is the medical mecca of the world. I figured with a base in Cortland, I might be able to hook up with Mass General or Beth Israel or one of those other great hospitals. Maybe get an appointment at the Harvard Medical School.” He shrugged. “I was young and full of myself. In the end, I just kept doing what I'd always done.”
“Taking care of children,” said Claudia. “The old fool even refused an affiliation with the new medical center.”
“In spite of my best efforts,” added Soderstrom.
“Did you ever practice medicine in Pennsylvania?” I said to the doctor.
He looked at me. “Huh? Pennsylvania?”
“Around Carlisle?”
He looked at Claudia. She shrugged.
“I'm not sure I even know where Carlisle, Pennsylvania, is,” he said to me. “Whatever made you think I might've worked in Pennsylvania?”
“Carlisle is near Harrisburg,” I said. “Did you ever know a couple named Margaret and Robert Ransom?”
He frowned and shook his head. “No ⦠Wait. That name is familiar. Ransom?” He looked at Claudia.
“That detective this morning,” she said to him. “He told us that Dr. Romano's real name was Ransom, remember?”
He rolled his eyes. “Yes, now that you mention it, of course I remember. My mind is rapidly turning to mush.” He turned back to me and smiledâa bit sadly, I thought. “You seem to be cross-examining me again, Brady.”
I waved my hand. “I apologize. I guess my concern for Evie has made me forget my manners.”
“Well, your questioning is good practice for when that reporter comes. I do hope she doesn't spring questions like yours on me, though. I'd like to be prepared. I still don't understand where you came up with Carlisle, Pennsylvania.”
“Dr. RomanoâOwen Ransomâwas from there.”
“He told me he was from New Jersey.”
“Right,” I said. “Why do you think he lied to you about his name and where he was from?”
“What difference could it possibly make?” said Claudia.
“Well,” I said, “he tried to disguise his identity. He wasn't even a doctor. And somebody cut his throat. Those facts would seem to be connected in some way.”
Soderstrom leaned forward. “You think he was worried that if people knew who he really was, he'd be in danger?”
“Something like that, maybe,” I said.
“And,” said Soderstrom, “somebody
did
figure out who he was, and they killed him.”
“The police didn't say anything like that to us this morning,” said Claudia.
“Well, my dear,” said St. Croix, “you know the police. They don't tell you anything.”
“The rumor that's going around,” she said, “is that Dr. Romano, or whatever his name was, got involved with a married woman or a prostitute or something.”
“So,” I said to St. Croix, “the names Margaret and Robert Ransom don't ring any bells with you?”
He shrugged. “I'm afraid not. I don't believe I've ever even been in Carlisle, Pennsylvania.” He looked at Claudia. “Have I?”
She smiled at him. “No. You've always been right here with your patients.”
“Owen Ransom's parents died in a boating accident about ten years ago,” I said.
“That's tragic,” said St. Croix. “But I don't understand why you're telling me these things about a person I only met for the first time yesterday.”
“He came here specifically to see you.”
“Well, all he told me was that he was a doctor who wanted to buy my practice.”
“But that was a lie,” I said.
St. Croix narrowed his eyes at me. “If I didn't know better, Brady, I'd think you were accusing me of something.”
“No, sir,” I said quickly. “I'm sorry if it sounds that way.”
“As if you think I killed that young man,” he said.
“Sorry. I don't think that at all. Sometimes I can be too direct. Lawyer training, I guess.”
“I wouldn't say you were especially direct,” he said. “But you certainly do sound like a lawyer.”
“Whenever I sound like a lawyer,” I said, “I feel like I should apologize. Nobody wants to sound like a lawyer. Especially a lawyer.”
St. Croix smiled. Then he let out a long sigh, slumped back in his chair, and looked up at Claudia with his eyebrows arched.
She nodded to him, then stood up. “Well,” she said, “it's been lovely, but ⦔
Soderstrom pushed himself out of his chair. “We've overstayed our welcome,” he said.
“Not at all,” said St. Croix. “But I am tired. I hope you'll both come back.”
I stood up, too. “Please forgive me for being rude,” I said.
He waved his hand. “You weren't rude. A bit lawyerly, perhaps.” He smiled. “I do mean it. I'd enjoy visiting with you again.”
Soderstrom and I both shook hands with St. Croix and then followed Claudia to the front door. When I apologized to her for upsetting the doctor, she shook her head. “It's good for him to have his mind stimulated. He's grown noticeably more forgetful in the past few months. I know he meant it. He'd enjoy seeing you again.”
“Well, I don't know how much longer I'll be here, but it looks like it'll be for at least another day. If so, I'll be back.”
She put her hand on my shoulder and smiled. “I'd enjoy it, too.”
When I went out to my car, Soderstrom was there leaning against the side of his van. “You were kind of rough on him,” he said.