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 Gorhamâgood times
All those childrenâloved them all
Never do harm to anyone
MSâpainâlosing my mind?
End it on my own terms
Tired all the time
Third baseâran 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 shrugged.
“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”âhe pointed at the paper I was holdingâ“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.”
“âWe'?”
“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.
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 that 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 daysâit felt like three weeksâall 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.
I picked up the phone, got information for Gorham, and learned that the town didn't have a newspaper. I thought of asking the operator to connect me with the oldest living resident of the town, but she didn't seem to have much patience. So I asked for the local police.
A male voice answered. “Gorham Police.”
“I'm an attorney in Boston,” I said, “and I hope you'll bear with me, because I have an unusual request.”
“Fire away.”
“Who's got the most seniority on your force?”
“Seniority?”
“Who's been there the longest?”
“I know what seniority means, sir,” said the officer. “I was just agreeing that this is an unusual request. It would be Chief Proctor. He's been on the force for ⦠I guess he's coming up on twenty-five years.”
“So he was there in 1980.”
“Unless my math is worse than I thought.”
“I wonder if I could speak to him.”
“You probably ought to tell me what you want to speak to him about,” he said. “Then I can ask him if he wants to speak to you.”
“I just want to know if he remembers a man who used to practice pediatric medicine in Gorham. His name was Winston St. Croix.”
“St. Croix?”
“That's right.”
“Hang on.”
I waited nearly five minutes before a different male voice, this one older and raspier, said, “This is Chief Proctor.”
“Chief,” I said, “my name is Brady Coyne, and Iâ”
“You're asking about Winston St. Croix.”
“That's right. Did you know him?”
“Yes, I did. Why?”
“He died today, andâ”
“You're calling to tell me he died? He hasn't been near this town for over twenty years.”
“I'm wondering why he left Gorham in the first place.”
Chief Proctor cleared his throat. “Far as I know, he went looking for greener pastures. It happened kind of sudden, as I recall. Folks weren't happy about it. Fact is, we don't keep good doctors around here for very long. Good lawyers, either, come to think of it. Not that you run into many of them.”
“What do you mean, âsudden'?”
“Well,” he said, “it was a long time ago, but I do remember Dr. St. Croix didn't give any notice. Just up and left, practically
overnight. The town was without a pediatrician for a couple years. That didn't set well with people.”
“But he was a good doctor?”
“I guess he was. Never heard anything to the contrary.”
“Does the name Ransom ring any bells with you?”
“Ransom?” He paused. “You want to give me a hint?”
“High-school teacher and his wife. They had two boys. Edgar and Owen. They moved away in 1984.”
“You know more about it than I do, I guess. People come and go. I don't recall any Ransoms. Why?”
“I was wondering if the Ransom boys were Dr. St. Croix's patients.”
“These were young boys?”
“Yes. They would've both been under ten at the time.”
“No doubt they were his patients, then. He was the only pediatrician in town.”
“How well did you know the doctor?”
“Look,” he said. “I don't know what you're after here, but you're talking about ancient history, and my memory of those days is pretty fuzzy. I knew Dr. St. Croix. Gorham was a small town back then. It's still small, but it was quite a bit smaller then. Dr. St. Croix practiced medicine here for a while, then he moved on. People liked him. Far as I know, he was a good doctor. Beyond that ⦔
“Owen Ransom was murdered two days ago,” I said. “He'd come to a town here in Massachusetts posing as a doctor. He sought out Dr. St. Croix, pretending he wanted to buy his practice. Then he got his throat cut.”
“You think St. Croix did it?”
“No. Dr. St. Croix had multiple sclerosis. He was in a wheelchair.”
“Well,” he said, “if you're suggesting there was bad blood between the Ransom boy and Dr. St. Croix, you're asking the wrong man.”
“Who should I ask?”
“You could've asked my predecessor, but he died six years ago.”
“The previous chief?”
“That's right. He and St. Croix were close friends. When the doctor left town, the chief refused talk about it. Wouldn't even allow St. Croix's name to be mentioned around him. Mad as hell about it.”
“Why would he be mad?”
“Damned if I know.”
“Is there anybody in town who might know more about it than you?” I asked.
“It was a long time ago,” he said. “Sorry. And I don't mean to be rude, but ⦔
“I appreciate your time,” I said.
“Give me a number,” he said. “If I think of anything, I'll get back to you.”
After I hung up from talking with Police Chief Proctor in Gorham, Minnesota, I realized I was feeling hungry. So I splashed some water on my face, put on my shoes, and drove to the Cortland diner for what I hoped would be the last time in my entire life.
This time I got there before they ran out of meatloaf. It was moist on the inside and crispy on the outside, just like I remembered my mother made it. They served it with two strips of bacon, a twice-baked potato, and candied carrots. It reinforced my faith in diner meatloaf.
The hot apple pie and coffee afterwards left me feeling replete and happy.
When I walked out of the diner, it was still light. So I drove north past the village green, turned down the road that led to the old Victorian where Evie had lived when she worked in Cortland, and continued past it to the lake. I kept glancing
in my rearview mirror. As far as I could tell, Vanderweigh hadn't attached a tail to me.
I pulled into a dirt parking area beside the lake and walked down to a sand beach, where a few young women wearing bathing suits and wide-brimmed straw hats sat on blankets watching toddlers splash in the shallows.
If I had my topography right, the stream that the old farmer had dammed to make the pond behind Mary Scott's house emptied into this lake across the way from where I was standing.
At the left end of the beach, there was a jumble of furnituresized boulders. I went over and sat on one of them, lit a cigarette, and gazed upon the water.
A freshwater pond around sunset at the end of a summer's day offers endlessly fascinating entertainment. Swallows and purple martins swooped and darted barely inches over the surface, chasing insects. Here and there their wingtips ticked the glassy water, leaving rings like feeding fish do. Bats and nighthawks had emerged from the shadowy woods along the shore to snag mosquitoes, and a string of half-grown mallards paddled single-file behind their mother among the reeds. A blue heron stood knee-deep in the water, still as a stump with its neck arched like a half-drawn bow, poised to strike a hapless bluegill. Bullfrogs grumped and grumbled in the lily pads, and now and then a bass or a pickerel swirled in the shallows trying to catch one.
While I sat there, I thought about Winston St. Croix and Owen Ransom and Larry Scott, and I thought about Evie, and I thought about the people I'd met in Cortland, and I pondered scenarios that might link them all together. I had no flashes of insight.
Still, sitting on a rock watching the water around dusk on a summer evening never fails to soothe my soul and restore my perspective.
By the time I stood up and headed back to the car, the stars were popping out overhead and mist was rising from the surface of the lake and the young mothers had taken their children home for bed.
Back at the motel I watched a seventies movie in which Robert Mitchum played a small-time Boston hood who was ratting out his friends to the feds in hope of saving himself from prison. In the end, Mitchum's friends killed him.
The credits were scrolling when somebody knocked on my door.
My heart thumped. Evie?
More likely it was Vanderweigh, coming to grill me.
I got off the bed and pulled the door open.
I hadn't expected anybody to knock on my motel-room door, but if I had thought about it, the last person to come to mind would have been Claudia Wells.
She stood there rubbing her hands up and down on the tops of her thighs and looking at me with big solemn eyes. She smiled quickly. “I'm sorry,” she said. “This was stupid.”
“It's nice to see you, Claudia,” I said. “Do you want to come in?”
She shrugged. “I guess so. Sure. Thank you.”
I held the door for her. She brushed past me and stood uncertainly in the middle of my little motel room. She was wearing a dark blue Providence College sweatshirt, snugfitting white jeans, and white canvas sneakers. A little purse hung on a strap over her shoulder. Her blond hair was tied back with a scarf that matched the sweatshirt. She wore pink lipstick.