Aside from her duffel bag sitting in the middle of the floor,
everything was as I remembered it in the living room. I went over and looked at Evie's collection of hand-carved birds in the glass-fronted cabinet in the corner. I had given her the little ruby-throated hummingbird for Christmas and the wood thrush for Valentine's Day. I was lucky, always knowing what I could give Evie for gifts, knowing that they would delight her, knowing I'd never run out of good ideas. I was eager to return her bobwhite quail to her so she could add it to her collection.
I moved into the kitchen. Everything was neat and orderly there, too. I opened the refrigerator and checked the dates on the milk and orange-juice cartons. They had both expired earlier in the week. Both cartons were about half full. I figured she'd bought them sometime before we went to the Cape.
I judged orange juice by its taste, but Evie, I knew, threw away everything the moment it became outdated, whether it tasted all right or not.
It was obvious that she hadn't been here for a while. In fact, it seemed as if she'd turned around and left as soon as I'd dropped her off back on Saturday.
That duffel bag sitting there in the middle of her living room was ominous. It suggested she'd left in a hurry.
Or that she'd left against her will.
I looked out the living-room window to the slot under the trees in front where she parked her black Volkswagen Jetta. It wasn't there.
I went back into the living room, sat on the sofa, and lit a cigarette. I tried to think. Larry Scott was following Evie. Then someone murdered Larry Scottâsomeone, apparently, that he'd known. Evie had been questioned hard by the state police. Scott knew Evie. She was a good suspect.
Then she'd disappeared.
I was just stubbing out my cigarette when the phone rang.
I jumped up and went into her office. I debated answering it versus letting her machine take it and listening to the message, then grabbed it while it was still ringing.
“Yes?” I said. “Hello?”
There was no response. I sensed rather than heard a person breathing on the other end of the line.
“This is Brady Coyne,” I said quickly. “Who is this? Evie? Is that you?”
There was a perceptible hesitation, then whoever it was hung up.
I sat at Evie's desk. The answering machine kept winking at me.
I felt like a snooper. But I pressed the PLAY button.
The machine whirred for a minute, clicked, beeped, and then a woman's voice said, “Evie? This is Charlotte Matley, returning your call. It's, um, Sunday evening. I'm sorry I couldn't get back to you sooner, but I've been away from the office for the weekend. You sounded like you had something urgent. I hope everything's okay. You can call me here at home tonight, or catch me in the office in the morning.” She left two phone numbers, then hung up.
The machine beeped again, and then came a message from Sergeant Lipton, Vanderweigh's partner, politely asking her to call him. Then there was another message from Lipton. This time he was less polite. “Ms. Banyon,” he said, “you must call us immediately.”
Then I heard my voice asking Evie to call me. Then me again, sounding both annoyed and concerned. Then came Marcus Bluestein, then me again, telling her I loved her and missed her.
After the last message, I pressed the SAVE button and the machine rewound itself.
Who was Charlotte Matley? I didn't remember ever hearing Evie mention anybody named Charlotte. On the other hand,
I was realizing that there were a lot of things about Evie I didn't know.
I replayed the messages and jotted down the two numbers Charlotte Matley had left. Then I picked up Evie's phone and pressed the redial button.
It rang five times. Then a recorded message said, “You have reached the offices of Hagan and Matley, attorneys-at-law. Our regular hours are eight-thirty to five, Monday through Friday. To speak to Attorney Michael Hagan, please press one. To speak to Attorney Charlotte Matley, press two.”
I pressed two. “This is Charlotte Matley,” said the same, rather throaty voice that had left Evie a message. “Please leave your name and number along with a brief message and I'll be sure to return your call.”
I hit the OFF button on Evie's phone without leaving a message.
Hmm. Evie had mentioned consulting a lawyer back when she lived in Cortland and Larry Scott was driving her crazy. I thought I remembered that Evie had referred to the lawyer as “she.” An inspired leap of deductive analysis suggested to me that Charlotte Matley might be that same lawyer.
I dialed the home number that Attorney Matley had left on Evie's machine, and after a couple of rings, a woman's voice said, “Yes?” It was the same voice I'd been listening to on Evie's answering machine.
“Hi,” I said. “I'm sorry to bother you at home. My name is Brady Coyne. I'm an attorney and a friend of Evie Banyon, andâ”
“How did you get this number, Mr. Coyne?”
“Well, to tell you the truth, I'm at Evie's house and I got it off her answering machine.”
“Really.” Her voice dripped with disapproval.
“Well, yes,” I said. “You see, she and I are, um, good friends, and we've been out of touch, and I've been worried
about her. I haven't spoken to her for a week, and she hasn't been returning my calls, and so finallyâ”
“You broke into her house?”
“No,” I said. “I have a key.”
“May I make a suggestion, Mr. Coyne?”
“Sure, butâ”
“Evie doesn't appreciate being hounded.”
“Hounded? I'm worried about her, Ms. Matley. She's been through a very traumatic experience.”
She didn't say anything.
“Ms. Matley?” I said. “Are you there?”
“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “You might as well call me Charlotte. So you haven't heard from her in what, a week?”
“Right. I dropped her off here last Saturday. Her duffel bag is still sitting on the living-room floor. She has a week's worth of messages on her answering machine. The state police are trying to reach her. I know she tried to call you. Did you speak with her?”
“Mr. Coyne,” she said, “you know better.”
“I'm not asking what you talked about, Charlotte. I'm just asking if you spoke with her. I just want to know that she's all right. And you should call me Brady.”
“Right,” she said. “Brady it shall be, then.” She hesitated. “Well, no, I didn't actually speak with her. She left me a message, and I returned her call. But she didn't answer, and she didn't get back to me, and I haven't seen her. I wish I could assure you that she's all right.”
“What was her message?”
“I don't thinkâ”
“Look,” I said. “Client privilege and all that. But I heard your return message to her. You said her call sounded urgent. Well, I'm sure it was. Last Saturday Evie found the dead body of a man who'd been following her and harassing her. Did you know that? His name was Larry Scott. He'd been knifed
twice in the stomach, and the state police think she killed him. So she called you, her lawyer, and when she couldn't reach you, it looks to me like she left here in a hurry.” I paused. “Or else something happened to her.”
Charlotte Matley said nothing. In the background, I heard what sounded like television laughter.
“Charlotte?” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “I haven't gone anywhere. To tell you the truth, I've got my two children here with me, and we were just putting supper together when you called. They're hungry. This is not a good time.”
“What is a good time?”
She laughed quickly. “It's my weekend with the kids. It's precious to me. There is no good time. Why don't we talk on Monday?”
“Doesn't it concern you that Evie called you, and it sounded urgent, and you haven't heard back from her in a week?”
“I don't know,” she said. “I just figured whatever it was, it wasn't that urgent after all, or it got resolved.”
“How well do you know Evie?” I said.
“Quite well, actually.”
“Would you say Evie panics easily?”
“No. Evie Banyon does not overreact. She's a calm, confident, very self-contained person.”
“Well,” I said, “she's gone. She called you, and she didn't get you, and now she's gone.”
“Are you trying to make me feel responsible?”
“No. I'm just telling you what happened.”
“Just because she's not there, it doesn't meanâ”
“She hasn't showed up for work all week. She didn't even call her boss. He's concerned, too.”
“I see,” she said softly.
“The state police can't find her,” I said.
“Yes, you said that.”
“Would you say that's typical of Evie, not showing up for work, and not calling in, and avoiding the police like that?”
“Certainly not.”
“In her message to you, she didn't say what she wanted?”
“I told youâ”
“Sure,” I said. “Privileged. Fine. But she's a suspect in a murder case, and she seems to have disappeared, and I, for one, intend to do something about it.”
“Of course,” she said. “Okay. Why don't you meet me in my office tomorrow. Say around ten?”
“Why wait?” I said. “Talk to me now.”
“No. My kids are hungry, and right now they're my priority. I'm sorry, but it'll just have to wait. I don't usually go to the office on Saturday mornings, Brady. I'll have to arrange a baby-sitter. So do you want to do this?”
“Okay. Yes. How do I get there?”
She gave me directions. Her office was in Cortland, the town where Evie had worked, where she'd been followed and harassed by Larry Scott.
Evie had told me that Scott had lived his entire life in Cortland. The town was full of people he had knownâpeople who could walk up to him and stab him in the belly before it would occur to him to raise his arms to defend himself.
It was a good place to start.
I
spent Friday night second-guessing myself. I never should have left Evie alone on Saturday without clearing the air. Finding Larry Scott's body and then being interrogated by the state police had spooked her, and she'd reacted in a perfectly normal wayâby taking her frustrations and fears out on me. I should've understood that. I shouldn't have taken it personally. I should have insisted that she let me carry her luggage inside. Then I should have hugged her and held her and told her I loved her. I should have let her be angry with me if she wanted, and I should have waited while she cried or beat on my chest with her fists, or yelled and cursed, if that's how she felt.
I should have been there for her, even if she didn't want me to be.
Instead I'd shrugged and left her there, alone with her anger, or her fear, or whatever it was she was feeling. So she had gone inside, dumped her duffel bag on the floor, and called
her lawyer, and when she didn't reach her, she ⦠what? What had she done?
Disturbing scenarios bounced around my brain all night, and I slept poorly.
Finally, around five o'clock, I gave up trying to sleep. I made coffee, and when it had brewed I took a mug and my road atlas out onto the balcony to watch the sun come up.
I found Cortland a little southwest of Foxboro about halfway between Boston and Providence, on the old Route 1 where it paralleled Interstate 95. Charlotte Matley had told me her office was on Main Streetâwhich is what they called Route 1 in townâdirectly across from the village green. I guessed it would take me less than an hour to drive there from my apartment in the light traffic of a summer Saturday morning.
I forced myself to wait until quarter of nine before I left. I was eager to get there, eager to talk with Charlotte, eager to begin looking for Evie. But there was no reason to get there early. I'd just have to wait.
I hated waiting.
It was a straight shot down Interstate 95 to the Cortland exit, and then I found myself heading south on Route 1. I crossed the town line into Cortland a little after nine-thirty A.M. I passed cornfields, now shoulder-high, and motels that looked as if they'd been built in the 1950s, and an old drive-in movie theater with weeds growing out of cracks in the paved parking area. The marquee read, COMMERCIAL PROPERTY FOR SALE.
Once upon a time, Route 1 was the most-traveled highway in America. It started at the very northern tip of Maine on the New Brunswick border and traced the zigzags of the Atlantic coastline all the way to Key West, Florida. Commerce flourished all along Route 1. Gas stations, souvenir stores, motels,
antique shops, ice-cream parlors, taverns, restaurantsâall were excellent investments. Any small town lucky enough to be located on Route 1 was guaranteed at least modest prosperity in the early postwar years when all of America owned automobiles, and gas was cheap, and motoring was the national pastime.
Then the Eisenhower administration launched its interstate highway program, and the old meandering prewar two-lane roadways like Route 1 became byways, and their villages became commercial ghost towns. Now you could hop onto Route 95 in Houlton, Maine, set your cruise control for 70, and in two days of steady driving you'd be in Miami.
I'd always dreamed of driving the length of Route 1. I'd start in early September in Madawaska, Maine, where the leaves would already be turning, and I'd follow autumn southward, and by the time I arrived in southern Florida, it would be snowing at my starting point. I'd stop at ten thousand stoplights and school crossings. I'd stay in rental cabins and eightunit motels, and I'd eat in coffee shops and diners with the locals, and I'd visit every World War One and Civil War memorial along the way.
Well, I'd probably never do it. It was a romantic notion, but the older I got, the less inclined I seemed to be to pursue romantic notions.
I pulled into the tree-shaded parking area in front of the neat white colonial where Charlotte Matley's office was located around nine forty-five. Several other cars were already parked there.
A flea market had been set up on the village green across the street, and families were prowling the tables and booths, sipping from paper cups, eating cotton candy, carrying balloons. I crossed the street and bought a cup of coffee and a
donut from a pair of elderly women at the Friends of the Library booth, then went back and sat on the front steps of Charlotte's office building.
At five minutes of ten, a red Subaru wagon pulled in beside my BMW, and a stocky, thirtyish woman with short blonde hair slid out. She waved at me. “Brady?”
“Yes, hi,” I said.
She opened the back door of her Subaru, and two girls came bursting out. They both wore red sneakers and striped overalls and crisp white T-shirts, and they looked four or five years old. Twins.
Charlotte ushered them to the front of the building where I was sitting on the steps. “Couldn't get a sitter,” she said. She jerked her head back over her shoulder. “Everyone's at the fair. Most excitement we've had in Cortland since the senior prom.” She held out her hand. “I'm Charlotte Matley.”
I took her hand. “Brady Coyne.”
She knelt beside the two girls. “I'm going to be talking with Mr. Coyne,” she said to them, “and I want you to behave yourselves. If you're good, we'll go to the fair after I'm done, okay?”
“Can't we go now?” said one of the girls.
“No. You can watch TV in the back room, and you can use the coloring books, and I don't want to hear a peep out of you.”
“Can we have cotton candy?”
“If you behave. End of discussion.” She stood up. “Come on in,” she said to me.
She unlocked the front door, and I followed her inside. She opened one of the inner doors and said, “Have a seat. Let me get these two settled.” Then she led the girls toward the rear of the building.
Charlotte Matley's office appeared to have originally been the library in the old colonial house. It was large and square,
with high ceilings and tall windows and floor-to-ceiling bookcases built into three walls, with a bricked-over fireplace in the corner. There was a leather sofa and two matching easy chairs on one side, and a big oak desk against the opposite wall.
I sat on the sofa, and a minute later Charlotte came in. She was wearing a short-sleeved blouse, a knee-length skirt, and sandals. She sat in one of the easy chairs. “Being a single parent is a full-time job,” she said. “So is being a lawyer.” She blew out a long breath, then smiled at me. “Well, enough about me. You want to talk about Evie Banyon.”
“Yes,” I said. “I'm concerned.”
“Since I talked to you yesterday, I guess I am, too. I'm not sure I'll be able to shed much light on it. As I told you, I just got that one message from her a week ago. I called back and left her a message, but I haven't heard from her.”
“You said her message sounded urgent,” I said. “What did she say?”
“Unfortunately, I erased it. There was an urgency in her tone, I remember. She said something like, âI need to talk to you.”
“She used the word âneed'?” I said.
Charlotte nodded. “Yes. That was the word that got my attention.”
“Do you know what time she called?”
“I can tell you exactly.” She got up, went to her desk, opened a drawer, and came back with a leather-bound notebook. “My machine records the time of my calls, and I log them all in.” She opened the notebook, flipped a couple of pages, then looked up at me. “Evie called at four fifty-two P.M. last Saturday.”
“That was no more than ten or fifteen minutes after I dropped her off,” I said.
“Is that significant?”
I shrugged. “I don't know. She'd just been through a long interrogation with the state police. Maybe she decided she needed to consult a lawyer. I'd mentioned that to her.” I shook my head.
“You don't seem convinced,” said Charlotte.
“Well,” I said, “it's unlike Evie to leave her duffel bag in the middle of the living room. It's as if she panicked when she walked into her place.”
“Why would she panic?”
“Maybe she had a message on her answering machine, though if she did, she deleted it. I guess I was hoping you might have an idea.”
She shook her head.
“Evie told me she'd consulted a lawyer about Scott back when she lived in Cortland,” I said. “That was you, huh?”
“Yes. She wanted to take out a 209A.”
“The way she explained her situation to me,” I said, “she didn't have grounds for a restraining order.”
Charlotte looked at me and smiled quickly. “Right. But now I'm feeling maybe I should've tried harder to do something for her.”
“She did talk with the local police, though?”
She nodded. “That was before she came to me. Our police are mostly local boys. Cortland is a small town. For better or worse, if you know what I mean. Everybody in town knowsâknewâLarry Scott. He was sort of a war hero after Desert Storm. Evie lived here for three or four years, but Scott was born here. Compared to him, she was an outsider.”
“So she didn't get any satisfaction.”
“Scott was following her and watching her and harassing her on the phone and parking outside her house at night. Evie felt the police weren't taking her seriously. I told her they couldn't do much without a restraining order, and she didn't have legal grounds to get one, and I explained that what Scott
was doing wasn't technically stalking. I think the police did everything they could, but Evie was very angry and frustrated by the whole thing. Finally she got a new job and moved away.”
“So advising her about the restraining order was the only business you had with Evie?” I said.
Charlotte looked out the window. “Now you're asking me questions I can't answer.”
“There was something else, then?”
She shook her head. “She's my client.”
“Look, Charlotte,” I said. “I'm here as Evie's friend, not as a lawyer. If there's somethingâ”
“The way I look at it,” she said, “whatever she wanted you to know, she would've told you. It's not up to me.”
“Except she's missing.”
She shrugged. “We don't really know that. Just because you can't find her ⦔
“Sure,” I said. “You're right.” I smiled. “Evie didn't tell me much.”
“I guess everybody has their secrets.” Charlotte stood up and smoothed her skirt against her legs. “I'm afraid I haven't been much help, but I think I've told you everything I can. You should probably just let Evie work out whatever it is she's doing in her own way.”
I stood up, too. “If you knew where she was, would you tell me?”
“Not if she asked me not to.”
“But you didn't talk to her.”
“No,” she said. “I might refuse to tell you something, but I wouldn't lie to you. Hey, I'm a lawyer.”
I arched my eyebrows, and she laughed.
“Who were her friends here in Cortland?” I said.
“Friends?” She frowned. “I don't know. We never talked about her friends. She worked at the new medical center and
she rented an apartment in a big old Victorian down near the lake. That's about all I know. I was her lawyer, not her confidante.”
“Can you tell me how to find the medical center and that apartment building?”
Charlotte smiled. “You are persistent, aren't you?”
“I'm worried about Evie.”
She nodded. “Of course you are.” She gave me directions. The medical center was on Main StreetâRoute 1âoutside of town a few miles south of the village green. Evie's old apartment building was down toward the end of a side street I'd passed on my way. They both sounded easy to find.
We walked out of her office. She locked the door, then turned and held out her hand. “I've got to round up the kids,” she said. “You can find your way out.”
I took her hand. “Thanks for seeing me on a Saturday morning. I know it was an inconvenience.”
“I'm afraid I haven't been much help.”
“It's a start,” I said.
She headed for the back of the building, and I went out the front door. I paused on the porch to light a cigarette. It was one of those still, hazy summer mornings that felt like it would evolve into thunderstorms in the afternoon. The crowds on the village green across the street appeared to have grown larger, and now the parking area in front of the lawyer's building was packed with vehicles.
I headed for my car, where I'd left it under the sweeping branches of a big old oak tree. Charlotte Matley hadn't been much help, and this quest was starting to feel quixotic and futile. Evie could be anywhere, and I didn't know where to look, or even whether I should be looking. Maybe Charlotte was right. Maybe I should trust Evie to work out her own problems by herself. She certainly hadn't asked for my help.