Past Tense

by William G. Tapply

  I opened the trunk, and in a couple of minutes Carl had the spare tire mounted on the front and the flat loaded in the back of his truck.

  He climbed in. “You want to follow me?”

  “Sure.” I turned to Charlotte. “Thanks for everything.”

  She shrugged. “I wish I could’ve been more helpful. If you learn anything, please let me know. I’ll be thinking about Evie. Thanks for the cotton candy.”

  “I’ll keep you posted.”

  I got into my car, backed out, waved to Charlotte and her daughters, and followed Carl’s tow truck north on Main Street, retracing the route I’d taken to get there. About a mile out of town, we pulled into a two-bay garage with four gas pumps out front. It was a low-slung weathered brick building, vintage 1955, I guessed. A large wooden sign over the door read RAYMOND’S TEXACO.

  I bought a Coke from the machine out front while Carl lugged my flat tire inside. I’d just lit a cigarette when he came out. “Uh, sir,” he said, “you wanna come here for a minute?”

  I followed him into one of the bays. My flat tire was lying on the cement floor.

  Carl squatted down beside my tire. “Here, take a look at this.”

  I squatted beside him. He pointed at the valve. “See this?”

  “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to see,” I said.

  “The valve stem, sir. It’s missing.”

  I shrugged.

  “See,” he said, “inside the valve there’s this thing you press down, right? Well, you can unscrew it, which is what we do to let the air out of a tire. Yours is missing.”

  “Meaning what?”

  Carl looked up at me. “Meaning, somebody unscrewed it for you.”

  “You saying somebody vandalized my car?”

  “That’s the only way it could happen. Those things don’t just fall out all by themselves.” He stood up. “I can fix it. That’s no problem. But I ought to report it.”

  “Hell,” I said, “it’s just a flat tire.”

  He shrugged. “Up to you, I guess. Some asshole kid, got nothing better to do, probably thinks it’s pretty funny, disabling some out-of-towner’s nice BMW. But I don’t.”

  “I don’t want to make a fuss,” I said.

  “Cortland cops don’t get much in the way of excitement,” said Carl. “Why don’t I give ’em a call?”

  I nodded. “Sure. Okay.”

  He went into the office, and a minute later he was back. “Someone’ll be along.”

  I watched Carl fix my tire. It took him about ten minutes to replace the missing valve stem, pump up the tire, and mount it back on my car. When he was finished, he wiped his hands on a rag. “So you got business with Ms. Matley, huh?”

  I nodded. “Lawyer business.”

  “You a lawyer, too?”

  I nodded.

  He smiled. “So you can’t talk about it.”

  “Right.”

  I offered him a cigarette. He waved it away. I lit one for myself. “Did you know Larry Scott?”

  He turned to me and frowned. “What about him?”

  I waved my hand. “He was murdered. He was from Cortland, wasn’t he?”

  Carl nodded. “Everybody knew Larry. Hear it was a woman killed him. That why you’re down here? Something to do with Larry?”

  I shook my head. “I can’t talk about it. What kind of guy was he?”

  Carl shrugged. “Sad.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, he was this big jock in high school. Everybody said he was good enough to play in college. Baseball and football both. He was a halfback. Led the league in rushing two years. Pitcher on the team. Made the Globe ‘Honorable Mention.’ After graduation, he joined the Marines. Said he was gonna get his education that way. He went off to Desert Storm, and when he came back, he was … I don’t know. Different. Had a mean temper. Used to spend a lot of time by himself. Liked hunting and fishing. Owned a lot of guns. Got a job as a janitor. Didn’t seem to have any ambition anymore. Drank a lot. Liked to tell war stories. Guess he had some hairy experiences over there.” Carl shrugged. “He was six years older’n me. I used to idolize Larry Scott when I was a kid.”

  “But not anymore, huh?”

  “I felt sorry for him,” he said. “It was like the best thing that was ever going to happen to him in his whole life had already happened. He was the town’s football hero, and then he went off to war, and when he came home he wasn’t a hero anymore. He liked to talk like he was, but nobody gave a shit.”

  “So what are people saying, now that he got murdered?”

  “Not much,” he said. “I mean, it’s a tragedy, and some people are taking it hard. Folks’re remembering what a golden boy he used to be and forgetting what he turned out to be, the way they do after somebody dies. But it’s like it’s no surprise something like that happened.”

  “He had enemies, you mean?”

  “No, I didn’t mean that. All I mean is, ever since he came home, it seems like he was doomed. Like things had gone bad for him. He couldn’t play sports anymore, and he couldn’t get a good job, and he couldn’t even keep a girlfriend.”

  “He had a girlfriend?” I asked.

  “He liked to say he did, but that was all in his imagination.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, there was this woman, worked where he did. Older than him, real pretty and smart. He liked to brag about how she was his girl. But she wasn’t. She finally moved out of town to get away from him. What I hear, he followed her, so finally she killed him.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Around. People talk, you know?”

  “Did you know this woman?”

  “Sure. Miss Banyon. Evie. She got her oil changed here. Everybody knows everybody in Cortland.”

  “You haven’t seen her around lately, have you?”

  He cocked his head and frowned at me. “Why are you asking me all these questions?”

  “No reason,” I said. “Just making conversation until the police arrive.”

  “Well,” he said, “I gotta get back to work. They should be here any minute. Thirty bucks should take care of it.”

  I gave Carl two twenty-dollar bills and waved him away when he dug in his overalls for change. “Thanks for helping me out.”

  He shrugged. “It’s my job.”

  I backed my car out of the garage, pulled it off to the side of the paved area, got out, and leaned against the fender. About ten minutes later a black-and-white police cruiser pulled in.

  SEVEN

  The cruiser parked in front of the entrance to the garage’s office. A uniformed officer slid out from behind the wheel, glanced in my direction, then went inside, leaving his engine running and his door hanging open. He stood in the doorway with his hands on his hips, rocking back and forth on his heels, talking with Carl.

  He was in there for about five minutes. Then he came out, hitched up his belt, adjusted his sunglasses, and sauntered over to me. “You’re Mr. Coyne?” he said.

  I nodded.

  He was a burly guy, thirtyish, with a round face and pale eyes and curly red hair showing under his cap. He had shaved so close that his pink cheeks shone. “Mind if I look at your license?” he said. The nameplate on his shirt said SGT. J. DWYER.

  “Why?”

  “May I see your license, please, sir?” he repeated.

  I shrugged, took out my wallet, and handed him my driver’s license.

  He glanced at it, looked at me as if he were comparing the photo on the license with my actual face, and wrote something into his notebook. Then he nodded and gave the license back to me. “So what brings you to Cortland, Mr. Coyne?”

  “I thought it would be a likely place to get a flat tire,” I said.

  He frowned. “What did you say?”

  I blew out a breath. “What makes the difference why I’m here? Why are you checking my driver’s license? Somebody vandalized my car, and Carl in there, being a resp
onsible citizen, called it in, though I told him I didn’t think it was necessary, but when he did I, also being a responsible citizen, waited here for you. Where I come from, having the valve stem removed from your tire doesn’t make you a suspicious character.”

  “You’re a lawyer, is that right, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “From Boston.”

  “Right.”

  “Long way from home to be telling a police officer how to do his job,” he said mildly.

  “It took less than an hour to get here.”

  He squinted at me. “You want to be respectful, sir.”

  I nodded. “So do you, Sergeant.”

  He shrugged, then glanced at my car. “Nice wheels.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I don’t know anybody in Cortland owns a BMW. Kind of an attention-getter, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I guess so,” I said.

  “You have any enemies in Cortland, Mr. Coyne?”

  “Until I got here this morning,” I said, “I didn’t know a single citizen of Cortland.”

  “Understand you had a meeting with Mrs. Matley.”

  I nodded. I figured Carl had filled him in.

  “Lawyer business?” he said.

  “Yes. Lawyer business.”

  “So I guess she’s one citizen you know, then.”

  “I do now.”

  “What about Larry Scott?” he said.

  “What about him?”

  “You know him?”

  “I met him once.”

  “Thought you said you didn’t know any citizens of Cortland. Did I hear you wrong?”

  “Larry Scott is dead,” I said, “so technically he’s no longer a citizen of Cortland. Anyway, it’s unlikely he’s the one who unscrewed my valve stem.”

  “What about Evelyn Banyon?”

  “I don’t think she did it, either.”

  “You know her, though?”

  “She’s no longer a citizen of Cortland,” I said.

  “Pretty close to her, are you?”

  “That’s none of your business.” I opened my car door. “If you’re not interested in the vandalism to my car, I’ve got some things to do, so—”

  He put his hand on the door. “Hang on a minute, Mr. Coyne. I got a couple more questions for you.”

  “Well,” I said, “I’m really not in the mood to be interrogated because you suspect me of being the victim of vandalism. So unless you’d care to tell me what your agenda here is, I’m on my way.”

  “Agenda?” Dwyer peered up at the sky for a minute. “Good friend of mine, guy I grew up with, used to open holes in the line for, went fishing with, got drunk with, he goes down the Cape and gets knifed in the belly.” He nodded. “Everybody in town knows all about it. People in Cortland have heard your name, sir. We know about you and Ms. Banyon and what happened down the Cape. State cops’ve been here, asking questions. Us local cops’re cooperating with them.”

  “Good,” I said.

  He shook his head and laughed quickly. “Look,” he said, “this isn’t coming out right. I’m just jumpy. Everyone around here is. Not often one of your friends gets murdered. If I came on a little strong, I apologize. It’s because Larry and I were buddies since we were in kindergarten.” He held out his hand to me. “Okay?”

  We shook hands. “No problem,” I said. “I guess I’m a little jumpy, too.”

  “No hard feelings?”

  “Forget about it.”

  “So tell me,” he said, “I guess it’s no coincidence, you showing up in Cortland, huh?”

  “Like I said, lawyer business.”

  “Sure,” he said. “You can’t talk about it.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  He nodded. “Heading back to Boston?”

  “Eventually,” I said. “I’m in no hurry.”

  Dwyer smiled and slapped his hand on the roof of my car. “Well, sir, it’s a nice little town,” he said. “Enjoy your visit.” Then he hitched up his belt and went back to his cruiser.

  As I started up my car, I noticed that Dwyer was sitting in his vehicle with the door still open, talking on his radio.

  I pulled out onto Main Street and headed back to the center of town. I figured that between Sergeant Dwyer and Carl the tire-fixer—and maybe Charlotte Matley—within an hour everybody in Cortland would know about me and the car I drove and my connection with Larry Scott and Evie Banyon. If Cortland was like most small towns, everybody knew everybody else, and knew everything that happened behind closed doors, and had strongly-held theories and beliefs on all issues, and didn’t mind circulating and embellishing rumors. Larry Scott’s murder was big news in Cortland, of course, and no matter what kind of man he’d become, in the small town’s collective memory, he’d forever be a high-school football star, a fallen hero. A “golden boy,” Carl had called him.

  I passed the village green, where the fair was still swarming with citizens, and headed for the medical center where Evie had worked. I didn’t know who’d be there at noontime on an August Saturday, and I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. But I thought it might be interesting to shake some trees in this little town and see what might fall out.

  A mile or so south of the village green I passed a small strip mall with a supermarket, a hardware store, and a bowling alley along with the usual dry cleaner, Laundromat, take-out pizza, and video rental. That’s probably where the cruiser was waiting, although I’d gone another half-mile or so before I noticed it in my rearview mirror.

  The cruiser kept its distance behind me. I spotted a speedlimit sign—45—glanced at my speedometer, and eased down to 40.

  It stayed behind me all the way out of town to the medical center, and when I turned into the almost-empty parking area, it kept going.

  So that’s how it was going to be.

  The Southeastern Massachusetts Medical Center was perched on a knoll in the countryside with a four-way view of rolling meadows and wooded hills. It was an impressive rectangular brick-and-glass structure. It was four stories tall, and its foundation was about the size of a football field. Bright annual flowers bloomed in neatly kept gardens, and brick walkways curved among Japanese maples and clumps of white birch.

  It was modern and classy—an anomaly in Cortland.

  I left my car on the bottom level of the open, two-tier concrete parking garage, locked up, and walked to the front of the building. Inside, through the glass doors, I could see a large open room. A long chest-high counter ran along the far wall. It reminded me of the lobby of a fancy hotel. It appeared to be deserted.

  I pushed on the door, half expecting it to be locked. But it opened, so I went in.

  The lobby featured strategically placed miniature palm trees in big pots, a tasteful scattering of low-slung sofas and chairs, glass-topped coffee tables covered with magazines, plush beige carpeting, and the soft tinkle of piped-in orchestral music.

  On the left wall beside the bank of elevators I found the glass-fronted roster that listed all the people who had offices in the building. It was an impressively long list, and it seemed to include a group of medical specialists dedicated to the well-being of every conceivable organ and system in the human body. The list was alphabetical by last name, so it took me a few minutes to find what I was looking for.

  The lobby area was empty except for one woman sitting behind the long counter. I went up to her and leaned my elbows on the countertop. She had a paperback book open on her lap.

  I cleared my throat and said, “Excuse me?”

  She looked up at me. She was, I guessed, around sixty. She had straight dark hair cut chin-length and peppered with gray, with half-glasses perched down toward the tip of her nose. She turned the book upside down on its open pages, took off her glasses, and gave me a quick, practiced smile. “Can I help you?” she said pleasantly.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Soderstrom.” Thomas L. Soderstrom, I’d learned from the roster, was the medical center’s chief administrator.

&n
bsp; She frowned. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “I’m a lawyer.”

  Her eyebrows twitched. “I see.” She blinked a couple of times. “Is Mr. Soderstrom expecting you?”

  “He may not be expecting me today,” I said. “I took a chance I could catch him.”

  “What’s your name, sir?”

  “Brady Coyne. He might not recognize my name. Then again, he might.”

  She shrugged. “Just a minute, please.”

  She picked up a phone, swiveled around so that her back was to me, and spoke into it. After a brief moment, she put her hand over the receiver and turned to me. “Mr. Soderstrom wants to know what your business is with him.”

  “Tell him it regards Evelyn Banyon.”

  She nodded as if she expected me to say that, showed me her back, and spoke into the phone. Then she turned and said, “Down there past the elevators.” She pointed. “Go through the doors, then turn left. Mr. Soderstrom is in suite 110 at the end of the hall.”

  I thanked her and followed her directions.

  The little waiting room in suite 110 had one sofa and two matching upholstered chairs. It was empty. There was a receptionist’s desk, but no receptionist. A narrow corridor led to some inner offices.

  I stood in the middle of the waiting room for a minute, then said, “Hello?”

  A moment later a small man with pale skin and thinning straw-colored hair and large round glasses appeared. I guessed he was in his early forties. He was wearing khaki pants and a short-sleeved white shirt. He reminded me of Wally Cox, back when he played Mr. Peepers on Our Miss Brooks.

  “Mr. Coyne, is it?” he said.

  “Brady Coyne.” I held out my hand.

  He shook it quickly. “You’re a lawyer.”

  “Yes.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “If you’re busy …”

  He nodded. “I’m always busy.”

  “I thought the easiest thing would be to talk informally,” I said. “But if you’d rather, we could meet at my office in Boston.”

  He smiled. “I do believe you’re trying to threaten me, Mr. Coyne. But since I have no idea what you’re threatening me about, I’m afraid I don’t feel threatened. Helen said you mentioned Evelyn Banyon. Evie doesn’t threaten me, but she interests me. Why don’t we go into my office.”