Hell Bent

by William G. Tapply

  Gracie came back with her tennis ball. She pushed her nose against my leg. When I reached for the ball, she scampered away, then turned to face me, crouched on her front legs, her butt up in the air and her tail swishing back and forth, challenging me to catch her.

  “I’m telling you,” said Herb. “Ignore her now or you’re sunk. Come on. This way.”

  He led me around to the back of the house. It looked as if the Croydens’ main hobby was tending to their grounds. The lawns and shrubs grew lush and green, and the gardens were freshly mulched and neatly edged and rioting with autumn blooms.

  Beth Croyden was kneeling alongside a kidney-shaped garden in the middle of the lawn. It featured a birdbath and some kind of miniature weeping fruit tree. When Herb spoke to her, she turned and looked at us, and I saw that she was quite a bit younger than her husband. Early forties, I guessed. Herb was pushing sixty. Beth’s baggy work pants and sweatshirt did little to hide her trim body.

  “This is Mr. Coyne,” said Herb. “He was Gus’s lawyer. I mentioned meeting him the other night, remember?”

  Beth Croyden smiled and pushed herself to her feet, and when she came over to where we were standing, I saw that she was tall—taller than Herb by half a head—and she carried herself with the gangly grace of someone who’d been raised with horses and hounds.

  She tugged off her gardening gloves and held out her hand to me. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Coyne.” There was something southern and honeyed in her voice. She had turned my last name into a multisyllable word.

  We shook. Her grip was firm and her hand was hard and muscular. “I’m sorry to intrude,” I said.

  “You’re not intruding,” she said. “How about something to drink? Beer? Coffee?”

  “Coffee would be great,” I said.

  “I’ll bring it out,” she said. “Why don’t you boys sit at the patio.”

  She turned and went into the house. Herb gestured to a round glass-topped table on a fieldstone patio off the back of the house. We went over and sat down. Gracie followed us. She dropped her tennis ball at my feet, then sat there looking expectantly at me.

  “Sorry,” I told her.

  Gracie’s expression didn’t change. Henry knew the meaning of the word “sorry.” Whenever I said it to him, his ears drooped and he slinked over to a corner, curled up with his back to me, and sulked. Apparently Gracie’s vocabulary was more limited.

  “So what brings you around?” said Herb. “It’s about Gus, of course. Terrible thing. We’re both devastated.”

  I nodded. “I wanted to get your take—yours and your wife’s—on what happened, and I was hoping I could take a look at his apartment.”

  “Sure, no problem. You can see the place. They took away the police tape a few days ago.” He frowned. “I thought it was a suicide, though. Didn’t the police make that official? What is there to talk about?”

  I waved my hand vaguely. “There are still some legal loose ends.”

  “Ah,” he said. “And you being his lawyer …”

  I nodded. “Exactly.”

  At that moment, Beth Croyden came out. She was carrying a tray that held a big stainless-steel carafe, three coffee mugs, some spoons and napkins, and containers of sweetener and cream. Herb leaped up, took the tray from her, and put it on the table.

  Beth poured coffee into the three mugs. Then she sat down. “What have I missed?” she said.

  “Mr. Coyne was just saying that he’s tying up some loose ends about what happened to Gus,” Herb said.

  She cocked her head and looked at me. She had big green eyes with just the hint of smile lines at the corners. “What sort of loose ends, Mr. Coyne?”

  “Legal things,” I said. “Details.”

  Beth smiled. “Legal bullshit, huh?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I was trying to be polite.”

  “Oh,” she said, “don’t worry about that. We’re pretty informal around here. Right, dear?” She reached over and gave Herb’s hand a squeeze.

  He grinned. “Excessively informal sometimes.”

  “The police were here, you know,” said Beth. “Asked us a lot of questions.”

  “I assumed they did,” I said. “I hope you don’t mind if I should happen to ask you some of the same questions.”

  “No, that’s okay,” said Herb. “We want to help any way we can.”

  “So what do you want to know, Mr. Coyne?” said Beth. “How can we help you straighten out your legal details?”

  “I’m wondering if either of you was home on that Friday between five in the afternoon and eleven at night?”

  “At the time Gus … when it happened, you mean,” said Beth.

  I nodded.

  They looked at each other, then Herb said, “I had a golf match and then stayed for dinner at the club, as I always do on Fridays. It was dark when I got home. What time was it? Do you remember, dear?”

  Beth looked up at the sky. “It was after nine, I’d say. You told me you had a couple of drinks and played a few hands of gin rummy after dinner.” She turned to me. “Since he retired, Herb’s become quite the country clubber.”

  “You were here when Herb got home, then,” I said to Beth.

  “I volunteer over at the DeCordova Museum in Lincoln on Tuesdays and Fridays. I knew my husband would be late, so I had supper with a friend. I probably got home around seven thirty or eight o’clock.”

  “Did either of you notice whether Gus had company that day?”

  “We tried to make it a point not to notice things like that,” said Herb. “Gus took his privacy very seriously, and we respected that.”

  I nodded. “But if a car drove in or out …”

  “Sure,” he said. “It would go right past our house. Unless we were in the bedroom or watching TV in the family room, which are on the back side of the house, we’d most likely notice.”

  “And you noticed nobody that evening?”

  Beth and Herb both shook their heads.

  “What if somebody were on foot?” I said.

  “I suppose we might not see them,” said Beth, “especially if it was after dark. We might hear a car, but unless we happened to be looking out the window …”

  “Why are you asking this?” said Herb. “Do you think somebody else was there when Gus … when he did what he did?”

  “It’s just one of those loose ends,” I said.

  “A witness,” Beth said to Herb. “He’s looking for a witness.”

  “Well,” said Herb, “I thought the police already arrived at their verdict.”

  “I’m wondering about other times, too,” I said. “Cars coming or going, people who might’ve visited Gus at his apartment.”

  “He had visitors,” Beth said. “Not often, but occasionally.”

  “Do you know who they were?”

  Beth and Herb exchanged glances, then they both shrugged.

  “It would be better,” I said, “if you told me. Gus’s privacy is a moot point now.”

  “I understand,” said Herb. “But still …”

  Beth touched Herb’s wrist. “It can’t do any harm.” She turned to me. “There was that woman he worked with. She came by now and then.”

  “Jemma Jones,” said Herb. “Black lady. She owns the camera store.”

  “What do you mean, now and then?” I looked at Beth.

  “I shouldn’t have mentioned her.” She shook her head. “It’s really none of anybody’s business. Especially now that …”

  “It might be important,” I said. “Remember, I’m a lawyer. I’m required by my professional code of ethics to be absolutely respectful of private matters.” I sounded pompous and evasive, even to my own ears.

  Beth Croyden’s little smile told me I sounded the same to her. But she nodded and said, “Ms. Jones spent the night with Gus on more than one occasion. She’d always leave very early in the morning. I guess she didn’t realize that Herb and I get up with the birds. Right, dear?”

  Herb nodded. “W
e saw her drive out of our driveway a few times shortly after sunrise. She’s got a yellow Volkswagen Beetle. Hard to mistake it. The way I look at it, Gus was separated, in the process of getting a divorce, and if it made him happy, allowed him to relax a little, good for him.”

  “Oh,” said Beth, “I completely agree. None of our business anyway. I just don’t know, technically, if he was still married …”

  “Legally,” I said, “as far as the divorce was concerned, it would make no difference. What about other visitors?”

  Herb glanced at Beth, then said, “There was somebody in a dark SUV. He came by a few times that I know of.”

  “Day or night?” I said.

  “Both. He made no effort to sneak around.”

  “It was a man?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I assumed it was.”

  “But you don’t know who it was?”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  “Was he alone in the car?”

  Herb frowned, then looked at Beth.

  “The couple of times I saw that SUV,” she said, “he was alone, I think.”

  “Can you describe the vehicle?”

  “Black or dark blue,” Herb said. “I couldn’t tell you the make or model. One of those big ones. Like a Lincoln Navigator, maybe. It looked pretty new.”

  “I don’t know anything about cars,” said Beth. She looked at Herb. “There was a pickup truck that went in there a few times, too, remember, dear?”

  Herb turned to her and frowned. “I don’t recall any pickup truck.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe you weren’t here.” She looked at me. “I’m afraid I can’t give you much of a description. The truck looked old and battered. I don’t even recall what color it was, and I have no recollection of who was driving it. I’m sorry.”

  I nodded. “Did either of you ever meet a friend of Gus’s named Pete?”

  They looked at each other. Then Herb said, “We didn’t meet any of his friends.”

  “How about the two of you?” I said. “Did you folks socialize with Gus?”

  “No,” said Herb. “He kept to himself. It was pretty clear that he wasn’t looking for friends. The path down to the river goes past the carriage house, and once or twice he walked down there with me and Gracie, threw sticks into the water for her to fetch. He liked Gracie. Otherwise, we didn’t see much of him.”

  I looked at Beth. She shook her head. “If he was walking up the driveway and I was out in the yard, we waved to each other,” she said. “He didn’t stop to chat or anything.”

  “He didn’t have a car,” I said.

  “No,” she said. “Not even a bike, and I never noticed anybody picking him up or dropping him off. He walked everywhere, I think.”

  “So Ms. Jones in her yellow VW and somebody driving a dark SUV and somebody else in an old pickup,” I said. “Any other visitors that you can remember?”

  Herb shook his head.

  Beth narrowed her eyes, then nodded. “Yes, of course. There was a woman in a small SUV-type car, come to think of it. A Subaru, I think. She came by a couple of times recently.”

  “Maine plates on the Subaru?” I said.

  She shrugged. “Didn’t notice.”

  “That was probably Gus’s sister,” I said. I took a sip of coffee. “Look,” I said, “to tell you the truth, I’m just wondering if there’s anything you folks can think of that might cause you to question what the police have concluded.”

  “That he killed himself, you mean?” said Herb.

  I nodded.

  He looked at his wife. They both shook their heads.

  “You never think anybody you know is going to do something like that,” he said. “There’s no doubt that poor Gus was pretty depressed, though. He didn’t seem to have much to live for, did he?” He frowned for a moment. “Anyway, the alternative is what? That somebody murdered him? That’s even more unthinkable than suicide, if you ask me.”

  Beth was nodding. “We talked about this,” she said, “when we heard what the police said. It’s a terrible shock, of course. But from what we knew about Gus …”

  Herb leaned forward and looked at me. “You don’t agree, Mr. Coyne?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t really have an opinion. I didn’t know Gus that well. I would like to talk to the man in that dark SUV you mentioned. And the person in the pickup, too. If either of them should come by again, would you see if you can talk to them, get their names for me, or at least copy down their license plates?”

  The Croydens both nodded.

  I drained my coffee mug and stood up. “Will you show me Gus’s apartment now?”

  Herb stood up. “I’ll do it,” he said to Beth.

  “Good,” she said. “You go. I’m never going to set foot in there again.” She hugged herself and shivered.

  Herb and I started walking down the driveway to the carriage house, which was about fifty yards beyond the main house and hidden from view behind a screen of hemlocks. Gracie led the way, prancing and bounding along the driveway, sniffing the bushes, and turning often to be sure that we were following her.

  “How did Gus hear that you had a place to rent?” I said to Herb.

  “A friend of mine called me up,” he said. “He knew I was renovating the place, said he knew a guy whose marriage was falling apart and needed an apartment. I told him to have the guy call me. It was Gus. He came over and met us, we showed him the place, and he took it. It was pretty obvious that the poor guy’s life was a mess, but we liked him very much. We were happy to do what we could.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “Gus?” Herb shook his head. “Nothing, really. Just that he needed an apartment, preferably within walking distance of Concord center. The friend who contacted me was from a support group I used to be in. I lost my son in Iraq a little over two years ago.” He hesitated for a moment, then waved his hand, dismissing that topic. “Anyhow, this friend is still in the group, and Gus had been in it for a while, too.”

  “I’m sorry about your son,” I said. I was remembering that Jemma Jones had lost her husband over there. And there was Gus, who had survived, but minus his hand and his sanity, though one could now say that the war had killed him, too. And now the Croydens’ son.

  “I wonder if you could tell me your friend’s name,” I said. “I’d like to talk to him and maybe some of the others in the group.”

  Herb shook his head. “Sorry. I can’t do that. It’s our code. There’s a lot of prejudice out there, you know?”

  “I do,” I said. “Maybe you could give your friend my name and number, see if he’d be willing to talk to me?”

  He nodded. “I could do that. Sure. No harm in that, I guess.”

  I gave Herb my business card. He tucked it into his shirt pocket.

  When we arrived at the carriage house, Herb stopped. “I feel the same as Beth,” he said. “I have no desire to go in there where Gus …”

  “You don’t need to,” I said. “Just let me in.”

  “I don’t know what you expect to see,” he said.

  “Me, neither.” I started up the outside stairs.

  Herb came along behind me. “I’ve got to face it sooner or later,” he said. “We had it cleaned as soon as the police gave us the okay.” When we reached the landing, Herb produced a key and unlocked the door.

  I stepped inside. Herb remained standing in the doorway. I walked slowly through the apartment. It smelled of Lysol and emptiness. Everything had been scrubbed and disinfected. The bottle of Early Times in its rumpled paper bag was gone. So was Gus’s laptop computer. Probably locked up in a police evidence vault somewhere. Property of the medical examiner.

  The walls and ceiling and floor where his blood had splattered and pooled were clean. So was the carpet under the chair where he’d been sitting when he pulled the trigger.

  I opened and closed every kitchen drawer and went through all the kitchen cabinets. I found pots and pans, dishes and g
lasses, silverware and cooking utensils.

  The medicine cabinet in the bathroom was empty. I figured the police took all of Gus’s pills for when they did his blood work.

  There was only one small closet in the place. Some clothes hung in it. Shirts and pants and a couple of jackets. I fished through the pockets. They were all empty.

  The small bureau beside the bed held socks and underwear and some sweaters. There was a handful of change in one of the top drawers. No business cards, no address books. Anything like that the crime-scene investigators would have taken.

  There was one drawer in the table where Gus kept his laptop computer. The table where he’d been sitting when he shot himself. The drawer held some blank envelopes, a few pencils, a box of paper clips. That was all.

  I took another circuit of the apartment and noticed nothing. Then I went outside, shut the door, and descended the stairway.

  I found Herb sitting on the bottom step. Gracie was lying beside him.

  “Find what you were looking for?” said Herb.

  “Didn’t find anything,” I said. “I guess the police took anything they thought might be a clue. Whoever cleaned it did a good job.”

  “Professional cleaning service from Littleton,” he said. “They do office buildings, commercial establishments mostly. One of the local cops recommended them. They charged an arm and a leg, but it was worth it. We have a cleaning lady, but I couldn’t ask her to do something like that.”

  We started to walk up the driveway back to Herb’s house. “I noticed that there was only one small closet in the apartment.”

  “Bad planning,” said Herb. “Should’ve had them add more closet space when they were renovating the place. Storage is an issue. Didn’t seem to bother Gus, though.”

  “He didn’t bring much stuff with him?”

  Herb shook his head. “It was like he didn’t expect to stay long.”

  I nodded. “He didn’t.”

  FOURTEEN

  Alex was hunched over her laptop at the kitchen table when I got home on Saturday afternoon, and when I said hello, she lifted a forefinger without looking up and kept on typing.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  Henry was glad to see me, anyway. I snagged a bottle of Samuel Adams Boston Lager from the refrigerator, and he and I went out back. While he sniffed the shrubbery, I sprawled in one of my comfortable wooden Adirondack chairs. I took a swig of beer, then used my cell phone to call Patriot Spirits, the package store in Concord.