Dead Winter (7 page)

Maureen frowned. “Oh, well, sure.”

“Don’t bother with cream. I take my coffee black.”

She bobbed her head and left. I stared out at the boats. A white-bearded man wearing a long-billed cap and chest-high rubber waders wrestled what looked like a tub of bait aboard a broad-beamed fishing boat. A pair of teenagers lugged fishing gear onto a Boston Whaler. Gulls played musical chairs atop the pilings.

“Maureen said you were looking for me?”

I looked up. Her lower lip was tucked apprehensively under her top teeth. Her hair, the color of Georgia clay, was twisted into a crude bun and secured with a pair of wooden pegs that looked like chopsticks. Her uniform matched the one Maureen wore, except it fit her better.

“Andy?”

She nodded cautiously.

“Can you sit for a minute?”

She shrugged and took the seat across from me. “Who’re you, anyway?” She tried to smile. It came up short.

“I’m Marc Winter’s lawyer. Brady Coyne.”

She narrowed her eyes. “So?”

“I’d like to ask you a couple questions.”

“You got proof?”

“What?”

“That you’re a lawyer, I mean?”

I reached into my wallet and extracted one of my business cards. I handed it across the table to her. She studied it and then looked up at me. “What do you want?”

“I want to help Marc. He’s in a little trouble.”

She sighed and shrugged. “I’m not—”

At that moment Maureen returned with a mug of coffee. She placed it in front of me. “You said no cream, right?”

“Right. Thanks.”

“You want something, hon?” she said to Andy.

“Uh uh.”

After Maureen left, I leaned toward Andy. “I don’t want you to be concerned about this. Whatever you tell me is confidential. Do you understand?”

She frowned and nodded.

“Marc and I just came from the police station.”

Andy’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Please,” she said softly.

“Marc hasn’t been accused of anything. I just need to know what happened last night. It’s very important.”

“He promised me,” she said. A tear leaked out of one of her eyes. It dribbled down her cheek. She ignored it. “He said he wouldn’t say anything about me. Us.”

“He didn’t tell the police. But he did tell me you were with him.”

“He shouldn’ta. It’s not fair. We had a deal.”

“He explained why he wanted you kept out of it.” I lit a cigarette and held the Winston pack to her. She shook her head impatiently. “Will you tell me what happened last night?”

“I’d rather not.”

“It would be better for you to tell me than the police.”

She looked out the window. She had clear, translucent skin and a little turned-up nose lightly salted with pale freckles. Except for the worry lines etched like a pair of parentheses around her mouth, she looked young and pretty. “I just want to forget the whole thing. Marc and everything. It wasn’t worth it.” She turned to face me. Now the tears came more freely. She brushed impatiently at them with the back of her hand. “See, my life is a mess. I shoulda just left it at that. Now it’s…” Her voice faded. She turned again to gaze out the window.

I sipped my coffee and waited. She shook her head slowly.

“Okay,” she said to the boats. She looked back to me. “Okay. He called me last night. I was—”

“About what time was that?”

“Nine thirty, maybe?”

“Go on.”

“The kids were in bed. My—my husband was out. As usual. Which didn’t make me unhappy, believe me. Except I dread when he comes home. See—never mind. Anyhow, Marc said he could come over. I said no. I couldn’t—didn’t want to do that anymore. He said I shouldn’t worry. He said he needed me. He just wanted to see me for an hour. He’s real sweet. Marc, I mean. Not Al. Anyway, I said, well, okay. It’s—Marc makes me feel good, see. Makes me kinda feel all melty when he talks to me. So different from Al. Oh, I shouldn’t be telling you any of this. I don’t even know you.”

I reached across the table to touch her wrist. “There was a murder last night,” I said gently.

“Yeah. I know.” She frowned at me. “You don’t think Marc did it, do you?”

“He says he didn’t.”

“Well, he didn’t. At least not when he was with me.”

“Which was—?”

“Like I said, maybe nine thirty, quarter to ten—”

“You said he called you at nine thirty.”

She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “Yeah, right. I was watching something on TV and he called during the commercial. Okay. I met him, I guess it was nearer to ten. I checked the kids, made sure they were okay. Told the oldest one, my little girl—she’s nine, real responsible—I told her I had to go out for a little while. I locked up and drove down by the beach. It’s where we usually meet. I mean, not that I do this a whole lot. But Marc can’t exactly come to the house. Anyway, it’s maybe ten, fifteen minutes from my house. I had to wait maybe five minutes before he got there.”

She stopped and dropped her eyes.

“Go on, Andy.”

“What do you want me to tell you?”

“I don’t want details of your personal life. Were you with Marc for the rest of the evening?”

She nodded. “Yes. We can’t go anyplace. Not like a restaurant or the movies or anything. I just can’t take the chance that somebody’ll see us. We got out and walked on the beach for a while. Took off our shoes and squished our toes in the sand. Then—”

“You went to his boat?”

She nodded. “He said no one would see us. We could take it out, be alone.”

“Did you go anywhere before you went to the boat?”

“No. We drove straight to it. Left my car on the side of the road by the beach.”

“What was Marc wearing?”

She cocked her head at me. “What difference is it?”

“Can you remember?”

“Slacks. Sport coat.” She shrugged.

“You’re sure of that?”

“Sure I’m sure. It wasn’t that long ago, you know.”

“So you went to the boat.”

She widened her eyes. “Oh, wow. He didn’t want me to see her, but I did. I was right behind him, and when he saw her lying there he sort of jumped back and like gasped and I could see her over his shoulder. I’ve never seen anything…” She hunched her shoulders and pressed her forearms together in front of her.

“Do you have any idea what time you arrived at the boat?”

She hugged herself. “Midnight, maybe. I don’t know. Maybe a little later. It was maybe one o’clock when I finally got home. Marc drove me back to my car. Told me not to say anything, he’d take care of it. I mean, he knows if Al ever found out. Oh, jeez, he’d kill me. Or worse. Luckily Al wasn’t there. I went to bed. Hardly slept at all. I pretended to be asleep when Al came pounding in. Drunk. So what else is new, huh?”

“What time did Al get home?”

She shrugged elaborately. “What time does he ever get in? When he feels like it. It must’ve been after two. Him and his buddies.” She snorted through her nose. “I had to wake him up before I left to come here. Told him to take care of the kids so I could go make a few bucks to feed them.”

“Did Marc mention a name when he saw Maggie? Her body, I mean?”

“I don’t getcha.”

“As if he had an idea of who might’ve hurt her.”

She shook her head. “No. I mean, I don’t think so. It was so scary and weird I’m not sure I’d remember.”

“Can you think of anything you didn’t tell me, Andy?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Anything Marc might’ve said before you got to the boat. Or when he drove you back to your car.”

She squinted at me. “I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Coyne.”

“You’re one step ahead of me, then.”

She smiled quickly. “You think Marc killed Maggie and then called me up so he could pretend to find her body. Then I’d be his whatchacallit, his alibi. Right?”

“The thought occurred to me, yes.”

“Well, he’d have to of killed her before nine thirty. They can figure that out, can’t they?”

“I think so. I’ll check.”

“Look. I mean, I’m worried for Marc’s sake and all that. But I gotta tell you, I’m more worried about me. You seem like a nice guy. You make me feel like I can trust you.” She shook her head slowly. “If I can’t—I mean, if you’re going to tell people what I just told you—you gotta know that I’m like dead. Really.”

“They haven’t arrested Marc. I suppose they may suspect him. But I know that Marc doesn’t want you involved. If he didn’t do it, then they’ll have no evidence that would justify their arresting him. In which case, he won’t need you.”

She nodded. “And if he did do it, then I won’t be able to help him anyway.”

I knew it wasn’t that simple, but I saw no point in adding to this young woman’s problems. “That’s about it,” I said. I extracted a dollar bill from my wallet and put it at my place at the table. Then I pushed myself back and stood up. “We both have to get to work. I appreciate your honesty.” I held my hand to her.

She grasped it. “I told you the truth. I really did. I just hope…”

“Don’t worry.”

“I mean, if it comes to it, I’d have to say what happened. I realize that. It would only wreck my life.” She tried to smile. “What the hell. It’s a mess already.”

On my way out of the restaurant I had to step over the outthrust ankles of a big blond guy who was leaning back with his elbows propped on the bar. He made no effort to move, and as I went past him I could sense his eyes following me. When I stepped outside from the dim interior of the restaurant into the bright noonday sunshine, I paused to squint. A voice behind me said, “So whadda ya think you’re up to, pal?”

I turned. It was the blond man. He wore a grease-spotted T-shirt that stretched taut across his chest. It failed to meet the belt of his jeans, revealing an expanse of pink hairless flab. His beefy face was red. His little pig eyes slitted narrowly. The side of his mouth turned down in an ugly sneer.

I looked him up and down. “What’s it to you?” Lightning quick with the wisecrack. That’s me.

“You hittin’ on my old lady in there. I wanna know who the fuck you are.”

“My name is Coyne, sir,” I said, realizing that this was Andy’s husband, Al, and my responsibility was to protect her. “I sell insurance. Disability insurance. Everybody who works should have disability insurance. It’s important for restaurant personnel. All sorts of accidents can befall a restaurant employee. Disability insurance is especially important for unsalaried workers. You,” I added, smiling at him, “should have disability insurance. Do you have a good plan, sir?”

“I don’t need no disa-fuckin’-bility insurance, friend, and neither does my wife.”

“Oh, everybody does. You sure I can’t interest you—?”

I saw it coming, a straight-armed club with a fist the size of a cantaloupe on the end of it. My brain gauged distance and velocity and instructed my body to dodge and my chin to tuck under the protection of my shoulder. Al’s blow exploded high on the side of my head, and as I staggered and fell backwards, I thought sadly how when I was younger I could have slipped that crude, amateur attack.

Instinctively I rolled into a fetal position. He kicked wildly at me, but I was moving and he missed. He fell on me, flailing with the sides of his fists. I tried to rise onto hands and knees but his body pressed on me, slippery with our mingled sweat. His breath against my face reeked of last night’s beer and offended as much as his prodding and gouging knees and elbows.

Abruptly his weight was off me. I pushed myself into a sitting position. My breath burned in my lungs. Damn cigarettes.

Marc had his forearm levered across Al’s throat. The big guy stood there panting. “Lemme at the bassard,” he rasped.

“Take it easy, Al,” said Marc. “You got a problem with this man?”

“He was hittin’ on Andy. Nobody hits on Andy.”

“I was just trying to sell her insurance,” I said quickly, to clue in Marc. “Mr. Winter here is going to buy some.”

“That’s right,” said Marc. “This man is an insurance salesman.”

“I don’t fuckin’ believe that,” muttered Al. But his mouth screwed up stupidly, as if the concept was difficult for him.

I stood up and held out my hand to Al. “Hey, no hard feelings, sir,” I said. “Little misunderstanding.”

Al jerked himself out of Marc’s grasp and stood there, bulging arms hanging, his big chest heaving. “I was watchin’ this sombitch in there,” he said, looking at me but talking to Marc. “No fuckin’ way he was sellin’ insurance. I’m gonna find out what the hell’s goin’ on. The tramp’s gonna pay.”

“Come on,” I said. “Shake my hand.”

Al turned his head and spat. It landed beside my foot. “I ain’t stupid,” he muttered, and turned and lumbered away.

Marc and I watched him go. He climbed into a rusted old pickup with wood two-by-tens for bumpers. It started up with a roar, spewing a great cloud of exhaust, and spun its wheels in the gravel as it left.

“You better tell Andy what happened,” I said to Marc after Al’s truck had left. “Make sure she keeps the story straight.”

He nodded. “Al’ll beat the shit out of her anyhow.”

“I told him I was trying to sell her insurance.”

“He doesn’t believe that. He didn’t believe you, he won’t believe her.”

“We’re stuck with the story. It’s the best I could do under the circumstances.”

Marc shrugged. “The gals in the restaurant all know Al. They’ll cover for her. I’ll be right back.”

Marc went inside. I went over to my car. I leaned against it and gingerly touched my skull. I discovered a small tender lump where Al’s fist had connected with what was, fortunately, a glancing blow on thick bone. I found a small tear on the left knee of my pants. My shirt was dirty. Otherwise I seemed to be none the worse for the experience.

Once upon a time I could handle myself. I played sports. I was quick and strong. I had my share of brawls. I was gifted with quick reflexes, limber muscles, an instinct for self-defense. But this time, I realized, I had been lucky. Al was fat and slow and unskilled. Yet had not Marc interceded I could have been hurt badly. The years had eroded my athlete’s graces, leaving, I had to admit, an out-of-condition middle-aged man at the mercy of bullies like Al.

Yale Law School did not teach us the gentleman’s arts. There had been times during my practice of the law when I felt it was an inexcusable omission.