Muscle Memory (17 page)

“I don’t know,” I said. “Probably you should wait.”

“That’s what my mother said,” said Darren. “But it’s my job. It needs mowing, don’t it? Huh?” He was peering intently at me, as if my answer was very important to him.

“Yes, it does need mowing,” I said. “Didn’t your mother tell you what happened to Kaye?”

He shook his head emphatically. “Nooo,” he said, dragging it out. Darren’s face suddenly transformed. “She makes me
so
mad.” His little eyes blazed, and the corners of his mouth turned down. “She won’t tell me nothing. I gotta do my job. It’s my ’sponsibility.”

“You didn’t know that Kaye died?” I said.

He frowned. “Huh?”

“She died, Darren.”

I watched his face. It did not change. I still read anger on it.

“She was killed,” I said carefully. “Murdered.”

He glared at me for a long moment. Then he abruptly turned and started running awkwardly down the street, lumbering pigeon-toed, his elbows flapping at his sides.

“Hey, Darren,” I called. “Wait a minute. I need to talk to you.”

“Backbug!” he screamed, or something that sounded like “backbug.” “Backbug! Backbug!”

I stood there watching until Darren disappeared around the corner. I wondered how his mind worked, what he understood, where that abrupt burst of anger, and then what seemed like fear, had come from. I wondered what he knew. I thought of running after him, but decided against it. I had apparently already fright­ened him.

After a minute, I crossed the street, where a man was now patrolling his front lawn on a sit-down mower. I stood in his driveway watching him until he turned a corner, spotted me, and waved. I waved back, arched my eyebrows, and lifted one finger.

He putted over to me, switched off the engine, and smiled. “How you doin’?” he said. Close-cut steel gray hair showed beneath his striped engineer’s cap. He had sharp blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses and a craggy, rather handsome face. He wore a white T-shirt, cut-off jeans, and work boots with white socks. His bare legs were strong and hairy. He looked to be in his early sixties, and he reminded me of Clint Eastwood.

“I see you met Darren,” he said.

“I guess I frightened him.”

He nodded. “That’s Darren, all right. Poor fella.”

“Are you Mr. Selvy?” I said.

“That’s me. Who’re you?”

“My name is Brady Coyne. I’m Mick Fallon’s lawyer.” I took a business card from my wallet and handed it to him.

He glanced at it, then pursed his lips and shook his head. “How’s old Mick doing these days?”

“Not so good, as you might expect. Can you spare me a cou­ple of minutes?”

“Long as you’re not from some newspaper, I guess I can. Police told me not to talk to any press. How about a cold beer? Mowing the lawn always makes me thirsty.”

“A beer would hit the spot,” I said.

“We can sit out here.” He waved to the front steps. “I’ll be right with you.”

He climbed off his mower and went inside. I sat on the steps. His lawn looked like the Fenway Park infield—not a dandelion or brown patch anywhere. The foundation plantings were mulched with pine bark and absolutely weedless. All the old iris and peony blossoms had been pinched off, and marigolds and petunias and zinnias grew lush and colorful along the edges of the front walkway and driveway.

From where I sat on the front steps, Mick’s house across the street lay deep in shade and shadow.

Selvy returned, handed me a can of Coors, and sat beside me. “You want to talk about Sunday night, I guess.”

“Yes, please.”

“Well,” he said, “it’s like I told the police. I came out to turn off the sprinklers. I always water my lawn in the evening, because you get less evaporation that way. I guess it was around ten-thirty, quarter of eleven. Didn’t really notice the time, but I did see the eleven o’clock news shortly after I went back inside. Al­ways watch the news before bed. Anyway, Mick’s car was parked out front. I figured—”

“You’re sure it was Mick’s car?” I said.

He shrugged. “Sure looked like it. Maroon Chrysler, just like he drives. If it wasn’t, he must’ve borrowed one just like it, because Mick was leaning against it.”

“And you’re positive it was Mick?”

“Hard to mistake Mick,” he said good-naturedly. “Not many fellows his size around. Hell, I’ve known old Mick for years. My across-the-street neighbor, eh? So I waved at him. He didn’t wave back to me. Guess he didn’t see me. Seemed to be deep in thought, if you know what I mean. Just leaning there against his car, staring off into space.”

“So did you speak to him?”

“Nope. Figured he had his own problems, probably wasn’t in any mood to chat about the weather with old Mitch Selvy.”

“Then what happened?”

Selvy shrugged. “I shut off the sprinklers and went back inside.” He shook his head. “Next night I heard a ruckus out front, saw all the police cars with their lights flashing. Heard about it on the news the next day.”

“But you didn’t report seeing Mick for several days.”

“No, I didn’t. When they finally came around and asked, I told them, of course. But before that, I didn’t even make the connection. See, Mr. Coyne—and I realize this sounds pretty naive, but it’s what I was thinking—it never occurred to me that Mick might’ve had anything to do with it. He came around a lot after he moved out, visiting Kaye. Sometimes I’d see him doing some work in the yard. The man loved his family, I can tell you that. Always thought it was a damn shame, them splitting up.” He paused. “One thing was odd, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Him parking out front like that. Usually he’d park in the driveway. Hell, if he’d parked in the driveway, I might not have noticed his car.”

“You can’t see a car in the driveway from here?”

“Not at night. Not unless I look real hard, and I’m not in the habit of snooping.”

I sipped my beer. It was ice cold and felt good going down. “I told you I’m Mick’s lawyer,” I said.

He nodded.

“Do you think he’d kill his wife?”

“Sure would surprise me if it turns out he did. Known Kaye and Mick for a long time.” He clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Good kids. Just nice, normal folks, if you understand me.”

“I wondered if you had any thoughts on who else could’ve done it?”

He shook his head. “None whatsoever. Been thinking about it, too, I’ll tell you that. Not often the lady across the street gets murdered, you know. Makes you wonder if anybody’s safe. I’m hoping it was somebody who she knew. Hate to think it might’ve been some random thing.”

“Did Kaye have many visitors?”

He cocked his head. “Visitors? Well, sure. Now and again, like anybody else, I guess.”

“Anybody you might be able to identify?”

He shrugged. “I mind my own business, Mr. Coyne. They’d generally pull into the driveway where I couldn’t see them, even if I did want to snoop. Which I didn’t. I’d hear a car door slam shut, some voices, a car pulling away. Usually in the evening. Kaye worked during the day, you know. Like I say, I never paid it much mind. You got your hands plenty full with your own affairs, I always say.”

“Any idea whether this was the same visitor every time, or different visitors?”

He shrugged. “Couldn’t tell you. Like I said, I don’t snoop.”

“What about that young man? Darren?”

He smiled. “Darren? Oh, he was like a puppy dog around Kaye. Seems like he was over there mowing her lawn every other day, whether it needed it or not, and I guess she paid him every time. She was like that, Kaye was. Just a nice big-hearted person.”

“Darren seems to have a pretty quick temper,” I said.

Selvy gazed across the street toward the Fallons’ house. “Darren’s… I don’t know what the acceptable word for it is. Retarded?” He waved his hand. “Anyway, he’s plenty normal in certain ways. He patrols the neighborhood, always stops to say hello if I’m out in the yard. He’s guileless. Like a child, you know? Just says what’s on his mind.”

“Did he ever talk specifically about Kaye?”

Selvy frowned. “Not that I recall. But it was pretty clear he adored her. Hell, I guess everybody who knew her liked her, Mr. Coyne. Kaye was a very warm, friendly, outgoing person. Not to mention, she was awfully pretty.” He looked at me. “I know what you’re thinking.”

I smiled.

“I liked looking at her,” he said quietly. “I might’ve even thought about how if she and Mick ever ended up properly divorced I might see if she’d like to have dinner with me.” He shook his head. “Just the idle daydreams of a lonely old man, Mr. Coyne. Nothing more than that.”

“Understandable,” I said. “Do you know the Conleys?”

“Oh, sure. Friends of the Fallons. Nice folks. The two families were very close. They came around a lot before Mick left.”

“But not afterwards?”

“They might’ve. Can’t say I noticed.”

“And how about you, Mr. Selvy? Were you close with the Fallons?”

“Close?” He gazed up at the sky for a moment. “I’m sixty-three years old. Retired from the bank two years ago. Muriel and I, we had it all planned out. Bought ourselves that RV—” he nodded at the big motor home in the driveway “—and we were going to see all of North America. Alaska to Mexico, Hudson Bay to Florida, by God.” He shook his head. “Within six months, Muriel was gone. Stroke. Bingo, just like that.” He looked at me and smiled softly. “What I’m trying to say is, Mick and Kaye, they had their kids, they worked, they had their own friends. They were like Muriel and I had been when our kids were little. We didn’t have much in common. Oh, Kaye was very kind to me when Muriel went. Brought me casseroles, fresh-baked bread, that sort of thing. Neighborly, that’s all. Mick and I, we’d stand on our own sides of the street leaning on our rakes talking about flowers or the weather or baseball or politics. Danny and Erin used to come over when they were little. Nice, polite kids. Muriel’d give ’em cookies. Our kids were off to college by then, and Muriel loved kids, you know? Mick and Kaye didn’t invite us to their parties, and we didn’t expect them to. I guess if we’d had parties, it wouldn’t have occurred to us to invite the Fallons, either. We were good neighbors, but not really friends.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your wife,” I said.

He nodded. “I miss her every day. It doesn’t get any better. Always figured I’d go before her. She was two years younger than me, never a health problem. Then she’s gone. Just like that. Since then, I’ve lost my desire to travel or… or much of any­thing. I take care of my yard, watch sports on the TV, and wait for my grandchildren to come visit. That’s about my life.”

We sat there sipping our beers. Mitchell Selvy was staring out at his lawn. After a few minutes I said, “Where does Darren live?”

“Darren? Down the street that way—” he pointed off to the right “—you’ll see a little gray bungalow, green shutters. You can’t miss it. Why?”

“I wanted to ask him some questions. When I tried a few minutes ago, he ran away from me. I’m afraid I frightened him.”

Selvy smiled. “He’s a funny guy, all right. I doubt you’ll find him at home.”

“That’s the direction he was running in,” I said.

“Darren’ll be at the pond, is my guess. He loves fishing. That’s where he is most days. Whenever he’s not mowing the Fallons’ lawn, that is. When Darren’s upset, he goes fishing.”

“I’ll check the pond, then.” I smiled. “I like fishing, too. It’ll give us something to talk about. How do I get there?”

“Down the road a ways on the right, just before Darren’s house, you’ll see some woods and a jogging path leading in. Town conservation land. Just follow that path. It goes around the pond.”

I drained my beer can, stood up, and held out my hand. “Well, thanks, Mr. Selvy,” I said. “I won’t take any more of your time. You’ve got my card, and if you think of anything, don’t hesitate to call me. Okay?”

He nodded and smiled, then stood up and shook my hand. “Sure. I’ll do that.”

I started down his driveway.

“Oh, Mr. Coyne?”

I turned.

“You say hello to old Mick for me, will you? Tell him that Mitch Selvy is in his corner all the way. I hope he isn’t upset I told the police about seeing him that night. Figured it was my duty. Tell Mick that, okay?”

I waved to him. “You bet,” I said.

If I ever see Mick again, I thought.

I followed a long mulched path through the woods, and after a few minutes I saw the sun glinting off water through the foli­age. A narrower path branched off toward the pond. I followed it down a steep slope. And then I saw Darren.

He was sitting back on his heels on the mud bank of the small, round pond holding a spinning rod in both hands and the stump of his cigar in his teeth. A red-and-white plastic bobber floated placidly out on the water alongside a patch of lily pads. Dragonflies and damselflies zipped around in the lazy midday sun, and a few swallows darted and swooped after them. Willows and blueberry bushes overhung the pond’s banks, and from the opposite shore came the lazy grump of a bullfrog. It could’ve been a scene from an old Norman Rockwell
Saturday Evening Post
cover.

Darren squatted there motionless, chewing his cigar, peering at the bobber, infinitely patient. I watched him for a minute, hoping a fish would come along and give his bobber a jiggle. But it didn’t. Finally I stepped into the open and called, “Hello.”

He turned his head slowly, looked at me from the shadow under the bill of his cap, nodded, then turned his attention back to his bobber.

I went over and squatted down beside him. “How they biting?”

“A few li’l sunnies,” he said. “I put ’em back.”

“What else do you catch here?”

“Horn pout, crappies, pickerels, perch. Not today.” He stood up and cranked in his bobber. He had the hook fixed less than a foot beneath it. There was no bait on it. He reached into a coffee can and plucked out a worm. He frowned and grunted as he awkwardly threaded it onto the hook.

“Have you tried fishing it deeper?” I said.

He looked up at me. “Huh?”

“Lengthen the line under your bobber so the worm will go deeper into the water. On a bright sunny day like this, sometimes the fish like to be deeper in the water.”