Free Nervous Water by William G. Tapply Page A

aneurysm will. If he’d been out on his boat when this happened…”
    I nodded.
    â€œHis family’s going to have to talk sense to him,” he said. “You’re not his only family, are you?”
    â€œNo,” I said. It took me a minute to remember which of my mother’s brothers and sisters were still living. “He’s got a brother, Jake, and a sister. Faith’s her name. Jake’s still in Moulton as far as I know. I’m not sure where my aunt Faith is. And Moze has a daughter, if I can reach her. Cassandra. Cassie.”
    â€œGood. The family needs to be involved in some of our decisions.” Dr. Drury cleared his throat. “Actually, I’m glad you’re here, Mr. Coyne. There’s something else you should know.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œThe ER doctor noticed it when they brought him in,” he said. “Mr. Crandall had a fresh bruise on his chest.”
    I frowned. “A bruise?”
    Dr. Drury patted the area over his left breast.
    â€œHe fell,” I said, “hit something when he had his heart attack. Is that what you mean?”
    He shook his head. “It looks like a fist hit him.”

Six
    I stared at Dr. Wilton Drury. “A fist,” I said. “You saying somebody punched him?”
    â€œThat’s certainly how it appears.”
    â€œA fist as opposed to some blunt object?”
    He nodded. “Did you play baseball when you were younger, Mr. Coyne?”
    â€œSure. Third base, mostly.”
    â€œEver get hit by a pitch?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œThe bruise a baseball makes on your ribs or shoulder or your leg? You can see the stitches.”
    â€œYou can see the knuckles when someone punches you?” I said. “That what you’re saying?”
    â€œThat’s what your uncle’s bruise looks like to me. Knuckles. He was lying on his back when they found him.”
    â€œAs if he was punched and it knocked him backward,” I said.
    â€œTypically,” he said, “when someone has a heart attack, if they’re standing up, the pain causes them to bend over, and they fall forward.”
    â€œThat is impressive forensic deduction, Doctor.”
    He smiled quickly. “It’s speculative at this point, of course, but thank you. Unfortunately, your uncle’s in no condition to tell us what actually happened. I reported it to the Moulton police, as I’m required to do. I’m expecting an officer to show up any minute now, as a matter of fact. If you want to join us…”
    â€œI do. Definitely. What does ‘any minute now’ mean?”
    He smiled. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
    Â 
    Dr. Drury wandered away and I was left with that old Sports Illustrated . I flipped through it, looking at the pictures but not really noticing them. A jumble of thoughts was clanking around in my mind.
    One thought was: No wonder Moze was suddenly so eager to track down Cassie. He’d just been given a death sentence.
    Another—more disturbing—thought was: The words that Moze had struggled to whisper to me from his intensive care bed, if I’d heard them accurately, were “It was Cassie.”
    Did he mean that it was Cassie who had punched him in the chest?
    What else could it mean?
    It was nearly an hour later when the doctor came back. A woman was with him. She was medium-tall, slim, midthirties, I guessed, brownish blond hair in a ponytail, big silver hoop earrings, good tan, no makeup, and none needed. She wore a pale blue jersey and tight-fitting white jeans and dirty sneakers.
    A badge was clipped to her belt. An automatic handgun sat in a holster on her hip.
    Dr. Drury said, “Sergeant Staples, this is Mr. Coyne, Mr. Crandall’s nephew.”
    She smiled and held out her hand. “Charlene Staples,” she said. “Moulton PD.”
    I took her hand. “Brady Coyne.”
    She cocked her head at me.