Free Past Tense by William G. Tapply Page A

and Marcus Bluestein, I knew, she had several messages waiting for her that she’d apparently not listened to.
    Aside from her duffel bag sitting in the middle of the floor,
everything was as I remembered it in the living room. I went over and looked at Evie’s collection of hand-carved birds in the glass-fronted cabinet in the corner. I had given her the little ruby-throated hummingbird for Christmas and the wood thrush for Valentine’s Day. I was lucky, always knowing what I could give Evie for gifts, knowing that they would delight her, knowing I’d never run out of good ideas. I was eager to return her bobwhite quail to her so she could add it to her collection.
    I moved into the kitchen. Everything was neat and orderly there, too. I opened the refrigerator and checked the dates on the milk and orange-juice cartons. They had both expired earlier in the week. Both cartons were about half full. I figured she’d bought them sometime before we went to the Cape.
    I judged orange juice by its taste, but Evie, I knew, threw away everything the moment it became outdated, whether it tasted all right or not.
    It was obvious that she hadn’t been here for a while. In fact, it seemed as if she’d turned around and left as soon as I’d dropped her off back on Saturday.
    That duffel bag sitting there in the middle of her living room was ominous. It suggested she’d left in a hurry.
    Or that she’d left against her will.
    I looked out the living-room window to the slot under the trees in front where she parked her black Volkswagen Jetta. It wasn’t there.
    I went back into the living room, sat on the sofa, and lit a cigarette. I tried to think. Larry Scott was following Evie. Then someone murdered Larry Scott—someone, apparently, that he’d known. Evie had been questioned hard by the state police. Scott knew Evie. She was a good suspect.
    Then she’d disappeared.
    I was just stubbing out my cigarette when the phone rang.
I jumped up and went into her office. I debated answering it versus letting her machine take it and listening to the message, then grabbed it while it was still ringing.
    â€œYes?” I said. “Hello?”
    There was no response. I sensed rather than heard a person breathing on the other end of the line.
    â€œThis is Brady Coyne,” I said quickly. “Who is this? Evie? Is that you?”
    There was a perceptible hesitation, then whoever it was hung up.
    I sat at Evie’s desk. The answering machine kept winking at me.
    I felt like a snooper. But I pressed the PLAY button.
    The machine whirred for a minute, clicked, beeped, and then a woman’s voice said, “Evie? This is Charlotte Matley, returning your call. It’s, um, Sunday evening. I’m sorry I couldn’t get back to you sooner, but I’ve been away from the office for the weekend. You sounded like you had something urgent. I hope everything’s okay. You can call me here at home tonight, or catch me in the office in the morning.” She left two phone numbers, then hung up.
    The machine beeped again, and then came a message from Sergeant Lipton, Vanderweigh’s partner, politely asking her to call him. Then there was another message from Lipton. This time he was less polite. “Ms. Banyon,” he said, “you must call us immediately.”
    Then I heard my voice asking Evie to call me. Then me again, sounding both annoyed and concerned. Then came Marcus Bluestein, then me again, telling her I loved her and missed her.
    After the last message, I pressed the SAVE button and the machine rewound itself.
    Who was Charlotte Matley? I didn’t remember ever hearing Evie mention anybody named Charlotte. On the other hand,
I was realizing that there were a lot of things about Evie I didn’t know.
    I replayed the messages and jotted down the two numbers Charlotte Matley had left. Then I picked up Evie’s phone and pressed the redial button.
    It rang