Dead Winter by William G. Tapply Page A

side window. “Yeah. Maybe he could.”
    “You mean you did drive away and then go back?”
    “Yeah.”
    “If you’re serious, then I am about to sign off of this case,” I said slowly. “You better tell me why you lied in there, and why you’ve been lying to me, and what really happened. And you better think carefully before you tell me. If you killed Maggie, I promise you that your best move is to tell me all about it.”
    “You’re pissed, aren’t you?”
    “You’re damn right I’m pissed.”
    “I didn’t kill her.”
    “It keeps getting harder to accept your word on that.”
    “Listen,” said Marc earnestly. “Here’s what happened. After my father went to bed last night, I went out. Met a girl. She’s married, okay? I called her, she said she could get out. I met her on a side road in Salisbury, across the river. We talked for a while. Nice girl. Got two little kids at home. Her husband doesn’t treat her very well. One thing led to another. We decided to go to the boat.” He turned to look at me. “We thought we might go for a little ride. Anchor somewhere.”
    “Go on.”
    “If her old man found out she was with me he’d beat the crap out of her. Their marriage is very rocky. She—she might lose her children if he knew she was fooling around. He’d do that. It would kill her.”
    “She’s your alibi.”
    “Yeah. But I don’t want her involved.”
    “It makes it look bad for you.”
    He shrugged. “Fourier’s got nothing. I’ll take my chances. If I have to, okay, I’ll tell about her. So we went to the boat. Like I said, the hatch was open. I found Maggie, just the way I said. I told Andy not to come down. We went back to the truck and I drove her to her car. Then I went back and made the phone call.”
    “And this is the truth?”
    “Swear to God.”
    I thought about it. Unless Marc was arrested, I saw no good purpose to be served by involving this other woman. Her only function in the case would be to clear Marc.
    If Marc was now telling me the truth.
    “I want to talk to her,” I said.
    “It won’t do any good. She’s too scared. She won’t tell you anything.”
    “I’m not a cop.”
    “It won’t matter. I told her not to tell anybody. I told her she wouldn’t have to. I told her I’d keep her out of it.”
    “Fourier is getting ready to arrest you. You realize that?”
    “I don’t care. I don’t want Andy involved.”
    “Then,” I said, “you can count me out.”
    He was silent for a minute. I lit another cigarette and waited.
    “Why do you want to talk to her?” he said finally.
    “So I’ll know I can trust you.”
    “You won’t tell the cops?”
    “If she can corroborate your story, I won’t tell anybody until you or she says it’s okay.”
    He frowned at me for a minute, then nodded his head. “Okay. Her name is Andy. Andrea. Andrea Pavelich. She waitresses noons at Michael’s.”
    “Where’s that?”
    He pointed out the window. “Right around the corner. We could walk there from here.”
    I put the car into gear and pulled out of the parking lot. “We’ll drive. You’ll stay in the car while I go in.”
    “So I won’t get to her first, right?”
    I grinned. “Right.”

5
    M ICHAEL’S RESTAURANT WAS HOUSED in a rambling weathered building, once painted white, perched on the edge of the river practically in the shadow of the Route 1 bridge. Windows that looked out on an assortment of pleasure and work boats walled the downstairs dining room. It was nearly empty, awaiting the noontime lunch crowd.
    Although I had eaten no breakfast, I had no appetite. The two cups of coffee sloshed acidly in my stomach. I climbed up on a stool at the small bar adjacent to the dining room and looked around. I saw no bartender.
    After a moment someone touched my shoulder. “Sorry, sir. The bar isn’t open.”
    She was elderly and gray and dressed in a short blue skirt and yellow jersey, both of which were a couple sizes too small for her. A little