Dead Winter by William G. Tapply Page B

plaque over her left breast indicated that her name was Maureen.
    “All I want is coffee.”
    “You can take a table.”
    I shrugged and spun down from the barstool. She led me to a small table by the window. “Just coffee?”
    I nodded. “Is Andy here?”
    “Yes. She just came on. She’s in the kitchen.”
    “Would you mind telling her I’m here, like to talk to her?”
    She cocked her head at me. “Who’re you?”
    “Tell her I’m a friend of Marc.”
    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