Not Guilty (26 page)

Keely’s face flamed. She didn’t know how to defend herself from the social worker’s accusations. She knew that attacking Mrs. Erlich would not win her any favor from Dr. Stover. “I . . . I had a feeling that she . . . that I was not . . .” Keely stopped and took a deep breath. “I was very nervous, Dr. Stover. It’s awkward to have your home and your life . . . put under the microscope, so to speak. I’m afraid I didn’t express myself very well. There may have been some misunderstanding between us.”

Dr. Stover nodded gravely “I understand. Still, I have to take Mrs.
Erlich’s report very seriously, Mrs. Weaver. Your son attempted suicide. That puts the question of your parenting very much in the forefront of my mind.”

Keely swallowed hard. “I don’t know what I can say. My children are everything to me. I love Dylan more than life itself. I’d do anything to help him. Anything at all.” Then her shoulders slumped. “I suppose all parents say that.”

Dr. Stover frowned. “You’d be surprised,” he murmured. He glanced at his watch. “I’m afraid that’s all the time we have, Mrs. Weaver.” Dr. Stover gazed at her impassively and pointed his pen at the door.

M
aureen Chase unlocked the door to her cottage and looked back over her shoulder at Phil Stratton. “Would you like to come in for a drink?”

It was a time-honored invitation that usually suggested some sort of intimacy to come, but Phil had his doubts. The evening had started out well enough, as they had a lively conversation about some of their pending cases over their drinks and appetizers. But by the time Maureen had had several glasses of wine and he’d brought up the subject of Dylan Bennett and the boy’s role in his stepfather’s death, her conversation got stuck on one note and never really moved on.

She was looking at him expectantly.

“Sure, why not?” said Phil. He followed her into the house.

The main room was a combination of kitchen, dining, and sitting areas. The love seats were slipcovered in flowery fabric, the china in her free-standing cupboard had ivy vines on it, and the gas fire, which Maureen hastened to light, was flanked by a needlepoint screen. All around the room were flower bouquets in vases, candles, and perfumed bowls of potpourri.

She looked up at him from beside the hearth.

“Nice place,” he said. “Very pretty.”

“I cleaned it up for you,” she said.

“Really nice,” he said. He could hear how flat his compliment sounded.

“Have a seat,” she said, pointing to one of the love seats.

“Oh, thanks,” said Phil.

“Beer?” she asked.

“Yeah, that would be great,” he said, more enthusiastically.

She walked into the kitchen area and removed a beer and a bottle of wine from the refrigerator. She uncorked the wine and poured it into a glass. “I used to enjoy a beer,” she said, “until I met Mark. He was a wine lover. We always talked about taking one of those barges that goes through the countryside in France and stops at different wine regions. He really helped me to appreciate the differences between wines and the quality of different vineyards.”

She carried the beer bottle over by its neck and handed it to Phil. Then she clinked her glass against the green bottle. “Cheers,” she said.

She sat down beside him on the love seat, and he instantly felt cramped by her proximity.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Maureen continued, “I don’t have much patience for all those affectations—you know, a hint of blueberry and tobacco in the finish. But with Mark, it wasn’t like that. I mean, he was not a pretentious person. He just had a fine appreciation of the pleasures of life.”

Phil closed his eyes and tilted his beer bottle to his lips. Obviously, the change of scene hadn’t jarred her focus. More about the life and times of Mark Weaver. He didn’t think she even realized how monotonous and boring their dinner conversation had been. When he’d tried to tell a story about something, she would immediately be reminded of some tale about Mark Weaver. The connection might be gossamer thin, but she didn’t seem to care.

Maureen was sitting close to him now, and he could feel the warmth of her skin. He even thought she might be coming on to him. Their thighs were touching as they sat side by side on the same small sofa. But if he put a move on her, even if she were willing, he had an uneasy feeling that he would just be standing in for a ghost. There was a point, when he was younger, when scoring was everything. He didn’t feel that way anymore. He couldn’t just go through the motions. It was too tough on the psyche. He needed to know that a woman was really interested in him before he went to bed with her.

She seemed to have noticed his silence. “Music?” she asked.

Phil shrugged and shifted into the corner of the loveseat. “Sure. Why not?”

Maureen got up, kicking off her shoes, and padded across the room to her CD player. She picked up a handful of discs and began to shuffle through them. “What do you like?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Jazz. R&B.”

She held up a disc. “Do you like Allen Toussaint?”

“Never heard him.”

She popped the disc in. “He’s from New Orleans.” Quirky rhythms and a plaintive voice filled the room.

Phil nodded. “I like his sound,” he said.

Maureen sighed and sat back down on the love seat, closing her eyes. All of a sudden, Phil knew exactly what she was going to say.

“This was Mark’s favorite,” she said.

Phil set his beer bottle down on the coffee table and stood up.
“Well, I think I’ll be going.”

“What’s the hurry?” she asked.

Phil gazed at her, curled up in the corner of the love seat, her cheeks pink from the wine, her coppery hair unruly, her silk shirt parted just far enough to reveal a hint of cleavage. He sighed. “You’re a beautiful woman, Maureen.”

“Thanks,” she said. She patted the seat beside her. “Why don’t you sit back down. I wouldn’t mind hearing more.”

“No, I’d better split.”

“You worried about mixing business with pleasure?” she asked.

He wanted to tell her the truth. He wanted to say that he could understand now why she never dated. How many men would be willing to put up with her monologue about another man? Not just another man—a married man who had dumped her long ago. For a brief moment, the thought flickered through his mind that maybe Keely Weaver was right. Maybe Maureen was persecuting Mark’s family out of spite.

“It’s probably a bad idea,” he said. “You and I work very well together. I don’t want to mess that up.”

She looked up at him innocently. “Why would that mess it up? It might make it more . . . fun!”

Phil felt a little exasperated with her. Surely he didn’t have to explain. “I’m sure it would be fun,” he said without enthusiasm.

“You’re just not tempted,” she said, sounding injured.

“I’m very tempted.” He knew he was not a convincing liar, and he wondered how believable he sounded. All he could think about was getting out of here.

She stood up in her stocking feet beside him and leaned against him so that he could feel the curve of her breast through the thin fabric of her blouse. “Oh, come on, now, Detective, don’t be stodgy.”

She smelled like vanilla, and her white, freckled skin was dewy. For a moment, his senses were overcome and he lost track of why he had decided to go. She looked so . . . willing, and he entertained the thought that maybe she was just lonely and hadn’t had another man since Mark Weaver. Maybe their lovemaking would be so exciting that she would forget all about Mark Weaver.

She picked up his hand and entwined her fingers with his, then gave his hand a gentle tug. “Come on,” she said. “Sit down.”

Phil’s resolve wavered. He certainly seemed to have her attention now. She was gazing at him as if she had never really seen him before. Maybe it was just the wine going to her head, he told himself. Maybe he could stay for just a few more minutes.

The shrill ring of the phone made him jump.

“Ignore it,” she said. “I should have turned that thing off.”

Phil had been called out to crime scenes too many times to ignore a ringing phone at night. “No,” he said, disentangling his hand from hers.
“You know you’d better get it.”

“You’re probably right,” said Maureen. She headed toward the phone, which was hanging on the kitchen wall.

Phil stood up. “Where’s the bathroom?” he said.

“It’s just off my bedroom,” she said, pointing to the dimly lit room beyond the living room. She picked up the phone and turned her back on him. “Hello,” she said. Suddenly, she frowned as she listened to the caller. “Wait a minute,” she said. “Slow down. Who did you hear this from?”

Phil exhaled and walked into her bedroom. It was a bower of lace
and flowers, lit only by a small bedside lamp with a pink silk shade. As he crossed the room, Phil wondered if he was going to end up in that bed tonight. He knew he shouldn’t—Mark Weaver or no Mark Weaver, getting involved with her would not be a good idea. He could hear the familiar sound of her “work” voice coming from the other room, loud and angry, although he could not make out the words. He wondered what the call was about.

He pulled the door open, expecting to walk into the bathroom. Instead, he realized that he had opened the door to her clothes closet. It was a large, deep closet, and the light came on automatically when the door opened. There were racks of clothes and shoes, but the most conspicuous item, hung facing out, as if for easy access and display, was a long, cream-colored satin-and-lace wedding gown with a train that puddled on the floor. He stared at it, taken aback by the sight. The sleeves were unbuttoned and hung limp, and the neck had makeup stains along the edge of the lace.

Why does she have a wedding dress?
he thought.
Has she been married before?
The dress was not new. Obviously, it had been worn. He lifted the satin hem and saw that it was gray and watermarked, as if she had worn it around outside, letting it drag along wet grass or pavement. But he was sure she had never been married. He would have heard about it if she had. Suddenly, a sickening thought came to him. It must be the dress she had been planning to wear when she married Mark Weaver. She still had it after all these years. And judging from the looks of it, she must have done more than try it on to admire herself in the mirror. She must have worn it, even though there had been no wedding.

“Hey,” she cried out angrily.

Phil dropped the edge of the dress as if it were hot.

“Does that look like the bathroom?” she demanded.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Opened the wrong door.”

“Get out,” she said. “Get out of my things.”

Phil backed out of the closet, avoiding her gaze. She slammed the door to the closet. He suddenly felt an overwhelming pity for her, mixed with revulsion. He wondered how he was going to be able to look her in the eye again.

“Look, Maureen, I’m sorry. It was an accident. I wasn’t prying—”

“Oh, shut up,” she said.

Phil flinched at her words. “It’s late,” he said stiffly. “I think I’d better be going.”

“You’re damn right,” she said.

K
eely opened the hall coat closet and pulled Abby’s little corduroy jacket off a hook on the door. They had to get ready to go downtown to see Lucas. Yesterday, after her meeting with Dr. Stover, Keely had torn Mark’s closet apart, but she had not been able to find the money he claimed to have hidden in the house. In the midst of her search, she had remembered the smoky quartz bracelet, but she hadn’t found that either.

She had finally decided that she would have to tell Lucas that she needed to cash a bond for five thousand dollars. If he asked her why, she was just going to tell him. She was ready to pay for Wade’s information, whatever it might be.

But just as Keely was shrugging on her coat, she stopped. She hadn’t considered the hall closet. Mark had a couple of jackets in here, too. And his boots. She quickly riffled through his jacket pockets, then looked down at the boots and athletic equipment on the closet floor. There were tennis rackets leaning against the wall, golf clubs that he’d never used, an assortment of snow boots, and an old pair of cowboy boots. Snakeskin cowboy boots. Keely got down on her knees and reached into the closet, pulling out one boot and then the other.
Where in the world did he get these?
she thought. She’d never seen him wear them. Then she remembered Lucas and his love of all things from the West. He’d probably given them to Mark for a birthday or something, and Mark hadn’t had the heart to throw them away, although it looked like they had never been worn.

Nestling the boots in her lap, Keely reached into one, and then the other. The second try was the charm. Her heart lifted.
Got it,
she thought. Carefully, she wiggled the wad of money, secured by a rubber
band, out of the toe of the boot, and then sat back again on her heels and stared at it. It was a bundle of cash, all right. Keely riffled through the large bills, realizing that she must be holding several thousand dollars. Quickly, with trembling fingers, she counted. Three thousand dollars. It wasn’t the whole amount she needed, but she felt sure that Wade would be willing to talk when he saw it.
Oh, thank you, darling,
she thought, closing her eyes.
Bless you.

Keely heard the sound of a car door slam and quickly stuffed the money into her pocket. She tossed the boots into the back of the closet, then scrambled to her feet. After picking up Abby from her playpen, she went to the door.

“Just a minute,” she called out, turning the stiff lock. She pulled the door open.

Lucas stood there, his hands clasped over his briefcase in front of him, a broad smile on his furrowed face. “Keely,” he said. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Frowning, Keely opened the door wider to admit him.

A wan, tired-looking Dylan stood beside him on the front steps, looking down at his feet.

Keely’s heart leaped and she cried out. Abby shrieked at the sight of her brother. Keely threw her free arm around him, and Dylan encircled his mother and Abby in a brief, fierce embrace. “Oh, Dylan,” Keely murmured into the shoulder of his leather jacket. “Oh, honey, you’re really here.”

“I’m back, Mom,” he assured her. “It’s okay.”

When they let one another go, Keely turned to Lucas and looked at him in amazement. “What happened?” she cried. “How did you ever manage . . . ?”

Lucas shook his head. “I checked up on that social worker who came here. Mrs. Erlich. I thought I recognized the name. A few years ago, she was charged with negligence when she had a child returned to a home and then the kid ended up with brain damage from a beating.”

“Oh my God,” said Keely.

“Maureen Chase refused to prosecute her. She said it was the parents, not the social worker, who were to blame. Ever since, Mrs. Erlich
has been ‘vigilant,’ shall we say. Maureen made sure she was assigned to Dylan’s case.”

“Just to persecute us!” Keely cried. “Isn’t that illegal?”

“Technically, no. But when I explained this all to Dr. Stover, as well as telling him that Mark broke off his engagement to Maureen to marry you . . . well, he decided that Dylan could go home.”

“Lucas,” she said, “you’re brilliant.”

“He still wants you to bring Dylan to see him.”

“Oh, I will,” said Keely. “I will. Come in. Get in here. Both of you.”

“I can’t,” Lucas demurred. “I promised Betsy we’d go down by the bay this afternoon to watch the plovers. I just wanted to see your face.”

“Oh, Lucas, thank you,” she said. “I can never thank you enough.”

“No problem,” he said. “Dylan, rest up. Stay out of trouble.”

Dylan nodded and walked into the house. Keely hesitated, then turned and spoke in a low voice to Lucas. “Is it official?” Keely asked worriedly. “This isn’t just a visit . . . ?”

Lucas frowned. “We’re . . . halfway out of the woods,” he said carefully. “Maureen Chase is still making threats.”

“What kind of threats?” Keely asked.

“Says she’ll find a judge who will reverse Dr. Stover’s decision.”

“She can’t do that!” Keely exclaimed.

“I don’t think she can,” said Lucas. “Not without some compelling reason.”

Keely’s gaze became icy. “Well, I may just be able to beat her at her own game.”

Lucas frowned. “What does that mean?”

Keely hesitated. “Let’s just say I may be able to find out what really happened here the night Mark died.”

“Find out how?” he asked.

She thought about mentioning Wade. His name was on the tip of her tongue, but she stopped herself. Looking at Lucas now, she realized that he would never go along with such a plan. “I’m following up a hunch,” she said.

“Keely,” Lucas sighed, “you’ve got Dylan home with you now. Just
fuss over him and make him comfortable—and leave the legal wrangling to me. I can handle Maureen Chase.”

Keely nodded. “I know you can. And Lucas, I can never thank you enough.”

“Go ahead,” said Lucas. “Enjoy your reunion.”

Keely watched him limp down the walkway toward the car, and then she closed the door. She walked into the living room, where Dylan was still standing, holding his duffel bag, like a visitor. She came up behind him and took his bag from him. “Sit down,” she said. “What can I get you, honey? You look so tired. Oh, I’m so glad to see you.”

“I’m okay, Mom. I’m okay,” he insisted. “Get a grip.”

“Get a grip,” she scoffed, squeezing his face between her hands and kissing his forehead.

Dylan pulled away from her, grimacing dramatically. “Cut it out,” he groaned.

Keely sat back and smiled at him. “God, it’s good to have you home,” she said. “To get you out of that place.”

Dylan rolled his eyes. “No shit,” he said.

“Dylan,” she warned, but she didn’t sound convincing.

He looked down at the baby. Abby was leaning against his shins, her little hands on the knees of his jeans, and was giving him an amazed, toothless grin. “Hey, squirt,” he said gently. “How you doin’?”

“She’s glad to have you back,” said Keely.

Dylan nodded, and he smiled at her, but his shoulders slumped.
“I’m glad to be back. That place was the pits.”

“Are you still taking the medication?” Keely asked.

“Yeah. I’m supposed to keep going to see him, too.”

“I think that would be good,” said Keely. “He seems like a very sympathetic person.” Her words were measured, but in truth, had Dr. Stover been handy, she would have kissed and embraced him.

“Yeah, he’s okay,” said Dylan.

“But you have to keep talking to him. And to me, too, darling. You can’t let things build up inside the same way. You have to trust me. We have to trust each other . . .”

“I know, I know,” he said.

“Okay,” said Keely, realizing that he was already retreating from her. Her words sounded empty, even to her own ears.
I’m doing this wrong,
she thought, and felt a flare of panic.
I have to break the old patterns. But how?
“I . . . I want you to know that I . . . will do better . . .” she promised, and then her voice faltered.

“You do all right, Mom.” He yawned and rotated his head. “I am tired,” he admitted.

Looking at him now, almost as tall as she was, Keely suddenly remembered how she’d felt when she brought him home as a brand-new baby. In those early days, she had had a fear, which threatened to overwhelm her, that she didn’t know what she was doing and that she didn’t dare make a big mistake. His new life depended on her not making a mistake. She wanted to tell him, but she could see that he would not want to hear it.

“All right,” said Keely briskly. She could see, by the dark circles under his eyes and the waxiness of his complexion, that Dylan was exhausted. “I can tell you’re tired, so let’s just leave it for now. Let’s get you up to your room. You can lie down for a while. Listen to your music. I’ll bring you some . . . ginger ale.”

“The miracle elixir,” he teased her. “Mom’s cure, no matter what ails you.”

Keely smiled sheepishly. “It always seems to help,” she said.

“Some ginger ale sounds good,” he said.

Keely picked up his bag, but he wrested it away from her. “I’m okay, Mom. Really. I don’t need you to carry my bag. Or to keep an eye on me. I’ll be okay. Don’t worry.”

“Are you sure?” she said, and her voice cracked.

Dylan patted her arm awkwardly and nodded. “Just go get that ginger ale,” he said. “I can see that the service hasn’t improved any around here.”

“Get moving, you,” she said. Her heart seemed to be swelling up inside of her, like a shining bubble, and she thanked God for this moment of happiness.