Not Guilty (40 page)

“What about her?” Keely asked warily.

“Tell me again why you went over there. You wanted to ask her about some phone calls, you said?”

Keely shook her head. “Look, Detective. When we talked at Maureen’s house you suggested to me that she might have been stalking my husband. And I wanted to believe that. With all my heart. But apparently that was not the case. There’s no point in beating around the bush. I’ve since found out that she was probably having an affair with my husband before he died. So if that’s what you’re leading up to, save your breath. I already know.”

Phil looked at her with raised eyebrows.

Keely frowned. “You didn’t know that?”

“No, actually.”

“Well, I haven’t got proof positive, but . . . let’s say it seems likely. I
guess it might change your thinking about
why
Maureen killed herself—”

“She didn’t,” he said.

Keely started. “Excuse me?”

“She didn’t kill herself.”

“But I saw her,” Keely sputtered. “You saw her, too . . .”

“Oh, she’s dead all right. But not by her own hand.”

Keely felt a chill run through her. Abby, sensing the tension in her mother’s body, began to whimper. Keely bobbed her automatically in her arms. “Why do you say that?” she asked.

“We have new and convincing evidence that it was a homicide.”

“Homicide. But it’s impossible. She was . . .”

“I know. In the garage, with the car running . . .”

“In that . . . outfit,” Keely said with a grimace.

“We think somebody dressed her in that outfit,” he said.

Keely forced herself to remember. Maureen, the bright pink of her complexion, the crooked veil, the wedding dress. “The slippers,” she said suddenly.

“Excuse me?” Phil asked.

“That bothered me a little bit, actually. I mean, at the time, it was all so awful I couldn’t think. But those slippers . . . Now that you say it, I remember wondering why a woman would wear bedroom slippers with a wedding dress.”

“Apparently, somebody else dressed her,” said Phil.

Keely stared at him. “I don’t believe it. How could someone . . . ? Do you mean she was dead when she was put into the car?” she asked.

Phil shook his head. “No, not dead. She died of carbon monoxide poisoning. That’s why her skin was that awful color.”

“You’ve lost me, Detective,” said Keely.

“Look, because it’s now officially a homicide,” Phil said impatiently,
“we have to question all the possible suspects and witnesses again. Would you be willing to come in and answer some more questions?”

“Of course. If necessary.”

“Just for the record, would you be willing to take a lie detector test?” Phil asked.

Keely glared at him. “I’d be glad to,” she said. “Right now. Let’s do it.”

Phil raised a hand in surrender. “It’s enough that you agreed. You have an alibi. We know where you were. I already spoke to the security guard and to your neighbor, Mr. Warner. I reached him at his daughter’s house, in Boston. He confirmed that you were at home at the time of Maureen Chase’s death. But Mrs. Weaver, did you see anyone . . . pass anyone in the driveway or on the road to Maureen’s house that you can remember?”

Keely forced herself to try to recall that night. “No,” she said. “But look, I was pretty upset. I mean, I was going to confront her about all those phone calls. I wasn’t looking out for anybody else.”

“Did you move anything, throw anything away . . .?”

“I moved Maureen Chase. I tried to save her life.”

“I know you did.”

“But she was dead,” Keely cried. “She was already dead.”

Phil nodded, and they sat in silence for a moment.

Then Keely said, “I don’t understand, Detective. If she wasn’t dead, how did they dress her? How did they get her in the car? She was a pretty tough lady. I doubt she would have gone willingly.”

“She was drugged,” Phil said with a sigh. “The M.E. found a tiny hypodermic puncture wound in her neck.

“Hypodermic? Are you saying somebody snuck up on her and jabbed her? How could that be possible?”

“We think it was someone she knew. Someone she let into her house, never suspecting.”

“I don’t get it. You mean someone came to her house with a needle full of drugs so they could knock her out? And then they set it up to look like suicide?”

“They wanted it to look like suicide. Yes. But we don’t think it was planned.”

“Not planned? Well, who walks around with a hypodermic needle full of drugs? I mean, I guess it could have been a junkie,” she thought aloud. “Maureen probably had prosecuted a number of junkies. Although I can’t believe she’d invite some known heroin addict into her house.”

“No, it wasn’t like that . . .” he said.

“How can you be so sure?” she asked.

“The drug,” he said.

Keely frowned at him. “What do you mean? What about the drug?”

“The toxicology tests came back. It was insulin,” he said.

“Insulin,” she whispered.

“It put her into shock. We’re assuming the killer was a diabetic who was carrying insulin. I mean, if they’d gone there intending to knock her out, there are any number of other drugs they might use. Not insulin. That had to be a spur of the moment thing. What’s the matter, Mrs. Weaver?”

“Nothing,” Keely insisted. “It’s just . . . I’m just surprised.”

Phil stared at her. “You seem flustered. Does the diabetic thing ring any bells?”

“No,” she snapped. Her heart was pounding, but she tried to make her voice calm. “No, of course not,” she lied.

K
eely knocked on the door to Dylan’s room.

“Come on in,” he shouted.

She opened the door and forced herself to smile at him. Dylan removed his headset and looked up at her. “What did that detective want now?” he asked.

Keely shook her head. “Nothing much. Details. About Ms. Chase’s death. Nothing important.”

“Mom, you look sick. What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m coming down with something. Listen, honey, I’ve just had a great idea.”

“What?” he asked suspiciously.

“Well, I was thinking . . . since you have to do research on the Supreme Court, why don’t we just get in the car and take a drive down to Washington, D.C.? It’s only an hour and a half from here. You and me and Abby. We could get a room, and tomorrow we can tour the court. It would give your paper a lot of . . . authenticity, you know. You could take some pictures of the building. I could get a picture of you in front of it!”

“Mom, I’m not in fifth grade anymore. This is not ‘How I Spent My Summer Vacation.’ ”

“I know,” she persisted. “But I still think it would be a good idea. You could talk to some people who work there. You said yourself you’re going to need extra credit to make up for the lost time.”

Dylan peered at her. “I thought you didn’t feel good.”

“I’m fine. It’s just a little trip. I think it’s a good idea,” she cried.
“What’s wrong with it?”

“I can’t,” he said. “I have an appointment with Dr. Stover tomorrow.”

“I’ll reschedule it,” said Keely.

“Mom, I’m tired,” he complained. “I don’t want to take a trip.”

She knew he was tired. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he’d been listless ever since he’d gotten home. But she had to get them away from here. “You can rest in the car. We’ll take your medication with us.”

“Thanks a lot, Mom. Always thinking of my welfare.”

Tears rose to her eyes at his bitter sarcasm. “I’m trying to do what I think is best,” she said hoarsely.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, frowning.

“Nothing’s the matter. Hasn’t enough bad stuff happened around here that I might just want a change of scene?”

Dylan folded up the cord on his headset and turned off the power on the CD player. “You never did this before,” he said.

Keely wiped her eyes quickly with the side of her hands and sniffed.
“Did what?” she asked.

“Ran away,” he said.

She was about to protest his description, but then she stopped. She couldn’t.
Put it another way,
she thought. “Look, Dylan. I’m not asking you to go to Alaska,” she said. “A quick little road trip to Washington, D.C. Is that too much to expect? I know you’re tired. I wouldn’t ask it if I didn’t think it was important.”

“Why?” he said stubbornly, staring out the window. “Tell me why and I’ll go.”

“I told you why.”

“You’re lying,” he said.

Keely was about to lash out at him for his insolence. Then she stopped herself. He was right. How could she scold him for that? She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Okay,” she whispered. “Something terrible is about to happen. To someone we . . . know. I don’t want to be involved in it. I don’t want any part of it. I want to be far away.”

“Who?” Dylan asked. “What’s going to happen?”

“I don’t want to get into it. I don’t want to say any more about it. Believe me, you’ll know soon enough.”

“Just tell me who it is,” he insisted.

“Dylan . . .”

“Come on, Mom.”

Keely hesitated. She recognized that implacable expression in his eyes. She had seen it in the mirror often enough lately. He was not going to let her off the hook.
All right,
she decided. Hiding it would just postpone the inevitable. He would know soon enough. It couldn’t take the police long to put it together. “It’s Lucas,” she said. “Okay? It’s Lucas.”

“What’s going to happen to him?”

“I think he’s going to be arrested,” she said.

“Is that why the cop was here?”

“No,” she said. “That was . . . something else.”

“So why is he going to be arrested? Is it serious?”

“Very serious,” she said.

“What did he do? Some legal fraud or something?”

“No, Dylan. This is a matter of life and death. Okay? And that’s it. That’s all I’m going to say. Now, I want to leave, as soon as possible. Can you do it without an argument? Can you trust me? Just this once. Trust me and pack a bag.”

Dylan sighed. “All right,” he said. “I guess so.”

A
BBY FELL ASLEEP
in her car seat almost the moment they hit the highway. As for Dylan, Keely let him play whatever CDs he wanted, as long as the noise didn’t wake up his sister. It kept him occupied. There was no need to talk. Every so often, she would point to the map and he would look at the passing signs and tell her when to expect the next intersection of roads. Otherwise, they rode in silence.

The Dolly Madison Motor Lodge was in a quiet area outside of Washington, D.C., and it was dark when they pulled into the parking lot. Keely read the sign. “This looks nice,” she said. “Restaurant, indoor pool, Jacuzzi, cable, cocktail lounge with live music.”

“Cool,” said Dylan. “Four old fat guys playing ‘Stranger in the Night.’ ”

Keely responded with a thin smile. “We’ll skip cocktails,” she said.

“There’s nobody here,” Dylan observed, turning down the volume
on the CD player and glancing around at the sprinkling of vehicles in the parking lot.

“Well, it’s not exactly high season,” Keely agreed. “What do you think?”

“Whatever,” he said with a shrug.

“Okay,” she said, switching off the engine. “I’ll go get us a room. Watch Abby.”

A few minutes later, Keely returned with keys to two connecting rooms. She drove the SUV around to the back of the motel. She pulled into a spot right in front of their rooms, then gave Dylan his key. Despite his reluctance about the whole trip, he liked the idea of having his own hotel room, and he was eager to try it. He opened the door to his room, dumped his duffel bag, and then came back to the car to help Keely unload Abby’s things into the adjoining room. Keely unfolded a blanket on the floor and placed Abby down on it with some of her toys. Then she sat down on the bed. Dylan sat down on the bed opposite her.

“How’s your room?” Keely asked.

Dylan shrugged. “Exactly like this one.” He got up and opened the connecting door. “Want to see?”

Keely shook her head. “Not right now. I’m a little weary. I’ll look at it later.” Dylan nodded and closed the door between the rooms. He looked sympathetically at his mother. “You want me to go get us some sodas and some ice?”

Keely nodded at him gratefully. Suddenly he looked so grown up to her, standing there ready to help. “That would be great. Do you know where the ice machine is?”

“I’ll find it, Mom,” he said impatiently.

“Do you need money? Look in my purse.”

Dylan shook his head. “I’m fine. I’ll be back soon,” he said.

Keely took his hand as he edged past her. “Thank you, honey. Thanks for everything.”

Dylan brushed off her gratitude. “I’m going swimming when I get back. I want to try out that indoor pool. And the Jacuzzi.”

“Those things are full of germs,” said Keely.

“You’re right, Mom. I’ll probably get a fatal disease.”

“Go,” she said, smiling. “Get your sodas. Don’t forget your key.”

Dylan muttered in teenage exasperation and closed the door behind him. Keely lay back on the bed and closed her eyes as Abby played contentedly on the blanket between the beds. It was a good idea to come here, she thought. It was peaceful here, and she couldn’t be sucked into this mess, asked a million questions. Forced to admit to the police that her friend, her father-in-law, her stalwart protector, was probably a murderer. The thought of it made her feel sick to her stomach.
How long will it be?
Keely thought.
How long before the police realize?
It couldn’t be long.

Lucas, she thought. She had always admired Lucas. Always thought of him as the best of men. But the instant that Phil Stratton had said the word “insulin,” it was like a code that had suddenly cracked. Her first impulse had been to call Lucas, to confront him with it. But she found that she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t bring herself to say the words. Couldn’t stand to hear any more lies, from Lucas this time.

Keely’s head was throbbing. She could still picture Lucas on that day when they had entered Prentice’s apartment and confronted that dreadful mess. The look of horror and dismay on Lucas’s face as he waded through the debris of his son’s life. He had been so pale and sweaty and shaky that he’d had to clear a chair to sit down and give himself an injection. She could still see, in her mind’s eye, the compact little kit containing the hypodermic and the vial of insulin that he removed from his coat pocket. She could still picture him sitting there on the chair, matter-of-factly rolling up his sleeve and swabbing his arm to take the needle. She had turned away, not wanting to look. She didn’t want to look at it now, but there was no turning away.

Now she couldn’t stop picturing Lucas—kind, generous Lucas.
Why,
she thought?
What would make him do it?
Stabbing Maureen with that needle. Dressing her up and putting her into the car. Turning on the engine. That was the part that was hard to come to terms with—the ruthlessness of it. God knows, there’d been no love lost between her and Maureen Chase. In a way, Keely had hated Maureen and everything she had done. But still . . . she was a human being and she didn’t deserve . . . Maureen’s tortured life was her own. Her killer had acted as if it was his to end as he chose.

Keely crossed one arm over her eyes as she lay there. At least they were away from St. Vincent’s Harbor. She might not be able to help Lucas, but at least she didn’t have to stand by and watch as the police figured it out and then picked him up. It couldn’t be long before someone in the police department or the court system remembered that Lucas was a diabetic. Before they found the papers on Josie Fiore’s desk and talked to Julian Graham and Veronica’s name surfaced. That was all related to Mark’s death, too. She didn’t know how, but somehow, it was all related. She was sure of that. If
she
could see the connections, surely the police would. They would connect the dots, which would lead to Lucas. Surely Lucas must have known that he would be suspected. He was an attorney. He understood all about the chain of evidence. The trail that leads to a suspect. And yet he did it anyway, as if he didn’t care what happened, as long as he killed her. But why?

A knock at the door made Keely jump, and then she realized it was probably Dylan, his arms too full of sodas and the ice bucket to use the key. She got up to let him in, stepping over Abby’s toys. Then she remembered that the woman at the desk had promised to send someone from housekeeping to the room with a crib for Abby. It might be housekeeping, actually. She walked to the door and opened it.

Halogen lights illuminated the dark parking lot, making a flat, silvery glow in which Keely could see a mist of quiet rain. Lucas stood outside the door, leaning on his stick, the collar of his raincoat turned up against the drizzle. Unsmiling, he reached his other arm out and held the door ajar. “Keely,” he said. “May I come in?”