Presumed Guilty & Keeper of the Bride (20 page)

Instant silence. Evelyn, white-faced, turned to confront her father. “Prison? For what?”

“Richard.” Noah, his rage suddenly spent, sank slowly back against the chair. Softly he said, “For Richard.”

“You thought…that I—” Evelyn shook her head.

“Why? You knew it was that—that bitch!”

Noah merely looked away. With that one gesture he gave his answer. An answer that lifted a weight so heavy from Chase’s soul he felt he was floating. It was a burden he could only now acknowledge had been there all along, the burden of proof. With that one gesture, the last blot of suspicion was washed away.

“You know Miranda’s innocent,” said Chase.

Noah dropped his head in his hands. “Yes,” he whispered.

“How?” cut in Lorne.

“Because I had her followed. Oh, I knew about the affair. I knew what he was up to. I’d had enough of it! I wasn’t going to see him hurt Evelyn again. So I hired a man, told him to watch her. To follow her, take photos. Catch ’em in the act. I wanted Evelyn to know, once and for all, what a bastard she’d married.”

“And the night he was killed, you had Miranda under surveillance?” asked Lorne.

Noah nodded.

“What did your man see?”

“Of the murder? Nothing. He was busy following the woman. She left the house, walked to the beach. Sat there for an hour or so. Then she went home. By then my son-in-law was already dead.”

Exactly what she said,
thought Chase.
It was all the truth, right down to the last detail.

“Then your man never saw the killer?” said Lorne.

“No.”

“But you assumed your daughter…”

Noah shrugged. “It seemed…a logical guess. He had it coming. All these years of hurting her. You think he didn’t deserve it? You think she wasn’t justified?”

“But I didn’t do it,” said Evelyn.

Her words went ignored.

“Why did you bail out Miranda Wood?” asked Lorne.

“I thought if she went to trial, if her story held together, there was a chance they’d start to look at other suspects.”

“You mean Evelyn.”

“Better to have it over and done with!” blurted out Noah. “If there was an accident, that would end it. No more questions. No more suspects.”

“So you wanted her out of jail,” said Chase. “Out on the street, where you could reach her.”

“That’s enough, Noah!” cut in Hardee. “You don’t have to answer these questions.”

“Damn you, Les!” snapped Evelyn. “You should have told him that earlier!” She looked at her father, her expression a mixture of pity and disgust. “Let me set your mind at rest, Daddy. I didn’t kill Richard. The fact you thought I did only shows how little you know me. Or I you.”

“I’m sorry about this, Evelyn,” said Lorne quietly. “But now I’m going to have to ask you a few questions.”

Evelyn turned to him. Her chin came up, a gesture of stubborn pride, newfound strength. For the first time in all the years he’d known her Chase felt a spark of admiration for his sister-in-law.

“Ask away, Lorne,” she said. “You’re the cop. And I guess I’m now your prime suspect.”

Chase didn’t stay to hear the rest. He left the room and headed down the hall to find Miranda.
Now it can be proved. It was true, every word you said.
They could start from the beginning, he thought. He suddenly strode ahead with new hope, new anticipation. The shadow of murder was gone, and they had a chance to do it over, to do it right.

He rounded the corner eagerly, expecting to see her sitting on the bench.

The bench was empty.

He went over to the clerk, who was typing out Noah’s arrest report. “Did you see where she went?”

The clerk glanced up. “You mean Ms. Wood?”

“Yes.”

“She left the station. About, oh, twenty minutes ago.”

“Did she say where she was going?”

“Nope. Just got up and walked out.”

In frustration Chase turned to the door.
You never make it easy for me, do you?
he thought. Then he pushed through the door and headed out into the night.

All day Ozzie had been restless. Last night, all that frantic running around and police activity had driven the beast nearly mad with excitement. A day later and the agitation still hadn’t worn off. He was all nerved up, clawing at the door, whining and tip-tapping back and forth across the wood floor.

Maybe it’s my fault,
Miss St. John thought, gazing in disgust at her hysterical dog.
Maybe my mood has simply rubbed off on him.

Ozzie crouched at the front door like a discarded fur coat, staring pitifully at his mistress.

“You,” said Miss St. John, “are a tyrant.”

Ozzie merely whimpered.

“Oh, all right,” said Miss St. John. “Out, out!” She opened the door. The dog bounded out into the twilight.

Miss St. John followed the beast down the gravel driveway. Ozzie was dancing along, his fur bouncing like black corkscrews. Truly an ugly animal, thought Miss St. John, the same thought that occurred to her on every walk. That he was worth several thousand dollars for his pedigree alone only went to show you the worthlessness of pedigrees, be they for dogs or people. But what Ozzie lacked in beauty he made up in energy. Already he was trotting far ahead and veering up the path, toward Rose Hill.

Miss St. John, feeling more like dog than mistress, followed him.

The cottage was dark. Chase and Miranda had left that morning and now the place stood deserted and forlorn. A pity. Such charming cottages should not go empty, especially not in the summertime.

She climbed the steps and peered through the window. Shadows of furniture huddled within. The books were back in the shelves. She could see the gleam of their spines lined up against the wall. Though they’d combed those books and papers thoroughly, she still wondered whether they had missed something. Some small, easily overlooked item that held the answers to Richard Tremain’s death.

The door was locked, but she knew where the key was kept. What harm would there be in another little visit? She’d always felt just a bit proprietary when it came to Rose Hill. After all, she’d played near here almost every day as a child. And as an adult she’d made a point of keeping an eye on the cottage, as a favor to the Tremains.

Ozzie seemed happy enough, padding about in the yard.

Miss St. John retrieved the key from the planter, unlocked the door and went inside.

It seemed very still, very sad in that living room. She turned on all the lamps and wandered about, her gaze combing the nooks and crannies of the furniture. They’d already made a search of those places. There was no point repeating it.

She went through the kitchen, through the upstairs bedrooms, came back down again. No hunches, no revelations.

She was turning to leave when her gaze swept past the area rug, set right in front of the door. That’s when a memory struck her, of a scene from
Tess of the D’Urbervilles.
A confessional note, slipped under the closed door, only to be pushed accidentally under the adjacent rug. A note that was never found because it lay hidden from view.

So vivid was that image that when she bent and pulled up the edge of the rug she was not at all startled to see a sealed envelope lying there.

The note was from M. The intended recipient had never found it, never read it.

…This pain is alive, like a creature gnawing at my organs. It won’t die. It refuses to die. You put it there, you planted it, you gave the embryo all those years of nourishment.

     And then you walked away.

     You say you are doing me a kindness. You say it is better to break off now, because, if it goes on longer, it will only hurt more. You don’t know what it is to hurt. Once you claimed to be love’s walking wounded. Once, I thought to save you.

     You were the serpent I hugged to my breast.

     Now you say you’ve found a new savior. You think she’ll make you happy. But she won’t. It will be the same with her as it was with the others. You’ll decide she isn’t perfect. No one who’s ever loved you, really loved you, has ever been good enough for you.

     But you’re getting old, flabby, and still you think that somewhere there’s a young and perfect woman just longing to make love to your wrinkled old carcass.

     She doesn’t know you the way I do. I’ve had years to learn all your dirty little secrets. Your conceits and lies and cruelty. You’ll use her, the way you’ve used all the others. And then she’ll be tossed on the heap with the rest of us, another woman terribly hurt.

     You should suffer where you’ve sinned. A good clean slice—

Miss St. John, still clutching the letter, abruptly left Rose Hill and hurried home.

With shaking hands she made two phone calls. The first was to Lorne Tibbetts.

The second was to Miranda Wood.

Fourteen

M
iranda was near the point of exhaustion by the time she climbed up Annie’s porch steps. It had been only a ten-minute walk from the police station, but the distance she had traveled had been emotional, not physical. Sitting alone on that bench, shut out from the fancy deal-making between attorneys and cops, she’d come to the sad realization that Noah DeBolt would never be charged with any crime worse than trespassing. That she, Miranda, was too convenient a suspect to be let off the hook. And that Chase, by walking down the corridor, by joining Evelyn and Noah behind that closed door, had made his choice.

Didn’t they say that crisis brought families together? Well, the arrest of patriarch Noah DeBolt was one hell of a crisis. The family would rally.

Miranda was not, could never be, part of that family.

She stepped in the front door. Annie was still not home. Silence hung like a shroud over the house. When the phone suddenly rang, the sound was almost shocking to her ears.

She picked up the receiver.

“Miranda?” came a breathless voice.

“Miss St. John? Is something wrong?”

“Are you home alone?” was Miss St. John’s bizarre reply.

“Well, yes, at the moment—”

“I want you to lock the door. Do it now.”

“No, everything’s all right. They’ve arrested Noah DeBolt—”

“Listen to me! I found another letter, at Rose Hill. That’s what she was after, don’t you see? The reason she kept going to the cottage! To get back all her letters!”

“Whose letters?”

“M.”

“But Noah DeBolt—”

“This has nothing to do with Noah! It was a crime of passion, Miranda. The classic motive. Let me read you the letter….”

Miranda listened.

By the time Miss St. John had finished, Miranda’s hands were numb from clutching the receiver.

“I’ve already called the police,” said Miss St. John.

“They’ve sent a man to pick up Jill Vickery. Until then, keep your doors locked. It’s a sick letter, Miranda, written by a sick woman. If she comes to the house,
don’t let her in.
”

Miranda hung up.

At once she missed the sound of a human voice, any voice, even one transmitted through telephone wires.
Annie, come home. Please.

She stared at the phone, wondering if she should call someone. But who? It was only as she stood there, thinking, that she noticed several days’ mail mounded haphazardly by the telephone, some of it threatening to spill over onto the floor. A half-dozen household bills mingled with ad circulars and magazines. Annie’s bookkeeping must be as sloppy as her housekeeping, she thought, straightening the pile. Only then did she notice the newsletter from the alumni association of Tufts University—Annie’s old alma mater. It lay at the edge of the table, four photocopied pages stapled together, personal notes from the class of ‘68, with a mass-mailing label on front. Of no particular interest to Miranda—except for one detail.

It was addressed to Margaret Ann Berenger.

You’re the only M I know,
Annie had said.

And all the time, she’d known another.

It doesn’t mean she’s the one.

Miranda stood staring at that label. Margaret Ann Berenger. Where was the proof, where was the link between Annie and all those letters from M?

It suddenly occurred to her.
A typewriter.

A manual model, Jill had said, with an
e
hammer in need of cleaning. It would be a large item, difficult to hide. A quick check of all the closets, all the cabinets, confirmed that there was no manual typewriter in the house. Could it be in the garage?

No, she’d been in the garage. It was barely large enough to hold a car, much less store household items.

She checked, anyway. No typewriter.

She went back into the house, her mind racing. By now Jill might already be under arrest. Annie would hear of it in no time, would know the search for the real M was on. Her first move would be to get rid of the incriminating typewriter, if she hadn’t already done so. It was the one piece of evidence that could link Annie to Richard’s murder.

It could prove my innocence. I have to find it, before she destroys it. I have to get it to the police.

There was one more place she had to look.

She ran from the house and got into her car.

Moments later she pulled up in front of the
Herald
building. It was dark inside. The latest issue had just been put to bed. No one would be working late tonight, so she’d have the building to herself.

She let herself in the front door with her key—the key she’d never gotten around to turning in. With a twinge of irony she remembered that it was Richard who’d told her to keep it. He was certain he could talk her into returning to the job.

Well, here she was, back again.

She moved up the aisle of desks and went straight to Annie’s. She flicked on the lamp. The top drawer was unlocked. Among the jumble of pens and paper clips she found some loose keys. Which one would open Annie’s locker? She gathered them all up and headed down the stairwell and into the women’s room.

She turned on the light. A flowered couch, mauve wallpaper, Victorian prints sprang into view. Jill’s decorative touch couldn’t disguise the fact it was a closed-in dungeon of a room, without a single window. Miranda moved to the bank of lockers. There were six of them, extra wide to accommodate employees’ heavy coats and boots during the winter months. She knew which one belonged to Annie. It had the sticker that said I’ve Got PMS. What’s Your Excuse?

She inserted the first key into the lock. It didn’t turn.

She tried the second key, then the third. The lock popped open.

She swung open the door and frowned at the contents. On the top shelf were mittens, a pair of old running shoes, a wool scarf.

On the bottom shelf a sweater lay draped over a towel-wrapped bundle. Miranda took out the bundle. The object inside was heavy. She unwrapped the towel, revealed the contents.

It was an old blue-green Olivetti with pica type.

She slid in a scrap of paper and with shaking hands typed the name Margaret Ann Berenger. The
e
loop was smudged.

An overwhelming sense of relief, almost euphoria, at once washed over her. Quickly she shut the locker and rewrapped the typewriter. As she gathered it up in her arms, a puff of air blew past her cheek. That was all the warning she had, that soft whisper of wind through the door as it opened and shut behind her.

Miranda turned.

The intruder stood in the doorway, her hair a mass of windblown waves, her face utterly devoid of emotion.

Miranda said softly, “Annie.”

In silence Annie’s gaze settled on the typewriter in Miranda’s arms.

“I thought you were with Irving,” said Miranda.

Annie’s gaze slowly rose once again to meet Miranda’s. Sadness now filled those eyes, a look of pain that seemed to spill from her very soul.
Why did I never see it before?
thought Miranda.

“There is no Irving,” said Annie.

Miranda shook her head in confusion.

“There never was an Irving. I made him up. All the dates, all those evenings out. You see, I’d drive to the harbor. Park there and just sit. Hours, sometimes.” Annie took a deep breath and, shuddering, let it out. “I couldn’t take the pity, Miranda. All that sympathy for an old maid.”

“I never thought that—”

“Of course you did. You all did. Then there was Richard. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that—” Her voice broke. She wiped her hand across her eyes.

Slowly Miranda set the typewriter down on the bench. “Knowing what, Annie?” she asked softly. “How badly he hurt you? How alone you really were?”

A shudder racked Annie’s body.

“He hurt us both,” said Miranda. “Every woman he ever touched. Every woman who ever loved him. He hurt us all.”

“Not the way he hurt me!” Annie cried. The echo of her pain seemed to reverberate endlessly against those stark walls. “Five years of my life, Miranda. That’s what I gave him. Five years of secrets. I was forty-two when we met. I still had time for a baby. A few short years left. I kept hoping, waiting for him to make up his mind. To leave Evelyn.” She wiped her eyes again, smearing a streak of mascara and tears across her cheek. “Now it’s too late for me. It was my last chance and he took it from me. He
stole
it from me. And then he ended it.” She shook her head, laughing through her tears. “He said he was only trying to be kind. That he didn’t want me to waste any more years on him. Then he said the thing that hurt me most of all. He said, ‘It was just your fantasy, Annie. I never really loved you the way you thought I did.’” The look she gave Miranda was the gaze of a tortured animal’s. “Five years, and he tells me that. What he didn’t tell me was the truth. He’d found someone younger. You.” There was no hostility, no anger in her voice, only quiet resignation. “I never blamed you, Miranda. You didn’t know. You were just another victim. He would have left you, the way he left us all.”

“You’re right, Annie. We were all his victims.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Miranda.” Annie slid her hand into her jacket pocket. “But someone has to suffer for it.” Slowly she withdrew the gun.

Miranda stared at the barrel, now pointed at her chest. She wanted to argue, to plead, anything to make Annie lower the gun. But her voice had frozen in her throat. She could only stare at the black circle of the barrel and wonder if she would feel the bullet.

“Come, Miranda. Let’s go.”

Miranda shook her head. “Where—where are we going?”

Annie opened the door and gestured for Miranda to move first. “Up the stairs. To the roof.”

No one was home.

Chase circled around Annie’s house to the garage and found that the car was gone. Miranda must have returned, then left again. He was standing in the driveway, wondering where to look next, when he heard the phone ringing inside the house. He ran up the porch steps and into the living room to answer the call.

It was Lorne Tibbetts. “Is Miranda there?” he asked.

“No, I’m looking for her.”

“What about Annie Berenger?”

“Not here, either.”

“Okay,” said Lorne. “I want you to leave the house, Chase. Do it right now.”

Chase was stunned by the unexpected command. He said, “I’m waiting for Miranda to show up.”

He heard Lorne turn and say something to Ellis. Then, “Look, we got evidence snowballing down here. If Annie Berenger shows up first, you keep things nice and casual, okay? Don’t rattle her. Just calmly leave the house. Ellis is on his way over.”

“What the hell’s going on?”

“We think we know who M is. And it’s not Jill Vickery. Now get out of there.” Lorne hung up.

If it isn’t Jill Vickery…

Chase went to the end table and opened the drawer. Annie’s gun was missing.

He slammed the drawer shut.

Where are you, Miranda?

The next thought sent him running outside to his car. There might still be time to find them. He’d missed Miranda by only five, maybe ten minutes. They couldn’t have gone far, not yet. If he circled around town, kept his eyes open, he might be able to find her car.

If they were still in the area.

I can’t lose you. Now that we can prove your innocence. Now that we have a chance together.

He swung the car around. With tires screeching, he raced back toward town.

“Go on. Up the last flight.”

Miranda paused, her foot on the next step. “Please, Annie…”

“Keep moving.”

Miranda turned to face her. They were already on the third-floor landing. One more flight and then the door to the roof. Once she’d marveled at the beauty of this stairwell, at the carved mahogany banister, the gleaming wood finish. Now it had become a spiral death trap. She gripped the railing, drawing strength from the unyielding support of solid wood.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked.

“Go on. Go!”

“We were friends once—”

“Until Richard.”

“But I didn’t know! I had no idea you were in love with him! If only you’d told me.”

“I never told anyone. I couldn’t. It was his idea, you see. Keep it quiet, keep it our little secret. He said he wanted to protect me.”

Then I’m the only one left who knows,
thought Miranda.
The only one still alive
.

“Move,” said Annie. “Up the stairs.”

Miranda didn’t budge. She looked Annie in the eye. Quietly she said, “Why don’t you just shoot me now? Right here. If that’s what you’re going to do anyway.”

“It’s your choice.” Calmly Annie raised the gun. “I’m not afraid of killing. They say that it’s hardest the first time you do it. And you know what? It wasn’t really hard at all. All I had to do was think about how much he hurt me. The knife seemed to move all by itself. I was just a witness.”

“I’m not Richard. I never meant to hurt you.”

“But you will, Miranda. You know the truth.”

“So do the police. They found that letter, Annie. The last one you wrote.”

Annie shook her head. “They arrested Jill tonight. But you’re still the one they’ll blame. Because they’ll find the typewriter in your car. What a clever girl you’ll seem, making up all those letters, planting them in the cottage. Throwing suspicion on poor innocent Jill. But then the guilt caught up with you. You got depressed. You knew jail was inevitable. So you chose the easy way out. You climbed to the roof of the newspaper building. And you jumped.”

“I won’t do it.”

Annie gripped the gun with both hands and pointed it at Miranda’s chest. “Then you’ll die here. I had to kill you, you see. I found you planting the typewriter in Jill’s office. You had a gun. You ordered me into the stairwell. I tried to grab the gun and it went off. A tidy end for everyone involved.” Slowly she cocked back the pistol hammer. “Or would you rather it be the roof?”

I have to buy time,
thought Miranda.
Have to wait for a chance, any chance, to escape.