Presumed Guilty & Keeper of the Bride (22 page)

“Don’t you think this happy ending is worth working for?”

“But I don’t know if I believe in them anymore. Happy endings.”

“Neither did I. But I’m beginning to change my mind.”

“You’ll always be wondering about me, Chase. About whether you can trust me—”

“No, Miranda. That’s the one thing I’ll
never
wonder about.”

He kissed her then, a sweet and gentle joining that spoke not of passion but of hope. That one touch of his lips seemed to rinse away the terrible grime of guilt, of remorse, that had stained her soul.

The renewal of innocence. That’s what he offered; that’s what she found in his arms.

It seemed only a short time later when the gulls suddenly burst forth into a wild keening, a raucous announcement that land was close at hand. The couple standing at the bow did not stir from each other’s arms. Even when the boat’s whistle blew, even when the
Jenny B
glided into the harbor, they would still be standing there.

Together.

KEEPER
OF THE
BRIDE

One

T
he wedding was off. Cancelled. Canned. Kaput.

Nina Cormier sat staring at herself in the church dressing room mirror and wondered why she couldn’t seem to cry. She knew the pain was there, deep and terrible beneath the numbness, but she didn’t feel it. Not yet. She could only sit dry-eyed, staring at her reflection. The picture-perfect image of a bride. Her veil floated in gossamer wisps about her face. The bodice of her ivory satin dress, embroidered with seed pearls, hung fetchingly off-shoulder. Her long black hair was gathered into a soft chignon. Everyone who’d seen her that morning in the dressing room—her mother, her sister, Wendy, her stepmother, Daniella—had declared her a beautiful bride.

And she
would
have been. Had the groom bothered to show up.

He didn’t even have the courage to break the news to her in person. After six months of planning and dreaming, she’d received his note just twenty minutes before the ceremony. Via the best man, no less.

Nina,

     I need time to think about this. I’m sorry, I really am. I’m leaving town for a few days. I’ll call you.

Robert

She forced herself to read the note again.

I need time…. I need time….

How much time does a man need? she wondered.

A year ago, she’d moved in with Dr. Robert Bledsoe. It’s the only way to know if we’re compatible, he’d told her. Marriage was such a major commitment, a permanent commitment, and he didn’t want to make a mistake. At 41, Robert had known his share of disastrous relationships. He was determined not to make any more mistakes. He wanted to be sure that Nina was the one he’d been waiting for all his life.

She’d been certain Robert was the man
she’d
been waiting for. So certain that, on the very day he’d suggested they live together, she’d gone straight home and packed her bags….

“Nina? Nina, open the door!” It was her sister, Wendy, rattling the knob. “Please let me in.”

Nina dropped her head in her hands. “I don’t want to see anyone right now.”

“You need to be with someone.”

“I just want to be alone.”

“Look, the guests have all gone home. The church is empty. It’s just me out here.”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone. Just go home, will you? Please, just go.”

There was a long silence outside the door. Then Wendy said, “If I leave now, how’re you going to get home? You’ll need a ride.”

“Then I’ll call a cab. Or Reverend Sullivan can drive me. I need some time to think.”

“You’re sure you don’t want to talk?”

“I’m sure. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“If that’s what you really want.” Wendy paused, then added, with a note of venom that penetrated even through the oak door, “Robert’s a jerk, you know. I might as well tell you. I’ve always thought he was.”

Nina didn’t answer. She sat at the dressing table, her head in her hands, wanting to cry, but unable to squeeze out a single tear. She heard Wendy’s footsteps fade away, then heard only the silence of the empty church. Still no tears would come. She couldn’t think about Robert right now. Instead, her mind seemed to focus stubbornly on the practical aspects of a cancelled wedding. The catered reception and all that uneaten food. The gifts she had to return. The nonrefundable airline tickets to St. John Island. Maybe she should go on that honeymoon anyway and forget Dr. Robert Bledsoe. She’d go by herself, just her and her bikini. Out of this whole heartbreaking affair, at least she’d come out with a tan.

Slowly she raised her head and once again looked at her reflection in the mirror. Not such a beautiful bride after all, she thought. Her lipstick was smeared and her chignon was coming apart. She was turning into a wreck.

With sudden rage she reached up and yanked off the veil. Hairpins flew in every direction, releasing a rebellious tumble of black hair. To hell with the veil; she tossed it in the trash can. She snatched up her bouquet of white lilies and pink sweetheart roses and slam-dunked it into the trash can as well. That felt good. Her anger was like some new and potent fuel flooding her veins. It propelled her to her feet.

She walked out of the church dressing room, the train of her gown dragging behind her, and entered the nave.

The pews were deserted. Garlands of white carnations draped the aisles, and the altar was adorned with airy sprays of pink roses and baby’s breath. The stage had been beautifully set for a wedding that would never take place. But the lovely results of the florist’s hard work was scarcely noticed by Nina as she strode past the altar and started up the aisle. Her attention was focused straight ahead on the front door. On escape. Even the concerned voice of Reverend Sullivan calling to her didn’t slow her down. She walked past all the floral reminders of the day’s fiasco and pushed through the double doors.

There, on the church steps, she halted. The July sunshine glared in her eyes, and she was suddenly, painfully aware of how conspicuous she must be, a lone woman in a wedding gown, trying to wave down a taxi. Only then, as she stood trapped in the brightness of afternoon, did she feel the first sting of tears.

Oh, no. Lord, no. She was going to break down and cry right here on the steps. In full view of every damn car driving past on Forest Avenue.

“Nina? Nina, dear.”

She turned. Reverend Sullivan was standing on the step above her, a look of worry on his kind face.

“Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?” he asked.

“If you’d like, we could go inside and talk.”

Miserably she shook her head. “I want to get away from here. Please, I just want to get away.”

“Of course. Of course.” Gently, he took her arm. “I’ll drive you home.”

Reverend Sullivan led her down the steps and around the side of the building, to the staff parking lot. She gathered up her train, which by now was soiled from all that dragging, and climbed into his car. There she sat with all the satin piled high on her lap.

Reverend Sullivan slid in behind the wheel. The heat was stifling inside the car, but he didn’t start the engine. Instead they sat for a moment in awkward silence.

“I know it’s hard to understand what possible purpose the Lord may have for all this,” he said quietly. “But surely there’s a reason, Nina. It may not be apparent to you at the moment. In fact, it may seem to you that the Lord has turned His back.”

“Robert’s the one who turned his back,” she said. Sniffling, she snatched up a clean corner of her train and wiped her face. “Turned his back and ran like hell.”

“Ambivalence is common for bridegrooms. I’m sure Dr. Bledsoe felt this was a big step for him—”

“A big step for
him?
I suppose marriage is just a stroll in the park for me?”

“No, no, you misunderstand me.”

“Oh, please.” She gave a muffled sob. “Just take me home.”

Shaking his head, he put the key in the ignition. “I only wanted to explain to you, dear, in my own clumsy way, that this isn’t the end of the world. It’s the nature of life. Fate is always throwing surprises at us, Nina. Crises we never expect. Things that seem to pop right out of the blue.”

A deafening boom suddenly shook the church building. The explosion shattered the stained glass windows, and a hail of multicolored glass shards flew across the parking lot. Torn hymn books and fragments of church pews tumbled onto the blacktop.

As the white smoke slowly cleared, Nina saw a dusting of flower petals drift gently down from the sky and settle on the windshield right in front of Reverend Sullivan’s shocked eyes.

“Right out of the blue,” she murmured. “You couldn’t have said it better.”

“Y
OU TWO
,
WITHOUT A DOUBT
, are the biggest screwups of the year.”

Portland police detective Sam Navarro, sitting directly across the table from the obviously upset Norm Liddell, didn’t bat an eyelash. There were five of them sitting in the station conference room, and Sam wasn’t about to give this prima donna D.A. the satisfaction of watching him flinch in public. Nor was Sam going to refute the charges, because they
had
screwed up. He and Gillis had screwed up big time, and now a cop was dead. An idiot cop, but a cop all the same. One of their own.

“In our defense,” spoke up Sam’s partner, Gordon Gillis, “we never gave Marty Pickett permission to approach the site. We had no idea he’d crossed the police line—”

“You were in charge of the bomb scene,” said Liddell. “That makes you responsible.”

“Now, wait a minute,” said Gillis. “Officer Pickett has to bear some of the blame.”

“Pickett was just a rookie.”

“He should’ve been following procedure. If he’d—”

“Shut up, Gillis,” said Sam.

Gillis looked at his partner. “Sam, I’m only trying to defend our position.”

“Won’t do us a damn bit of good. Since we’re obviously the designated fall guys.” Sam leaned back in his chair and eyed Liddell across the conference table. “What do you want, Mr. D.A.? A public flogging? Our resignations?”

“No one’s asking for your resignations,” cut in ChiefAbe Coopersmith. “And this discussion is getting us nowhere.”

“
Some
disciplinary action is called for,” said Liddell. “We have a dead police officer—”

“Don’t you think I know that?” snapped Coopersmith. “
I’m
the one who had to answer to the widow. Not to mention all those bloodsucking reporters. Don’t give me this
us
and
we
crap, Mr. D.A. It was one of
ours
who fell. A cop.
Not
a lawyer.”

Sam looked in surprise at his chief. This was a new experience, having Coopersmith on his side. The Abe Coopersmith he knew was a man of few words, few of them complimentary. It was because Liddell was rubbing them all the wrong way. When under fire, cops always stuck together.

“Let’s get back to the business at hand, okay?” said Coopersmith. “We have a bomber in town. And our first fatality. What do we know so far?” He looked at Sam, who was head of the newly re-formed Bomb Task Force. “Navarro?”

“Not a hell of a lot,” admitted Sam. He opened a file folder and took out a sheaf of papers. He distributed copies to the other four men around the table—Liddell, Chief Coopersmith, Gillis, and Ernie Takeda, the explosives expert from the Maine State Crime Lab. “The first blast occurred around 2:15 a.m. The second blast around 2:30 a.m. It was the second one that pretty much levelled the R. S. Hancock warehouse. It also caused minor damage to two adjoining buildings. The night watchman was the one who found the first device. He noticed signs of breaking and entering, so he searched the building. The bomb was left on a desk in one of the offices. He put in the call at 1:30 a.m. Gillis got there around 1:50, I was there at 2:00 a.m. We had the blast area cordoned off and the top-vent container truck had just arrived when the first one went off. Then, fifteen minutes later—before we could search the building—the second device exploded. Killing Officer Pickett.” Sam glanced at Liddell, but this time the D.A. chose to keep his mouth shut. “The dynamite was Dupont label.”

There was a brief silence in the room. Then Coopersmith said, “Not the same Dupont lot number as those two bombs last year?”

“It’s very likely,” said Sam. “Since that missing lot number’s the only reported large dynamite theft we’ve had up here in years.”

“But the Spectre bombings were solved a year ago,” said Liddell. “And we know Vincent Spectre’s dead. So who’s making
these
bombs?”

“We may be dealing with a Spectre apprentice. Someone who not only picked up the master’s technique, but also has access to the master’s dynamite supply. Which, I point out, we never located.”

“You haven’t confirmed the dynamite’s from the same stolen lot number,” said Liddell. “Maybe this has no connection at all with the Spectre bombings.”

“I’m afraid we have other evidence,” said Sam. “And you’re not going to like it.” He glanced at Ernie Takeda. “Go ahead, Ernie.”

Takeda, never comfortable with public speaking, kept his gaze focused on the lab report in front of him. “Based on materials we gathered at the site,” he said, “we can make a preliminary guess as to the makeup of the device. We believe the electrical action fuse was set off by an electronic delay circuit. This in turn ignited the dynamite via Prima detonating cord. The sticks were bundled together with two-inch-wide green electrical tape.” Takeda cleared his throat and finally looked up. “It’s the identical delay circuit that the late Vincent Spectre used in his bombings last year.”

Liddell looked at Sam. “The same circuitry, the same dynamite lot? What the hell’s going on?”

“Obviously,” said Gillis, “Vincent Spectre passed on a few of his skills before he died. Now we’ve got a second generation bomber on our hands.”

“What we still have to piece together,” said Sam, “is the psychological profile of this newcomer. Spectre’s bombings were coldbloodedly financial. He was hired to do the jobs and he did them,
bam, bam, bam.
Efficient. Effective. This new bomber has to set a pattern.”

“What you’re saying,” said Liddell, “is that you expect him to hit again.”

Sam nodded wearily. “Unfortunately, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

There was a knock on the door. A patrolwoman stuck her head into the conference room. “Excuse me, but there’s a call for Navarro and Gillis.”

“I’ll take it,” said Gillis. He rose heavily to his feet and went to the conference wall phone.

Liddell was still focused on Sam. “So this is all that Portland’s finest can come up with? We wait for
another
bombing so that we can establish a
pattern?
And then maybe, just
maybe,
we’ll have an idea of what the hell we’re doing?”

“A bombing, Mr. Liddell,” said Sam calmly, “is an act of cowardice. It’s violence in the absence of the perpetrator. I repeat the word—
absence.
We have no ID, no fingerprints, no witnesses to the planting, no—”