Presumed Guilty & Keeper of the Bride (5 page)

“Oh, hell,” she muttered in disgust. “What does it matter now, what I felt? To you or to anyone else?” Without looking back she left him and started up the driveway. Her abrupt departure seemed to leave behind an unfillable vacuum.

“Ms. Wood!” he yelled. She kept walking. He called out, “Miranda!” She stopped. “I have one question for you,” he said. “Who bailed you out?”

Slowly she turned and looked at him. “You tell me,” she said.

And then she walked away.

It was a long walk to the newspaper building. It took Miranda past familiar streets and storefronts, past people she knew. That was the worst part. She felt them staring at her through the shop windows. She saw them huddle in groups and whisper to each other. No one came right out and said anything to her face. They didn’t have to.
All I lack,
she thought,
is a scarlet letter sewn on my chest.
M
for murderess.

She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead and walked up Limerock Street. The
Herald
building stood before her, a brick-and-slate haven against all those watching eyes. She ducked through the double glass doors, into the newsroom.

Inside, all activity came to a dead halt.

She felt assaulted by all those startled looks.

“Hello, Miranda,” said a cool voice.

Miranda turned. Jill Vickery, the managing editor, glided out of the executive office. She hadn’t changed clothes since the funeral. On dark-haired, ivory-skinned Jill, the color black looked quite elegant. Her short skirt hissed against her stockings as she clipped across the floor.

“Is there something I can do for you?” Jill asked politely.

“I—I came to get my things.”

“Yes, of course.” Jill shot a disapproving glance at the other employees, who were still gawking. “Are we all so efficient that we’ve no more work to do?”

At once everyone redirected their attention to their jobs.

Jill looked at Miranda. “I’ve already taken the liberty of cleaning out your desk. It’s all in a box downstairs.”

Miranda was so grateful for Jill’s simple civility she scarcely registered annoyance that her desk had been coldbloodedly emptied of her belongings. She said, “I’ve also a few things in my locker.”

“They should still be there. No one’s touched it.” There was a silence. “Well,” said Jill, a prelude to escape from a socially awkward situation. “I wish you luck. Whatever happens.” She started back toward her office.

“Jill?” called Miranda.

“Yes?”

“I was wondering about that article on Tony Graffam. Why it didn’t run.”

Jill looked at her with frank puzzlement. “Why does it matter?”

“It just does.”

Jill shrugged. “It was Richard’s decision. He pulled the story.”

“Richard’s? But he was working on it for months.”

“I can’t tell you his reasons. I don’t know them. He just pulled it. And anyway, I don’t think he ever wrote the story.”

“But he told me it was nearly finished.”

“I’ve checked his files.” Jill turned and walked toward her office. “I doubt he ever got beyond the research stage. You know how he was, Miranda. The master of overstatement.”

Miranda stared after her in bewilderment. The master of overstatement. It hurt to admit it, but yes, there was a lot of truth in that label.

People were staring at her again.

She headed down the stairwell and pushed into the women’s lounge. There she found Annie Berenger, lacing up running shoes. Annie was dressed in her usual rumpled-reporter attire—baggy drawstring pants, wrinkled cotton shirt. The inside of her locker looked just as disorderly, a mound of wadded-up clothes, towels and books.

Annie glanced up and tossed her head of gray-streaked hair in greeting. “You’re back.”

“Just to clean out my things.” Miranda found the cardboard box with her belongings stuffed under one of the benches. She dragged it out and carried it to her locker.

“I saw you at the funeral,” said Annie. “That took guts, Mo.”

“I’m not sure guts is the word for it.”

Annie shoved her locker door shut and breathed a sigh of relief. “Comfortable at last. I just had to change out of that funeral getup. Can’t think in those stupid high heels. Cuts the blood supply to my brain.” She finished lacing up her running shoe. “So what’s going to happen next? With you, I mean.”

“I don’t know. I refuse to think beyond a day or two.” Miranda opened her locker and began to throw things into the box.

“Rumor has it you have friends in high places.”

“What?”

“Someone bailed you out, right?”

“I don’t know who it was.”

“You must have an idea. Or is this your lawyer’s advice, to plead ignorance?”

Miranda gripped the locker door. “Don’t, Annie. Please.”

Annie cocked her head, revealing all the lines and freckles of too many summers in the sun. “I’m being a jerk, aren’t I? Sorry. It’s just that Jill assigned me to the trial. I don’t like having to drag an old colleague across the front page.” She watched as Miranda emptied the locker and shut the door. “So. Can I get a statement from you?”

“I didn’t do it.”

“I’ve already heard that one.”

“Want to earn a Pulitzer?” Miranda turned, squarely faced her. “Help me find out who killed him.”

“You’ll have to give me a lead, first.”

“I don’t have one.”

Annie sighed. “That’s the problem. Whether or not you did it, you’re still the obvious suspect.”

Miranda picked up the box and headed up the stairs. Annie trailed behind her.

“I thought real reporters went after the truth,” said Miranda.

“This reporter,” said Annie, “is basically lazy and angling for early retirement.”

“At your age?”

“I turn forty-seven next month. I figure that’s a good age to retire. If I can just get Irving to pop the question, it’ll be a life of bonbons and TV soaps.”

“You’d hate it.”

“Oh, yeah.” Annie laughed. “I’d be just miserable.”

They walked into the newsroom. At once Miranda felt all those gazes turn her way. Annie, oblivious to their audience, went to her desk, threw her locker keys in her drawer and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “You happen to have a light?” she asked Miranda.

“You always ask me, and I never have one.”

Annie turned and yelled, “Miles!”

The summer intern sighed resignedly and tossed her a cigarette lighter. “Just give it back,” he said.

“You’re too young to smoke, anyway,” snapped Annie.

“So were you once, Berenger.”

Annie grinned at Miranda. “I love these boy wonders. They’re so damn petulant.”

Miranda couldn’t help smiling. She sat on the desktop and looked at her ex-colleague. As always, Annie wore a wreath of cigarette smoke. It was part addiction, part prop, that cigarette. Annie had earned her reporter’s stripes in a Boston newsroom where the floor was said to be an inch deep in cigarette butts.

“You do believe me, don’t you?” asked Miranda softly. “You don’t really think…”

Annie looked her straight in the eye. “No. I don’t. And I was kidding about being lazy,” said Annie. “I’ve been digging. I’ll come up with something. It’s not like I’m doing it out of friendship or anything. I mean, I could find out things that could hurt you. But it’s what I have to do.”

Miranda nodded. “Then start with this.”

“What?”

“Find out who bailed me out.”

Annie nodded. “A reasonable first step.”

The back office door swung open. Jill Vickery came out and glanced around the newsroom. “Marine distress call. Sailboat’s taking on water. Who wants the story?”

Annie slunk deep in her chair.

Miles sprang to his feet. “I’ll take it.”

“Coast Guard’s already on the way. Hire a launch if you have to. Go on, get going. You don’t want to miss the rescue.” Jill turned and looked at Annie. “Are you busy at the moment?”

Annie shrugged. “I’m always busy.”

Jill nodded toward Miles. “He’ll need help. Go with the kid.” She turned back to her office.

“I can’t.”

Jill stopped, turned to confront Annie. “Are you refusing my assignment?”

“Yeah. Sort of.”

“On what grounds?”

Annie blew out a long, lazy puff of smoke. “Seasickness.”

“I knew she’d confuse you, Chase. I just knew it. You don’t understand her the way I do.”

Chase looked up from the porch chair where he’d been brooding for the past hour. He saw that Evelyn had changed out of her black dress and was now wearing an obscenely bright lime green. He knew he should feel sorry for his sister-in-law, but at the moment Evelyn looked more in need of a stiff drink than of pity. He couldn’t help comparing her to Miranda Wood. Miranda, with her ill-fitting black dress and her windblown hair, so alone on that cemetery hillside. He wondered if Richard ever knew how much damage he’d done to her, or if he’d ever cared.

“You haven’t said a word since you got home,” complained Evelyn. “What is going on with you?”

“Just how well did you know Miranda Wood?” he asked.

She sat down and fussily arranged the folds of her green dress. “I’ve heard things. I know she grew up in Bass Harbor. Went to some—some state university. Had to do it all on scholarship. Couldn’t afford it otherwise. Really, not a very good family.”

“Meaning what?”

“Mill workers.”

“Ah. Dregs of the earth.”

“What is the matter with you, Chase?”

He rose to his feet. “I need to take a walk.”

“Oh. I’ll go with you.” She jumped to her feet, instantly wreaking havoc on all those nicely arranged folds of her dress.

“No. I’d like to be alone for a while. If you don’t mind.”

Evelyn looked as if she minded very much, but she managed to cover it gracefully. “I understand, Chase. We all need to mourn in our own way.”

He felt a distinct sense of relief as he walked away from that front porch. The house had started to feel oppressive, as though the weight of all those memories had crowded out the breathable air. For a half hour he walked aimlessly. Only as his feet carried him closer to town did he begin to move with a new sense of purpose.

He headed straight for the newspaper building.

He was greeted by Jill Vickery, the sleekly attractive managing editor. It was just like Richard to surround himself with gorgeous women. Chase had met her earlier that day, at the funeral. Then, as now, she played the part of the professional to the hilt.

“Mr. Tremain,” she said, offering her hand. “What a pleasure to see you again. May I show you around?”

“I was just wondering…” He glanced around the newsroom, which was currently occupied by only a bare-bones staff: the layout man arranging ads, another one staring at a computer screen, and that sloppy reporter puffing on a cigarette as she talked on the phone.

“Yes?” asked Jill.

“If I could go over some of my brother’s files.”

“Business or personal files?”

“Both.”

She hesitated, then led him into the back office and through a door labeled Richard Tremain, Owner and Publisher. “These aren’t all his files, you understand. He kept most of them here, but some he kept at home or at the cottage.”

“You mean Rose Hill?”

“Yes. He liked to work out there, on occasion.” She pointed to the desk. “The key’s in the top drawer. Please let me know if you take anything.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

She paused, as though uncertain whether to trust him. But what choice did she have? He was, after all, the publisher’s brother. At last she turned and left.

Chase waited for the door to shut, then he unlocked the file cabinet. He flipped immediately to the
W
’s.

He found a file on Miranda Wood.

Chase carried it to the desk and spread it open. It appeared to be a routine personnel record. The employment application was dated one year ago, when Miranda was twenty-eight. Her address was listed as 18 Willow Street. In the attached photograph she was smiling; it was the face of a confident young woman with her whole life ahead of her. It almost hurt to see how happy she looked. Her university record was outstanding. If anything, she was overqualified for her job as copy editor. Under the question “Why do you want this job?” she had written, “I grew up near Penobscot Bay. I want, more than anything, to live and work in the place I’ve always called home.” He flipped through the pages and scanned the semiannual employee evaluation, filled out by Jill Vickery. It was excellent. He turned to the last page.

There was a letter of resignation, dated two weeks ago.

To: Richard Tremain, Publisher,
Island Herald.

Dear Mr. Tremain,

I hereby notify you of my resignation from my position as copy editor. My reasons are personal. I would greatly appreciate a letter of reference, as I plan to seek employment elsewhere.

That was all. No explanations, no regrets. Not even a hint of recrimination.

So she told me the truth,
he thought.
She really did walk off the job.

“Mr. Tremain?” It was Jill Vickery, back again. “Are you looking for anything in particular? Maybe I can help you.”

“Maybe you can.”

She came in and gracefully settled into the chair across from him. Her gaze at once took in the file on the desk. “I see you have Miranda’s employee record.”

“Yes. I’m trying to understand what happened. Why she did it.”

“I think you should know she was here just a short while ago.”

“In the building?”

“She came to collect her things. I’m glad you two avoided a, uh…unexpected encounter.”

He nodded. “So am I.”

“Let me say this, Mr. Tremain. I’m very sorry about your brother. He was a wonderful man, an exceptional writer. He truly believed in the power of the printed word. We’re going to miss him.”

It was a canned speech, but she delivered it with such sincerity he was almost convinced she meant it. Jill Vickery certainly had the PR down flat.

“I understand Richard had a story in the pipeline,” he said. “Something about a company called Stone Coast Trust. You familiar with it?”

Jill sighed. “Why does this particular article keep coming up?”