Presumed Guilty & Keeper of the Bride (8 page)

Outside, it took him a few seconds to accustom his eyes to the darkness. By the time he’d reached the edge of the front yard he could finally make out the walkway under his feet.

He could also see the silhouette of a man standing stoop-shouldered before him on the sidewalk.

Chase halted, instantly tense.

“She okay?” asked the man.

“Who are you?” demanded Chase.

“I could ask the same o’ you,” came the cranky reply.

“I’m…visiting,” said Chase.

“So, is Mo gonna be all right, or what?”

“Mo? Oh, you mean Miranda. Yes, she’ll be fine, Mr….”

“Eddie Lanzo. Live next door. Like to keep an eye on her, y’know? Not good, a nice young woman livin’ all by herself. And all these crazies runnin’ around here, peekin’ in windows. Not safe to be female these days.”

“Someone’s staying with her tonight, so you needn’t worry.”

“Yeah. Okay. Well, I won’t bother her none, then.” Eddie Lanzo turned to go back to his house. “Whole island’s going to pot, I tell ya,” he muttered. “Too many crazies. Last time I leave my keys in the car.”

“Mr. Lanzo?” called Chase.

“Yeah?”

“Just a question. I was wondering if you were home the night Richard Tremain was killed?”

“Me?” Eddie snorted. “I’m always home.”

“Did you happen to see or hear anything?”

“I already tol’ Lorne Tibbetts. I go to bed at nine o’clock sharp, and that’s it till morning.”

“Then you’re a sound sleeper? You didn’t hear anything?”

“How can I with my hearing aid turned off?”

“Oh.” Chase watched as the man shuffled back to his house, still muttering about Peeping Toms and car thieves. It somehow surprised Chase that a grouchy old geezer like Lanzo would show such concern about Miranda Wood.
A nice young woman,
Lanzo had called her.

What the hell does he know?
thought Chase.
What do we ever know about anyone? People have their secrets. I have mine, Miranda Wood has hers.

He turned and headed for Chestnut Street.

It was a twenty-minute walk, made invigorating by the brisk night air. When at last he stepped in the front door he found that, except for the lamp in the foyer, all the lights were out. Had no one else come home?

Then he heard Evelyn call out his name.

He found her sitting all alone in the darkened parlor. He could barely make out her shadow in the rocking chair. The dim glow of the street lamp through the window framed her silhouette.

“At last you’re home,” she said.

He started toward one of the lamps. “You need some light in here, Evelyn.”

“No, Chase. Don’t. I like the dark. I always have.”

He paused, uncertain of what to say, what to do. He lingered in the shadows, watching her.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she murmured. “Where did you go, Chase?”

He paused. “To see Miranda Wood.”

Her reaction was cold, dead silence. Even the creak of her rocking chair had stilled.

“She has you in her spell. Doesn’t she?” Evelyn whispered.

“There’s no spell. I just had some questions to ask her, about Richard.” He sighed. “Look, Evelyn, it’s been a long day for you. Why don’t you go up and get some sleep?”

Still the figure did not move. She sat like a black statue against the window. “That night I called you,” she said, “the night he died—I was hoping…”

“Yes?”

Another silence. Then, “I’ve always liked you, Chase. Since we were kids. I always hoped you’d be the one to propose. Not Richard, but you.” The rocking chair began to creak again, softly. “But you never did.”

“I was in love with Christine. Remember?”

“Oh, Christine.” She hissed out the name in disgust. “She wasn’t good enough for you. But you found that out.”

“We were mismatched, that’s all.”

“So were Richard and I.”

He didn’t know what to say. He knew what she was leading up to, and he wanted to avoid that particular path of conversation. In all those years of growing up together he had never been able to picture himself and Evelyn DeBolt as a couple. Certainly she was attractive enough. And she was closer to his age than she was to Richard’s. But he had seen, early on, that she had a talent for manipulating people, for twisting minds and hearts. The same talent Richard had possessed.

And yet, he felt so very sorry for her.

He said gently, “You’re just tired, Evelyn. You’ve had a terrible week. But the worst of it’s over now.”

“No. The worst part is just beginning. The loneliness.”

“You have your children—”

“You’ll be leaving soon, won’t you?”

“A few more days. I have to. I have a job in Greenwich.”

“You could stay. Take over the
Herald.
Phillip’s still too young to run it.”

“I’d be a lousy publisher. You know that. And I don’t belong here anymore. Not on this island.”

For a moment they regarded each other through the shadows.

“So that’s it, then,” she whispered. “For us.”

“I’m afraid so.”

He saw the silhouette nod sadly.

“Will you be all right?”

“Fine.” She gave a soft laugh. “I’ll be just fine.”

“Good night, Evelyn.”

“Good night.”

He left her sitting there by the window. Only as he moved toward the stairwell did he suddenly notice the sour odor lingering in the hall. An empty glass sat on the foyer table, near the telephone. He picked up the glass and sniffed it.

Whiskey.

We all have our secrets. Evelyn does, too.

He set the glass back down. Then, deep in thought, he climbed the stairs to bed.

Six

“S
o where were you two last night?” Chase asked.

The twins, busy attacking sausage and eggs, simultaneously looked up at their uncle.

“I was over at Zach Brewer’s,” said Phillip. “You remember the Brewers, don’t you? Over on Pearl Street.”

“What little Phil really means is, he was checking out Zach’s sister,” said Cassie.

“At least I wasn’t holed up in some cave, pining for a date.”

“I wasn’t pining for a date. I was busy.”

“Oh, sure,” snorted Phillip.

“Busy? Doing what?” asked Chase.

“I was over at the
Herald,
trying to get a handle on things,” said Cassie. “You know, Dad left things such a mess. No written plans for succession. Not a clue as to which direction he wanted the paper to go. Editorially speaking.”

“Let Jill Vickery take care of it,” said Phillip with a shrug. “That’s what we pay her for.”

“I’d think at least you’d care, Phil. Seeing as you’re the heir apparent.”

“These transitions need to be handled gradually.” Phil nonchalantly shoveled another forkful of eggs into his mouth.

“In the meantime, the
Herald
drifts around rudderless. I don’t want it to be just another church and social rag. We should turn it into a muckraking journal. Shake things up along the coast, get people mad. The way Dad got ’em mad a few months ago.”

“Got who mad?” asked Chase.

“Those stooges on the planning board. The ones who voted to rezone the north shore. Dad made ’em out to look pretty greasy. I bet Jill was quaking in her shiny Italian shoes, waiting for that libel suit to pop.”

“You seem to know a lot about what goes on at the
Herald,
” said Chase.

“Of course. Second best tries harder.”

She said it lightly, but Chase couldn’t miss the note of resentment in her voice. He understood exactly how she felt. He, too, had been the second-best sibling, had spent his childhood trying harder, to no avail. Richard had been the anointed one. Just as Phillip was now.

The doorbell rang. “That’ll be Granddad,” said Phillip. “He’s early.”

Chase stood. “I’ll get it.”

Noah DeBolt was standing on the front porch. “Good morning, Chase. Is Evelyn ready for her appointment?”

“I think so. Come in, sir.”

That “sir” was automatic. One simply didn’t call this man by his first name. As Noah walked in the door, Chase marveled at the fact that the years hadn’t stooped the shoulders in that tailored suit, nor softened the glare of those ice blue eyes.

Noah paused in the foyer and glanced critically around the house. “It’s about time we made some changes in here. A new couch, new chairs. Evelyn’s put up with this old furniture long enough.”

“They’re my mother’s favorites,” said Chase. “Antiques—”

“I know what the hell they are! Junk.” Noah’s gaze focused on the twins, who were staring at him through the doorway.

“What, are you two still eating breakfast? Come on, it’s eight-thirty! With the fees lawyers charge, we don’t want to be late.”

“Really, Mr. DeBolt,” said Chase. “I can drive us all to the lawyer. You didn’t have to bother—”

“Evelyn asked me to come,” said Noah. “What my girl asks for, I deliver.” He glanced up the stairs. Evelyn had just appeared on the landing. “Right, sweetheart?”

Head held high, Evelyn came down the stairs. It was the first Chase had seen of her since the night before. No tremor, no effects of whiskey were apparent this morning. She looked cool as aspic. “Hello, Daddy,” she said.

Noah gave her a hug. “Now,” he said softly, “let’s go finish this unpleasant business.”

They drove in Noah’s Mercedes, Evelyn and her father in the front seat, Chase crammed in the back with the twins. How had Richard tolerated it all these years, he wondered, living in the same town with this bully of a father-in-law? But that was the price one paid for marrying Noah DeBolt’s only daughter: eternal criticism, eternal scrutiny.

Now that Richard was dead, Noah was back in control of his daughter’s life. He drove them to Les Hardee’s office. He escorted Evelyn through the front door. He led her by the arm right up to the reception desk.

“Mrs. Tremain to see Les,” said Noah. “We’re here to review the will.”

The receptionist gave them a strange look—something Chase could only read as panic—and pressed the intercom button. “Mr. Hardee,” she said. “They’re here.”

Instantly Les Hardee popped out of his office. His suit and tie marked him as a dapper man; his sweating brow did not match the image. “Mr. DeBolt, Mrs. Tremain,” he said, almost painfully. “I would have called you earlier, but I only just—That is to say, we…” He swallowed. “There seems to be a problem with the will.”

“Nothing that can’t be fixed,” said Noah.

“Actually…” Hardee opened the conference-room door.

“I think we should all sit down.”

There was another man in the room. Hardee introduced them to Vernon FitzHugh, an attorney from Bass Harbor. FitzHugh looked like a working-class version of Hardee, articulate enough, but rough around the edges, the sort of guy who probably had had to sling hash to pay his way through law school. They all sat at the conference table, Hardee and FitzHugh at opposite ends.

“So what’s this little problem with Richard’s will?” asked Noah. “And what do you have to do with all this, Mr. FitzHugh?”

FitzHugh cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I’m the bearer of bad news. Or, in this case, a new will.”

“What?” Noah turned to Hardee. “What’s this garbage, Les?
You
were Richard’s attorney.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Hardee morosely.

“Then where did this other will come from?”

Everyone looked at FitzHugh.

“A few weeks ago,” explained FitzHugh, “Mr. Tremain came to my office. He said he wanted to draw up a new will, superseding the will drawn up previously by Mr. Hardee. I advised him that Mr. Hardee was the one who should do it, but Mr. Tremain insisted I draw it up. So I honored his request. I would have brought it to your attention earlier, but I’ve been out of town for a few weeks. I didn’t hear of Mr. Tremain’s death until last night.”

“This is bizarre,” said Evelyn. “Why would Richard draw up a new will? How do we even know it was really him?”

“It was him,” confirmed Hardee. “I recognize his signature.”

There was a long silence.

“Well,” said Evelyn. “Let’s hear it, Les. What’s been changed.”

Hardee slipped on his glasses and began to read aloud. “I, Richard D. Tremain, being of sound mind and body—”

“Oh, skip the legal gobbledygook!” snapped Noah. “Get to the basics. What’s different about the new will?”

Hardee looked up. “Most of it is unchanged. The house, joint accounts, contents therein, all go to Mrs. Tremain. There are generous trust accounts for the children, and a few personal items left to his brother.”

“What about Rose Hill Cottage?” asked Noah.

Here Hardee shifted in his chair. “Perhaps I should just read it.” He flipped ahead six pages and cleared his throat.

“That parcel of land on the north shore comprising approximately forty acres, inclusive of the access road, as well as the structure known as Rose Hill Cottage, I bequeath to…” Here Hardee paused.

“What about Rose Hill?” pressed Evelyn.

Hardee took a deep breath. “I bequeath to my dear friend and companion, Miranda Wood.”

“Like hell,” said Noah.

On the street outside Hardee’s office, Noah and Evelyn sat side by side in the car. Neither one spoke. Neither was comfortable with the silence. The others had chosen to walk home, much to Noah’s relief. He needed this time alone with Evelyn.

Noah said softly, “Is there anything you want to tell me, Evelyn?”

“What do you mean, Daddy?”

“Anything at all. About Richard.”

She looked at her father. “Am I supposed to say something?”

“You can tell me, you know. We’re family, that’s what matters. And family stick together. Against the whole world, if they have to.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Noah looked into his daughter’s eyes. They were the same shade of green as his wife’s eyes had been. Here was the one link he had left to his darling Susannah. Here was the one person in the world he still cared about. She returned his gaze calmly, without even the tiniest flicker of uneasiness. Good. Good. She could hold her own against anyone. In that way, she truly was a DeBolt.

He said, “I’d do anything for you, Evelyn. Anything. All you have to do is ask.”

She looked straight ahead. “Then take me home, Daddy.”

He started the engine and turned the car toward Chestnut Street. She didn’t say a word during the entire drive. She was a proud girl, his daughter. Though she’d never ask for it, she needed his help. And she’d get it.

Whatever it takes,
he thought.
It’ll be done.

After all, Evelyn was his flesh and blood, and he couldn’t let flesh and blood go to prison.

Even if she was guilty.

Her garden had always been her sanctuary. Here Miranda had planted hollyhocks and delphiniums, baby’s breath and columbine. She hadn’t bothered with color schemes or landscape drawings. She’d simply sunk plants into the earth, scattered seeds and let the jungle of vines and flowers take over her backyard. They’d been neglected this past week, poor things. A few days of no watering had left the blooms bedraggled. But now she was home and her babies looked happier. Strangely enough,
she
was happy, as well. Her back was warmed by the sun, her hands were working the rich loam. This was all she needed. Fresh air and freedom.
How long will I have it?

She put that thought firmly aside and swung the pickax into the hardened earth. She’d turn a little more soil, expand the perennial bed another two feet. She leaned the pickax against the house and knelt to loosen up the clods, sift out the stones.

The sun was making her drowsy.

At last, unable to resist the promise of a nap, she stretched out on the lawn. There she lay, her hands and knees caked with soil, the grass cushioning her bare legs. A perfect summer day, just like the days she remembered from her childhood. She closed her eyes and thought about all those afternoons when her mother was still alive, when her father would stand at the barbecue, singing as he grilled hamburgers….

“What a sharp game you play,” said a voice.

Miranda sat up with a start and saw Chase standing at her white picket fence. He shoved open the gate and came into the yard. As he approached, it occurred to her how filthy she must look in her gardening shorts and T-shirt. Framed against the glare of sun and blue sky, Chase looked immaculate, untouchable. She squinted to see his expression, but all she could make out was a dark oval, the flutter of his windblown hair.

“You knew, didn’t you?” he said.

She rose to her feet and clapped the dirt from her hands. “Knew what?”

“How did you manage it, Miranda? A few sweet whispers? Write me into the will and I’ll be yours forever?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I just came from our family attorney. We found a nasty surprise waiting for us. Two weeks ago Richard made out a new will. He left Rose Hill Cottage to you.”

Her immediate reaction was stunned silence. In disbelief she stared at him.

“Nothing to say? No denials?”

“I never expected—”

“I think it’s exactly what you expected.”

“No!” She turned away, confused. “I never wanted a thing—”

“Oh, come on!” He reached for her arm and pulled her around to face him. “What was it, blackmail? A way to keep you quiet about the affair?”

“I don’t know anything about a will! Or the cottage! Besides, how could he leave it to me? Doesn’t it go to his wife? Evelyn owns half—”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Rose Hill came through my mother’s family. An inheritance that went directly to Richard, so Evelyn had no claim on it. It was Richard’s to pass on any way he chose. And he chose to give it to you.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know why.”

“That cottage was the one place on this island he really cared about. The one place we both cared about.”

“All right, then!” she cried. “
You
take it! It’s yours. I’ll sign a statement today, handing it over. I don’t want it. All I want is to be left
alone.
” She stared straight up at his coldly immobile face. “And to never, ever see another Tremain for as long as I live.”

She broke away and ran up the back porch steps, into the house. The screen door slammed shut behind her. She headed straight into the kitchen, where she suddenly halted. There was nowhere else to run. In agitation she went to the sink and turned on the faucet. There, surrounded by her beloved ferns, she scrubbed furiously at the dirt caked on her hands.

She was still scrubbing when the screen door opened, then softly swung shut again. For a long time he didn’t say a word. She knew he was standing behind her, watching her.

“Miranda,” he said.

Angrily she turned off the faucet. “Go away.”

“I want to hear your side of it.”

“Why? You wouldn’t believe me. You don’t
want
to believe me. But you know what? I don’t care anymore.” She grabbed a dish towel and blotted her hands. “I’ll go to the lawyer’s this afternoon. Sign a statement of refusal, or whatever it’s called. I would never accept it. Anything I received from him would be tainted. Just like I’m tainted.”

“You’re wrong, Miranda. I do want to believe you.”

She stood very still, afraid to turn, to look at him. She sensed his approach as he moved toward her across the kitchen. And still she couldn’t turn, couldn’t face him. She could only stare down at the clumps of wet garden dirt in the sink.

“But you can’t, can you?” she said.

“The facts argue against it.”

“And if I tell you the facts are misleading?” Slowly she turned and found he was right there, so close she could reach up and touch his face. “What then?”

“Then I’d be forced to trust my instincts. But in this particular case, my instincts are shot all to hell.”