Not Guilty

by Patricia MacDonald

  Betsy, normally so circumspect, had wailed in grief at his funeral. There was no way for a mother to come to terms easily with burying the child she’d carried under her heart, no matter how sorry his life had been.And now this,Keely thought. Mark, who was more of a son to Lucas than his own son had been, his heir apparent, the one whom he had chosen and groomed all these years, was gone. Lucas looked up to see her gazing in his direction and gave her a grim nod.

  Keely had to admit to herself that it was comforting to have people share in your grief. In the crowd, she saw Evelyn Connelly and others she recognized from their neighborhood. Squeezing hands, squinting in the sunlight, were Dan Warner, a widower who lived down the street from them, and his teenaged daughter Nicole. The breeze whipped Nicole’s blond hair across her face. Keely had spoken to Dan a couple of times, when he’d brought them a package and some mail, mistakenlydelivered to his house, because of the similarities of their last names and street addresses. Nicole was in two of Dylan’s classes at school. Still, Keely marveled that they would take the time to turn out for a family they hardly knew. People often surprised you with kindness when there was a tragedy in the family. Even Susan Ambler and Jake showed up. And Ingrid, recently recovered from back surgery, had insisted on coming. Keely could imagine how painful it was for Ingrid to be reminded of their last funeral together, when Richard had died.

  The funeral director handed Keely two white roses and helped her to her feet. Part of her wanted to refuse to go, withhold her flower from the grave, have a tantrum like a child. The adult part shuffled forward, lifeless as a mannequin, and, at the close of the benediction at a signal from the funeral director, she placed the flowers gently on the shining coffin. One for her, one for Abby. The sounds of muffled weeping behind her came to her ears on the bright autumn breeze. She gripped Dylan’s hand and allowed herself to be steered, through the maze of headstones, toward the open doors of the waiting limousine.

  When they reached the shining black Cadillac, Dylan scrambled into the backseat, but Keely stood beside the car, accepting the hushed condolences of people who would not be returning to the house. Automatically she brushed cheeks and thanked people for coming before they turned away.

  Lucas Weaver waited at the end of the queue. Keely noticed that he was leaning heavily on his silver-headed walking stick today, which was a sure sign of his exhaustion. Lucas was a diabetic who suffered from poor circulation in his legs, but he kept his condition a secret from most people and pretended the walking stick was merely an affectation. Part of his Wild West collection, it had once belonged to Bat Masterson. Usually, he could pull off his jaunty disguise. Today, it was too much for him. “Keely, I hope you’ll understand if we don’t come back to the house,” Lucas said. “I’ve got Betsy in the car already. I’m worried about her. Last night, she was so distraught. I really got scared. I know we should be there, but . . .” Lucas’s wife was a Mayflower descendant whose bloodlines blueprinted for her a life of wealth and ease, but shehad not sprung back after Prentice’s death. There were blows that no amount of privilege could surmount.

  “It’s all right, Lucas,” Keely said. “Everyone will understand. Betsy . . . both of you have been through so much this year. I know she isn’t well . . .” Keely grasped his cold hands in hers. “I want you to know how much I appreciate . . . everything.”

  She embraced him, her arms encircling his frail frame.

  “It still hasn’t sunk in. It’s too awful.” His voice was muffled against her shoulder.

  “Who would have believed it?” Keely murmured as they separated. Lucas stopped to talk to an old associate who had approached them. Keely was about to turn and enter the car when, out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of one last figure in black, lingering among the headstones. She wondered if it was someone too timid to approach her. She knew from experience how difficult it was for many people to express their sympathies. They wanted to speak, but they became tongue-tied in the face of grief. They would lower their eyes and turn away when there was much that they wanted to say. She turned and looked at the last mourner.

  Across several rows of monuments, under the shedding branches of an elm tree, she saw a cast-concrete statue of a disheveled, cherubic boy, wearing a T-shirt and untied sneakers, with angel’s wings on his shoulders. Beside the statue, a trim woman in a black business suit had rested a hand on the stone child’s wings. The woman’s hair was a fiery auburn with gold highlights glinting in the sun. Her even, perfectly made-up features were set in a stony expression. Dark glasses hid her eyes. But her gaze was not downcast. Just the opposite. Despite the dark glasses, Keely could tell the woman was staring at her.

  Keely shivered and touched Lucas on the arm. He was still beside her, accepting condolences. “Lucas,” she said in a low voice. “There is a woman over there who is staring at me. Do you know who she is?”

  Lucas turned to look and then he frowned and muttered, “That’s Maureen Chase.”

  “Oh,” said Keely. They had never met, but Keely was well aware of who she was. She was the district attorney of Profit County, and thewoman Mark had been engaged to marry when he met Keely. “I see,” she said.

  “I think that’s the grave where her twin brother was buried,” said Lucas. “Frankly, I’m a little surprised that she’s here. I had the impression that she never really forgave Mark for . . . you know . . .”

  Keely knew what Lucas meant—for breaking their engagement and marrying another woman. “Did she ever mention it to you?”

  “No. Never,” said Lucas quickly. “She’s not that sort of woman. She’s all business. That’s probably why she’s here. Just out of respect for their business relationship.”

  Keely nodded, but in her heart, she doubted that Maureen’s presence here was about business. After all, she had nearly married Mark. She must have had strong feelings for him that still lingered. Keely thought that perhaps she should walk over to Maureen Chase and offer her hand. After all, this was a woman who had loved Mark, and who, presumably, would understand, better than anyone, how painful it was to lose him. And he was lost to them both now. Gone for good. The grave had put an abrupt end to any rivalry that might have existed between them. But when she looked up at Maureen Chase again, her good intentions shriveled. Maureen’s gaze was masked by the sunglasses, but the set of her jaw was unmistakable.

  “I’d steer clear of her, if I were you,” Lucas advised.

  Keely ducked her head and slid into the cool, shadowy interior of the waiting car. “Well,” she said, grateful to be hidden from that implacable gaze, “that shouldn’t be hard to do.”

  5

  Two days later, the sun warm on her face as she sat in a comfortable, cushioned chair on the patio, Keely watched with grim satisfaction as the men from the pool maintenance company adjusted the canvas tarp that now covered the pool. Keely adjusted her cotton sweater around her shoulders with one hand and with the other, she cradled Abby, who was lying contentedly in her mother’s lap, holding her bottle.

  Plastic clattered on the leaf-strewn terra-cotta pavers as Abby dropped off to sleep, the empty bottle falling from her tiny fingers. Keely looked tenderly at her baby’s feathery eyelashes, which fluttered and then closed against her downy cheek. Keely kissed the baby’s silky hair as her head nestled against Keely’s chest.

  The older of the two men who were working on the pool cover came tiptoeing up to where Keely was sitting. He bent down and retrieved the bottle, standing it up on the end table near Keely’s chair, and then held out a clipboard with an invoice on it.

  “You’re all set,” he whispered. “If you can just sign this . . .”

  Keely nodded, and adjusted the sleeping baby so that she could sit up straighter. The man handed her the pen and held the clipboard steady while she signed the invoice. The man glanced at the signature and then said brusquely, “Sorry about . . . you know. We heard about your loss. The accident.”

  “Thank you,” said Keely.

 
; The man returned the pen to the pocket of his coveralls and stuffed the clipboard under his arm. “You’re set for the winter now,” he said. “Just give us a call in the spring, oh, about a month before you want us to remove the tarp, and we’ll schedule you.” He handed Keely a business card before he left.

  “Okay,” Keely said, looking at the card and nodding, but she knew she would never use it. She would leave the card on the bulletin board in the kitchen for the new owners. She had already made up her mind that she and the children would be long gone from this house by spring. As lovely as the house was, she would not miss it. They had had little chance to make any fond memories here. All she would ever remember of this house was what she had lost here.

  Keely closed her eyes and rested her head against the back of the chair. Abby lay warm and heavy in her arms, and the late afternoon rays of the autumn sun gently warmed her face.Thank God for you,Keely thought, noticing how the pain in her heart eased when she held her sleeping baby close.Thank God for my children.Their needs made it possible—necessary—for her to go on.

  She heard the sound of the front door slamming, then the familiar voice of her son calling for her. She knew she should rouse herself, carry Abby into her crib, and greet him, but a torpor paralyzed her limbs. She couldn’t shout to him—it would wake the baby. So she waited. She knew he would find her. Sure enough, after a few more shouts from inside the house, she heard him speaking from behind her.

  “There you are,” he said accusingly.

  She tried to swivel around in her chair to see him as he stood framed by the open door. Dylan came around to the side of her and looked down at his mother and sister. Despite the warmth of the Indian summer afternoon, Dylan wore the old leather jacket over his T-shirt. The expression on his face was aloof, as if he were regarding them from a great distance.

  “Hi, honey,” Keely said. “I couldn’t get up.”

  “Why don’t you put her in bed?” he asked, as if reminding his mother to behave rationally.

  Keely sighed and gazed down at the sleeping baby. “Because it feels good to hold her,” she said honestly. “I just didn’t feel like moving.”

  “I can relate,” he said, slumping down into a nearby chair, dumping his backpack onto the pavers.

  “How was school?” she asked quietly.

  “Sucked,” he said.

  “Dylan,” she reproved him, “watch your mouth.”

  “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  “Do you have a lot of homework?”

  “A ton of it. Mostly easy stuff, though,” he said.

  “That’s good,” she said. They sat in silence for a few moments. Then she said, “I had the pool covered today.”

  “I see,” he replied defensively.

  Change the subject,she thought. “Actually, I got a few chores done today. I called a Realtor about coming to look at the house. So we can put it up for sale.”

  “Good. I hate this place,” he said bitterly.

  Keely sighed.

  “I know you tried to make it nice,” he said hurriedly.

  “That’s all right, honey,” she said. “I kind of hate it myself.”

  Abby exhaled a noisy sigh and shifted in her mother’s arms.

  Dylan cackled, pointing to the baby. “She snores.”

  Keely smiled in spite of herself. “She does not. She’s just so comfortable.”

  The sound of the doorbell from inside the house startled them both. “Dylan, can you—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said, hoisting his backpack from where he had dropped it. Keely frowned at the sight of his closely shaved scalp and his earring, but she resisted making a comment. It was just a fashion, she told herself. It didn’t mean anything. Still, she knew it sometimes gave people a bad impression. Both her brothers had commented negatively on Dylan’s appearance when they were here.

  “I might go skating for a while,” he said.

  “You’d better start your homework,” she called after him softly.

  The warmth of the sun seemed to have faded, and it had begun to seem a little chilly on the patio. “Maybe I’d better get you inside,” she said to the sleeping baby.

  Gathering the baby and the bottle carefully up in her arms, Keely rose from the chair and walked through the French doors into the living room. It took her a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom inside the house. She could see Dylan was talking to someone at the other endof the room. It was a nice-looking, dark-haired man in a sports coat and tie. He looked respectable, but he was a stranger, all the same.

  “Dylan?” she said sharply.

  “Mrs. Weaver,” said the man, coming toward her. “I’m sorry to bother you. My name is Phil Stratton. I’m a detective with the county prosecutor’s office.”

  “How do you do?” said Keely. She turned to Dylan. “Can you put her down in the nursery, honey?”

  Dylan dropped his backpack and shuffled reluctantly to his mother, taking his sister from her arms as if Keely were handing him a sack of potatoes.

  “Carefully,” Keely chided, as Abby let out a little cry, and then nestled-against Dylan’s black Wrestlemania T-shirt.

  “I’m careful,” he said. He began to walk toward the door.

  “Thanks, Dylan,” she said. “Oh, wait a minute—here, give her this.” She picked up a stuffed bear from the ottoman and handed it to Dylan, who dutifully tucked the bear under his arm. “What would I do without you?”

  “Whatever,” he mumbled.

  “And then get started on your homework,” Keely insisted. “You can go out when you’re done. Detective, would you like to sit down?”

  “Actually,” said the detective, “I’m here to talk to both of you.”

  Keely and Dylan exchanged a surprised glance, but neither one protested. “All right, then, put her down and come right back,” Keely instructed her son.

  After Dylan left the room, Keely indicated a chair and the detective settled himself on the edge of the seat. He adjusted the crease of his trousers and smoothed down his tie. Keely sat down on the sofa opposite him. His presence in her living room made her feel tense.

  Phil Stratton glanced around the room appraisingly. “It’s a beautiful house you have here,” he said.

  “I’m selling it,” said Keely bluntly.

  He maintained a neutral expression in his hazel eyes. He was young, Keely thought, and good looking, but there were lines in his forehead and gray circles under his eyes, which gave him an air ofmaturity. “I don’t blame you. I might do the same if I were in your shoes.”

  Keely felt a little ashamed of the belligerent tone she had taken. “My husband and I had a lot of plans and dreams when we moved in here,” she explained.

  “I’m sure,” he said politely. “How are you getting along?”

  Keely shrugged. “Minute to minute,” she said. “It’s tough. Luckily, I have my children, so I don’t have a lot of time to sit and think.”

  The detective nodded. “Just as well,” he said.

  Keely felt a little prickle of anxiety travel up and down her arms. “Detective, I’m a little . . . surprised that you’re here. Is this in regard to my husband’s death?”

  Dylan returned to the living room. “She’s in her crib,” he said.

  “Thank you, honey,” said Keely. Dylan nodded, then stood awkwardly outside the grouping of furniture, his arms dangling at his sides.

  “Son, could you come and sit down here? I need to ask you a few things. If it’s all right with your mother,” he said, gazing at Keely.

  “What kind of things?” Keely asked warily.

  Detective Stratton removed a small leather notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket and opened it. Then he took out a pen. “I have just a few questions about what was happening on the night of . . . um . . . Mr. Weaver’s accident. We got the report that Sergeant Henderson filed on the . . . incident, and there were a few things we just want to clear up.”

  “Like what?” Keely asked curiously.

&nbs
p; “Just paperwork,” he said.

  Dylan grudgingly sat down on the sofa, as far from Keely as possible. “Mom, let’s just get this over with,” Dylan said wearily.

  “All right. You’re right,” she said. “Please forgive me, Detective. My nerves are not what they might be.”

  “I understand,” he said. “I’ll try to keep this brief.” Before Keely could reply, he said, “Now, Mrs. Weaver, you were out shopping when the accident occurred?”

  “I was buying my husband an anniversary present,” she said.

  “Terribly sad,” he said flatly. “And before that? You were out with your son?”

  “The mother of one of Dylan’s schoolmates called me, and . . . we went over there.”

  Phil Stratton nodded and made a mark in his book. “Mrs. Ambler.”

  “Right,” said Keely warily, faintly surprised that he knew the name.

  “Something about a bike your son tried to sell?”

  Keely sat up in the corner of the sofa and frowned. “How did you know that?”

  “Just routinely followed up on the information you gave Sergeant Henderson,” he said soothingly. “Now Dylan,” he said, “you came home alone. You rode your bike.”