Not Guilty

by Patricia MacDonald

  “It sounds lovely,” said Keely, “but I don’t have it. To be honest with you, I haven’t turned the house over searching for it. I thought I would check with you first . . .”

  “Well, I don’t recall any engraving, but let me look . . .” The jeweler took out a large black leatherbound book beneath the counter and searched through the pages, which were handwritten in an elegant script. “There it is,” he said. “He took it with him about two weeks ago. I remember now. He told me it was going to be an anniversary gift for you.”

  Keely blinked back tears. “That’s what I figured,” she said softly. “He died before our anniversary.”

  “Oh, that’s tragic,” Mr. Collier said sadly. “He probably hid it somewhere so that he could surprise you. Do you know where he hid such things? Wives always seem to know. Mine does. I can never fool her about anything.”

  Keely frowned. “No. I don’t. Not really.”

  “Maybe at his office,” the jeweler suggested. “Or in a safe-deposit box?”

  “He didn’t have one. But maybe the office. That’s a good idea. I’ll have to try that,” said Keely.

  “I’m sure it will turn up,” he said. “Of course, if you don’t like the bracelet he chose, you can exchange it for another. Or if you want to return it, if you don’t want to pay for it . . . we would certainly understand . . .”

  “No,” she said firmly. “It was going to be his last gift to me. I know that once I find it, I’ll treasure it.” She smiled at the jeweler. “Thank you. You’ve been very nice about this.”

  The man nodded amiably and waved good-bye to Abby as Keely turned the stroller around and left the store, deep in thought. She would have to start looking in earnest for the bracelet. It wasn’t as if she’d scoured the house looking for it. It hadn’t seemed that important with all her other problems.I’ll have to do some searching,she thought.

  Keely looked up and saw that they were almost even with Lucas’s law offices—Mark’s former workplace.I should probably go in and search his office right now.She hesitated, realizing that she couldn’t face it today.Let me look at home first,she thought. She waited for a break in the desultory traffic, then pushed Abby across the street. On the opposite corner was a blue metal dispenser box, almost the size of a mailbox, but with a glass front that displayed the latest issue of theSt. Vincent’s Harbor Gazette. I suppose I should get one,Keely thought, as she approached it, and then, as she deciphered the headline, she felt her heart do a flip-flop and the blood rush to her face.

  LOCAL TEEN LINK IN TWO FATAL ACCIDENTS,the headline screamed in bold print, and below it,D.A.’S OFFICE PRESSES FOR A WIDENED INVESTIGATION.Accompanying the story, which was written by Tom Mercer, were two photos. One was of Mark—the picture that appeared in the law firm’s brochure. The other was of teenaged Richard and Mark in the convertible. The last time Keely had seen that photo was in Ingrid’s living room.

  Keely fumbled for two quarters and put them into the slot, extracting a newspaper when the dispenser opened. She sagged against the dispenser, holding the paper with trembling hands, reading the story, which, because of Dylan’s age, carefully did not mention Dylan’s name but referred to him as the fourteen-year-old stepson of Mark Weaver, a prominent local attorney whose drowning death was now being treated as suspicious by the D.A.’s office.

  Maureen Chase was quoted extensively in the article, saying that in light of the boy’s role in the death of his father, her office was reevaluating information about Mark Weaver’s death. Keely’s dream of the night before came rushing back at her, making her feel as if she was going to throw up.

  She crushed the paper in her hands, furious with Maureen Chase, awoman she didn’t even know.How dare she?Keely thought.Pillorying an innocent kid in the newspaper with her ugly innuendoes. My boy,Keely thought.My baby.Tears sprang to her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. That was just what Maureen Chase wanted to do—to use her power to hurt and humiliate them. “That does it,” Keely said aloud. “She is not going to get away with this.”

  Abby, reacting to the anger and tension in her mother’s voice, began to whimper.

  Keely looked down at the baby in the stroller. She wanted to march over to Maureen Chase’s office this minute, barge past her secretary, and tell her exactly what she thought of her. But Abby, her face covered with cookie crumbs, was staring up at her, and Keely knew she would be at a disadvantage confronting the district attorney while she had a baby in tow. What was she going to do? Ask Maureen Chase’s secretary to watch Abby while Keely went in and shouted at her boss? She felt hamstrung and frustrated. She jerked the stroller around and started back toward the car. “Come on, baby,” she muttered. “We have to go home.”Not to Ingrid,she thought.I don’t even want to speak to her. Chattering on about Richard to a man who was plotting to publicly destroy Dylan—I hope she’s satisfied,Keely thought. She hardly noticed where she was going, she was so busy fuming. But Abby put a hand out, as if to trying to hold on to the air breezing past her, the beautiful golden day now suddenly grown cold.

  12

  All the way home, Keely alternated between anger at her former mother-in-law and outrage at the audacity of Maureen Chase. She was going to confront Maureen Chase. She was certain of that. She only had to find someone to look after Abby and then she would march into that office and let Maureen have it. Mentally, she rehearsed what she was going to say, wanting to make sure that her feelings about this were crystal clear.

  As she turned into the driveway, still muttering to herself, she saw Ingrid’s white Toyota parked underneath the basketball net. Ingrid, who was sitting in the front seat of her car, struggled out at the sight of the SUV turning into the driveway.

  One look at the old woman, and Keely’s anger, toward Ingrid, at least, began to seep away. Ingrid was dressed, as usual, in a two-piece pants ensemble of her own creation, the top a cheerful flower print, the elastic-waist pants a coordinated fabric broke over a pair of dark brown shoes with thick soles. She was working the handle of her brown pocketbook like a set of worry beads, and her face was contorted into an expression of utter misery.

  Keely got out of the car and opened the back door, leaning in to unbuckle the baby and lift her out. Ingrid marched purposefully up to the Bronco and then glanced in and saw the newspaper on the passenger’s seat in the front. Her rounded shoulders sank.

  “Ingrid,” Keely said coolly.

  “I see you have the paper,” Ingrid said.

  Keely nodded, holding Abby close. Abby’s eyes lit up at the sight of a friend.

  Ingrid shook her head. “Keely, I’m sorry. I was a fool. I had no idea.”Her chin trembled. “If I had known they were going to do this toDylan . . .”

  Keely’s felt like shouting that Ingrid should have thought of the possibility before she spoke to that reporter, but she forced herself not to say it. “I know you wouldn’t hurt him intentionally,” Keely said.

  Ingrid looked up. There were tears in her pale blue eyes. “Not for the world. I tried to call you as soon as I found out. I would never have talked to that man if I thought—”

  “It’s all right,” said Keely. “I know.”

  “He just plain deceived me,” said Ingrid, stamping one of her

  Wallabe-clad feet on the driveway. Then she shook her head. “How will I ever explain it to Dylan?” she cried.

  “He’ll understand,” said Keely. “He knows how much you love him.”

  “But all the same, I did it. Oh, I feel sick.” She fumbled in her pocketbook for a handkerchief, which she wadded up in front of her mouth.

  “Take it easy now,” said Keely. “Dylan wouldn’t want you getting yourself sick over it. Are you okay?”

  Ingrid gulped in some air and nodded, but she winced, and there were little beads of sweat at her thinning hairline. “It’s nothing,” she said.

  “You’d better come in and sit down,” said Keely.

  The faint sound of ringing came from the back seat of the car.
/>   “What’s that?” Ingrid asked, looking around.

  “My cell phone,” said Keely. “It’s in Abby’s diaper bag. Could you get it for me, Ingrid? I’ve got my hands full.”

  “Well, I’m not sure . . .” Ingrid reached into the bag in the backseat and fumbled through it.

  “It’s red,” said Keely.

  Ingrid pulled out the cell phone. “Got it,” she said, holding it at arm’s length as if it were alive.

  “Press the bar button,” said Keely.

  Ingrid squinted at the panel of buttons and then carefully pressed the central one and held the phone awkwardly to her ear. “Hello?” she said. “What?”

  Keely frowned, wondering who would use her cell phone number.Ingrid held out the phone to her, eyes wide and anxious. “It’s the school,” she said,

  Keely snatched the phone from her hand, and answered it, her heart pounding.

  IT WAS DIFFICULTto concentrate on driving. Dr. Donahue, the principal at Dylan’s school, had tersely informed her that Dylan had been involved in a fight in the cafeteria and that Keely had to come to the school immediately. She’d left Abby with Ingrid. All the way to the school, Keely kept thinking,Where do you draw the line? When do you offer understanding and when do you punish?She had taught in a junior high school—it had all seemed so clear to her then. But that was before her life had veered out of control. Before the D.A. and the police and the newspapers started suggesting that Dylan was somehow to blame for all their misfortunes. She was embarrassed to have her child causing trouble at school. But in another way, she thought, wasn’t it understandable? She didn’t want to be too easy on him, but she also didn’t want to scold him. She wanted to shield him from all this cruelty. He felt so guilty already. Why did everyone have to make it worse?

  She jammed her brakes on as she got near the entrance to the school parking lot. She had driven over so fast that she had almost ignored the blinking speed limit signs in front of the school. Slowly and deliberately, she angled the SUV into a space, then jumped out and hurried up the sidewalk and the steps to the building. She rang the buzzer and was admitted.

  The glass-fronted office was just inside the vestibule, opposite the auditorium. She pulled open the inner door and walked in. Dr. Donahue was standing in front of the office, her back to Keely, her arms folded over her tweed jacket. She was listening to one of the custodians, who was speaking in a loud voice that Keely could clearly hear.

  “The Bennett kid claimed the other kid started it, but I’ll tell you what—that one’s got a bad attitude. I told him that. I said, ‘You’d better work on your attitude, son.’ And he says, in a real snotty tone, ‘I’m notyour son.’ I was thinking, ‘Lucky for me.’ I read that article in the paper today. I wouldn’t want him for a son. I like living.”

  Keely reddened and clenched her fists.

  “All right, Mr. Curtis,” said the principal. “Thank you.”

  “Dr. Donahue,” Keely said.

  The principal turned and looked at Keely. Her gaze was businesslike behind her horn-rimmed glasses.

  “I’m Keely Weaver. I’m Dylan Bennett’s mother.”

  “Mrs. Weaver, thank you for coming.”

  “What happened, Dr. Donahue?”

  “Well, as I told you on the phone, there was a . . . little fracas in the cafeteria. We’ve got one kid over at the hospital getting stitches over his eye.”

  “Is Dylan all right?” Keely asked.

  “Yes, Dylan is fine. He’s the one who cut the other boy. Hit him in the head with his food tray, from what I understand.”

  “Oh God,” said Keely. “Dylan did that?”

  “This is a serious infraction,” said Dr. Donahue. “This could have been a police matter. Luckily the other boy’s parents didn’t want to pursue it. But I have to tell you, Mrs. Weaver, your son has a problem controlling his temper.”

  Keely felt the words as a criticism of her, of the way she had raisedDylan. She could feel her cheeks flaming. “I’m so sorry.” She felt the need to try to explain. “He’s had to deal with a lot of . . . stress, changes,” she said, although what she wanted to say wasdeath and tragedy.But it seemed melodramatic, even though it was true.

  “I know about Dylan’s situation. Very unfortunate,” said the principal crisply. “But we can’t have this going on in school. We have to maintain order.”

  “I understand,” said Keely humbly.

  “I’ve suspended Dylan for three days.”

  “He’s suspended?” Keely asked weakly.

  “He was unrepentant,” said the principal. “He refused to apologize.”

  Keely shook her head. “I don’t know what to say. Lately, I’ve had trouble getting through to him . . .”

  “Well, I think he’s under a lot of strain,” Dr. Donahue conceded. “That article in the paper was . . . inflammatory. And kids can be very cruel. One girl who saw the fight said that the other boys were taunting Dylan.”

  “I knew it,” Keely muttered.

  “Mrs. Weaver, I think it’s important that you get Dylan some professional help. Someone he can talk over his issues with.”

  “I’ve been thinking of doing that.”

  “It’s time to do more than think about it. We in school administration-have had to attend a lot of emergency seminars to acquaint ourselves with the characteristics of students likely to resort to violence. And I’m sorry to say that your son fits the profile.”

  “That’s not fair,” Keely protested. “Is this about that article in the paper? Because if it is—”

  “Mrs. Weaver, this has nothing to do with any newspaper stories, other than the ones about the tragedies occurring in schools across this country. We’ve seen this scenario repeated again and again. A lonely kid who is being bullied by some of the other students, who has a problem with anger . . . I hope Dylan does not have access to a gun.”

  “No!” Keely cried. “I can’t believe what you’re suggesting.”

  Dr. Donahue’s eyes flashed. “Don’t be naive, Mrs. Weaver. Just last month at the high school, one student threatened the school nurse with a knife. There was a bomb scare at the special services school, called in by a student. This stuff is happening right here, in sleepy little Profit County.

  “I am responsible for the safety of all the students in this school. All of them. That is a burden that keeps me awake nights. I cannot afford to take a chance. When I see a problem brewing, I have to assume the worst. Your son hit another student over the head. I’m not going to wait for him to show up here with a gun.”

  Keely stared straight ahead, trembling from head to toe.

  “Mrs. Weaver,” said the principal more gently. “I’m not saying that I expect Dylan to do such a thing. I’m just trying to make sure that it never comes to that. That’s why I’m recommending counseling. I would rather err on the side of caution.”

  Keely nodded. “I understand.” She felt numb.

  “We’ve referred a number of parents to Dr. Evan Stover at theBlenheim Institute. He deals almost exclusively with adolescents. He’s very capable. Here’s his card.”

  “Thank you. I’ll call him,” Keely promised. “Where is Dylan now?”

  “He went to the rest room.” Dr. Donahue glanced at her watch and frowned. She opened the door to the office and called in to her secretary. “Wendy, did Dylan Bennett come back yet?”

  The secretary shook her head. “I didn’t see him.”

  The principal pursed her lips.

  “What’s the matter?” Keely asked.

  “Nothing,” said Dr. Donahue. She spotted the boys’ gym teacher, complete with clipboard and whistle, coming down the hall on squeaky, very white sneakers. “Mr. Taylor,” she called out, “can you help me?”

  The coach jogged up to them. “What can I do you for?”

  “Check in the rest room for Dylan Bennett. He’s been in there . . . for a while.”

  The coach obediently walked around the corner and pushed open the door to the re
st room.

  “Was this fight about the article in the paper?” Keely asked after an awkward moment of silence.

  Dr. Donahue did not pretend she didn’t know what Keely was talking about. “I think so,” she said, “although there’s been some ongoing harassment.”

  “Dylan never said anything,” Keely cried.

  “He probably figures you have enough to worry about,” said the principal.

  “I worry about him, mainly,” Keely admitted.

  “It’s a difficult age.”

  “Believe me, I know,” said Keely. “I taught in a junior high.”

  “So youdounderstand,” said Dr. Donahue.

  “But Dylan is not a threat to anyone,” Keely insisted. “I would know it if he were.”

  “That’s what every parent says, Mrs. Weaver,” the principal said wearily.

  The gym teacher came back. “He’s not in there.”

  “He’s not?” asked the principal.

  “Where is he?” Keely demanded.

  The coach grimaced. “He told a kid in there that he was leaving.”

  “What do you mean, leaving?” Keely asked.

  “Leaving the school,” said the coach, acknowledging, by the solemn look on his face, the seriousness of the infraction.

  Keely looked in alarm at the principal. Dr. Donahue’s expression was grim. “He was told to come back immediately from the rest room. There was nothing ambiguous about my instructions.”

  “Why would he leave?” Keely cried.

  Dr. Donahue gazed at her with arched eyebrows. “Defiance, I imagine. Showing us his temper. I can’t tolerate this kind of behavior. He cannot just wander out of this school. We are responsible for him while he is here. You have to make him understand that, Mrs. Weaver. You are ultimately responsible—”

  Keely heard the criticism, understood the principal’s concerns, but she could think of only one thing. “I’ve got to find him,” she said.