Keely looked at Ingrid in surprise. “Dan Warner?” she said. “That’s Nicole’s father’s name.”
“Danny Warner,” Ingrid said. “Oh, sure. He and Richard were great pals. How do you like that? Now his daughter is baby-sitting for my granddaughter.”
Dylan jiggled his foot anxiously. “We have to get going, Grandma.”
“I wish you could stay a little longer,” Ingrid said.
“I’ll be back soon,” he assured her. “Right, Mom? Mom.”
Keely’s gaze was distant, and her narrowed eyes seemed to be studying something.
“What’s the matter?” Ingrid asked.
Keely shook her head. “Nothing,” she said. “You’d better get inside. You’re going to catch a cold.”
KEELY PUTABBYin the playpen and sat down on the living-room sofa. Dylan took a seat on the ottoman. He was still wearing his leatherjacket, and he was shivering, though it wasn’t cold in the house. He fished in the inside pocket of the jacket, then pulled out a sheet of paper that was folded into threes. He handed it over to his mother. Keely’s hand shook as she took it.
“All right,” she said. “Let’s see.”
Dylan hugged himself and rocked back and forth slightly on the ottoman, as Keely unfolded the paper. Keely read what Richard had written.
Darlings,
I know this will hurt you, and I’m sorry. You are not to blame for this in any way. The thought of your love makes me hesitate. Many times I’ve wanted to end this torture that is my life, and only the thought of your love has stopped me. But I don’t deserve your love. I am a coward, and I can’t face the consequences of my own actions. And I can’t live with the guilt.
Many years ago, before I met you, Keely, I had a friend named Mark Weaver. He and I—there’s no easy way to say this—we killed someone. We didn’t mean to. But there’s no use in making excuses now. We were never caught, never even suspected. But I have lived with the guilt all these years, and I can’t live with it anymore. I have suffered for my crime—the migraines have ruled my life. I thought I could make up for everything by enduring the pain, leading a good life, loving my family, but nothing works.
I thought of turning myself in many times—but I’m too much a coward. If I had only done it then, when it happened. But I didn’t. And now, nothing will ever work except to pay the price and end it. Please forgive me and know that I loved you both with all my heart.
Richard
“My God,” whispered Keely, as she held the note limply in her lap. She picked it up and read it again. She read it a third time, as if she were committing it to memory.
Tears were running down Keely’s face. She looked up at Dylan, who pressed his folded hands against his lips. In his eyes was a desolate stare.
“My God. Why didn’t he ever tell me?” she cried. “Why?”
Dylan shook his head. “Which one?” said Dylan, an edge of despair in his voice. “Daddy or Mark?”
“Daddy,” said Keely. And then she thought of Mark. “And why did Mark marry me, knowing this? Why me, of all people? You would think he would avoid anyone who’d had anything to do with Richard. He sought me out. He made a point of coming out to Michigan to see us after your father died.”
“He probably thought you knew,” said Dylan. “Maybe he was worried you’d tell once Dad was dead.”
Keely considered the obvious truth of her son’s remark and felt a cold chill down her spine.
They sat in silence for a moment. “But you didn’t know, and he married you anyway,” Dylan pointed out. “I think he did kinda love you.”
Keely bit her lip. “I don’t know anything anymore.” She read the letter again. “Youwerea coward,” she said fiercely, shaking the letter. “I hate you. All you had to do was tell me. You could have trusted me. Goddamn you!” she cried. And then she began to cry.
Abby looked up from her jingling toys, startled at the sound of her mother weeping. The baby’s lower lip began to tremble, and Abby hoisted herself to her feet, clinging to the rim of the playpen, a worried expression on her round little face. As Keely sobbed, Abby began to wail. Automatically, Keely went to her and lifted her up into her arms. She sat back down on the sofa, the baby in her lap.
After a few moments, Keely felt Dylan sink down into the sofa cushion beside her, and his arm rested awkwardly around her shoulders. The three of them huddled together on the couch. Keely wiped her eyes and saw that Richard’s jacket was lying in a heap beside the ottoman.
“I’m sorry,” she said miserably.
Dylan shook his head. “That’s all right. That’s how I felt when I read it. Right now, I hate him, too.”
Keely crushed the computer printout into a wad in her hand. Dylan tugged it away from her and flattened it out again.
Keely shook her head. “Now what do I do?” she whispered to herself.
Dylan stared at the wrinkled piece of paper he was holding. “Now you have to tell,” he said.
Keely stared at him, wiping the tears from her eyes. She sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve.
“Well, it could be a coincidence that both of them are dead,” he said. “But I doubt it. And if Mark’s death wasn’t an accident . . .”
“He could have been pushed,” she said.
Dylan shivered. “Mom, you’d better call the cops.”
34
Could you have a seat? It’s going to be a while,” said Josie, looking over the top of her computer monitor at Keely as if she had never set eyes on her before.
Keely nodded and took a seat. She sat up straight, her feet flat on the floor, her black tote bag resting on her knees. Inside the bag, the wrinkled printout of Richard’s suicide note was folded into a long white envelope withDISTRICT ATTORNEY MAUREEN CHASEwritten on the outside. Keely felt as if she were carrying something volatile, like nitroglycerin, in her purse.
Forced to wait, Keely could not help but wonder if she had made the right decision to come here. In principle, Keely had agreed with Dylan. It was important to bring this information to the authorities. The note from Richard identified Mark as a murderer. The more Keely thought about it, the more she began to believe that someone, somehow, had found out about that long-ago crime, and Mark had been deliberately pushed into the swimming pool because of it. By naming Mark, Richard had implicitly expected Keely to deliver his name to the police. He had expected Mark to finally receive his punishment. In his last desperate moments, when he’d typed those words into the computer, Richard would have had no way of knowing that Keely wouldn’t see his note for years. In his wildest imaginings, he would never have dreamed that the man he had implicated would get off scott-free and end up marrying his widow.
So, it was time, past time, really, to report this confession to someone in a position of authority. The question was, who? Keely’s first impulse had been to call Lucas for advice. But according toSylvia, he was out of town on business and would not be back until evening. Next, she tried Phil Stratton, but he was testifying in court and could not be reached. She tried several times, telling herself to be patient, but in the end, she could not be patient with her news. She decided to go to the top of the heap. Despite the abuse they had suffered at the hands of Maureen Chase, or perhaps, because of it, it seemed to Keely that Maureen would be the person most vitally interested in this information. The D.A. was preoccupied with Mark’s death. This confession of Richard’s cast a whole new light on Mark’s death. In a way, Keely thought, it was like tossing a bone to a ferocious dog. She wanted to give Maureen something else to chew on. Something besides Dylan.
“You can go in now,” said Josie.
Keely jumped at the sound of the secretary’s voice, so distracted had she been by the possible consequences of this visit. She thanked Josie, got up and walked over to the closed door to Maureen’s office. She gave it a few taps before she opened it, then walked in.
Maureen was standing at the window, staring out over the rooftops of St. Vincent’s Harbor and at the marina.
Whitecaps and sails made undulating white gouges in the deep blue of the sea and sky. Maureen’s arms were folded over her chest. Her sharp features were stony in the light from the window.
“Ms. Chase,” said Keely. She did not sit down.
Maureen turned and stared at her. “Mrs. Weaver,” she said in a flat tone. “We meet again.”
Keely took a deep breath. “I know you’re busy. I won’t take up too much of your time.”
Maureen gazed at her impassively. “Tick tock,” she said.
Keely knew she wouldn’t be welcome here, but she hadn’t anticipated outright rudeness. She forced herself not to respond in kind. “I have begun to agree with you that perhaps Mark’s death was not an accident after all.”
Maureen raised her eyebrows in surprise, but her gaze was wary.
“May I sit down?” Keely asked.
Maureen gestured to the chair but remained standing.
“There was someone at my house the night Mark died. Someone was there and left the pool gate open.”
Maureen kept her arms folded protectively over her chest. “Really,” she said. “Of course it couldn’t have been your son.”
Keely ignored the sarcastic tone. “There was someone else.” Keely thought of Wade Rovere. She didn’t want to go into it with this woman.“I have a witness,” she said.
Maureen laughed. “Oh, you do, do you? How fortunate for you. Tell me, what’s the going price these days for a ‘witness’ who will say whatever you want them to say? I’ve heard different numbers.”
Wade’s face came to Keely’s mind, his hooded eyes flickering as he demanded five thousand dollars.You never paid him a penny,she reminded herself. “Look,” said Keely evenly, “I realize you don’t like me. And you have reason to resent me. But we both want the same thing here, ultimately. We want to know what happened on the night Mark died. I’m telling you that a person approached me and said that they had seen someone at my house that night.”
“Who?” Maureen demanded. “Who is this witness? Who did they see?”
Keely sighed. “Unfortunately, this person seems to have . . . vanished.”
“Vanished?” Maureen asked incredulously. “They vanished?”
Keely felt such a hatred for the prosecutor that she wanted to pick up the nearest heavy object and throw it at her. But then, a thought suddenly materialized in her mind that eased her fury.She has no one to live for,she thought.She has no one to fight for, but you do.Avoiding Maureen’s gaze, Keely continued stolidly. “All I know is, this person has not reported to work or been back to his apartment since I spoke to him. Which strikes me as strange. There’s something else as well. I was run off the road the other night. I don’t know why, or who it was. It was dark and it was raining . . .”
“Get to the point,” said Maureen impatiently.
“I am trying to get to the point, Ms. Chase. I believe this was deliberate.”
“What?” Maureen snapped.
“Everything. Mark’s death, the disappearance of a witness, the sideswiping that ran me off the road. It’s too many things—”
“Did you report it to the police?” Maureen asked.
Keely shook her head. “I don’t have a lot of faith in the police right now.”
“Well, I don’t know how you can expect to be taken seriously when you don’t even report an alleged attempt on your life.”
Keely ignored the criticism and stuck to the speech she had rehearsed. “None of it seemed to be related or to make a lot of sense to me until I got ahold of this,” she said stubbornly. “I think this may be the key to everything.” She reached into her pocketbook and pulled out the envelope. “I don’t know whether you are aware of it, but Mark and my first husband, Richard Bennett, were close friends when they were young. I think if you read this letter, you may understand what I’m trying to say.”
Maureen sighed and snatched the letter from Keely’s extended hand. She tore open the envelope raggedly and scanned the contents. As Keely watched, the color drained from Maureen’s face. Groping behind her, she sat down heavily in her swivel chair.
“It’s the suicide note written by my first husband,” Keely explained.
Looking at the window, but with her eyes unfocused, Maureen suddenly seemed to be miles away, as if she were staring into the past.
“Ms. Chase?” Keely said. She was surprised and a little bit baffled by the shock on Maureen’s face.
Maureen did not reply.
Seizing the other woman’s silence as an opportunity, Keely continued. “I can’t help but think that this might explain—”
“It’s impossible,” Maureen whispered. “It couldn’t be . . .”
“If it was deliberate . . .” Keely persisted.
“You’re talking about something that happened years ago,” Maureen murmured vaguely, as if she were thinking out loud. “Why would someone wait all those years . . . ?”
“Do you see what I mean?” said Keely eagerly, leaning forward.
Suddenly, Maureen hunched her shoulders and resumed her defensive posture. Her chilly gaze returned to Keely’s face. “You’re telling me this is a suicide note. Pardon me if I find the timing of this to be a little bit . . . suspicious. Did you forget you had it?”
Keely ignored the sarcasm. “I never saw it before. I never saw it at all until this morning,” Keely said.
“Oh really? And your husband died . . . what, five years ago and about a thousand miles from here? That’s very interesting. How did that happen, may I ask?”
It was difficult to continue, difficult to explain in the face of Maureen’s incredulity. Keely knew she could not allow herself the luxury of anger with this woman. She had to make her understand.
“As you well know, my son Dylan found his father’s body. But he admitted to me, just after he got out of the hospital—the Blenheim Institute—that he found a suicide note as well. It was on the computer screen. He deleted it and never told me about it. He wanted to protect me.”
“Protect you? A nine-year-old boy?” said Maureen.
“Yes,” said Keely firmly. “My son has always had a good heart. He didn’t want me to know this terrible thing about his father. He thought he had deleted it, but he’d only closed the file on Richard’s computer. Then, after it was done, I guess he was afraid to admit it to me. Once Dylan finally told me what he had done, he figured out a way he could retrieve it from Richard’s old computer. This is the note.”
“Dylan,” said Maureen. “I might have known.”
“What does that mean?” Keely asked.
“He’s more cunning than I gave him credit for,” said Maureen. “I almost admire him for that.”
“What are you saying?” Keely asked.
“I’m saying did he retrieve it or did he create it last night?” Maureen asked.
“Create it?” Keely cried.
“Did you ever think that maybe he just made this whole story up?”
“It was on Richard’s computer the whole time,” Keely protested.
“Or he put it there,” said Maureen. “Look, Mrs. Weaver, this is a computer printout. Anybody could have written it. There’s no handwriting here. Nothing to identify it as being written by your husband’s hand. You just can’t seem to get it through your head that this child is a liar. That he’ll say or do anything to keep himself out of trouble.”
Keely’s eyes blazed. “What is it about my son that bothers you so, Ms. Chase? Why are you hell-bent on blaming him?”
“Well, I find it easier to believe that Dylan’s a liar than to believe that Mark Weaver was a murderer. I mean, you’d rather believe thatbothof the men you married were murderers than that your precious son might be inventing a story to protect himself. Talk about deluded!”
“Dylan didn’t make this up. He wouldn’t.”
“He hated Mark Weaver,” said Maureen.
“He loved his father,” Keely shot back. “He adored Richard. When he found that note, he couldn’t bear to believe
what Richard had admitted about himself. Dylan thought he could make it go away by erasing it, but it was in his heart and it was eating at him.”
“Very dramatic. But I’m not interested in sob stories, Mrs. Weaver. I have work to do,” Maureen said shortly. “Send it toReader’s Digest.Maybe they’ll pay you for it. Meanwhile, you have wasted enough of my time for one day.”
Keely could feel her head starting to pound from the frustration, the futility of her effort. “You have a very small mind, Ms. Chase. You say you care about the truth, but the only truth you want to know is the one you choose to believe. I think I’ll take this note to somebody who isn’t so biased.”
Maureen picked up the crinkled page and held it out to Keely with the tips of her fingers. An expression of distaste contorted her features.
“Keep it,” said Keely. “We have copies.” With all the dignity she could muster, Keely shouldered her bag and stalked out of the office, slamming the door behind her.
Maureen let go of the page, and it drifted to her desktop. She put her elbows on the desk, steepled her palms, and rested her foreheadagainst them. She stayed that way for some time, then opened her eyes and picked up the letter again. She reread it several times, as if hoping the words on the page might have changed. Then, she buzzed for Josie. While she waited for her secretary to respond, she stared at the faces of the two red-headed children in the picture frame.
Josie opened the door. “Can I help?” she asked.
Maureen nodded. “Come in. Sit down. There is something very important that I need you to do.”
35
Keely dreaded facing Dylan. She had been so hopeful that the meeting with Maureen Chase would prove useful, hopeful that the other woman could get beyond her petty need for vengeance and help her to find the truth. All the way home, she tried to think of how she would describe the meeting to him, so that it wouldn’t sound like a total loss. As it turned out, she didn’t need to explain the moment she came in, because Dylan had left a note saying that he had taken Abby and gone to the Warners’.
Not Guilty Page 28
