Lucas raised his eyebrows and stared out over the steering wheel.“I’m sure I don’t know what they talked about.”
“It’s all right, Lucas. I talked to Betsy. She told me what you two were thinking.”
Lucas was silent for a moment. “What did Betsy tell you?”
“She told me what you suspected. But it wasn’t that,” said Keely.“Detective Stratton told me that Maureen was stalking Mark.”
Lucas remained silent.
“Thanks for trying to protect me, though,” said Keely.
Lucas frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do. You thought he was cheating on me, and you kept quiet about it, hoping I wouldn’t get hurt.”
Lucas shrugged. “I guess I was making something of it that wasn’t there. I honestly didn’t know, Keely. He didn’t confide in me about it, and that’s the truth.”
“Oh, he was good at keeping things to himself,” said Keely.
They arrived at Keely’s driveway and pulled in. Lucas parked the car, and sat behind the wheel staring out the windshield at the large stone façade of the house. “Why do you say that?” He turned and looked at Keely.
Keely hesitated. She thought of telling him about Richard’s note, about Mark being implicated, but it would only hurt him and make him wonder about his son. And Maureen’s suicide put things in a whole different light. Maybe Mark’s death wasn’t about the distant past, but about his murky present. In any event, Maureen was gone now, and no one would ever need to know.
“Nothing. Never mind,” she said. Headlights blinded her as a vehicle pulled into the driveway behind them and parked. Keely turned around to look as the lights were switched off, and she recognized her own SUV. A car, a police car, pulled in behind it and sat idling. The driver of Keely’s Bronco, a young cop in uniform she recognized from Maureen’s house, got out.
Keely clambered out of Lucas’s front seat and walked toward the policeman. The night air was getting colder, and she shivered. The young cop held out the keys and put them in her icy fingers. “Thank you,” said Keely.
“No problem,” said the young cop, touching his hat. He walked back to the patrol car and slid into the passenger side.
Turning her keys over and over in her hand, Keely walked back to the window of Lucas’s car and leaned down.
“Do you want to come in?” she asked.
“If you’d like,” he said. His voice sounded drained and tired.
“No. You go on home,” Keely said.
“Are you sure?” Lucas asked.
Keely nodded. She stepped away from the car as Lucas turned on the ignition.
“Can you get around my car?” she asked.
Lucas nodded. “No problem.”
She hesitated, fiddling with the keys in her hand. Lucas waited, watching her. She frowned, then said, “Lucas, if somebody was stalking you, a woman, would you tell Betsy or would you keep it to yourself?”
“If a woman was stalking me, I’d probably be so flattered I’d tell the newspaper,” said Lucas with a gleam in his eye.
Keely smiled and shook her head.
“I know what you’re asking, dear. I just don’t know the answer. Don’t torture yourself,” said Lucas. “It’s all over now.”
She looked at him seriously. “You know what I think?” she said. “I think Maureen was here the night he died. I think maybe she pushed him into the pool. I mean, we know she was . . . unbalanced. I think she just snapped.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Lucas said, “You could be right. I guess we’ll never know now.”
“Right,” said Keely, but in her heart, she wondered if she could be satisfied with that answer.
“Keely?” Lucas asked worriedly.
She looked at him. “What?”
“You need to put this behind you now. The important thing is that they won’t be coming after Dylan anymore. He’s safe. With Maureen gone, they’ll leave him alone.”
“I know,” said Keely. “Thank God.”
“You’ll sleep easier, knowing that,” said Lucas.
Keely nodded. She managed a feeble smile and waved at him as he backed out of the driveway. Lucas was right, she thought. Maureen had been a tortured soul. The manner of her death made that abundantly clear. But she couldn’t hurt them now. There was no reason to fear her jealous wrath anymore. Dylan was out of danger. That was all that mattered. Tonight, she could count her blessings.
38
Despite the shocks and sleeplessness of that night, the next morning Dylan announced that he was ready to return to school. Keely tried to act nonchalant and assured him there was no hurry. But in her heart she knew that Maureen’s death had brought him a certain peace of mind. Although Phil Stratton did not come by, as she had hoped, Keely reported to Dylan the detective’s virtual admission that he should not have participated in Maureen’s vendetta. The relief in Dylan’s eyes made Keely feel as if a part of her heart, which had been missing, was now replaced.
Secretly, she was both glad that Dylan wanted to return to school and worried about how bumpy his reentry might be. There were all sorts of warnings and reminders she wanted to give him, but he was silent and deliberately avoided her anxious gaze in the morning. She noticed, without comment, that he had worn a turtleneck that covered up the healing scars on his throat.
“Does Nicole know you’re coming back today?” she asked as they turned the last corner in the Bronco and the school building loomed up ahead of them.
“I didn’t tell her,” said Dylan, a familiar note of irritation in his voice.
“Well, maybe you two will run into each other,” Keely said.
“Mom,” he said, shaking his head as if his mother’s suggestion was preposterous.
“Sorry,” said Keely. She knew better than to take offense. Actually, it seemed like a sign that things were getting back to normal.
After Dylan got out and slammed the door, he leaned into the window. Keely looked at him curiously.
“You’re runnin’ on empty, Mom,” he said.
“What’s that supposed to mean, Dylan?” she asked defensively.
He pointed at the gauge on her dashboard. “You need gas,” he said.
“What do you think it means?”
In spite of herself, Keely started to laugh. “Oh. Okay, okay. Go on,” she said. “You’ll be late.” She sighed as she watched him mount the steps to the school. He looked lonely but brave, wrapped again in Richard’s leather jacket, preparing himself to face the curious stares and whispers of his peers. She watched him until he disappeared into the building, but he did not look back at her.
On the way home from dropping him off, Keely stopped at the grocery store for a few items and picked up a Washington newspaper from the rack at the checkout.D.A. KILLS HERSELF IN ST. VINCENT’S HARBORthe headline screamed. A subhead cited depression, personal woes, and a history of suicide attempts in Maureen’s life. Even though the police on the scene had forbidden any news photos of Maureen, some enterprising shutterbug had obviously managed to capitalize on her pathetic demise, snapping a picture of the lifeless D.A. in her grimy wedding gown for the front page of the tabloid.
It was difficult to look away from the photo. It was at once fascinating and repellent. Keely put the paper facedown on the conveyer belt to the cashier along with her few purchases. Abby stood in the grocery cart, clutching its steel bars and speaking unintelligibly to the woman in the line behind Keely. Keely felt guilty, as if she was acting like a voyeur by purchasing the sensational account of Maureen’s death. She reminded herself that no one around her had any idea of her role in all this. Still, she folded the paper, once it had been checked through, and tucked it under her arm to hide the headlines.
For a minute, as she wheeled the cart out the automatic doors of the store, Keely wondered if Dan would call when he found out what had happened. When Detective Stratton had asked her to account for her whereabouts at the time of Maureen’s death, she had offered Dan’s
visit to her house, her call to Betsy, and her conversation with the security guard at the courthouse as alibis. When Detective Stratton called Dan to check, Keely knew that Dan would confirm her story. Still,Keely felt her face flame at the thought that her rudeness might have caused both Dan and Nicole to withdraw their offer of friendship. She put her groceries in the trunk and tossed the paper, facedown, on the seat beside her.
She drove home, wondering why it mattered whether Dan would call. She and the kids didn’t need new friends—they were going to move away, anyway. As if to reaffirm this conviction, Keely saw, on reaching her driveway, the red Ford Taurus of her Realtor, Nan Ranstead, parked there. For a minute, her heart sank. She just wanted to go into her house and hide from the world. At that moment, she didn’t care whether there was a buyer for her house or not. Keely pulled her SUV in behind Nan’s car. She was starting to get out when she saw Nan open the front door of the house and come hurrying down the driveway toward her.
“Mrs. Weaver,” she said, “I tried to call you. We were looking at a place a few streets away, and these nice people saw your sign.”
“You’re supposed to give me a little warning. Don’t you have my cell phone number?” Keely asked.
“I know. I didn’t have it with me,” Nan confided. “Listen, do you think you could keep yourself occupied for a little while so I could have time to show them the house? They really seem to like it.”
“I didn’t even have a chance to pick up,” Keely protested.
“It looks fine,” said Nan. “All I need is about half an hour.”
“I guess so,” said Keely hesitantly. Part of her wanted to object, to say, “Not today,” but Keely realized that the Realtor was only doing her job, and there was no point in making it more difficult for her.
“This could be the one,” Nan said, crossing her fingers hopefully.
“All right,” Keely agreed glumly. She got back into the front seat of her SUV, longing for the privacy, the shelter of her house.Oh Lord,she thought.Now what do I do?She hesitated, then backed out of her driveway and then turned up the street, going as far as the Warners’ drive. She pulled in and looked curiously at the house. All the windows were closed and the curtains shut. A newspaper, still in its plastic wrapper, sat on the doormat, and mail stuck out of the mailbox. There was no car in the driveway. It looked as if the Warners had departedsuddenly, and Keely found that strangely troubling.Where could they have gone?she wondered.And why should I care?
For Dylan’s sake,she told herself. In a few hours, it would be time to get Dylan, and find out how his school day went. She remembered thinking this morning that Nicole would be there to ease his reentry. But apparently Nicole was not around. Dylan was on his own today. They all were.He’ll do fine,Keely told herself, and wished she could believe it. Her nerves were jangled at the thought of him in a hostile environment. Kids could be so cruel. She had a feeling the time would crawl until she could go get him and bring him home.
She drove slowly back by her house, wishing she could get back inside. She stopped in front, but Nan Ranstead’s car was still in the driveway, so obviously the people were still examining her house.Maybe Abby and I could just sit here while we wait,Keely thought. But as she sat there looking wistfully at her property, she heard dogs begin to bark.
Evelyn Connelly was closing her front door behind her, holding her dogs on their leashes as they strained angrily toward the curb where Keely sat. Startled from a sleepy trance by the barking, Abby began to cry. Evelyn, dressed in her sweatsuit and pearls, turned and met Keely’s gaze with a glare, her narrow eyes sharp with the hostility that was in her puffy face.
Keely felt her face flush as she quickly looked away from her neighbor’s baleful gaze. Without thinking about where she was going next, Keely pulled the Bronco away from the curb. She hated to feel intimidated by her neighbor.I’m not intimidated,she told herself.I just don’t need a scene today. I need some peace.
As she turned out onto Cedarmill Boulevard, she glanced at her dashboard and realized how right Dylan had been. The gas gauge was almost onE. All right,she thought,I’ll get some gas. I need to do it. I might as well do it now. That’ll take up a little time.
Keely hunted up a gas station and pulled in beside the pump. She rolled down her window and turned off the ignition. Then she turned and handed a children’s book from the floor beside her back to her fretful baby. Abby, strapped into her car seat in the back, took the book from her mother’s outstretched hand and then began to chortlecheerfully as she pressed the buttons on a talking book and cows mooed in response.
No one came immediately to service her vehicle, but Keely was in no hurry. While she waited for someone to come to pump the gas, she picked up the paper on the seat beside her. She grimaced again at the sight of the grotesque photograph of Maureen, then she began to read the accompanying story.
In the short time he’d had, the reporter had been thorough. He began with a description of some of the difficult cases Maureen had prosecuted. He referred to the tragic death of Maureen’s twin brother, Sean, twenty years earlier on mischief night. He detailed Maureen’s subsequent mental breakdown, her treatment at Blenheim, her recovery, and her decision, as a result of that experience, to become a prosecutor. The article mentioned that she was well known for her zeal in prosecuting teenage offenders and quoted her as saying once, “It was a teenager who killed my brother—I’m sure of that. No one was ever arrested for the crime, but those were the days when teenage delinquents were treated as pranksters, before people realized how violent and out of control teenage boys can be. Now, after Columbine, we’ve learned our lesson. I may never be able to punish Sean’s killer, but I will never go easy on a criminal—I don’t care how young he is.”
Keely looked up, staring out the windshield. She hadn’t known much about the mysterious death of Maureen’s twin. It appeared to explain Maureen’s persecution of Dylan, she thought.
She continued to read, her scalp prickling at the account of Maureen’s engagement and subsequent heartbreak at Mark’s hands when he chose to marry Keely. In what the article deemed an ironic twist, it detailed her own discovery of Maureen’s body. The reporter had left out the part about Maureen stalking Mark. The article hardly needed to include it. As it was, the story painted an unflattering portrait of Maureen as a lonely, unstable woman, her role as a determined prosecutor possibly a disguise for a troubled spirit. In a way, it was kind of comforting to Keely. It was further confirmation that she and Dylan had been victims of this woman’s excessive, unwarranted zeal.
“Can I help you?” The voice of the gas station attendant interruptedher thoughts, and Keely looked up to tell the guy she wanted a full tank of regular. Her heart jolted in surprise at the sight of the acne-scarred face, the skunklike hairdo, and the hooded eyes. He stared back at Keely as if he were trying to place her face. Keely beat him to it.
“You,” she said accusingly.
Wade Rovere’s snakelike eyes widened as he recognized his customer.
39
Phil, I’m glad you could make it. Come on in.” Phil Stratton had received an urgent call from the local police department when he arrived at his office in the courthouse. Phil relied heavily on the work of the local police, and most often it was he who was calling Captain Ferris, requesting results from the local investigations. This time the situation was reversed. Phil felt pretty sure that this was connected to Maureen Chase’s suicide. All the law-enforcement professionals in the county were still reeling from the shocking news.
Phil entered the police captain’s office and was told, right away, to close the door behind him. “What’s up, Dave?” Phil asked.
“Have a seat,” said Dave Ferris. He was nearly sixty, but still trim, dressed in a tie and neatly pressed white dress shirt, with a full head of grizzled brown hair and a mustache. The only clue to his age was the trifocals that caused his eyes to look large and liquid.
Phil sat down in front of the captain’s desk.<
br />
Dave pursed his lips and then picked up a document and handed it across to Phil.
“I just got these reports from the lab,” he said. “Preliminary results of Maureen Chase’s autopsy.”
“It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?” said Phil, shaking his head.
“I’ve gone over all the reports this morning. She was apparently fixated on this attorney who died, Mark Weaver?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Phil, leaning back in his chair, prepared to give the police captain a few of his insights into the situation. “I suspected there was a problem but—”
Dave interrupted him. “And this Weaver guy’s wife was the one who found her?”
Phil frowned. “Yeah. They had kind of an . . . acrimonious relationship, you might say.”
“Phil, how closely did you question the Weaver woman?”
“I questioned her. I mean, I treated it just as you would a homicide. I asked her why she was there, determined her whereabouts earlier in the evening.”
“She has an alibi,” Dave said.
Phil shifted around in his chair. “Well, yeah. I mean, actually a pretty . . . airtight alibi. We have people who can account for her comings and goings.”
“Phil, there’re going to be some additional tests blood tests made on the body. Toxicology tests.”
Phil looked at Dave in surprise. “What for?”
“Apparently, during the autopsy, the M.E. found a puncture wound.”
“A stab wound? There was no blood.”
“No. Like a hypodermic needle. She may have been drugged.”
“Drugged?” Phil frowned and dismissed the possibility with a wave of his hand. “Oh, Dave—she probably took something. There were tranquilizers and Prozac and . . . a bunch of stuff in her medicine cabinet. Maybe she injected herself with something—you know, to steady her nerves—before she went ahead with it.”
“I’m afraid not,” said Dave. “She didn’t inject herself.”
“What do you mean? Why not?”
Not Guilty Page 31
