“It didn’t matter. Just away.” She looked off, past the gravestones. Far beyond the cemetery lay the sea. She could catch glimpses of it through the trees. “I grew up just fifty miles from here. Right across the water. This bay is my home. I’ve always loved it. Yet all I could think about was getting away.”
She turned to look at him. “I was already free of him. Halfway back to happiness. Why should I kill Richard?”
“Why was he in your house?”
“He insisted on meeting me. I didn’t want to see him. So I left and went for a walk. When I came back, I found him.”
“Yes, I’ve heard your version. At least your story’s consistent.”
“It’s also the truth.”
“Truth, fiction.” He shrugged. “In your case it all blends together, doesn’t it?” Abruptly he turned and headed up the cemetery drive.
“What if it’s all truth?” she called after him.
“Stay away from the family, Ms. Wood!” he yelled over his shoulder. “Or I’ll have to call in Lorne Tibbetts.”
“Just for a moment, consider the possibility that I didn’t kill him! That someone else did!”
He was still walking away.
“Maybe it’s someone you know!” she shouted. “Think about it! Or do you already know and you want me to take the blame? Tell me, Mr. Tremain! Who really killed your brother?”
That brought Chase to a sudden halt. He knew he should keep walking. He knew it was a mistake to engage the woman in any more of this insane dialogue. It was insane. Or she was insane. Yet he couldn’t break away, not yet. What she’d just said had opened up too many frightening possibilities.
Slowly he turned to face her. She stood absolutely still, her gaze fixed on him. The afternoon sun washed her head with a coppery glow. All that beautiful hair seemed to overwhelm her face. She looked surprisingly fragile in that black dress, as though a strong gust might blow her away.
Was it possible? he wondered. Could this woman really have picked up a knife? Raised the blade over Richard’s body? Plunged it down with so much rage, so much strength, that the tip had pierced straight through to his spine?
Slowly he moved toward her. “If you didn’t kill him,” he said, “who did?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s a pretty disappointing answer.”
“He had enemies—”
“Angry enough to kill him?”
“He ran a newspaper. He knew things about certain people in this town. And he wasn’t afraid to print the truth.”
“Which people? What sort of scandal are we talking about?”
He saw her hesitate, wondered if she was dredging up some new lie.
“Richard was writing an article,” she said. “About a local developer named Tony Graffam. He runs a company called Stone Coast Trust. Richard said he had proof of fraud—”
“My brother had paid reporters on his staff. Why would he bother to do his own writing?”
“It was a personal crusade of his. He was set on ruining Stone Coast. He needed just one last piece of evidence. Then he was going to print.”
“And did he?”
“No. The article was supposed to appear two weeks ago. It never did.”
“Who stopped it?”
“I don’t know. You’d have to talk to Jill Vickery.”
“The managing editor?”
Miranda nodded. “She knew the article was in the works and she wasn’t crazy about the idea. Richard was the driving force behind the story. He was even willing to risk a libel suit. In fact, Tony Graffam has already threatened to sue.”
“So we have one convenient suspect. Tony Graffam. Anyone else?”
She hesitated. “Richard wasn’t a popular man.”
“Richard?” He shook his head. “I doubt that. I was the brother with the popularity problem.”
“Two months ago he cut salaries at the Herald. Laid off a third of the staff.”
“Ah. So we have more suspects.”
“He hurt people. Families—”
“Including his own.”
“You don’t know how hard it is these days! How desperate people are for work. Oh, he talked a good story. About how sorry he was to be laying people off. How it hurt him just as much as it hurt everyone else. It was garbage. I heard him talking about it later, to his accountant. He said, ‘I cut the deadwood, just as you advised.’ Deadwood. Those employees had been with the Herald for years. Richard had the money. He could have carried the loss.”
“He was a businessman.”
“Right. That’s exactly what he was.” Her hair, tossed by the wind, was like flames dancing. She was a wild and blazing fire, full of anger at him, at Richard, at the Tremains.
“So we’ve added to the pool of suspects,” he said. “All those poor souls who lost their jobs. And their families. Why don’t we toss in Richard’s children? His father-in-law? His wife?”
“Yes! Why not Evelyn?”
Chase snorted in disgust. “You’re very good, you know that? All that smoke and mirrors. But you haven’t convinced me. I hope the jury is just as smart. I hope to hell they see through you and make you pay.”
She looked at him mutely, all the fire, all the spirit suddenly drained from her body.
“I’ve already paid,” she whispered. “I’ll pay for the rest of my life. Because I’m guilty. Not of killing him. I didn’t kill him.” She swallowed and looked away. He could no longer see her face, but he could hear the anguish in her voice. “I’m guilty of being stupid. And naive. Guilty of having faith in the wrong man. I really thought I loved your brother. But that was before I knew him. And then, when I did know him, I tried to walk away. I wanted to do it while we were still...friends.”
He saw her hand come up and stroke quickly across her face. It suddenly struck him how very brave she was. Not brazen, as he’d first thought upon seeing her today, but truly, heartbreakingly courageous.
She raised her head again, her gaze drawing level to his. The tears she’d tried to wipe away were still glistening on her lashes. He had a sudden, crazy yearning to touch her face, to wipe away the wetness of those tears. And with that yearning came another, just as insane, a man’s hunger to know the taste of her lips, the softness of her hair. At once he took a step back, as though retreating from some dangerous flame. He thought, I can see why you fell for her, Richard. Under different circumstances I might have fallen for her myself.
“Oh, hell,” she muttered in disgust. “What does it matter now, what I felt? To you or to anyone else?” Without looking back she left him and started up the driveway. Her abrupt departure seemed to leave behind an unfillable vacuum.
“Ms. Wood!” he yelled. She kept walking. He called out, “Miranda!” She stopped. “I have one question for you,” he said. “Who bailed you out?”
Slowly she turned and looked at him. “You tell me,” she said.
And then she walked away.
* * *
It was a long walk to the newspaper building. It took Miranda past familiar streets and storefronts, past people she knew. That was the worst part. She felt them staring at her through the shop windows. She saw them huddle in groups and whisper to each other. No one came right out and said anything to her face. They didn’t have to. All I lack, she thought, is a scarlet letter sewn on my chest. M for murderess.
She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead and walked up Limerock Street. The Herald building stood before her, a brick-and-slate haven against all those watching eyes. She ducked through the double glass doors, into the newsroom.
Inside, all activity came to a dead halt.
She felt assaulted by all those startled looks.
“Hello, Miranda,” said a cool voice.
Miranda turned. Jill Vickery,
the managing editor, glided out of the executive office. She hadn’t changed clothes since the funeral. On dark-haired, ivory-skinned Jill, the color black looked quite elegant. Her short skirt hissed against her stockings as she clipped across the floor.
“Is there something I can do for you?” Jill asked politely.
“I—I came to get my things.”
“Yes, of course.” Jill shot a disapproving glance at the other employees, who were still gawking. “Are we all so efficient that we’ve no more work to do?”
At once everyone redirected their attention to their jobs.
Jill looked at Miranda. “I’ve already taken the liberty of cleaning out your desk. It’s all in a box downstairs.”
Miranda was so grateful for Jill’s simple civility she scarcely registered annoyance that her desk had been cold-bloodedly emptied of her belongings. She said, “I’ve also a few things in my locker.”
“They should still be there. No one’s touched it.” There was a silence. “Well,” said Jill, a prelude to escape from a socially awkward situation. “I wish you luck. Whatever happens.” She started back toward her office.
“Jill?” called Miranda.
“Yes?”
“I was wondering about that article on Tony Graffam. Why it didn’t run.”
Jill looked at her with frank puzzlement. “Why does it matter?”
“It just does.”
Jill shrugged. “It was Richard’s decision. He pulled the story.”
“Richard’s? But he was working on it for months.”
“I can’t tell you his reasons. I don’t know them. He just pulled it. And anyway, I don’t think he ever wrote the story.”
“But he told me it was nearly finished.”
“I’ve checked his files.” Jill turned and walked toward her office. “I doubt he ever got beyond the research stage. You know how he was, Miranda. The master of overstatement.”
Miranda stared after her in bewilderment. The master of overstatement. It hurt to admit it, but yes, there was a lot of truth in that label.
People were staring at her again.
She headed down the stairwell and pushed into the women’s lounge. There she found Annie Berenger, lacing up running shoes. Annie was dressed in her usual rumpled-reporter attire—baggy drawstring pants, wrinkled cotton shirt. The inside of her locker looked just as disorderly, a mound of wadded-up clothes, towels and books.
Annie glanced up and tossed her head of gray-streaked hair in greeting. “You’re back.”
“Just to clean out my things.” Miranda found the cardboard box with her belongings stuffed under one of the benches. She dragged it out and carried it to her locker.
“I saw you at the funeral,” said Annie. “That took guts, Mo.”
“I’m not sure guts is the word for it.”
Annie shoved her locker door shut and breathed a sigh of relief. “Comfortable at last. I just had to change out of that funeral getup. Can’t think in those stupid high heels. Cuts the blood supply to my brain.” She finished lacing up her running shoe. “So what’s going to happen next? With you, I mean.”
“I don’t know. I refuse to think beyond a day or two.” Miranda opened her locker and began to throw things into the box.
“Rumor has it you have friends in high places.”
“What?”
“Someone bailed you out, right?”
“I don’t know who it was.”
“You must have an idea. Or is this your lawyer’s advice, to plead ignorance?”
Miranda gripped the locker door. “Don’t, Annie. Please.”
Annie cocked her head, revealing all the lines and freckles of too many summers in the sun. “I’m being a jerk, aren’t I? Sorry. It’s just that Jill assigned me to the trial. I don’t like having to drag an old colleague across the front page.” She watched as Miranda emptied the locker and shut the door. “So. Can I get a statement from you?”
“I didn’t do it.”
“I’ve already heard that one.”
“Want to earn a Pulitzer?” Miranda turned, squarely faced her. “Help me find out who killed him.”
“You’ll have to give me a lead, first.”
“I don’t have one.”
Annie sighed. “That’s the problem. Whether or not you did it, you’re still the obvious suspect.”
Miranda picked up the box and headed up the stairs. Annie trailed behind her.
“I thought real reporters went after the truth,” said Miranda.
“This reporter,” said Annie, “is basically lazy and angling for early retirement.”
“At your age?”
“I turn forty-seven next month. I figure that’s a good age to retire. If I can just get Irving to pop the question, it’ll be a life of bonbons and TV soaps.”
“You’d hate it.”
“Oh, yeah.” Annie laughed. “I’d be just miserable.”
They walked into the newsroom. At once Miranda felt all those gazes turn her way. Annie, oblivious to their audience, went to her desk, threw her locker keys in her drawer and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “You happen to have a light?” she asked Miranda.
“You always ask me, and I never have one.”
Annie turned and yelled, “Miles!”
The summer intern sighed resignedly and tossed her a cigarette lighter. “Just give it back,” he said.
“You’re too young to smoke, anyway,” snapped Annie.
“So were you once, Berenger.”
Annie grinned at Miranda. “I love these boy wonders. They’re so damn petulant.”
Miranda couldn’t help smiling. She sat on the desktop and looked at her ex-colleague. As always, Annie wore a wreath of cigarette smoke. It was part addiction, part prop, that cigarette. Annie had earned her reporter’s stripes in a Boston newsroom where the floor was said to be an inch deep in cigarette butts.
“You do believe me, don’t you?” asked Miranda softly. “You don’t really think...”
Annie looked her straight in the eye. “No. I don’t. And I was kidding about being lazy,” said Annie. “I’ve been digging. I’ll come up with something. It’s not like I’m doing it out of friendship or anything. I mean, I could find out things that could hurt you. But it’s what I have to do.”
Miranda nodded. “Then start with this.”
“What?”
“Find out who bailed me out.”
Annie nodded. “A reasonable first step.”
The back office door swung open. Jill Vickery came out and glanced around the newsroom. “Marine distress call. Sailboat’s taking on water. Who wants the story?”
Annie slunk deep in her chair.
Miles sprang to his feet. “I’ll take it.”
“Coast Guard’s already on the way. Hire a launch if you have to. Go on, get going. You don’t want to miss the rescue.” Jill turned and looked at Annie. “Are you busy at the moment?”
Annie shrugged. “I’m always busy.”
Jill nodded toward Miles. “He’ll need help. Go with the kid.” She turned back to her office.
“I can’t.”
Jill stopped, turned to confront Annie. “Are you refusing my assignment?”
“Yeah. Sort of.”
“On what grounds?”
Annie blew out a long, lazy puff of smoke. “Seasickness.”
* * *
“I knew she’d confuse you, Chase. I just knew it. You don’t understand her the way I do.”
Chase looked up from the porch chair where he’d been brooding for the past hour. He saw that Evelyn had changed out of her black dress and was now wearing an obscenely bright lime green. He knew he should feel sorry for his sister-in-law, but at the moment Evelyn looked mo
re in need of a stiff drink than of pity. He couldn’t help comparing her to Miranda Wood. Miranda, with her ill-fitting black dress and her windblown hair, so alone on that cemetery hillside. He wondered if Richard ever knew how much damage he’d done to her, or if he’d ever cared.
“You haven’t said a word since you got home,” complained Evelyn. “What is going on with you?”
“Just how well did you know Miranda Wood?” he asked.
She sat down and fussily arranged the folds of her green dress. “I’ve heard things. I know she grew up in Bass Harbor. Went to some—some state university. Had to do it all on scholarship. Couldn’t afford it otherwise. Really, not a very good family.”
“Meaning what?”
“Mill workers.”
“Ah. Dregs of the earth.”
“What is the matter with you, Chase?”
He rose to his feet. “I need to take a walk.”
“Oh. I’ll go with you.” She jumped to her feet, instantly wreaking havoc on all those nicely arranged folds of her dress.
“No. I’d like to be alone for a while. If you don’t mind.”
Evelyn looked as if she minded very much, but she managed to cover it gracefully. “I understand, Chase. We all need to mourn in our own way.”
He felt a distinct sense of relief as he walked away from that front porch. The house had started to feel oppressive, as though the weight of all those memories had crowded out the breathable air. For a half hour he walked aimlessly. Only as his feet carried him closer to town did he begin to move with a new sense of purpose.
He headed straight for the newspaper building.
He was greeted by Jill Vickery, the sleekly attractive managing editor. It was just like Richard to surround himself with gorgeous women. Chase had met her earlier that day, at the funeral. Then, as now, she played the part of the professional to the hilt.
“Mr. Tremain,” she said, offering her hand. “What a pleasure to see you again. May I show you around?”
“I was just wondering...” He glanced around the newsroom, which was currently occupied by only a bare-bones staff: the layout man arranging ads, another one staring at a computer screen, and that sloppy reporter puffing on a cigarette as she talked on the phone.
Presumed Guilty Page 6
