Presumed Guilty

by Tess Gerritsen

  “This is bizarre,” said Evelyn. “Why would Richard draw up a new will? How do we even know it was really him?”

  “It was him,” confirmed Hardee. “I recognize his signature.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Well,” said Evelyn. “Let’s hear it, Les. What’s been changed?”

  Hardee slipped on his glasses and began to read aloud. “I, Richard D. Tremain, being of sound mind and body—”

  “Oh, skip the legal gobbledygook!” snapped Noah. “Get to the basics. What’s different about the new will?”

  Hardee looked up. “Most of it is unchanged. The house, joint accounts, contents therein, all go to Mrs. Tremain. There are generous trust accounts for the children, and a few personal items left to his brother.”

  “What about Rose Hill Cottage?” asked Noah.

  Here Hardee shifted in his chair. “Perhaps I should just read it.” He flipped ahead six pages and cleared his throat. “That parcel of land on the north shore comprising approximately forty acres, inclusive of the access road, as well as the structure known as Rose Hill Cottage, I bequeath to...” Here Hardee paused.

  “What about Rose Hill?” pressed Evelyn.

  Hardee took a deep breath. “I bequeath to my dear friend and companion, Miranda Wood.”

  “Like hell,” said Noah.

  * * *

  On the street outside Hardee’s office, Noah and Evelyn sat side by side in the car. Neither one spoke. Neither was comfortable with the silence. The others had chosen to walk home, much to Noah’s relief. He needed this time alone with Evelyn.

  Noah said softly, “Is there anything you want to tell me, Evelyn?”

  “What do you mean, Daddy?”

  “Anything at all. About Richard.”

  She looked at her father. “Am I supposed to say something?”

  “You can tell me, you know. We’re family, that’s what matters. And family stick together. Against the whole world, if they have to.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Noah looked into his daughter’s eyes. They were the same shade of green as his wife’s eyes had been. Here was the one link he had left to his darling Susannah. Here was the one person in the world he still cared about. She returned his gaze calmly, without even the tiniest flicker of uneasiness. Good. Good. She could hold her own against anyone. In that way, she truly was a DeBolt.

  He said, “I’d do anything for you, Evelyn. Anything. All you have to do is ask.”

  She looked straight ahead. “Then take me home, Daddy.”

  He started the engine and turned the car toward Chestnut Street. She didn’t say a word during the entire drive. She was a proud girl, his daughter. Though she’d never ask for it, she needed his help. And she’d get it.

  Whatever it takes, he thought. It’ll be done.

  After all, Evelyn was his flesh and blood, and he couldn’t let flesh and blood go to prison.

  Even if she was guilty.

  * * *

  Her garden had always been her sanctuary. Here Miranda had planted hollyhocks and delphiniums, baby’s breath and columbine. She hadn’t bothered with color schemes or landscape drawings. She’d simply sunk plants into the earth, scattered seeds and let the jungle of vines and flowers take over her backyard. They’d been neglected this past week, poor things. A few days of no watering had left the blooms bedraggled. But now she was home and her babies looked happier. Strangely enough, she was happy, as well. Her back was warmed by the sun, her hands were working the rich loam. This was all she needed. Fresh air and freedom. How long will I have it?

  She put that thought firmly aside and swung the pickax into the hardened earth. She’d turn a little more soil, expand the perennial bed another two feet. She leaned the pickax against the house and knelt to loosen up the clods, sift out the stones.

  The sun was making her drowsy.

  At last, unable to resist the promise of a nap, she stretched out on the lawn. There she lay, her hands and knees caked with soil, the grass cushioning her bare legs. A perfect summer day, just like the days she remembered from her childhood. She closed her eyes and thought about all those afternoons when her mother was still alive, when her father would stand at the barbecue, singing as he grilled hamburgers....

  “What a sharp game you play,” said a voice.

  Miranda sat up with a start and saw Chase standing at her white picket fence. He shoved open the gate and came into the yard. As he approached, it occurred to her how filthy she must look in her gardening shorts and T-shirt. Framed against the glare of sun and blue sky, Chase looked immaculate, untouchable. She squinted to see his expression, but all she could make out was a dark oval, the flutter of his windblown hair.

  “You knew, didn’t you?” he said.

  She rose to her feet and clapped the dirt from her hands. “Knew what?”

  “How did you manage it, Miranda? A few sweet whispers? Write me into the will and I’ll be yours forever?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I just came from our family attorney. We found a nasty surprise waiting for us. Two weeks ago Richard made out a new will. He left Rose Hill Cottage to you.”

  Her immediate reaction was stunned silence. In disbelief she stared at him.

  “Nothing to say? No denials?”

  “I never expected—”

  “I think it’s exactly what you expected.”

  “No!” She turned away, confused. “I never wanted a thing—”

  “Oh, come on!” He reached for her arm and pulled her around to face him. “What was it, blackmail? A way to keep you quiet about the affair?”

  “I don’t know anything about a will! Or the cottage! Besides, how could he leave it to me? Doesn’t it go to his wife? Evelyn owns half—”

  “No, she doesn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Rose Hill came through my mother’s family. An inheritance that went directly to Richard, so Evelyn had no claim on it. It was Richard’s to pass on any way he chose. And he chose to give it to you.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know why.”

  “That cottage was the one place on this island he really cared about. The one place we both cared about.”

  “All right, then!” she cried. “You take it! It’s yours. I’ll sign a statement today, handing it over. I don’t want it. All I want is to be left alone.” She stared straight up at his coldly immobile face. “And to never, ever see another Tremain for as long as I live.”

  She broke away and ran up the back porch steps, into the house. The screen door slammed shut behind her. She headed straight into the kitchen, where she suddenly halted. There was nowhere else to run. In agitation she went to the sink and turned on the faucet. There, surrounded by her beloved ferns, she scrubbed furiously at the dirt caked on her hands.

  She was still scrubbing when the screen door opened, then softly swung shut again. For a long time he didn’t say a word. She knew he was standing behind her, watching her.

  “Miranda,” he said.

  Angrily she turned off the faucet. “Go away.”

  “I want to hear your side of it.”

  “Why? You wouldn’t believe me. You don’t want to believe me. But you know what? I don’t care anymore.” She grabbed a dish towel and blotted her hands. “I’ll go to the lawyer’s this afternoon. Sign a statement of refusal, or whatever it’s called. I would never accept it. Anything I received from him would be tainted. Just like I’m tainted.”

  “You’re wrong, Miranda. I do want to believe you.”

  She stood very still, afraid to turn, to look at him. She sensed his approach as he moved toward her across the kitchen. And still she couldn’t turn, couldn’t face him. She could only star
e down at the clumps of wet garden dirt in the sink.

  “But you can’t, can you?” she said.

  “The facts argue against it.”

  “And if I tell you the facts are misleading?” Slowly she turned and found he was right there, so close she could reach up and touch his face. “What then?”

  “Then I’d be forced to trust my instincts. But in this particular case, my instincts are shot all to hell.”

  She stared at him, suddenly confused by the signals he was sending. By the signals her body was sending. He had her closed off from all retreat, her back pinned against the kitchen sink. She had to tilt her head up just to meet his gaze, and the view she had of him, towering above her, was more than a little frightening. Yet it wasn’t fear that seemed to be pumping through her veins. It was the warm and unexpected pulse of desire.

  She slid away and paced across the kitchen, as far as she could get from him and still be in the same room. “I meant what I said. About refusing all rights to Rose Hill Cottage. In fact, I think we should do it right now. Go to the lawyer.”

  “Is that really what you want?”

  “I know I don’t want anything of his. Anything to remind me of him.”

  “You’d give up the cottage, just like that?”

  “It doesn’t mean a thing to me. I’ve never even seen the place.”

  Chase looked surprised. “He never took you to Rose Hill?”

  “No. Oh, he told me about it. But it was his own private retreat. Not the sort of place he’d share with me.”

  “You could be handing back a fortune in real estate, sight unseen.”

  “It’s not my fortune. It never was.”

  He regarded her with narrowed eyes. “I can’t figure you out. Every time I think I have, you throw me a curve ball.”

  “I’m not all that complicated.”

  “You managed to intrigue Richard.”

  “I was hardly the first woman to do that.”

  “But you’re the first one who ever left him.”

  “And look where it got me.” She gave a bitter laugh. “You may not believe this, but I used to think of myself as a person with high morals. I paid my taxes. Stopped at every red light. Followed all the rules.” She turned and stared out the window. Softly she said, “Then I fell for your brother. Suddenly I didn’t know what the rules were anymore. I was slipping around in strange territory. God, it scared me. At the same time I felt...exhilarated. And that scared me even more.” She turned to him. “I’d give anything to turn back the clock. To feel...innocent again.”

  Slowly he came toward her. “Some things we can’t recapture, Miranda.”

  “No.” She stared down, her cheeks flushed with guilt. “Some things we lose forever.”

  His touch, so unexpected, made her flinch. It was the gentlest of strokes, just his hand tracing the curve of her cheek. Startled, she looked up to find a gaze so searching it left her nowhere to hide. She hated feeling so nakedly exposed but she found she could not break away. The hand cupping her face was warm and so very compelling.

  Here I am, falling into the same old trap, she thought. With Richard I lost my innocence. What will I lose to this man? My soul?

  She said, “I learned my lesson from your brother, Chase. I’m no longer fair game.” She turned and walked away, into the living room.

  “I’m not Richard.”

  She looked back. “It doesn’t matter who you are. What matters is that I’m not the same dumb, trusting soul I used to be.”

  “He really hurt you, didn’t he?” He was watching her from the kitchen threshold. His shoulders seemed to fill the doorway.

  She didn’t answer. She sank into an armchair and stared at her dirt-stained knees.

  Chase studied her from across the room. All his anger toward her, which had built up since that morning in Les Hardee’s office, suddenly evaporated. In its place was a fury toward Richard. Golden boy Richard, who had always gotten what he wanted. Richard the firstborn, the one with the classic Tremain fair hair and blue eyes, had bought everything he ever coveted with the coin of wit and charm. But once he’d attained his goal, he’d lose interest.

  That was his pattern with women. Once, Richard had wanted Evelyn DeBolt, and he’d won her. He’d had to marry her, of course. You didn’t play games with the only child of Noah DeBolt. But after the prize was his he’d grown bored with his wife. That was Richard, always coveting, never satisfied.

  And here was the one woman, the one prize, he hadn’t been able to keep. Such an unassuming female, thought Chase, feeling a strange ache in his throat. Was it pity or sympathy? He couldn’t tell the difference.

  He sat in the chair across from her. “You...seem to have recovered from last night.”

  “Just some sore muscles. That’s all.” She shrugged, as though she knew he couldn’t possibly be interested. Whatever turmoil was swirling in her head, she kept it carefully concealed. “I sent Annie home this morning. I couldn’t see the point of her staying.”

  “Safety’s sake?”

  “Safety from what?”

  “What if it wasn’t an accident?”

  She looked up. “At the moment I’m not terrifically popular in this town. But I can’t see one of our upstanding citizens turning hit-and-run driver.”

  “Still, one of our upstanding citizens did steal Mr. Lanzo’s car.”

  “Poor Eddie.” She shook her head. “It’ll just reinforce his paranoia. Now he’ll add car thieves to that list of crazies he imagines cruising the street.”

  “Yes, he mentioned that last night. Something about Peeping Toms.”

  She smiled. “Eddie grew up in Chicago. He never did shake those big-city jitters. He swears he spotted some mob car watching my...” She suddenly paused, frowning. “You know, I never paid much attention to his stories. But now that I think about it...”

  “When did he tell you about that car?”

  “Maybe a month or two ago.”

  “Before Richard’s murder, then.”

  “Yes. So it’s probably not related.” She sighed. “It’s just poor, crazy Eddie.” She stood. “I’ll change clothes. I can’t go to the lawyer looking like this.”

  “You really want to go right now?”

  “I have to. Until I do, I won’t feel clean. Or free of him.”

  “I’ll call ahead, then.” He glanced at his watch. “We can just make the ferry to Bass Harbor.”

  “Bass Harbor? I thought Les Hardee was Richard’s lawyer.”

  “He is. But this last will was drawn up by some lawyer named Vernon FitzHugh. Do you know him?”

  “No, thank God.” She turned and headed up the hall. “Or you’d probably accuse Mr. FitzHugh and me of fraud.” She vanished into the bedroom.

  Chase watched the door swing shut behind her. “As a matter of fact,” he muttered, “the thought did cross my mind.”

  * * *

  Vernon FitzHugh was expecting them. What he didn’t anticipate was the purpose of their visit.

  “Have you really thought this through, Ms. Wood? This is prime real estate we’re talking about. The north shore has just been rezoned for development. I expect your piece of property, in a few years, will be worth well over—”

  “It should never have come to me,” said Miranda. “It belongs to the Tremain family.”

  FitzHugh glanced uneasily at Chase, one of those sidelong looks that reveal so much. “Perhaps we should discuss this in private, Ms. Wood. If Mr. Tremain would care to wait outside...”

  “No, I want him to stay. I want him to hear every word.” She looked meaningfully at FitzHugh. “So he can’t accuse us of collusion.”

  “Collusion?” FitzHugh, alarmed, sat up straight. “Mr. Tremain, you don’t think I wanted to get involved in this, do y
ou? It’s a messy situation. Two lawyers, two wills. And then, the complicating circumstances of the client’s death.” He assiduously avoided looking at Miranda. “I’m just trying to carry out Mr. Tremain’s instructions. Which are to ensure that Rose Hill Cottage goes to Ms. Wood.”

  “I don’t want it,” said Miranda. “I want to give it back.”

  FitzHugh looked troubled. He removed his glasses and set them on the desk. It seemed, with that one gesture, he simultaneously shed the role of the detached professional. Now he was speaking to her as a friend, an adviser. The flat accent of a working-class Mainer slipped into his voice. This man knew only too well what it was like to be poor. And here was this stubborn young woman, throwing away the promise of security.

  “Richard Tremain,” he began, “came to me with a request. I’m bound to honor it. It’s not my job to decide whether you’re innocent or guilty. I just want to see that the intent of the will is carried out. I made very sure that this was what he wanted, and he wanted that land to go to you. If you’re convicted, then the point will be moot—you can’t inherit. But let’s say you’re found innocent. Then Rose Hill goes to you, no question about it. Wait a few days, Ms. Wood. If this is really what you want, come back and I’ll draw up the papers. But I won’t do it today. I have to think of Mr. Tremain’s last request. After all, he was my client.”

  “Why did he come to you?” Chase asked. “Mr. Hardee has been Richard’s attorney for years.”

  FitzHugh studied Chase for a moment, weighing the man’s motives. Coercion was what he suspected, the wealthy Tremain family putting pressure on this woman, this outsider, to surrender her inheritance. It wasn’t right. Someone had to take the woman’s side, even if she refused to stand up for herself.

  “Richard Tremain came to me,” FitzHugh said, “because he didn’t want Les Hardee involved.”

  “Why not?”

  “Mr. Hardee is also Noah DeBolt’s attorney. I think Mr. Tremain was worried this would leak out to his father-in-law.”

  “And what a riot that would have caused,” said Chase.

  “Having met Mr. DeBolt this morning, yes, I can imagine there would’ve been fireworks.”