Presumed Guilty

by Tess Gerritsen

  She shrugged. “I figured that was his business.”

  “You two weren’t very close, were you?”

  “Daughters just weren’t his thing, Uncle Chase. While I was working my butt off, getting straight A’s, he was planning for Phillip’s Harvard education. Grooming him to take over the Herald.”

  “Phillip doesn’t seem exactly thrilled by the prospect.”

  “You noticed that? Dad never did.” She took a few bites of ham, then gave Chase a thoughtful look. “And what was the problem between you two?”

  “Problem?” He resisted the urge to look away, to avoid her gaze. She would probably know immediately that he was hiding something. As it was, she’d probably already detected the flicker of discomfort in his eyes.

  “The last time I saw you, Uncle Chase, I was ten years old. That was at Grandpa Tremain’s funeral. Now, Greenwich isn’t that far away. But you never came back for a visit, not once.”

  “Lives get complicated. You know how it is, Cassie.”

  She gave him a searching look, then said, “It’s not easy, is it? Being the ignored sibling in the family?”

  Damn this sharp-eyed brat, he thought. He gathered up his empty dishes and rose to his feet.

  “You don’t think she did it. Do you?” Cassie asked. They didn’t have to mention names. They both knew exactly what they were talking about.

  “I haven’t decided,” he said. He carried the dishes toward the kitchen. In the doorway he stopped. “By the way, Cassie,” he said. “I called here last night about seven, to say I wouldn’t be home for dinner. No one answered the phone. Where was your mother?”

  “I really wouldn’t know.” Cassie picked up a slice of toast and calmly began to spread marmalade on it. “You’d have to ask her.”

  * * *

  Chase drove directly to Rose Hill. No detours, no little side trips to pick up suspected murderesses. He had no intention of being distracted by Miranda Wood today. What he needed was a dose of coolheaded logic, and that meant keeping his distance. Today he had other things on his mind, the first item being: Who kept trying to break in to the cottage, and what was he searching for?

  The answer lay somewhere in Rose Hill.

  So that was where he headed. He drove with the window rolled down, the salt air whistling past his cheek. It brought back all those summer days of his childhood, riding with his mother along this very road, the smell of the sea in his face, the cry of the gulls echoing off the cliffs. How she had loved this drive! His mother had been a daredevil behind the wheel, screeching around these curves, laughing as the wind tangled her dark hair. They’d both laughed a lot those days, and he’d wondered if anyone else in the world had a mother so wild, so beautiful. So free.

  Her death had left him devastated.

  If only, before she’d died, she’d told him the truth.

  He turned onto the access road and bumped along past all the old camp signs, past the cottages of families whose kids he’d once played with. Good memories, bad memories—they all returned as he drove up that road. He remembered twirling in the tire swing until he was so dizzy he threw up. Kissing buck-toothed Lucy Baylor behind the water tower. Hearing that awful crash of a breaking window and knowing it was his baseball they’d find lying in the shattered glass. The memories were so vivid he didn’t notice that he’d already rounded the last bend and was just now turning onto the gravel driveway.

  There was a car parked in front of the cottage.

  He pulled up beside it and climbed out. He saw no sign of the driver. Could their burglar have turned desperate enough to pay a visit in broad daylight?

  He hurried up the porch steps and was startled to hear the whistling of a kettle from the kitchen. Who the hell would be brazen enough to not only break in, but also make himself right at home? He shoved open the door and came face-to-face with the guilty party.

  “I’ve just made some tea,” said Miranda. She gave him a tight smile, not unfriendly, just nervous. Perhaps afraid. She nodded down at the tea tray she was carrying. “Would you like some?”

  Chase glanced around the room, at the books arranged in neat piles on the floor. The desk had been cleared, the drawers’ contents emptied into a series of cardboard boxes. Slowly his gaze shifted and took in the three bookcases. One was already two-thirds empty.

  “We spent the morning going through Richard’s papers,” Miranda explained. “I’m afraid we haven’t turned up anything yet, but—”

  He shook his head. “We?”

  “Miss St. John and I.”

  “Is she here?”

  “She went back to her house, to feed Ozzie.”

  Their gazes met. I try to stay away from you, he thought, and damn it, here you are. Here we are, alone in this house.

  The possibilities flooded his mind. Temptation, enemy of reason, danced its devil dance, the way it did every time he was in the same room with her. He thought of Richard, thought of her, thought of the two of them together. It hurt. Maybe that’s why he chose to think of it. To quell the rising need he felt when he looked at her now.

  “She—Miss St. John—thought it made sense to get started without you,” Miranda said in a rush, as though suddenly frantic to fill the silence. “We didn’t know when you’d get here, and we didn’t want to call the house. I suppose we’re trespassing, in a way, but...” Her voice trailed off.

  “Technically speaking,” he said after a pause, “you are.”

  She set down the tea tray, then straightened to face him. Her nervousness was gone. In its place was calm determination. “Maybe so. But it’s what I have to do. We can search together. Or we can search separately. But I am going to search.” She raised her chin, met his gaze without flinching. “So, Chase. Which way shall it be?”

  Nine

  His gaze was neutral, as unrevealing as that blank wall behind him. More revealing to Miranda was her acute sense of disappointment. She’d hoped to see at least a trace of gladness in his eyes, that he’d be pleased to find her here today. What she hadn’t expected was this...indifference. So that’s how it is between us, she thought. What’s happened since I saw you last? What did Evelyn say to you? That’s it, isn’t it? They’ve gotten to you. Richard’s family. Your family.

  He shrugged. “It does make sense, I suppose. Working together.”

  “Of course it does.”

  “And you’ve already gotten off to a good start, I see.”

  In silence she poured a cup of tea, then carried it to the bookcase. There she calmly continued the task she’d been working on earlier—pulling down the books, riffling through the pages for any loose papers. She felt him watching her, sensed his gaze like a prickling in her back. “You can start on the other bookcase,” she said without looking at him.

  “What have you found so far?”

  “No surprises.” She reached for another book. “Unless you count Richard’s rather weird taste in reading material.” She looked at a book jacket. The Advanced Physics of Ocean Waves. “This one, for instance. I never knew he was interested in physics.”

  “He wasn’t. When it came to science, he was functionally illiterate.”

  She opened the cover. “Well, this is his book. I see someone’s written him a dedication in the front....” Glancing at the title page, she suddenly flushed.

  “What is it?”

  “You know the old saying?” Miranda murmured. “About not judging a book by its cover?”

  Chase moved behind her and read over her shoulder. “One Hundred and One Sexual Positions. Fully illustrated?”

  Miranda flipped open to a random page and instantly flushed. “They meant what they said about fully illustrated.”

  He reached around her to take the book. His breath grazed her neck; it left her skin tingling.

  “Obvio
usly a dummy jacket,” said Chase. “I wonder how many other disguised books are in that stack?”

  “I didn’t really check,” Miranda admitted. “I was looking for loose papers. I wasn’t paying much attention to the books themselves.”

  Chase flipped to the title page and read aloud the handwritten dedication. “‘To my darling Richard. Can we try number forty-eight again? Love, M.’” Chase glanced at Miranda.

  “I didn’t give him that thing!” she protested.

  “Then who’s M?”

  “Someone else. Not me.”

  He frowned at the dedication. “I wonder what number forty-eight is.” He flipped to the page.

  “Well?”

  Chase took a discreet peek. “You don’t want to know,” he muttered and let the page riffle shut.

  A slip of paper flew out and landed on the floor. They both stared at it in surprise. Chase was the first to snatch it up.

  “‘Dearest love,’” he read aloud. “‘I’m thinking of you every day, every hour. I’ve given up caring about propriety or reputation or hellfire. There’s only you and me and the time we have together. That, my darling, is my new definition of heaven.’” Chase glanced at her, one eyebrow raised in a cynical slant.

  Miranda looked straight at him. “In case you’re wondering,” she said evenly, “I didn’t write that note, either.” In irritation she took the book and set it down on the nearest pile.

  “Then I guess we’ll just file it under ‘interesting stuff,’” said Chase. “And continue with the rest of these books.”

  Miranda settled onto the rug. Chase sat in front of the other bookcase. They didn’t touch, didn’t look at each other. Safer that way, she thought. For both of us.

  For half an hour they flipped through books, slapped them shut, threw clouds of dust in the air. Miranda was the one who found the next piece of the puzzle. It was tucked away in a financial ledger, in an envelope labeled Deductible Expenses.

  “It’s a receipt,” she said, frowning at the slip of paper. “A month ago Richard paid four hundred dollars to this company.”

  “For what services?” asked Chase.

  “It doesn’t say. It’s just made out to the Alamo Detective Agency in Bass Harbor.”

  “A detective agency? I wonder what Richard was after.”

  “Chase.” She handed him the slip of paper. “Look at the name of the payee.”

  “William B. Rodell?” He glanced at her quizzically.

  At least you’re looking at me again, she thought. At least we’re connecting. “Don’t you remember?” she said. “That note attached to Richard’s files.”

  Chase stared at the receipt, revelation suddenly brightening his dark features.

  “Of course,” he said softly. “William B. Rodell...”

  W.B.R.

  * * *

  It was easy to see how the Alamo Detective Agency got its name. Willie Rodell was a good ol’ boy transplant from San Antonio who split his time between Maine and Florida. Summertime was for Maine, and here he was, sitting behind his old steel desk, books and papers piled up in front of him like the battlements of a fort. The office was strictly a solo affair—one phone, one desk, one man. But what a man. Willie Rodell had enough flesh on his bones to fill the suits of two six-footers. This must be what they mean by Texas-size, thought Miranda.

  “Yeah, I mighta done some work for Mr. Tremain now and again,” said Rodell, leaning back in his equally Texas-size chair.

  “Meaning you did or you didn’t?” asked Chase.

  “Well, you’re holdin’ one of my receipts there, so I guess it means I did.”

  “What sort of job?”

  Willie shrugged. “Routine stuff.”

  “What is your routine stuff?”

  “Mostly I do domestic affairs, if you catch my drift. Who’s doin’ what to whom, that sorta thing.” His smirk rearranged the folds of his face into something vaguely obscene.

  “But that’s not the sort of thing you did for Richard, was it?”

  “Nope. Though I hear tell there was more than enough dirt to dig in his particular case.”

  Cheeks burning, Miranda stared down fixedly at Willie’s desk, a battle zone of broken pencils and twisted paper clips scattered among a bizarre assortment of magazines. Hot Ladies. National Locksmith. Car and Driver.

  Chase got right to the point. “He hired you to compile files on his neighbors. Didn’t he?”

  Willie looked at him blandly. “Files?”

  “We saw them, Mr. Rodell. They were among Richard’s papers. Detailed reports on almost every resident along the access road. Each one containing sensitive information.”

  “Dirt sheets.”

  “That’s right.”

  Willie shrugged. “I didn’t write ’em.”

  “There was a note attached to one of the reports. It said, ‘Want more? Let me know.’ It was signed with the initials W.B.R.” Chase reached over and plucked one of Willie’s business cards from the desk. “Which just happens to be your initials.”

  “Helluva coincidence, hey?”

  “He wanted dirt on his neighbors. Why?”

  “He was snoopy?”

  “So he paid you to write those reports.”

  “I told you, I didn’t write ’em.” Willie held up one fat hand. “Scout’s honor.”

  “Then who did?”

  “Dunno. But I admire his work.”

  Miranda, who’d been sitting quietly, focused on one of the magazines on the desk. National Locksmith. “You stole them,” she said. She looked up at Willie’s moonlike face. “That’s what Richard hired you for. To steal those files from someone else.”

  Willie reached up and smoothed back a nonexistent strand of hair.

  “You were paid to be a burglar,” said Miranda. “What else were you paid for?”

  “Look,” said Willie, holding up both fat hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “Folks pay me to gather info, okay? That’s all I do. Clients don’t care how I get it, long as I get it.”

  “And where did you get those dirt sheets?” asked Chase.

  “They were part of a bunch o’ papers I sorta picked up.”

  “What else did you sort of pick up?”

  “Financial records, bank statements. Hey, I didn’t exactly steal ’em. I just, well, borrowed ’em for a few minutes. Long enough to run ’em through ol’ man Xerox. Then I put ’em right back where I found ’em.”

  “The office of Stone Coast Trust,” said Miranda.

  Willie gave her a man-in-the-moon grin. “Betcha you’re real good at Twenty Questions.”

  “So those were Tony Graffam’s files,” said Chase. “Not Richard’s.”

  “Mr. T. didn’t even know they existed till I handed ’em over. Thought for sure he was gonna want more. You know how it is. Get a taste of appetizer, you want the main course. Well, those papers were just the appetizer. I coulda got more.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “He fired me.”

  They frowned at him. “What?” said Miranda.

  “That’s right,” said Willie. “Two days after I hand him those papers, he calls and says, thanks, he won’t be needin’ my services no more and how much do I owe you? That was that.”

  “Did he say why he fired you?”

  “Nope. Just told me to keep it under my hat, and that he wasn’t interested in Stone Coast no more.”

  “When was this?”

  “Oh, about a week before he died.”

  “The same time he told Jill to kill the article,” said Miranda. She looked at Chase. “Maybe he saw what Tony Graffam had on him. And decided to drop the whole investigation.”

  “But I looked over those papers, ’fore I handed ’em ove
r,” said Willie. “There wasn’t any report on Tremain. Far as I could tell, wasn’t nothin’ in there to blackmail him with.”

  “Did you keep copies?”

  “Mr. T. took it all. Didn’t want loose papers floatin’ around.” Willie folded his hands behind his neck and stretched. Blots of sweat showed in his cavernous armpits. “Naw, I don’t think it was the files. I think someone went and offered him a little, you know, incentive payment to forget the whole thing. So that’s what he did.”

  “But Richard didn’t need the money,” said Miranda. “They couldn’t bribe him.”

  “Sweetie, you can bribe just about anyone,” said Willie, obviously an authority on such matters. “All it takes is the right price. And even a fella as rich as Tremain had his price.”

  * * *

  “The lazy man’s method of investigative journalism,” said Chase. “Hire a thug to steal the evidence.”

  “I had no idea he’d do such a thing,” said Miranda, gazing ahead in quiet disbelief. It was just after noon, a time when Main Street in Bass Harbor should have been bustling with tourists. Today, though, a cold summer drizzle had cooled the ardor of even the most inveterate sightseers. Miranda and Chase, hunched in their jackets, walked alone.

  “And I thought it was just talent,” she said softly. “The way he could pull a story together. Come up with evidence that surprised everyone. All that time he was paying someone to do the dirty work.”

  “It was just Richard’s way,” said Chase. “Meaning the easy way.”

  She looked at him. His hair, dampened by mist, was a cap of black, unruly waves. He stared straight ahead, his profile unrevealing. “Is that how he was as a boy?” she asked.

  “He was good at finding shortcuts. For a few bucks he’d get someone to write his book report. Or help him cram for tests. He even found some idiot to finish his math homework for him.” Chase grinned sheepishly. “Me.”

  “He bribed you into doing his homework?”

  “It was more like, well, blackmail.”

  “What did he have on you?”

  “Lots. Broken windows. Trampled flower beds. I was a pretty bad kid.”

  “But good at math, obviously.”