Presumed Guilty

by Tess Gerritsen

  Chase laughed. “When someone threatened exposure, I was good at a lot of things.”

  “And Richard took advantage of it.”

  “He was older. In a lot of ways, smarter. Everyone liked him, wanted to believe the best of him. And the worst of me.” He shook his head. “I can see the same thing happening with his kids now. Phillip’s the golden boy. And Cassie, she’ll be trying all her life to match up.”

  “Will you be trying all your life to match up?”

  He looked at her, then looked away. “No. I don’t particularly care to make the same mistakes Richard did.”

  Meaning me, she thought.

  The day suddenly seemed colder, darker. It was more than just her sagging spirits. The drizzle had turned to rain.

  “Let’s duck in someplace and get lunch,” said Chase. “We’ve got another hour and a half till the ferry leaves.”

  They found a café tucked into an alley off Main Street. From the outside it seemed an unassuming little place with a name to match: Mary Jane’s. It was the whiff of rich coffee and grilled meat that finally drew them in. Nothing fancy served here, just good plain food, roast chicken and red potatoes and crisp green beans, accompanied by freshly brewed coffee. Miranda’s spirits might be sagging, but her appetite was in fine shape. She moved on to a slice of peach pie and a third round of coffee. A good thing she didn’t normally react to stress by overeating. By now she’d be twenty pounds overweight.

  “In a way,” said Chase, “I’m relieved to learn the truth about those files.”

  “Relieved to learn Richard paid for an out-and-out burglary?”

  “At least he wasn’t the one snooping on his neighbors. The one planning blackmail.”

  She set down her fork. “Yes, I suppose you could talk yourself into thinking that breaking into Stone Coast Trust was somehow, well, morally correct.”

  “I’m not saying it was. But I can see how Richard might justify it. He’s seen the coast eaten away by development. Then it hits close to home and he figures it’s time to play dirty. Find out what you can about the developer. Steal a few files, financial records. Throw it back in the other guy’s face.”

  “But he didn’t. That’s the strange part. He paid Rodell to steal those files. Then, after he gets hold of them, he drops the whole crusade. Kills the article, fires Rodell.” She paused, and added softly, “And changes his will.”

  Chase frowned. “I don’t see how that’s related.”

  “The timing fits. Maybe he found something in those papers that got him angry at Evelyn. Made him decide to keep her from ever getting Rose Hill.”

  “You think there was a file on Evelyn? We didn’t see one.”

  “He might’ve destroyed it. Or it could have been taken from the cottage. After his death.”

  They both fell silent at the implications of that statement. Who but Evelyn herself would bother to take such a file?

  “This is crazy,” said Chase. “Why would Evelyn steal it? It was her own damn cottage. She could walk in and out without anyone raising an eyebrow.” He reached for his coffee cup, took a deliberate sip. “I can’t see her breaking in and trashing the place.”

  You can’t see her killing anyone, either. Can you? she thought. She wondered about Chase and his sister-in-law. Was their relationship merely cordial? Or did it run deeper than that? He’d stubbornly resisted the possibility that Evelyn might be guilty of wrongdoing, be it theft or murder. Miranda could understand why. Evelyn was a beautiful woman.

  Now a free woman.

  There was, after all, an appealing tidiness to a match between Chase and Evelyn. It would keep the money in the family, the same last name on the checkbook. Everyone would slip into their new roles with a minimum of muss and fuss. Chase had spent his boyhood trying to live up to his brother’s image. Now he could slip right into Richard’s place. Much as Miranda hated to admit it, such a mating would have a certain symmetry, a social correctness.

  Something I’d never be able to give him.

  The waitress came by with the check. Miranda reached for it, but Chase snatched it up first. “I’ll take care of it,” he said.

  Miranda took a few bills from her pocket and laid them on the table.

  “What’s that for?” asked Chase.

  “Call it pride,” she said, rising to her feet, “but I always pay my way.”

  “With me you don’t have to.”

  “I have to,” she said flatly. “Especially with you.” She grabbed her jacket and headed out the door.

  He caught up with her outside. The rain had stopped but the sun had not yet emerged and the sky was a cold monochrome of gray. They walked side by side for a moment, not quite friends, not quite strangers.

  “I’ll be honest,” he said. “I wasn’t planning to see you today. Or ever again.”

  “It’s a small town, Chase. It’s hard to avoid a person here.”

  “I was going to drive back to Greenwich tomorrow.”

  “Oh.” She lowered her eyes, willing herself not to feel disappointment. Or hurt. All those emotions she’d vowed never to feel for another Tremain. The emotions she was feeling now.

  “But I’ve been thinking,” he said.

  Those four words made her halt and look up at him. He’s watching me, waiting for me to reveal myself. Give myself away as beguiled and bedazzled.

  Which, damn it, I am.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said, “of staying a few more days. Just to clear up those questions about Richard.”

  She said nothing.

  “Anyway, that’s why I’m staying in town. It’s the only reason.”

  Her chin came up. “Did I imply otherwise?”

  “No.” He let out a breath. “No, you didn’t.”

  They walked on, another block, another silence.

  “You’ll be looking for the same answers, I expect,” he said.

  “I don’t have much choice, do I? It’s my future. My freedom.”

  “Look, I know it makes sense, in a way, for you and I to work together. But it’s not exactly...”

  “Seemly,” she finished for him. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it? That it’s embarrassing for you to be consorting with a woman like me.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Never mind, Chase.” In irritation she turned and continued walking. “You’re right, of course. We can’t work together. Because we don’t really trust each other. Do we?”

  He didn’t answer. He simply walked beside her, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. And that, more than anything he could have said, was what hurt her most.

  * * *

  They might not trust each other. They might not want anything to do with each other. But the simple fact was, if they wanted answers, the cottage was where they both had to look. So when Miranda pulled into the gravel driveway of Rose Hill the next morning she was not surprised to see Chase’s car already parked there. Ozzie was sprawled on the front porch, looking dejected. He managed a few halfhearted wags of his tail as she came up the steps, but when he saw she wasn’t going to invite him inside he flopped back down into a whimpering imitation of a shag rug.

  Miss St. John and Chase had already gone through the second bookcase. The place was looking more and more like a disaster zone, with cardboard boxes filled with papers, books precariously stacked in towers, empty coffee cups and dirty spoons littering the end tables.

  “I see you started without me,” said Miranda, careful to avoid looking at Chase. He was just as carefully avoiding her gaze. “What have you found?”

  “Odds and ends,” said Miss St. John, thoughtfully eyeing them both. “Shopping lists, receipts. Another love note from M. And a few quite literate college term papers.”

  “Phillip’s?”

  “
Cassandra’s. She must have done some writing out here. A few of the books are hers, as well.”

  Miranda picked up a bundle of papers and glanced through the titles. “A political analysis of the Boer conflict.” “Doom foretold: the French colonialists in Vietnam.” “The media and presidential politics.” All were authored by Cassandra Tremain.

  “A smart cookie,” said Miss St. John. “A pity that slick brother of hers always steals the spotlight.”

  Miranda dug deeper in the box and pulled out the latest note from M. It was typewritten.

  I waited till midnight—you never came. Did you forget? I wanted to call, but I’m always afraid she’ll pick up the phone. She has you every weekend, every night, every holiday. I get the dregs.

  How can you say you love me, when you leave me here, waiting for you? I’m worth more than this. I really am.

  Quietly Miranda let the note flutter back into the box. Then she went to the window and stood staring out, toward the sea. Pity stirred inside her, for the woman who had written that note, for the pain she’d suffered. The price we both paid for loving the wrong man.

  “Miranda?” Chase asked. “Is something wrong?”

  “No.” She cleared her throat and turned to him. “I’m fine. So...where should I start looking?”

  “You could help me finish with this shelf. I’m finding papers here and there, so it’s going slower than I expected.”

  “Yes, of course.” She went to the shelf, pulled out a book and sat on the floor beside him. Not too close, not too far. Neither friends nor enemies, she thought. Just two people sharing the same rug, the same purpose. For that, we don’t even have to like each other.

  For an hour they flipped through pages, brushed away dust. Most of the books, it seemed, hadn’t been opened in ages. There were old postcards dated twenty years earlier, addressed to Chase’s mother. There was a hand-scrawled list of bird species sighted at Rose Hill, and a library notice from twelve years before, still stuck in the overdue book. Over the years, so many bits and pieces of the Tremain and Pruitt families had ended up on these shelves. It took time to sort out the vital from the trivial.

  An oversize atlas of the state of Maine provided the next clue. Chase pulled it off the shelf and glanced in the front cover. Then he turned and called, “Miss St. John? You ever heard of a place called Hemlock Heights?”

  “No. Why?”

  “There’s a map of it tucked in here.” Chase pulled the document out of the atlas and spread it out on the rug. It was a collection of six photocopied pages taped together to form a site map. The pages looked fairly fresh. Property lines had been sketched in, and the lots were labeled by number. At the top was the development’s name: Hemlock Heights. “I wonder if Richard was thinking of investing in real estate.”

  Miss St. John crouched down for a closer look. “Wait. This looks rather familiar. Isn’t this our access road? And this lot at the end—lot number one. That’s Rose Hill. I recognized that little jag up the mountain.”

  Chase nodded. “You’re right. That’s exactly what this is. Here’s St. John’s Wood. And the stone wall.”

  “It’s the Stone Coast Trust map,” said Miranda. “See? Most of the lots are labeled Sold.”

  “Good heavens,” said Miss St. John. “I had no idea so many of the camps have changed hands. There are only four of us who haven’t sold out to Tony Graffam.”

  “What kind of offer did he make for St. John’s Wood?” asked Miranda.

  “It was a very good price at the time. When I refused to sell he bumped it up even higher. That was a year ago. I couldn’t understand why the offer was so generous. You see, this was all conservation land. These old camps were grandfathered in, built before the days of land commissions. The cottages were allowed to stand, but you couldn’t develop any of it. From a commercial standpoint the land was worthless. Then suddenly it’s all been rezoned for development. And now I’m sitting on a gold mine.” She looked at the other unsold lots on the map. “So is old Sulaway. And the hippies in Frenchman’s Cottage.”

  “And Tony Graffam,” said Miranda.

  “But what if the zoning decision was a sham?” said Chase. “What if there were payoffs? If that fact became public knowledge...”

  “My guess is, there’d be such protest, the zoning would be reversed,” said Miss St. John. “And Mr. Graffam would be the proud owner of a lot of worthless property.”

  “But it’s worthless to him right now, Miss St. John,” said Miranda, studying the map. “Graffam needs that access road to get to his lots. And you said the road belongs—belonged—to Richard.”

  “Yes, we keep coming back to that, don’t we?” said Chase softly. “That link between Richard and Stone Coast Trust. The link that refuses to go away....” He stood, clapping the dust from his trousers. “Maybe it’s time we paid a visit to our neighbors.”

  “Which ones?” asked Miranda.

  “Sulaway and the hippies. The other two on this road who didn’t sell. Let’s find out if Graffam put any pressure to bear. Like a blackmail note or two.”

  “He didn’t try to blackmail Miss St. John,” pointed out Miranda. “And she didn’t sell.”

  “Ah, but my property’s scarcely worth the effort,” said Miss St. John. “I’m just a tiny patch off to the side. And as for trying to blackmail me, well, you saw for yourself he doesn’t have a thing on me worth mentioning. Not that I wouldn’t mind generating a whiff of scandal at my age.”

  “The others could be more vulnerable,” said Chase. “Old Sulaway, for instance. We should at least talk to him.”

  “A good idea,” said Miss St. John. “Since you thought of it, Chase, you do it.”

  Chase laughed. “You are a coward, Miss St. John.”

  “No, I’m just too old for the aggravation.”

  Without warning, Chase reached for Miranda’s hand and with one smooth motion pulled her up in an arc that almost, but not quite, ended in his arms. She reached out to steady herself and found her palms pressing against his chest. At once she stepped back.

  “Is this a request for me to come along?” she said.

  “It’s more along the lines of a plea. To help me soften up old Sulaway.”

  “Does he need softening up?”

  “Let’s just say he hasn’t taken kindly to me since I batted a baseball through his window. And that was twenty-five years ago.”

  Miranda laughed in disbelief. “You sound like you’re afraid of him. Both of you.”

  “Obviously she’s never met old Sulaway,” said Miss St. John.

  “Is there something I should know about him?”

  Chase and Miss St. John glanced at each other.

  “Just be careful when you walk into his front yard,” said Miss St. John. “Give him lots of warning. And be ready to get out of there fast.”

  “Why? Does he have a dog or something?”

  “No. But he does have a shotgun.”

  Ten

  “You’re that boy who broke my window!” yelled Homer Sulaway. “Yeah, I recognize you.” He stood on the front porch, his skinny arms looped around a rifle, his lobsterman’s dungarees rolled up at the ankles. Chase had told Miranda the man was eighty-five. The toothless, prune-faced apparition on that porch looked about a century older. “You two go on, now! Leave me alone. Can’t afford to fix no more broken windows.”

  “But I paid for it, remember?” said Chase. “Had to mow lawns for six months, but I did pay for it.”

  “Damn right,” said Sully. “Or I’d ’a got it outta your old man’s hide.”

  “Can we talk to you, Mr. Sulaway?”

  “What about?”

  “Stone Coast Trust. I wanted to know if—”

  “Not interested.” Sully turned and shuffled back across the porch.
r />   “Mr. Sulaway, I have a young lady here who’d like to ask—”

  “Don’t have no use for young ladies. Or old ladies, either.” The screen door slammed shut behind him.

  There was a silence. “Well,” muttered Chase. “The old boy’s definitely mellowed.”

  “I think he’s afraid,” said Miranda. “That’s why he’s not talking to us.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “Let’s find out.” She approached the cottage and called, “Mr. Sulaway? All we want to know is, are they trying to blackmail you? Has Stone Coast threatened you in some way?”

  “Those are lies they’re spreading!” Sulaway yelled through the screen door. “Vicious lies! Not true, any of it!”

  “That’s not what Tony Graffam says.”

  The door flew open and Sully stormed out onto the porch. “What’s Graffam got to say about me? What’s he tellin’ people now?”

  “We could stand out here and yell about it. Or we could talk in private. Which do you prefer?”

  Sulaway glanced around, as though searching for watchers in the woods. Then he snapped, “Well? You two need an engraved invitation, or what?”

  They followed him inside. Sully’s kitchen was a dark little space, the windows closed in by trees, every shelf and countertop crammed full with junk and knickknacks. Newspapers were stacked in piles about the floor. The kitchen table was about the only unoccupied surface. They sat around it, in old ladder-back chairs that look dangerously close to collapse.

  “Your brother’s the one they was really pressurin’,” Sully told Chase. “But Richard, he wasn’t about to give in, no sir. He tells us, we gotta stick together. Says we can’t sell, no matter how many letters they send us, how many lies they tell.” Sully shook his head. “Didn’t do no good. Just about everybody on this road went and signed on Graffam’s dotted line, just like that. And Richard, look what went and happened to him. Hear he got himself poked with a knife.”

  Miranda saw Chase glance in her direction. Old Sully was so out of touch he didn’t realize he was sitting with the very woman accused of plunging that knife into Richard Tremain.