Presumed Guilty

by Tess Gerritsen

  “You said something about a letter,” said Chase. “Telling you to sell. Did Graffam send it?”

  “Wasn’t signed. I hear none of ’em were.”

  “So Richard got a letter, as well?”

  “I figure. So did Barretts down the way. Maybe everyone did. People wouldn’t talk about ’em.”

  “What did the letter say? The one you got?”

  “Lies. Mean, wicked lies....”

  “And the one they sent Richard?”

  Sully shrugged. “I wasn’t privy to that.”

  Miranda glanced around the kitchen with its overflowing shelves. A pack rat, this Mr. Sulaway was. He kept things, junk and treasure both. She said, “Do you still have that letter?”

  Sully hunched his shoulders, like a hermit crab about to retreat into its shell. He grunted. “Maybe.”

  “May we see it?”

  “I dunno.” He sighed, rubbed his face. “I dunno.”

  “We know they’re lies, Mr. Sulaway. We just want to see what tactics they’re using. We have to stop Graffam before he does any more damage.”

  For a moment Sully sat hunched and silent. Miranda thought he might not have heard what she said. But then he creaked to his feet and shuffled over to the kitchen counter. From the flour canister he pulled out a folded sheet of paper. He handed it to Miranda.

  She laid it flat on the table.

  “What really happened to Stanley? The Lula M knows. So do we.”

  Below those cryptic words was a handwritten note, penciled in. “Sell, Sully.”

  “Who’s Stanley?” asked Miranda.

  Sully had shrunk into his chair and was staring down at his leathery hands.

  “Mr. Sulaway?”

  The answer came out in a whisper. “My brother.”

  “What does that note refer to?”

  “It was a long time ago....” Sully wiped his eyes, as though to clear away some mist clouding his vision. “Just an accident,” he murmured. “Happens all the time out there. The sea, you can’t trust her. Can’t turn yer back on her....”

  “What happened to Stanley?” asked Miranda gently.

  “Got...got his boot caught in the trap line. Pulled him clean over the side. Water’s cold in December. It’ll freeze yer blood. I was aboard the Sally M, didn’t see it.” He turned, stared at the window. The trees outside seemed to close in upon the house, shutting it off from light, from warmth.

  They waited.

  He said softly, “I was the one found him. Draggin’ in the water off Lula’s stern. I cut him loose...hauled him aboard...brought him to port.” He shuddered. “That was it. Long time ago, fifty years. Maybe more....”

  “And this note?”

  “It’s a lie, got spread around after...”

  “After what?”

  “After I married Jessie.” He paused. “Stanley’s wife.”

  There it is, thought Miranda. The secret. The shame.

  “Mr. Sulaway?” asked Chase quietly. “What did they have on Richard?”

  Sully shook his head. “Didn’t tell me.”

  “But they did have something?”

  “Whatever it was, it didn’t make him sell. Had a hard head, your brother. That’s what got him in the end.”

  “Why didn’t you sell, Mr. Sulaway?” Miranda asked.

  The old man turned to her. “Because I won’t,” he said. She saw in his eyes the look of a man who’s been backed into the last corner of his life. “Ain’t no way they can scare me. Not now.”

  “Can’t they?”

  He shook his head. “I got cancer.”

  * * *

  “Do you think he killed his brother?” asked Miranda.

  They were walking along the road, through the dappled shade of pine and birch. Chase had his hands in his pockets, a frown on his brow. “What does it matter now, whether he did it or not?”

  Yes, what did it matter? she wondered. The old man was about to face his final judgment. Innocent or guilty, he’d already lived fifty years with the consequences.

  “It’s hard to believe Graffam was able to dig up that story,” said Miranda. “He’s a newcomer to the island. What he had on Sully was fifty years old. How did Graffam find out about it?”

  “Hired investigator?”

  “And he used the name ‘Sully’ in that note. Remember? Only a local person would use that nickname.”

  “So he had a local informant. Someone with his finger on the island’s pulse.”

  “Or someone in the business of knowing what goes on in this town,” she added, thinking of Willie B. Rodell and the Alamo Detective Agency.

  They came to a sign that read Harmony House.

  “Used to be called Frenchman’s Cottage,” said Chase. “Until the hippies bought it.” Down a rutted road they walked. They heard the tinkle of wind chimes before they saw the cottage. The sound floated through the trees, dancing on the breeze. The chimes were of iridescent glass, sparkling as they swayed from the porch overhang. The cottage door hung wide open.

  “Anyone home?” called Chase.

  At first only the wind chimes answered. Then, faintly, they heard the sound of laughter, approaching voices. Through the trees they saw them—two men and a woman, walking toward them.

  None of the three was wearing a stitch.

  The trio, spotting unexpected visitors, didn’t seem in the least perturbed. The woman had wild hair generously streaked with gray, and an expression of placid indifference. The two men flanking her were equally shaggy and serene. One of the men, silver-haired and weathered, seemed to be the official spokesperson. As his two companions went into the cottage, he came forward with his hand held out in greeting.

  “You’ve found Harmony House,” he said. “Or is this just a fortunate accident?”

  “It’s on purpose,” said Chase, shaking the man’s hand. “I’m Chase Tremain, Richard’s brother. He owned Rose Hill Cottage, up the road.”

  “Ah, yes. The place with the weird vibes.”

  “Weird?”

  “Vanna feels it whenever she gets close. Disharmonic waves. Tremors of dissonance.”

  “I must have missed it.”

  “Meat eaters usually do.” The man looked at Miranda. He had pale blue eyes and a gaze that was far too direct for comfort. “Does my natural state bother you?”

  “No,” she said. “It’s just that I’m not used to...” Her gaze drifted downward, then snapped back to his face.

  The man looked at her as though she were a creature to be pitied. “How far we’ve fallen from Eden,” he said, sighing. He went to the porch railing and grabbed a sarong that had been hanging out to dry. “But the first rule of hospitality,” he said, wrapping the cloth around his waist, “is to make your guests comfortable. So we’ll just cover the family jewels.” He motioned them into the cottage.

  Inside, the woman, Vanna, now also draped in a sarong, sat cross-legged beneath a stained-glass window. Her eyes were closed; her hands lay palm up on her knees. The other man knelt at a low table, rolling what appeared to be brown rice sushi. Potted plans were everywhere, thick as weeds. They blended right in with the Indonesian hangings, the dangling crystals, the smell of incense. The whole effect was jarred only by the fax machine in the corner.

  Their host, who went by the surprisingly mundane name of Fred, poured rose hip tea and offered them carob cookies. They came to Maine every summer, he said, to reconnect with the earth. New York was purgatory, a place with one foot in hell. False people, false values. They worked there only because it kept them in touch with the common folk. Plus, they needed the income. For most of the year they tolerated the sickness of city life, breathing in the toxins, poisoning their bodies with refined sugars. Summers were for cleansing. And that was why th
ey came here, why they left their jobs for two months every year.

  “What are your jobs?” asked Miranda.

  “We own the accounting firm of Nickels, Fay and Bledsoe. I’m Nickels.”

  “I’m Fay,” said the man rolling sushi.

  The woman, undoubtedly Bledsoe, continued to meditate in silence.

  “So you see,” said Fred Nickels, “there is no way we can be persuaded to sell. This land is a connection to our mother.”

  “Was it hers?” asked Chase.

  “Mother Earth owns everything.”

  Chase cleared his throat. “Oh.”

  “We refuse to sell. No matter how many of those ridiculous letters they send us—”

  Both Miranda and Chase sat up straight. “Letters?” they said simultaneously.

  “We three have lived together for fifteen years. Perfect sexual harmony. No jealousy, no friction. All our friends know it. So it would hardly upset us to have our arrangement announced to the world.”

  “Is that what the letters threatened to do?” asked Miranda.

  “Yes. ‘Expose your deviant lifestyle’ was the phrase, I think.”

  “You’re not the only ones to get a letter,” said Chase. “My hunch is, everyone on this road—everyone who didn’t want to sell—got one in the mail.”

  “Well, they threatened the wrong people here. Deviant lifestyles are exactly what we wish to promote. Am I right, friends?”

  The man with the sushi looked up and said, “Ho.”

  “He agrees,” said Fred.

  “Was the letter signed?” asked Miranda.

  “No. It was postmarked Bass Harbor, and it came to our house in New York.”

  “When?”

  “Three, four months ago. It advised us to sell the camp. It didn’t say to whom, specifically. But then we got the offer from Mr. Graffam, so I assumed he was behind it. I had Stone Coast Trust checked out. A few inquiries here and there, just to find out what I was dealing with. My sources say there’s money involved. Graffam’s just a front for a silent investor. My bet is it’s organized crime.”

  “What would they want with Shepherd’s Island?” asked Chase.

  “New York’s getting uncomfortable for ’em. Hotdog D.A.s and all that. I think they’re moving up the coast. And the north shore’s just the foothold they’d want. Tourist industry’s already booming up here. And look at this place! Ocean. Forest. No crime. Tell me some poor schlump from the city wouldn’t pay good money to stay at a resort right here.”

  “Did you ever meet Graffam?”

  “He paid us a visit, to talk land deal. And we told him, in no uncertain terms, to—” Fred stopped, grinned “—fornicate with himself. I’m not sure he knew the meaning of the word.”

  “What kind of man is he?” asked Miranda.

  Fred snorted. “Slick. Dumb. I mean, we’re talking really stupid. The IQ of an eggplant. What idiot names a development Hemlock Heights? Might as well call it Poison Oak Estates.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe he got those other suckers to sell.” He laughed. “You should meet him, Tremain. Tell me if you don’t agree he’s a throwback to our paramecium ancestors.”

  “A paramecium,” said the woman, Bledsoe, briefly opening her eyes, “is far more advanced.”

  “Unfortunately,” said Fred, “I’m afraid the rezoning

  is a fait accompli. Soon we’ll be surrounded. Condos

  here, a Dunkin’ Donuts there. The Cape Codification of Shepherd’s Island.” He paused. “And you know what? That’s when we’ll sell! My God, what a profit! We could buy a whole damn county up in the Allagash.”

  “The project could still be stopped,” said Miranda. “They won’t get their hands on Rose Hill. And the zoning could be reversed.”

  “Not a chance,” said Fred. “We’re talking tax income here. Conservation land brings in zilch for the island. But a nice little tourist resort? Hey, I’m a CPA. I know the powers of the almighty buck.”

  “There are people who’ll fight it.”

  “Makes no difference.” Fred sniffed appreciatively at his rose hip tea. The edges of his sarong had slipped apart and he sat with thighs naked. Incense smoke wafted about his grizzled head. “They can scream, protest. Lay their bodies before the bulldozers. But it’s hopeless. There are things people just can’t stop.”

  “A cynical answer,” said Miranda.

  “For cynical times.”

  “Well, they can’t buy Rose Hill,” said Miranda, rising to her feet. “And if organized crime’s behind these purchases, you can bet the island will fight back. People here don’t take well to mobsters. They don’t take to outsiders, period.”

  Fred gazed up at her with a smile. “But you are an outsider, aren’t you, Ms. Wood?”

  “I’m not from this island. I came here a year ago.”

  “Yet they accepted you.”

  “No, they didn’t.” Miranda turned toward the door. She stood there for a moment, staring through the screen. Outside, the trees were swaying under a canopy of blue sky. “They never accepted me,” she said softly. “And you know what?” She let out a long sigh of resignation. “I’ve only now come to realize it. They never will.”

  * * *

  There was a third car parked in the driveway at Rose Hill.

  They saw it as they walked up the last bend of the road—a late-model Saab with a gleaming burgundy finish. A glance through the car window revealed a spotless interior, not even a loose business card or candy wrapper on the leather upholstery.

  The screen door squealed open and Miss St. John came out on the porch. “There you are,” she said. “We have a visitor. Jill Vickery.”

  Of course, thought Miranda. Who else would manage to keep such an immaculate car?

  Jill was standing amidst all the books, holding a box in her arms. She glanced at Miranda with a look of obvious surprise, but made no comment about her presence. “Sorry to pop in unannounced,” she said. “I had to get a few records. Phillip and I are meeting the accountant tomorrow. You know, working out any tax problems for the transfer of the Herald.”

  Chase frowned. “You found the financial records here?”

  “Just last month’s worth. I couldn’t find them back in the office, so I figured he’d brought them out here to work on. I was right.”

  “Where were they?” asked Chase. “We’ve combed all through his files. I never saw them.”

  “They were upstairs. The nightstand drawer.” How she knew where to look was something she didn’t bother to explain. She glanced around the front room. “You’ve certainly torn the place apart. What are you looking for? Hidden treasure?”

  “Any and all files on Stone Coast Trust,” said Chase.

  “Yes, Annie mentioned you were dogging that angle. Personally, I think it’s a dead end.” Coolly she turned to look at Miranda. “And how are things going for you?” It was merely a polite question, carrying neither warmth nor concern.

  “Things are...difficult,” said Miranda.

  “I can imagine. I hear you’re staying with Annie these days.”

  “Only temporarily.”

  Jill flashed her one of those ironic smiles. “It’s rather inconvenient, actually. The trial was going to be Annie’s story. And now you’re living with her. I’ll have to pull her off it. Objective reporting and all.”

  “No one at the Herald could possibly be objective,” Chase pointed out.

  “I suppose not.” Jill shifted the box in her arms. “Well, I’d better be going. Let you get on with your search.”

  “Ms. Vickery?” called Miss St. John. “I wonder if you could shed some light on an item we found here.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s a note, from someone named M.” Miss St. John handed her the slip of p
aper. “Miranda here didn’t write it. Do you know who did?”

  Jill read the note without any apparent emotion, not even a twitch of her perfect eyebrow. Miranda thought, If only I had an ounce of her style, her poise.

  “It’s not dated. So...” Jill looked up. “I can think of several possibilities. None of them had that particular initial. But M could stand for a nickname. Or just the word me.”

  “Several possibilities?”

  “Yes.” Jill glanced uneasily at Miranda. “Richard, he...had his attractions. Especially for the female summer interns. There was that one we had last year. Before you were hired, Miranda. Her name was Chloe something or other. Couldn’t write worth a damn, but she was good decoration. And she picked up interviews no one else could get, which drove poor Annie up a wall.” Jill looked again at the note. “This was typed on a manual typewriter. See? The e loop’s smudged, key needs to be cleaned. If I remember right, Chloe always worked on an old manual. The only one in the office who couldn’t compose on a computer keyboard.” She gave the note back to Miss St. John. “It could have been her.”

  “Whatever happened to Chloe?” asked Chase.

  “What you’d expect to happen. Some hot and heavy flirting. A few fireworks. And then, just another broken heart.”

  Miranda felt her throat tighten, her face flush. None of them was looking directly at her, but she knew she was the focus of their attention, as surely as if they were staring. She went to the window and found herself gripping the curtain, fighting to keep her head erect, her spine straight. Another broken heart. It made her feel like some object on an assembly line, just another stupid, gullible woman. It’s what they thought of her.

  It’s what she thought of herself.

  Jill again shifted her box of papers. “I’d better get back to the office or the mice will play.” She went to the door, then stopped. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you, Chase. Annie just heard the news.”

  “What news?” asked Chase.

  “Tony Graffam’s back in town.”

  Miranda didn’t react. She heard Jill go down the porch steps, heard the Saab’s engine roar to life, the tires crunch away across the gravel. She felt Chase’s and Miss St. John’s gaze on her back. They were watching her in silence, an unbearable, pitying silence.