Presumed Guilty & Keeper of the Bride (6 page)

“Someone else interested?”

“Miranda Wood. She just asked about it. I told her that as far as I know, the story was never written. At least, I never saw it.”

“But it was scheduled to run?”

“Until Richard canceled it.”

“Why?”

She sat back and smoothly flicked her hair off her face. “I wouldn’t know. I suspect he didn’t have enough evidence to go to print.”

“What, exactly, is the story on Stone Coast Trust?”

“Small-town stuff, really. Not very interesting to outsiders.”

“Try me.”

“It had to do with developers’ rights. Stone Coast has been buying up property on the north shore. Near Rose Hill Cottage, as a matter of fact, so you know how lovely it is up there. Pristine coastline, trees. Tony Graffam—he’s president of Stone Coast—claimed he was out to preserve the area. Then we heard rumors of a high-class development in the works. And then, a month ago, the zoning on those lots was abruptly changed from conservation to resort. It’s now wide open to development.”

“That’s all there is to the article?”

“In a nutshell. May I ask the reason for your interest?”

“It was something Miranda Wood told me. About other people having motives to kill my brother.”

“In this case, she’s stretching the point.” Jill rose to her feet. “But one can hardly blame her for trying. She hasn’t much else to grab onto.”

“You think she’ll be convicted?”

“I wouldn’t want to hazard a guess. But from what my news staff tells me, it sounds likely.”

“You mean that reporter? Annie something?”

“Annie Berenger. Yes, she’s assigned to the story.”

“Can I talk to her?”

Jill frowned. “Why?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just trying to understand who this Miranda Wood really is. Why she would kill.” He sat back, ran his hand through his hair. “I still can’t quite fit the pieces together. I thought, maybe someone who’s been watching the case—someone who knew her personally…”

“Of course. I understand.” The words were sympathetic but her eyes were indifferent. “I’ll send Annie in to talk to you.”

She left. A moment later Annie Berenger appeared.

“Come in,” said Chase. “Have a seat.”

Annie shut the door and sat in the chair across from him. She looked like a reporter: frizzy red hair streaked with gray, sharp eyes, wrinkled slacks. She also reeked of cigarettes. It brought back memories of his father. All she needed was a splash of whiskey on her breath. A good old newsman’s smell.

She was watching him with clear suspicion. “Boss lady says you want to talk about Miranda.”

“You knew her pretty well?”

“The word is
know.
Present tense. Yes, I do.”

“What do you think of her?”

Her mouth twitched into a smile. “This is your own private investigation?”

“Call it my quest for the truth. Miranda Wood denies killing my brother. What do you think?”

Annie lit a cigarette. “You know, I used to cover the police beat in Boston.”

“So you’re familiar with murder.”

“In a manner of speaking.” Leaning back, she thoughtfully exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Miranda had the motive. Oh, we all knew about the affair. It’s hard to hide something like that in this newsroom. I tried to, well, advise her against it. But she follows her heart, you know? And it got her into trouble. That’s not to say she did it. Killed him.” Annie flicked off an ash. “I don’t think she did.”

“Then who did?”

Annie shrugged.

“You think it’s tied to the Tony Graffam story?”

Annie’s eyebrow shot up. “You dig stuff up fast. Must run in the family, that newsman’s nose.”

“Miranda Wood says Richard had a story about to break. True?”

“He said he did. I know he was writing it. He had a few more details to check before it went to print.”

“What details?”

“Financial data, about Stone Coast Trust. Richard had just got his hands on some account information.”

“Why didn’t the article get to print?”

“Honest opinion?” Annie snorted. “Because Jill Vickery didn’t want to risk a libel suit.”

Chase frowned. “But Jill says the article doesn’t exist. That Richard never wrote it.”

Annie blew out a last breath of smoke and stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. “Here’s a piece of wisdom for you, Mr. T,” she said. She looked him in the eye. “Never trust your editor.”

Did the article exist or didn’t it?

Chase spent the next hour searching the files in Richard’s office. He found nothing under
G
for Graffam or
S
for Stone Coast Trust. He tried a few more headings, but none of them panned out. Did Richard keep the file at home?

It was late afternoon when he finally returned to the house. To his relief, Evelyn and the twins were out. He had the place to himself. He went straight into Richard’s home office and continued his search for the Graffam file.

He didn’t find it. Yet Miranda claimed it existed. So did Annie Berenger.

Something strange was going on, something that added to all his doubts about Miranda’s guilt. He mentally played back all the holes in the prosecution’s case. The lack of fingerprints on the murder weapon. The fact she had passed the polygraph test. And the woman herself—proud, unyielding in her protestations of innocence.

He gave up trying to talk himself out of his next move. There was no way around it. Not if he wanted to know more. Not if he wanted to shake these doubts.

He had to talk to Miranda Wood.

He pulled on his windbreaker and headed out into the dusk.

Five blocks later he turned onto Willow Street. It was just the way he’d remembered it, a tidy, middle-class neighborhood with inviting front porches and well-tended lawns. Through the fading light he could just make out the address numbers. A few more houses to go….

Farther up the street a screen door slammed shut. He saw a woman come down her porch steps and start toward him along the sidewalk. He recognized her silhouette, the thick cloud of hair, the slim figure clad in jeans. She’d taken only a few steps when she spotted him and stopped dead in her tracks.

“I have to talk to you,” he said.

“I made a promise, remember?” she answered. “Not to go near you or your family. Well, I’m keeping that promise.” She turned and started to walk away.

“This is different. I have to ask you about Richard.”

She kept walking.

“Will you listen to me?”

“That’s how I got into this mess!” she shot back over her shoulder. “Listening to a Tremain!”

He watched in frustration as she headed swiftly up the street. It was useless to pursue her. She was already a block away now, and by the set of her shoulders he could tell she wasn’t going to change her mind. In fact, she had just stepped off the sidewalk and was crossing the street, as though to put the width of the road between them.

Forget her,
he thought.
If she’s too stubborn to listen, let her go to jail.

Chase turned and had started in the opposite direction when a car drove past. He would scarcely have noticed it except for one detail: its headlights were off. A few paces was all it took for Chase to register that fact. He stopped, turned. Far ahead, Miranda’s slender figure was crossing the street.

By then the car had moved halfway down the block.

The driver’ll see her in time,
he thought.
He has to see her.

The car’s engine suddenly revved up in a threatening growl of power. Tires screeched. The car leaped forward in a massive blur of steel and smoke, and roared ahead through the shadows.

It was aiming straight for Miranda.

Five

T
he headlights sprang on, trapping its insubstantial victim in a blaze of light.

“Look out!” Chase shouted.

Miranda whirled and found her eyes flooded with a terrible, blinding brightness. Even as the car shot closer and those lights threatened to engulf her, she was paralyzed by disbelief, by the detached sense of certainty that this was not really happening. She had no time to reason it out. An instant before that ton of steel could slam into her body, her reflexes took over. She flung herself sideways, out of the path of the onrushing headlights.

Suddenly she was flying, suspended for an eternity in the summer darkness as death rushed past her in a roar of wind and light.

And then she was lying on the grass.

She didn’t know how long she had been there. She knew only that the grass was damp, that her head hurt and that gentle hands were stroking her face. Someone called her name, again and again. It was a voice she knew, a voice she thought, in that confused moment, she must have known all her life. Its very timbre seemed to blanket her with the warmth of safety.

Again he called her name, and this time she heard panic in his voice.
He’s afraid. Why?

She opened her eyes and dazedly focused on his face. That’s when she registered exactly who he was. All illusion of safety fell away.

“Don’t.” She brushed his hand aside. “Don’t touch me.”

“Lie still.”

“I don’t need you!” She struggled to sit up, but found herself unable to move under his restraining hands. He had her pinned by her shoulders to the grass.

“Look,” he said, his voice maddeningly reasonable. “You took a mean tumble. You might have broken something—”

“I said, don’t touch me!” Defiantly she shoved him away and sat up. Pure rage propelled her to her knees. Then, as the night wavered before her eyes, she found herself sinking back to the grass. There she sat and clutched her spinning head. “Oh, God,” she groaned. “Why can’t you just—just go away and leave me alone.”

“Not on your life,” came the answer, grim and resolute.

To her amazement she was suddenly, magically lifted up into the air. Through her anger she had to admit it felt good to be carried, good to be held, even if the man holding her was Chase Tremain. She was floating, borne like a featherweight through the darkness.
Toward what?
she wondered with sudden apprehension.

“That’s enough,” she protested. “Let me down.”

“Only a few more steps.”

“I hope you get a hernia.”

“Keep up the damn wiggling and I will.”

He swept her up the porch steps and in the front door. With unerring instinct he carried her straight to the bedroom and managed to flick on the wall switch. The room—the bed—sprang into view. The bed where she’d found Richard. Though the blood was gone, the mattress new and unstained, this room would always remind her of death. She hadn’t slept here since that night, would never sleep here again.

She shuddered against him. “Please,” she whispered, turning her face against his chest. “Not here. Not this room.”

For a moment he paused, not understanding. Then, gently he answered, “Whatever you say, Miranda.”

He carried her back to the living room and lowered her onto the couch. She felt the cushions sag as he sat beside her. “Does anything hurt?” he asked. “Your back? Your neck?”

“My shoulder, a little. I think I fell on it.”

She flinched at the touch of his hands. Carefully he maneuvered her arm, checking its range of motion. She was scarcely aware of the occasional twinges he evoked from her muscles. Her attention was too acutely focused on the face gazing down at her. Once again she was struck by how unlike Richard he was. It wasn’t just the blackness of his hair and eyes. It was his calmness under fire, as though he held any emotions he might be feeling under tight rein. This was not a man who’d easily reveal himself, or his secrets, to anyone.

“It seems all right,” he said, straightening. “Still, I’d better call a doctor. Who do you see?”

“Dr. Steiner.”

“Steiner? Is that old goat still in practice?”

“Look, I’m okay. I don’t need to see him.”

“Let’s just be on the safe side.” He reached for the telephone.

“But Dr. Steiner doesn’t make house calls,” she protested. “He never has.”

“Then tonight,” Chase said grimly, dialing the phone, “I guess we’re going to make history.”

Lorne Tibbetts poured himself a cup of coffee and turned to look at Chase. “What I want to know is, what in blazes are you doing here?”

Chase, leaning over Miranda’s kitchen table, wearily rubbed his face. “To tell you the truth, Lorne,” he muttered, “I don’t know.”

“Oh.”

“I guess I thought I could…figure things out. Make sense of what’s happened.”

“That’s our job, Chase. Not yours.”

“Yeah, I know. But—”

“You don’t think I’m doing a good job?”

“I just get this feeling there’s more than meets the eye. Now I know there is.”

“You mean that car?” Lorne shrugged. “Doesn’t prove a thing.”

“He was
aiming
for her. I saw it. As soon as she stepped into the street he hit the gas.”

“He?”

“He, she. It was dark. I didn’t see the driver. Just the license plate. And the taillights. Big car, American. I’m pretty sure.”

“Color?”

“Dark. Black, maybe blue.”

Lorne nodded. “You’re not a bad witness, Chase.”

“What do you mean?”

“I had Ellis check on that license number. Matches a brown ’88 Lincoln, registered to an island resident.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Eddie Lanzo. Ms. Wood’s next-door neighbor.”

Chase stared at him. “Her neighbor? Have you brought him in yet?”

“The car was stolen, Chase. You know how it is around here. Folks leave their keys in the ignition. We found the car over by the pier.”

Chase sat back, stunned. “So the driver’s untraceable,” he said. “That makes it even more likely he was trying to kill her.”

“It just means it was some crazy kid out for a joyride. Got his hands on that wheel, got a little overwhelmed by all that power, pushed too hard on the gas pedal.”

“Lorne, he was out to kill her.”

Lorne sat down and looked him in the eye. “And what are you out to do?”

“Learn the truth.”

“You don’t believe she did it?”

“I’ve been hearing some things, Lorne. Other names, other motives. Tony Graffam, for instance.”

“We’ve looked into that. Graffam was off the island when your brother was killed. I have half a dozen witnesses who’ll say so.”

“He could have hired someone.”

“Graffam was in big enough trouble with that north shore development. Charges of bribing the land planning commission. That article would’ve simply been the last nail in the coffin. Anyway, how does this tie in with what happened tonight? Why would he go after Miranda Wood?”

Chase fell silent at that question. He couldn’t see a motive, either. Other people in town might dislike Miranda, but who would go to the trouble of killing her?

“Maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way,” said Chase. “Let’s ask a more basic question. Who put up the bail money? Someone wanted her out so badly he put up a hundred thousand dollars.”

“A secret admirer?”

“In jail she’s safe. Out here she’s a sitting duck. You have any idea who bailed her out, Lorne?”

“No.”

“The money could be traced.”

“A lawyer handled the transfer of funds. All cash. Came from some Boston account. Only the bank knows the account holder’s identity. And they aren’t talking.”

“Subpoena the bank. Get the name on that account.”

“It’ll take time.”

“Do it, Lorne. Before something else happens.”

Lorne went to the sink and rinsed his coffee cup. “I still don’t see why you’re getting into this,” he said.

Chase himself didn’t know the answer. Just this morning he’d wanted Miranda Wood put behind bars. Now he wasn’t sure what he wanted. That innocent face, her heartfelt denials of guilt had him thoroughly confused.

He looked around the kitchen, thinking it didn’t
look
like the kitchen of a murderess. Plants hung near the window, obviously well tended and well loved. The wallpaper had dainty wildflowers scattered across an eggshell background. Tacked to the refrigerator were snapshots of two little towheaded boys—nephews, maybe?—a schedule of the local garden club meetings and a shopping list. At the bottom of the list was written “cinnamon tea.” Was that the sort of beverage a murderess would drink? He couldn’t picture Miranda holding a knife in one hand and a cup of herbal tea in the other.

Chase looked around as Dr. Steiner shuffled into the kitchen. Some things on the island never changed, and this old grouch was one of them. He looked exactly the same as Chase remembered from his boyhood, right down to the wrinkled brown suit and the alligator medical bag. “All this to-do,” the doctor said disapprovingly. “For nothin’ but a muscle strain.”

“You sure about that?” asked Chase. “She was sort of dazed for a minute. Right after it happened.”

“I looked her over good. She’s fine, neurologically speaking. You just keep an eye on her tonight, young man. Make sure she doesn’t get into trouble. You know, headache, double vision, confusion—”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“I can’t stay and watch her. It’s awkward. Considering…”

“No kidding,” muttered Lorne.

“She’s not my responsibility,” said Chase. “What do I do?”

Dr. Steiner grunted and turned for the kitchen door. “You figure it out. By the way,” he said, pausing in the doorway, “I don’t do house calls.” The door slammed shut.

Chase turned to find Lorne looking at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” said Lorne. He reached for his hat. “I’m going home.”

“And what the hell am I supposed to do?”

“That,” said Lorne with an I-told-you-so look, “is your problem.”

Miranda lay on the living-room couch and stared at the ceiling. She could hear voices from the kitchen, the sound of the door opening and closing. She wondered what Chase had told them, whether Tibbetts believed any of it. She herself couldn’t believe what had happened. But all she had to do was close her eyes and it came back to her: the roar of the car engine, the twin headlights rushing at her.

Who hates me so much they want me dead?

It wasn’t hard to come up with an answer. The Tremain family. Evelyn and Phillip and Cassie….

And Chase.

No, that wasn’t possible. His shout of warning had saved her life. If not for him, she would be lying right now on a slab in Ben LaPorte’s Funeral Home.

That thought made her shudder. Hugging herself, she burrowed deeper into the couch cushions, seeking some safe little nook in which to hide. She heard the kitchen door open and shut again, then footsteps creaked into the living room and approached the couch. She looked up and saw Chase.

Weariness was what she read in his eyes, and uncertainty, as though he hadn’t quite made up his mind what should be done next. Or what should be said next. He’d shed his windbreaker. His chambray shirt was the comfortably faded blue of a well-worn, well-loved garment. That shirt reminded her of her father, of how it used to feel to nestle her face against his shoulder, of those wondrous childhood scents of laundry soap and pipe tobacco and safety. That was what she saw in that faded blue shirt, what she longed for.

What she’d never find with this man.

Chase sat in the armchair. A prudent distance away, she noted.
Keeping me at arm’s length.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine.” She kept her voice like his—detached, neutral. She added, “You can leave if you want.”

“No. Not yet. I’ll wait here awhile, if that’s okay. Until Annie gets here.”

“Annie?”

“I didn’t know who else to call. She said she’d be over to spend the night. You should have someone here to keep an eye on you. Make sure you don’t slide into a coma or something.”

She gave a tired laugh. “A coma would feel pretty good right now.”

“That’s not very funny.”

She looked up at the ceiling. “You’re right. It isn’t.”

There was a long silence.

Finally he said, “That wasn’t an accident, Miranda. He was trying to kill you.”

She didn’t answer. She lay there fighting back the sob swelling in her throat.
Why should it matter to you?
she thought.
You, of all people.

“Maybe you haven’t heard,” he said. “The car belonged to your neighbor. Mr. Lanzo.”

She looked at him sharply. “Eddie Lanzo would never hurt me! He’s the only one who’s stood by me. My one friend in this town.”

“I didn’t say it was him. Lorne thinks the driver stole Mr. Lanzo’s car. They found it abandoned by the pier.”

“Poor Eddie,” she murmured. “Guess that’s the last time he leaves his keys in the car.”

“So if it wasn’t Eddie, who does want you dead?”

“I can make a wild guess.” She looked at him. “So can you.”

“Are you referring to Evelyn?”

“She hates me. She has every right to hate me. So do her children.” She paused. “So do you.”

He was silent.

“You still think I killed him. Don’t you?”

Sighing, he raked his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know what to think anymore. About you, about anyone. All I can be sure of is what I saw tonight. It’s all tied in, this whole bloody mess. It has to be.”

He looks so tired, so confused,
she thought.
Almost as confused as I am.

“Maybe you should move out of here for a few days,” he said. “Until things get sorted out.”

“Where would I go?”

“You must have friends.”

“I did.” She looked away. “At least, I thought I did. But everything’s changed. I pass them on the street and they don’t even say hello. Or they cross to the other side. Or they pretend they don’t see me. That’s the worst of all. Because I begin to think I don’t exist.” She looked at him. “It’s a very small town, Chase. You either fit in, or you don’t belong. And there’s no way a murderess could ever fit in.” She lay back against the cushions and stared at the ceiling. “Besides, this is my house.
My
house. I saved like crazy for the down payment. I won’t leave it. It’s not much, but at least it’s mine.”