“Then you broke it off. How did he react?”
“He couldn’t believe it. I don’t think anyone ever left him. He kept calling me, bothering me. And every day, at work, I’d have to face him. Pretend nothing was going on between us.”
“Everyone knew, though.”
She shrugged. “Probably. I’m not very good at hiding things. Annie knew, because I told her. And everyone else must have guessed.” She sighed. The truth was, she hadn’t cared at the time. Love, and then pain, had made her indifferent to public opinion.
They said nothing for a moment. She wondered what he thought of her now, whether any of it made a difference. Suddenly it mattered what he did think of her. He was scarcely more than a stranger, and a hostile one, but it mattered very much.
“You’re not the first one, you know,” he said. “There were other women.”
It was a cruel revelation to spring on her, and Chase didn’t know why he did it. He only knew that he wanted to give her a good, hard shaking. To shatter any rose-colored illusions she might still harbor about Richard. She might say the feelings were gone, but deep inside, might a few warm memories still linger?
He saw, by the look in her eyes, that his words had had their intended effect. Instantly he regretted the wounds he’d inflicted. Still, shouldn’t she know? Shouldn’t she be told just how naive she’d been?
“Were there many?” she asked softly.
“Yes.”
She looked away, as though to hide the pain from view. “I—I think I knew that. Yes, I must have known that.”
“It’s just the way he was,” said Chase. “He liked being admired. He was like that as a boy, too.”
She nodded. And he realized, yes, she did know that about Richard. On some level she must have sensed his unquenchable thirst for admiration. And tried to satisfy it.
Chase had done damage enough. Here she was, demoralized and wounded. And I pour on the salt.
I should get out of here, leave her alone.
Where the hell was Annie Berenger?
Miranda seemed to shake herself back to life. She brushed her hair off her face, sat up and looked at him. So much torment in those eyes, he thought. And, at the same time, so much courage.
“You never told me why you’re here,” she said.
“The doctor thought someone should watch you—”
“No. I mean, why did you come in the first place?”
“Oh.” He sat back. “I was at the Herald this afternoon. Talked to Jill Vickery, about the Stone Coast Trust article you mentioned. She says it was never written. That Richard never got that far with it.”
Miranda shook her head. “I don’t understand. I know he had at least a few pages written. I saw them on his desk, at the Herald.”
“Well, I couldn’t find any article. I thought maybe you’d know where to look. Or maybe you’d have it.”
She looked at him in bewilderment. “Why would I?”
“I assume Richard was a frequent visitor here.”
“But he didn’t bring his work. Have you checked the house?”
“It’s not there.”
She thought about it a moment. “Sometimes,” she said, “he’d drive up to the north shore, to write. He had a cottage...”
“You mean Rose Hill. Yes, I suppose I should check there tomorrow.”
Their gazes intersected, held. She said, “You’re starting to believe me. Aren’t you?”
He heard, in her voice, the stirring of hope—however faint. He found himself wanting to respond, to offer her some small scrap of a chance that he might believe her. It was hard not to believe her, especially when she looked at him that way, her gaze unwavering, those gray eyes bright and moist. They could rob a man of his common sense, those eyes, could sweep self-control right out from under him. They awakened other sensations as well, disturbing ones. She was sitting more than half a room away, but even at that distance her presence was like some heady perfume, impossible to ignore.
She asked again, softly, “Do you believe me?”
Abruptly he rose to his feet, determined to shake off the dangerous spell she was weaving around him. “No,” he said. “I can’t say that I do.”
“But don’t you see there’s something more to this than just a—a crime of passion?”
“I admit, things don’t feel quite right. But I’m not ready to believe you. Not by a long shot.”
There was a knock on the door. Startled, Chase turned to see the door swing open and Annie Berenger poke her head in.
“Hello, cavalry’s here,” she called. She came in dressed in an old T-shirt and sweatpants. Blades of wet grass clung to her running shoes. “What’s the situation?”
“I’m fine,” said Miranda.
“But she needs watching,” said Chase. “If there are any problems, Dr. Steiner’s number is by the phone.”
“Leaving already?” asked Annie.
“They’ll be expecting me at home.” He went to the door. There he paused and glanced back at Miranda.
She hadn’t moved. She just sat there. He had the urge to say something comforting. To tell her that what he’d said earlier wasn’t quite true. That he was starting to believe her. But he couldn’t admit it to her; he could scarcely admit it to himself. And there was Annie, watching everything with her sharp reporter’s eyes.
So he merely said, “Good night, Miranda. I hope you’re feeling better. And Annie, thanks for the favor.” Then he turned and walked out the door.
Outside, it took him a few seconds to accustom his eyes to the darkness. By the time he’d reached the edge of the front yard he could finally make out the walkway under his feet.
He could also see the silhouette of a man standing stoop-shouldered before him on the sidewalk.
Chase halted, instantly tense.
“She okay?” asked the man.
“Who are you?” demanded Chase.
“I could ask the same o’ you,” came the cranky reply.
“I’m...visiting,” said Chase.
“So, is Mo gonna be all right, or what?”
“Mo? Oh, you mean Miranda. Yes, she’ll be fine, Mr....”
“Eddie Lanzo. Live next door. Like to keep an eye on her, y’know? Not good, a nice young woman livin’ all by herself. And all these crazies runnin’ around here, peekin’ in windows. Not safe to be female these days.”
“Someone’s staying with her tonight, so you needn’t worry.”
“Yeah. Okay. Well, I won’t bother her none, then.” Eddie Lanzo turned to go back to his house. “Whole island’s going to pot, I tell ya,” he muttered. “Too many crazies. Last time I leave my keys in the car.”
“Mr. Lanzo?” called Chase.
“Yeah?”
“Just a question. I was wondering if you were home the night Richard Tremain was killed?”
“Me?” Eddie snorted. “I’m always home.”
“Did you happen to see or hear anything?”
“I already tol’ Lorne Tibbetts. I go to bed at nine o’clock sharp, and that’s it till morning.”
“Then you’re a sound sleeper? You didn’t hear anything?”
“How can I with my hearing aid turned off?”
“Oh.” Chase watched as the man shuffled back to his house, still muttering about Peeping Toms and car thieves. It somehow surprised Chase that a grouchy old geezer like Lanzo would show such concern about Miranda Wood. A nice young woman, Lanzo had called her.
What the hell does he know? thought Chase. What do we ever know about anyone? People have their secrets. I have mine, Miranda Wood has hers.
He turned and headed for Chestnut Street.
It was a twenty-minute walk, made invigorating by the brisk night air. When at last he stepped in th
e front door he found that, except for the lamp in the foyer, all the lights were out. Had no one else come home?
Then he heard Evelyn call out his name.
He found her sitting all alone in the darkened parlor. He could barely make out her shadow in the rocking chair. The dim glow of the street lamp through the window framed her silhouette.
“At last you’re home,” she said.
He started toward one of the lamps. “You need some light in here, Evelyn.”
“No, Chase. Don’t. I like the dark. I always have.”
He paused, uncertain of what to say, what to do. He lingered in the shadows, watching her.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she murmured. “Where did you go, Chase?”
He paused. “To see Miranda Wood.”
Her reaction was cold, dead silence. Even the creak of her rocking chair had stilled.
“She has you in her spell. Doesn’t she?” Evelyn whispered.
“There’s no spell. I just had some questions to ask her, about Richard.” He sighed. “Look, Evelyn, it’s been a long day for you. Why don’t you go up and get some sleep?”
Still the figure did not move. She sat like a black statue against the window. “That night I called you,” she said, “the night he died—I was hoping...”
“Yes?”
Another silence. Then, “I’ve always liked you, Chase. Since we were kids. I always hoped you’d be the one to propose. Not Richard, but you.” The rocking chair began to creak again, softly. “But you never did.”
“I was in love with Christine. Remember?”
“Oh, Christine.” She hissed out the name in disgust. “She wasn’t good enough for you. But you found that out.”
“We were mismatched, that’s all.”
“So were Richard and I.”
He didn’t know what to say. He knew what she was leading up to, and he wanted to avoid that particular path of conversation. In all those years of growing up together he had never been able to picture himself and Evelyn DeBolt as a couple. Certainly she was attractive enough. And she was closer to his age than she was to Richard’s. But he had seen, early on, that she had a talent for manipulating people, for twisting minds and hearts. The same talent Richard had possessed.
And yet, he felt so very sorry for her.
He said gently, “You’re just tired, Evelyn. You’ve had a terrible week. But the worst of it’s over now.”
“No. The worst part is just beginning. The loneliness.”
“You have your children—”
“You’ll be leaving soon, won’t you?”
“A few more days. I have to. I have a job in Greenwich.”
“You could stay. Take over the Herald. Phillip’s still too young to run it.”
“I’d be a lousy publisher. You know that. And I don’t belong here anymore. Not on this island.”
For a moment they regarded each other through the shadows.
“So that’s it, then,” she whispered. “For us.”
“I’m afraid so.”
He saw the silhouette nod sadly.
“Will you be all right?”
“Fine.” She gave a soft laugh. “I’ll be just fine.”
“Good night, Evelyn.”
“Good night.”
He left her sitting there by the window. Only as he moved toward the stairwell did he suddenly notice the sour odor lingering in the hall. An empty glass sat on the foyer table, near the telephone. He picked up the glass and sniffed it.
Whiskey.
We all have our secrets. Evelyn does, too.
He set the glass back down. Then, deep in thought, he climbed the stairs to bed.
Six
“So where were you two last night?” Chase asked.
The twins, busy attacking sausage and eggs, simultaneously looked up at their uncle.
“I was over at Zach Brewer’s,” said Phillip. “You remember the Brewers, don’t you? Over on Pearl Street.”
“What little Phil really means is, he was checking out Zach’s sister,” said Cassie.
“At least I wasn’t holed up in some cave, pining for a date.”
“I wasn’t pining for a date. I was busy.”
“Oh, sure,” snorted Phillip.
“Busy? Doing what?” asked Chase.
“I was over at the Herald, trying to get a handle on things,” said Cassie. “You know, Dad left things such a mess. No written plans for succession. Not a clue as to which direction he wanted the paper to go. Editorially speaking.”
“Let Jill Vickery take care of it,” said Phillip with a shrug. “That’s what we pay her for.”
“I’d think at least you’d care, Phil. Seeing as you’re the heir apparent.”
“These transitions need to be handled gradually.” Phil nonchalantly shoveled another forkful of eggs into his mouth.
“In the meantime, the Herald drifts around rudderless. I don’t want it to be just another church and social rag. We should turn it into a muckraking journal. Shake things up along the coast, get people mad. The way Dad got ’em mad a few months ago.”
“Got who mad?” asked Chase.
“Those stooges on the planning board. The ones who voted to rezone the north shore. Dad made ’em out to look pretty greasy. I bet Jill was quaking in her shiny Italian shoes, waiting for that libel suit to pop.”
“You seem to know a lot about what goes on at the Herald,” said Chase.
“Of course. Second best tries harder.”
She said it lightly, but Chase couldn’t miss the note of resentment in her voice. He understood exactly how she felt. He, too, had been the second-best sibling, had spent his childhood trying harder, to no avail. Richard had been the anointed one. Just as Phillip was now.
The doorbell rang. “That’ll be Granddad,” said Phillip. “He’s early.”
Chase stood. “I’ll get it.”
Noah DeBolt was standing on the front porch. “Good morning, Chase. Is Evelyn ready for her appointment?”
“I think so. Come in, sir.”
That “sir” was automatic. One simply didn’t call this man by his first name. As Noah walked in the door, Chase marveled at the fact that the years hadn’t stooped the shoulders in that tailored suit, nor softened the glare of those ice-blue eyes.
Noah paused in the foyer and glanced critically around the house. “It’s about time we made some changes in here. A new couch, new chairs. Evelyn’s put up with this old furniture long enough.”
“They’re my mother’s favorites,” said Chase. “Antiques—”
“I know what the hell they are! Junk.” Noah’s gaze focused on the twins, who were staring at him through the doorway. “What, are you two still eating breakfast? Come on, it’s eight-thirty! With the fees lawyers charge, we don’t want to be late.”
“Really, Mr. DeBolt,” said Chase. “I can drive us all to the lawyer. You didn’t have to bother—”
“Evelyn asked me to come,” said Noah. “What my girl asks for, I deliver.” He glanced up the stairs. Evelyn had just appeared on the landing. “Right, sweetheart?”
Head held high, Evelyn came down the stairs. It was the first Chase had seen of her since the night before. No tremor, no effects of whiskey were apparent this morning. She looked cool as aspic. “Hello, Daddy,” she said.
Noah gave her a hug. “Now,” he said softly, “let’s go finish this unpleasant business.”
They drove in Noah’s Mercedes, Evelyn and her father in the front seat, Chase crammed in the back with the twins. How had Richard tolerated it all these years, he wondered, living in the same town with this bully of a father-in-law? But that was the price one paid for marrying Noah DeBolt’s only daughter: eternal criticism, eterna
l scrutiny.
Now that Richard was dead, Noah was back in control of his daughter’s life. He drove them to Les Hardee’s office. He escorted Evelyn through the front door. He led her by the arm right up to the reception desk.
“Mrs. Tremain to see Les,” said Noah. “We’re here to review the will.”
The receptionist gave them a strange look—something Chase could only read as panic—and pressed the intercom button. “Mr. Hardee,” she said. “They’re here.”
Instantly Les Hardee popped out of his office. His suit and tie marked him as a dapper man; his sweating brow did not match the image. “Mr. DeBolt, Mrs. Tremain,” he said, almost painfully. “I would have called you earlier, but I only just— That is to say, we...” He swallowed. “There seems to be a problem with the will.”
“Nothing that can’t be fixed,” said Noah.
“Actually...” Hardee opened the conference-room door. “I think we should all sit down.”
There was another man in the room. Hardee introduced them to Vernon FitzHugh, an attorney from Bass Harbor. FitzHugh looked like a working-class version of Hardee, articulate enough, but rough around the edges, the sort of guy who probably had had to sling hash to pay his way through law school. They all sat at the conference table, Hardee and FitzHugh at opposite ends.
“So what’s this little problem with Richard’s will?” asked Noah. “And what do you have to do with all this, Mr. FitzHugh?”
FitzHugh cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I’m the bearer of bad news. Or, in this case, a new will.”
“What?” Noah turned to Hardee. “What’s this garbage, Les? You were Richard’s attorney.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Hardee morosely.
“Then where did this other will come from?”
Everyone looked at FitzHugh.
“A few weeks ago,” explained FitzHugh, “Mr. Tremain came to my office. He said he wanted to draw up a new will, superseding the will drawn up previously by Mr. Hardee. I advised him that Mr. Hardee was the one who should do it, but Mr. Tremain insisted I draw it up. So I honored his request. I would have brought it to your attention earlier, but I’ve been out of town for a few weeks. I didn’t hear of Mr. Tremain’s death until last night.”
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