Presumed Guilty

by Tess Gerritsen

  “What?” Lorne turned to Chase in surprise. “You know who paid the bail?”

  “Yes.” Here goes, thought Chase. “Noah DeBolt.”

  It was Evelyn who reacted first, with a rage that transformed her face into an ugly mask. The look was directed at her father. “You did what?”

  Noah said nothing. His silence was all Chase needed to back up his hunch. Right on target.

  “It can be officially confirmed,” said Chase. “Yes, it was your father who paid the bail.”

  Evelyn was still staring at Noah. “You let her out?”

  Noah’s head drooped. In an instant he’d been transformed into a very old, very tired-looking man. “I did it for you,” he whispered.

  “For me? For me?” Evelyn laughed. “What other favors have you done for me, Daddy?”

  “It was for you. Everything was for you—”

  “You crazy old man,” muttered Evelyn. “You must be going senile.”

  “No.” Noah’s head shot up. “I would’ve done anything, don’t you see? I was protecting you! My little girl—”

  “Protecting me from what?”

  “From yourself. From what you did....”

  Evelyn turned away in disgust. “I don’t know what the hell he’s raving about.”

  “Don’t turn your back on me, young lady!”

  “You can see he needs a doctor, Lorne. Try a psychiatrist.”

  “This is the thanks I get!” Noah roared. “For keeping you out of prison?”

  Instant silence. Evelyn, white-faced, turned to confront her father. “Prison? For what?”

  “Richard.” Noah, his rage suddenly spent, sank slowly back against the chair. Softly he said, “For Richard.”

  “You thought...that I—” Evelyn shook her head. “Why? You knew it was that—that bitch!”

  Noah merely looked away. With that one gesture he gave his answer. An answer that lifted a weight so heavy from Chase’s soul he felt he was floating. It was a burden he could only now acknowledge had been there all along, the burden of proof. With that one gesture, the last blot of suspicion was washed away.

  “You know Miranda’s innocent,” said Chase.

  Noah dropped his head in his hands. “Yes,” he whispered.

  “How?” cut in Lorne.

  “Because I had her followed. Oh, I knew about the affair. I knew what he was up to. I’d had enough of it! I wasn’t going to see him hurt Evelyn again. So I hired a man, told him to watch her. To follow her, take photos. Catch ’em in the act. I wanted Evelyn to know, once and for all, what a bastard she’d married.”

  “And the night he was killed, you had Miranda under surveillance?” asked Lorne.

  Noah nodded.

  “What did your man see?”

  “Of the murder? Nothing. He was busy following the woman. She left the house, walked to the beach. Sat there for an hour or so. Then she went home. By then my son-in-law was already dead.”

  Exactly what she said, thought Chase. It was all the truth, right down to the last detail.

  “Then your man never saw the killer?” said Lorne.

  “No.”

  “But you assumed your daughter...”

  Noah shrugged. “It seemed...a logical guess. He had it coming. All these years of hurting her. You think he didn’t deserve it? You think she wasn’t justified?”

  “But I didn’t do it,” said Evelyn.

  Her words went ignored.

  “Why did you bail out Miranda Wood?” asked Lorne.

  “I thought if she went to trial, if her story held together, there was a chance they’d start to look at other suspects.”

  “You mean Evelyn.”

  “Better to have it over and done with!” blurted out Noah. “If there was an accident, that would end it. No more questions. No more suspects.”

  “So you wanted her out of jail,” said Chase. “Out on the street, where you could reach her.”

  “That’s enough, Noah!” cut in Hardee. “You don’t have to answer these questions.”

  “Damn you, Les!” snapped Evelyn. “You should have told him that earlier!” She looked at her father, her expression a mixture of pity and disgust. “Let me set your mind at rest, Daddy. I didn’t kill Richard. The fact you thought I did only shows how little you know me. Or I you.”

  “I’m sorry about this, Evelyn,” said Lorne quietly. “But now I’m going to have to ask you a few questions.”

  Evelyn turned to him. Her chin came up, a gesture of stubborn pride, newfound strength. For the first time in all the years he’d known her Chase felt a spark of admiration for his sister-in-law.

  “Ask away, Lorne,” she said. “You’re the cop. And I guess I’m now your prime suspect.”

  Chase didn’t stay to hear the rest. He left the room and headed down the hall to find Miranda. Now it can be proved. It was true, every word you said. They could start from the beginning, he thought. He suddenly strode ahead with new hope, new anticipation. The shadow of murder was gone, and they had a chance to do it over, to do it right.

  He rounded the corner eagerly, expecting to see her sitting on the bench.

  The bench was empty.

  He went over to the clerk, who was typing out Noah’s arrest report. “Did you see where she went?”

  The clerk glanced up. “You mean Ms. Wood?”

  “Yes.”

  “She left the station. About, oh, twenty minutes ago.”

  “Did she say where she was going?”

  “Nope. Just got up and walked out.”

  In frustration Chase turned to the door. You never make it easy for me, do you? he thought. Then he pushed through the door and headed out into the night.

  * * *

  All day Ozzie had been restless. Last night, all that frantic running around and police activity had driven the beast nearly mad with excitement. A day later and the agitation still hadn’t worn off. He was all nerved up, clawing at the door, whining and tip-tapping back and forth across the wood floor.

  Maybe it’s my fault, Miss St. John thought, gazing in disgust at her hysterical dog. Maybe my mood has simply rubbed off on him.

  Ozzie crouched at the front door like a discarded fur coat, staring pitifully at his mistress.

  “You,” said Miss St. John, “are a tyrant.”

  Ozzie merely whimpered.

  “Oh, all right,” said Miss St. John. “Out, out!” She opened the door. The dog bounded out into the twilight.

  Miss St. John followed the beast down the gravel driveway. Ozzie was dancing along, his fur bouncing like black corkscrews. Truly an ugly animal, thought Miss St. John, the same thought that occurred to her on every walk. That he was worth several thousand dollars for his pedigree alone only went to show you the worthlessness of pedigrees, be they for dogs or people. But what Ozzie lacked in beauty he made up in energy. Already he was trotting far ahead and veering up the path, toward Rose Hill.

  Miss St. John, feeling more like dog than mistress, followed him.

  The cottage was dark. Chase and Miranda had left that morning and now the place stood deserted and forlorn. A pity. Such charming cottages should not go empty, especially not in the summertime.

  She climbed the steps and peered through the window. Shadows of furniture huddled within. The books were back in the shelves. She could see the gleam of their spines lined up against the wall. Though they’d combed those books and papers thoroughly, she still wondered whether they had missed something. Some small, easily overlooked item that held the answers to Richard Tremain’s death.

  The door was locked, but she knew where the key was kept. What harm would there be in another little visit? She’d always felt just a bit proprietary when it came to Rose Hill. After all, she’d played ne
ar here almost every day as a child. And as an adult she’d made a point of keeping an eye on the cottage, as a favor to the Tremains.

  Ozzie seemed happy enough, padding about in the yard.

  Miss St. John retrieved the key from the planter, unlocked the door and went inside.

  It seemed very still, very sad in that living room. She turned on all the lamps and wandered about, her gaze combing the nooks and crannies of the furniture. They’d already made a search of those places. There was no point repeating it.

  She went through the kitchen, through the upstairs bedrooms, came back down again. No hunches, no revelations.

  She was turning to leave when her gaze swept past the area rug, set right in front of the door. That’s when a memory struck her, of a scene from Tess of the d’Urbervilles. A confessional note, slipped under the closed door, only to be pushed accidentally under the adjacent rug. A note that was never found because it lay hidden from view.

  So vivid was that image that when she bent and pulled up the edge of the rug she was not at all startled to see a sealed envelope lying there.

  The note was from M. The intended recipient had never found it, never read it.

  ...This pain is alive, like a creature gnawing at my organs. It won’t die. It refuses to die. You put it there, you planted it, you gave the embryo all those years of nourishment.

  And then you walked away.

  You say you are doing me a kindness. You say it is better to break off now, because, if it goes on longer, it will only hurt more. You don’t know what it is to hurt. Once you claimed to be love’s walking wounded. Once, I thought to save you.

  You were the serpent I hugged to my breast.

  Now you say you’ve found a new savior. You think she’ll make you happy. But she won’t. It will be the same with her as it was with the others. You’ll decide she isn’t perfect. No one who’s ever loved you, really loved you, has ever been good enough for you.

  But you’re getting old, flabby, and still you think that somewhere there’s a young and perfect woman just longing to make love to your wrinkled old carcass.

  She doesn’t know you the way I do. I’ve had years to learn all your dirty little secrets. Your conceits and lies and cruelty. You’ll use her, the way you’ve used all the others. And then she’ll be tossed on the heap with the rest of us, another woman terribly hurt.

  You should suffer where you’ve sinned. A good clean slice—

  Miss St. John, still clutching the letter, abruptly left Rose Hill and hurried home.

  With shaking hands she made two phone calls. The first was to Lorne Tibbetts.

  The second was to Miranda Wood.

  Fourteen

  Miranda was near the point of exhaustion by the time she climbed up Annie’s porch steps. It had been only a ten-minute walk from the police station, but the distance she had traveled had been emotional, not physical. Sitting alone on that bench, shut out from the fancy deal-making between attorneys and cops, she’d come to the sad realization that Noah DeBolt would never be charged with any crime worse than trespassing. That she, Miranda, was too convenient a suspect to be let off the hook. And that Chase, by walking down the corridor, by joining Evelyn and Noah behind that closed door, had made his choice.

  Didn’t they say that crisis brought families together? Well, the arrest of patriarch Noah DeBolt was one hell of a crisis. The family would rally.

  Miranda was not, could never be, part of that family.

  She stepped in the front door. Annie was still not home. Silence hung like a shroud over the house. When the phone suddenly rang, the sound was almost shocking to her ears.

  She picked up the receiver.

  “Miranda?” came a breathless voice.

  “Miss St. John? Is something wrong?”

  “Are you home alone?” was Miss St. John’s bizarre reply.

  “Well, yes, at the moment—”

  “I want you to lock the door. Do it now.”

  “No, everything’s all right. They’ve arrested Noah DeBolt—”

  “Listen to me! I found another letter, at Rose Hill. That’s what she was after, don’t you see? The reason she kept going to the cottage! To get back all her letters!”

  “Whose letters?”

  “M.”

  “But Noah DeBolt—”

  “This has nothing to do with Noah! It was a crime of passion, Miranda. The classic motive. Let me read you the letter....”

  Miranda listened.

  By the time Miss St. John had finished, Miranda’s hands were numb from clutching the receiver.

  “I’ve already called the police,” said Miss St. John. “They’ve sent a man to pick up Jill Vickery. Until then, keep your doors locked. It’s a sick letter, Miranda, written by a sick woman. If she comes to the house, don’t let her in.”

  Miranda hung up.

  At once she missed the sound of a human voice, any voice, even one transmitted through telephone wires. Annie, come home. Please.

  She stared at the phone, wondering if she should call someone. But who? It was only as she stood there, thinking, that she noticed several days’ mail mounded haphazardly by the telephone, some of it threatening to spill over onto the floor. A half-dozen household bills mingled with ad circulars and magazines. Annie’s bookkeeping must be as sloppy as her housekeeping, she thought, straightening the pile. Only then did she notice the newsletter from the alumni association of Tufts University—Annie’s old alma mater. It lay at the edge of the table, four photocopied pages stapled together, personal notes from the class of ’68, with a mass-mailing label on front. Of no particular interest to Miranda—except for one detail.

  It was addressed to Margaret Ann Berenger.

  You’re the only M I know, Annie had said.

  And all the time, she’d known another.

  It doesn’t mean she’s the one.

  Miranda stood staring at that label. Margaret Ann Berenger. Where was the proof, where was the link between Annie and all those letters from M?

  It suddenly occurred to her. A typewriter.

  A manual model, Jill had said, with an e hammer in need of cleaning. It would be a large item, difficult to hide. A quick check of all the closets, all the cabinets, confirmed that there was no manual typewriter in the house. Could it be in the garage?

  No, she’d been in the garage. It was barely large enough to hold a car, much less store household items.

  She checked, anyway. No typewriter.

  She went back into the house, her mind racing. By now Jill might already be under arrest. Annie would hear of it in no time, would know the search for the real M was on. Her first move would be to get rid of the incriminating typewriter, if she hadn’t already done so. It was the one piece of evidence that could link Annie to Richard’s murder.

  It could prove my innocence. I have to find it, before she destroys it. I have to get it to the police.

  There was one more place she had to look.

  She ran from the house and got into her car.

  Moments later she pulled up in front of the Herald building. It was dark inside. The latest issue had just been put to bed. No one would be working late tonight, so she’d have the building to herself.

  She let herself in the front door with her key—the key she’d never gotten around to turning in. With a twinge of irony she remembered that it was Richard who’d told her to keep it. He was certain he could talk her into returning to the job.

  Well, here she was, back again.

  She moved up the aisle of desks and went straight to Annie’s. She flicked on the lamp. The top drawer was unlocked. Among the jumble of pens and paper clips she found some loose keys. Which one would open Annie’s locker? She gathered them all up and headed down the stairwell and into the women’s
room.

  She turned on the light. A flowered couch, mauve wallpaper, Victorian prints sprang into view. Jill’s decorative touch couldn’t disguise the fact it was a closed-in dungeon of a room, without a single window. Miranda moved to the bank of lockers. There were six of them, extra wide to accommodate employees’ heavy coats and boots during the winter months. She knew which one belonged to Annie. It had the sticker that said I’ve Got PMS. What’s Your Excuse?

  She inserted the first key into the lock. It didn’t turn.

  She tried the second key, then the third. The lock popped open.

  She swung open the door and frowned at the contents. On the top shelf were mittens, a pair of old running shoes, a wool scarf.

  On the bottom shelf a sweater lay draped over a towel-wrapped bundle. Miranda took out the bundle. The object inside was heavy. She unwrapped the towel, revealed the contents.

  It was an old blue-green Olivetti with pica type.

  She slid in a scrap of paper and with shaking hands typed the name Margaret Ann Berenger. The e loop was smudged.

  An overwhelming sense of relief, almost euphoria, at once washed over her. Quickly she shut the locker and rewrapped the typewriter. As she gathered it up in her arms, a puff of air blew past her cheek. That was all the warning she had, that soft whisper of wind through the door as it opened and shut behind her.

  Miranda turned.

  The intruder stood in the doorway, her hair a mass of windblown waves, her face utterly devoid of emotion.

  Miranda said softly, “Annie.”

  In silence Annie’s gaze settled on the typewriter in Miranda’s arms.

  “I thought you were with Irving,” said Miranda.

  Annie’s gaze slowly rose once again to meet Miranda’s. Sadness now filled those eyes, a look of pain that seemed to spill from her very soul. Why did I never see it before? thought Miranda.

  “There is no Irving,” said Annie.

  Miranda shook her head in confusion.

  “There never was an Irving. I made him up. All the dates, all those evenings out. You see, I’d drive to the harbor. Park there and just sit. Hours, sometimes.” Annie took a deep breath and, shuddering, let it out. “I couldn’t take the pity, Miranda. All that sympathy for an old maid.”