Ferris shifted her weight, adding to the restlessness animating her wiry frame. “First, there’s the evidence at the scene. A footprint matching your brother’s boot. Plus skid marks suggesting someone dragged your father toward the cliff.”
And mud on his father’s heels, Adam thought, but Ferris did not know this. “What else?”
“There’s a button missing from his shirt, suggesting a struggle-”
“Have they found it?”
Ferris hesitated. “No.”
“Then it means nothing.”
“There’s also the neighbor who was walking along the trail. He thought he heard a man screaming, then saw a figure leaving the promontory-”
Nathan Wright, Adam knew. Feigning curiosity, he asked, “Man or woman?”
“He couldn’t say.” Ferris’s tone became more assertive. “But the crime lab found a hair on your father’s shirt that matches Teddy’s DNA.”
This Adam had not known. “Anything more?”
“Your brother’s cell phone records. About eight fifteen, well before sunset, he received a call from the landline in the main house-no doubt from your mother. At nine fifty-one, after the neighbor saw this unknown figure, Teddy left a message on an ex-lover’s voice mail-”
“Concerning what?”
“It wasn’t specific, though he sounded distraught. But the time between calls leaves an hour and a half for Teddy to go to the promontory and push your dad off the cliff. Maybe in response to something your mother told him.”
“Or,” Adam interjected, “maybe she and Teddy gave him a shove together. He was pretty big, after all.”
For an instant, Ferris was silent. “You see my point,” Adam said with the same indifference. “You’re still awash in ‘maybes.’ So are the police.”
Ferris crossed her arms. “Then why did Teddy lie? Not only did he say he hadn’t gone there that night, but that he never went at all. Just like he claimed not to remember Clarice calling him at eight fifteen. How could that be?”
“Maybe because the phone call was so ordinary. And even assuming the footprint was Teddy’s, we don’t know whether he left it before eight fifteen or after-or any time near the time my father died. You haven’t given me a murder, let alone a murderer.”
Once more Ferris hesitated. But she did not know, as Adam did, about the bruises on Ben’s wrists. “Let me ask you this,” he pressed. “Did the crime lab find any DNA under Teddy’s fingernails?”
“No.”
“So let’s catalog what you don’t have. First, definitive proof of a murder. Second, a murderer. What you do have is this boot print, the drag marks, the shadowy figure, the phone records-all subject to multiple interpretations. A first-year lawyer could defend Teddy in his sleep.” Adam paused, then prodded, “So now that we’ve acquitted my brother, what do you have on Carla Pacelli?”
“Her DNA on your father’s clothes and face. But is she strong enough to throw him off a cliff?”
Adam flashed on Pacelli at dinner. “She looks pretty fit to me.”
“So I hear,” Ferris answered pointedly. “I understand you made quite the couple at Atria, too intent on each other to notice anyone else. And those tender moments on the swing chair-oh my. People will say you’re in love.”
For a moment Adam was stung, then grudgingly gave Ferris points for tenacity. “Actually,” he said, “we’re running away to Portofino on the old man’s money. But you’ll have to pay for the wedding pictures.” His voice became sharp. “On the question of strength, my dad was dying. He might even have had a stroke-in which case, an average woman could have tossed him overboard. That would explain the drag marks. So we can add Carla to the suspects, I suppose.”
Ferris shook her head. “She’s a dead end. I can’t find anyone she told about the will. All I’ve got on her is trivia-an occasional trip to Boston, one dinner with you, and a real effort to withdraw from public view. Present company excepted, she’s the most guarded person in America. You tell me what that means.”
I’ve only lied to you once, Carla had told him, for reasons of my own, and not about Jenny or the will. “Maybe she’s in mourning,” Adam rejoined. “But every instinct I have says she’s hiding something serious. According to my mother, a few nights before he died she saw my father on the promontory with a woman. Who else but Pacelli?”
“Quit trying to divert me,” Ferris said in a relentless tone. “I’ve got more than enough for a story. We’re going to print that Edward Blaine is the prime suspect in his father’s murder, and spell out the evidence against him.”
In the half-light, Adam looked into her face. “Actually,” he told her softly, “you’re not.”
Ferris gave a short laugh. “Can I ask why?”
“Several reasons. Unless Teddy’s indicted, he’ll sue you and the Enquirer for libel-”
“Don’t try to threaten me,” Ferris shot back. “We have lawyers for that.”
“I’m counting on it. So you should confess to bribing a cop, then obtaining documents and information critical to a murder investigation. Then ask how long it will take the police to indict you for obstruction of justice. Because if you print another word about my brother, I’ll make damn sure they do.”
“That’s bullshit.” Suddenly her voice was shrill, uncertain. “Do that, and you’d go down with me.”
“Would I? You’re the one who passed the money, not me. You have no evidence we’ve ever spoken. And if you try to trace your calls to me, you’ll find out that you can’t. That also goes for the anonymous call I’ll place to the police.” Deliberately, Adam muted his voice. “You lose, Amanda. All you can do is leave this island for good. But before you go, you’re going to give me the piece you’re still holding out. Something about an insurance policy.”
She looked away, caught, then met his eyes again. “If you already knew, why ask?”
Ask Teddy about the insurance policy, Bobby Towle had said. “Because you’re telling me what you know. So that you remain in my good graces.”
Ferris’s face twisted, a study in stifled anger. “Four months ago, according to your friend, your mother took out a one-million-dollar insurance policy on your father’s life, with her and Teddy as beneficiaries. They collect unless Ben committed suicide, or one or the other killed him. Or,” she added spitefully, “if they knew he was terminal and bought it to cash in.”
Jarred, Adam mustered an air of calm. “From which you conclude-”
“That they knew about his will, and lied to the police. And that one or both knew that he was dying, and lied about that, too.” She gave him a sour smile. “Any comment?”
Adam shrugged. “So many questions, so few answers. The only person who knows what they knew is dead.”
“Conveniently so.” Ferris’s tone became chill. “Your brother will be indicted by summer’s end. Then I’ll print my story, and there’s not a fucking thing you can do. Especially from Afghanistan.”
That much was true, Adam realized. “We’re through now,” Ferris finished with palpable bitterness. “I don’t need a lawyer to know that you poison anything you touch.” She laughed. “Poor Carla.”
She turned from him, walking swiftly away as though fearing for her life. A good thing, Adam supposed.
He found Jack and his mother on the darkened porch, sitting in Adirondack chairs beside a radio tuned to the Red Sox game. “I thought they’d invented television,” Adam remarked.
This drew a wispy smile from Clarice. “Memories,” she answered. “When I was a little girl, I’d sit here with my father listening to the games. We had Ted Williams then, and always finished behind the Yankees. But it felt magical-just my dad, me, and the crickets, the announcer’s voice in the darkness and the sounds of a game far away. This may be the last summer I can relive that.”
Turning, Jack regarded her with avuncular concern. “It’ll work out, Clarice. This place is meant to be yours.”
There was something old-fashioned about this scene, Adam thought-not just the radio, but that the two of them seemed like actors in a play from another era. Perhaps he should have found this more affecting. But Amanda Ferris had curdled his mood.
“I need to talk with you,” he told his mother.
As she looked at him in surprise, Jack regarded him more closely. Then Clarice said, “You can help me make
