Presumed Guilty

He’d heard her denials, her lame explanations. He hadn’t been swayed. But when they’d come face-to-face in the hall, and she’d looked him straight in the eye, he’d felt the first stirrings of doubt. Would a murderess meet his gaze so unflinchingly? Would she face an accuser with such bald courage? Even when Evelyn had appeared, Miranda hadn’t ducked for cover. Instead, she’d said the unexpected. He loved you. I want you to know that. Of all the things a murderess might have said, that was the most startling. It was an act of kindness, an honest attempt to comfort the widow. It earned her no points, no stars in court. She could simply have walked past, ignoring Evelyn, leaving her to her grief. Instead, Miranda had reached out in pity to the other woman.

Chase did not understand it.

“There’s no question but that the weight of the evidence is against her,” said Tibbetts. “Obviously, that’s what the judge thought. Just look at the bail he set. He knew she’d never come up with that kind of cash. So she won’t be walking out anytime soon. Unless she’s been hiding a rich uncle somewhere.”

“Hardly,” said Evelyn. “A woman like that could only come from the wrong side of the tracks.”

Wrong side of the tracks, thought Chase. Meaning poor. But not trash. He’d been able to see that through the one-way mirror. Trash was cheap, easily bent, easily bought. Miranda Wood was none of those.

A car marked Shepherd’s Island Police pulled up in the driveway.

Tibbetts sighed. “Geez, they just won’t leave me alone. Even on my day off.”

Ellis Snipe, spindly in his cop’s uniform, climbed out. His boots crunched toward them across the gravel. “Hey, Lorne,” he called up to the veranda. “I figured you was here.”

“It’s Saturday, Ellis.”

“Yeah, I know. But we sort of got us a problem.”

“If it’s that washroom again, just call the plumber. I’ll okay the work order.”

“No, it’s that—” Ellis glanced uneasily at Evelyn. “It’s that Miranda Wood woman.”

Tibbetts rose to his feet and went over to the veranda railing. “What about her?”

“You know that hundred thousand bail they set?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, someone paid it.”

“What?”

“Someone’s paid it. We just got the order to release her.”

There was a long silence on the veranda. Then, in a low voice laced with venom, Evelyn said, “Who paid it?”

“Dunno,” said Ellis. “Court says it was anonymous. Came through some Boston lawyer. So what do we do, huh, Lorne?”

Tibbetts let out a deep breath. He rubbed his neck, shifted his weight back and forth a few times. Then he said, “I’m sorry, Evelyn.”

“Lorne, you can’t do this!” she cried.

“I don’t have a choice.” He turned back to the other cop. “You got the court order, Ellis. Let her walk.”

“I don’t understand,” said Miranda, staring in bewilderment at her attorney. “Who would do this for me?”

“A friend, obviously,” was Randall Pelham’s dry response. “A very good friend.”

“But I don’t have any friends with that kind of money. No one with a hundred thousand to spare.”

“Well, someone’s putting up the bail. My advice is, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“If I just knew who it was—”

“It’s been handled through some Boston attorney who says his client wishes to stay anonymous.”

“Why?”

“Maybe the donor’s embarrassed.”

To be helping a murderess, she thought.

“It’s his — or her — right to remain anonymous. I say, take it. The alternative is to stay in jail. Not exactly the most comfortable spot to be in.”

She let out a deep breath. “No, it isn’t.” In fact, it had been horribly bleak in that cell. She’d spent the past week staring at the window, longing for the simple pleasure of a walk by the sea. Or a decent meal. Or just the warmth of the sunshine on her face. Now it was all within reach.

“I wish I knew who to thank,” she said softly.

“Not possible, Miranda. I say, just accept the favor.” He snapped his briefcase shut.

Suddenly he irritated her, this kid barely out of braces, so smart and snazzy in his gray suit. Randall Pelham, Esquire.

“The arrangements are made. You can leave this afternoon. Will you be staying at your house?”

She paused, shuddering at the memory of Richard’s body in her bed. The house had since been cleaned, courtesy of a housekeeping service. Her neighbor Mr. Lanzo had arranged it all, had told her the place looked fine now. It would be as if nothing had happened in that bedroom. There would be no signs of violence at all.

Except in her memory.

But where else could she go?

She nodded. “I–I suppose I’ll go home.”

“You know the drill, right? Don’t leave the county. Bass Harbor’s as far as you can go. Stay in touch at all times. And don’t, I repeat don’t, go around discussing the case. My job’s tough enough as it is.”

“And we wouldn’t want to tax your abilities, would we?” she said under her breath.

He didn’t seem to hear the comment. Or maybe he was ignoring her. He strode out of the cell, then turned to gaze at her. “We can still try a plea bargain.”

She looked him in the eye. “No.”

“That way we could limit the damage. You could walk out of here in ten years instead of twenty-five.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

For a moment Pelham returned her gaze. With a shrug of impatience, he turned. “Plea bargain,” he said. “That’s my advice. Think about it.”

She did think about it, all afternoon as she sat in that stark cell waiting for the release papers.

But as soon as she stepped out of the building and walked, as a free woman, into the sunshine, all thoughts of trading away even ten years of her life seemed unimaginable. She stood there on the sidewalk, gazing up at the sky, inhaling the sweetest air she’d ever breathed in her life.

She decided to walk the mile to her house.

By the time she came within sight of her front yard, her cheeks were flushed, her muscles pleasantly tired. The house looked the same as it always had, shingled cottage, trim lawn — which someone had obviously watered in her absence — brick walkway, a hedge of hydrangea bushes sprouting fluffy white clouds of flowers. Not a large house, but it was hers.

She started up the walkway.

Only when she’d mounted the porch steps did she see the vicious words someone had soaped on her front window. She halted, stung by the cruelty of the message.

Killer.

In sudden fury she swiped at the glass with her sleeve. The accusing words dissolved into soapy streaks. Who could have written such a horrible thing? Surely none of her neighbors. Kids. Yes, that’s who it must have been. A bunch of punks. Or summer people.

As if that made it easier to dismiss. No one much cared what the summer people thought. The ones who lived on the island year round — those were the ones whose opinions counted. The ones you had to face every day.

She paused at the front door, almost afraid to go in. At last she reached for the knob and entered.

Inside, to her relief, everything seemed orderly, just the way things should be. A bill, made out by the Conscientious Cleaners Company, lay on the end table. “Complete cleaning,” read the work order. “Special attention to the master bedroom. Remove stains.” The work order was signed by her neighbor, Mr. Lanzo, bless