Presumed Guilty

“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