Presumed Guilty

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 the 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.”