Presumed Guilty

“I was in love with Christine. Remember?”

“Oh, Christine.” She hissed out the name in disgust. “She wasn’t good enough for you. But you found that out.”

“We were mismatched, that’s all.”

“So were Richard and I.”

He didn’t know what to say. He knew what she was leading up to, and he wanted to avoid that particular path of conversation. In all those years of growing up together he had never been able to picture himself and Evelyn DeBolt as a couple. Certainly she was attractive enough. And she was closer to his age than she was to Richard’s. But he had seen, early on, that she had a talent for manipulating people, for twisting minds and hearts. The same talent Richard had possessed.

And yet, he felt so very sorry for her.

He said gently, “You’re just tired, Evelyn. You’ve had a terrible week. But the worst of it’s over now.”

“No. The worst part is just beginning. The loneliness.”

“You have your children—”

“You’ll be leaving soon, won’t you?”

“A few more days. I have to. I have a job in Greenwich.”

“You could stay. Take over the Herald. Phillip’s still too young to run it.”

“I’d be a lousy publisher. You know that. And I don’t belong here anymore. Not on this island.”

For a moment they regarded each other through the shadows.

“So that’s it, then,” she whispered. “For us.”

“I’m afraid so.”

He saw the silhouette nod sadly.

“Will you be all right?”

“Fine.” She gave a soft laugh. “I’ll be just fine.”

“Good night, Evelyn.”

“Good night.”

He left her sitting there by the window. Only as he moved toward the stairwell did he suddenly notice the sour odor lingering in the hall. An empty glass sat on the foyer table, near the telephone. He picked up the glass and sniffed it.

Whiskey.

We all have our secrets. Evelyn does, too.

He set the glass back down. Then, deep in thought, he climbed the stairs to bed.

Six

“So where were you two last night?” Chase asked.

The twins, busy attacking sausage and eggs, simultaneously looked up at their uncle.

“I was over at Zach Brewer’s,” said Phillip. “You remember the Brewers, don’t you? Over on Pearl Street.”

“What little Phil really means is, he was checking out Zach’s sister,” said Cassie.

“At least I wasn’t holed up in some cave, pining for a date.”

“I wasn’t pining for a date. I was busy.”

“Oh, sure,” snorted Phillip.

“Busy? Doing what?” asked Chase.

“I was over at the Herald, trying to get a handle on things,” said Cassie. “You know, Dad left things such a mess. No written plans for succession. Not a clue as to which direction he wanted the paper to go. Editorially speaking.”

“Let Jill Vickery take care of it,” said Phillip with a shrug. “That’s what we pay her for.”

“I’d think at least you’d care, Phil. Seeing as you’re the heir apparent.”

“These transitions need to be handled gradually.” Phil nonchalantly shoveled another forkful of eggs into his mouth.

“In the meantime, the Herald drifts around rudderless. I don’t want it to be just another church and social rag. We should turn it into a muckraking journal. Shake things up along the coast, get people mad. The way Dad got ’em mad a few months ago.”

“Got who mad?” asked Chase.

“Those stooges on the planning board. The ones who voted to rezone the north shore. Dad made ’em out to look pretty greasy. I bet Jill was quaking in her shiny Italian shoes, waiting for that libel suit to pop.”

“You seem to know a lot about what goes on at the Herald,” said Chase.

“Of course. Second best tries harder.”

She said it lightly, but Chase couldn’t miss the note of resentment in her voice. He understood exactly how she felt. He, too, had been the second-best sibling, had spent his childhood trying harder, to no avail. Richard had been the anointed one. Just as Phillip was now.

The doorbell rang. “That’ll be Granddad,” said Phillip. “He’s early.”

Chase stood. “I’ll get it.”

Noah DeBolt was standing on the front porch. “Good morning, Chase. Is Evelyn ready for her appointment?”

“I think so. Come in, sir.”

That “sir” was automatic. One simply didn’t call this man by his first name. As Noah walked in the door, Chase marveled at the fact that the years hadn’t stooped the shoulders in that tailored suit, nor softened the glare of those ice blue eyes.

Noah paused in the foyer and glanced critically around the house. “It’s about time we made some changes in here. A new couch, new chairs. Evelyn’s put up with this old furniture long enough.”

“They’re my mother’s favorites,” said Chase. “Antiques—”

“I know what the hell they are! Junk.” Noah’s gaze focused on the twins, who were staring at him through the doorway.

“What, are you two still eating breakfast? Come on, it’s eight-thirty! With the fees lawyers charge, we don’t want to be late.”

“Really, Mr. DeBolt,” said Chase. “I can drive us all to the lawyer. You didn’t have to bother—”

“Evelyn asked me to come,” said Noah. “What my girl asks for, I deliver.” He glanced up the stairs. Evelyn had just appeared on the landing. “Right, sweetheart?”

Head held high, Evelyn came down the stairs. It was the first Chase had seen of her since the night before. No tremor, no effects of whiskey were apparent this morning. She looked cool as aspic. “Hello, Daddy,” she said.

Noah gave her a hug. “Now,” he said softly, “let’s go finish this unpleasant business.”

They drove in Noah’s Mercedes, Evelyn and her father in the front seat, Chase crammed in the back with the twins. How had Richard tolerated it all these years, he wondered, living in the same town with this bully of a father-in-law? But that was the price one paid for marrying Noah DeBolt’s only daughter: eternal criticism, eternal scrutiny.

Now that Richard was dead, Noah was back in control of his daughter’s life. He drove them to Les Hardee’s office. He escorted Evelyn through the front door. He led her by the arm right up to the reception desk.

“Mrs. Tremain to see Les,” said Noah. “We’re here to review the will.”

The receptionist gave them a strange look — something Chase could only read as panic — and pressed the intercom button. “Mr. Hardee,” she said. “They’re here.”

Instantly Les Hardee popped out of his office. His suit and tie marked him as a dapper man; his sweating brow did not match the image. “Mr. DeBolt, Mrs. Tremain,” he said, almost painfully. “I would have called you