Presumed Guilty

earlier, but I only just — That is to say, we…” He swallowed. “There seems to be a problem with the will.”

“Nothing that can’t be fixed,” said Noah.

“Actually…” Hardee opened the conference-room door.

“I think we should all sit down.”

There was another man in the room. Hardee introduced them to Vernon FitzHugh, an attorney from Bass Harbor. FitzHugh looked like a working-class version of Hardee, articulate enough, but rough around the edges, the sort of guy who probably had had to sling hash to pay his way through law school. They all sat at the conference table, Hardee and FitzHugh at opposite ends.

“So what’s this little problem with Richard’s will?” asked Noah. “And what do you have to do with all this, Mr. FitzHugh?”

FitzHugh cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I’m the bearer of bad news. Or, in this case, a new will.”

“What?” Noah turned to Hardee. “What’s this garbage, Les? You were Richard’s attorney.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Hardee morosely.

“Then where did this other will come from?”

Everyone looked at FitzHugh.

“A few weeks ago,” explained FitzHugh, “Mr. Tremain came to my office. He said he wanted to draw up a new will, superseding the will drawn up previously by Mr. Hardee. I advised him that Mr. Hardee was the one who should do it, but Mr. Tremain insisted I draw it up. So I honored his request. I would have brought it to your attention earlier, but I’ve been out of town for a few weeks. I didn’t hear of Mr. Tremain’s death until last night.”

“This is bizarre,” said Evelyn. “Why would Richard draw up a new will? How do we even know it was really him?”

“It was him,” confirmed Hardee. “I recognize his signature.”

There was a long silence.

“Well,” said Evelyn. “Let’s hear it, Les. What’s been changed.”

Hardee slipped on his glasses and began to read aloud. “I, Richard D. Tremain, being of sound mind and body—”

“Oh, skip the legal gobbledygook!” snapped Noah. “Get to the basics. What’s different about the new will?”

Hardee looked up. “Most of it is unchanged. The house, joint accounts, contents therein, all go to Mrs. Tremain. There are generous trust accounts for the children, and a few personal items left to his brother.”

“What about Rose Hill Cottage?” asked Noah.

Here Hardee shifted in his chair. “Perhaps I should just read it.” He flipped ahead six pages and cleared his throat.

“That parcel of land on the north shore comprising approximately forty acres, inclusive of the access road, as well as the structure known as Rose Hill Cottage, I bequeath to…” Here Hardee paused.

“What about Rose Hill?” pressed Evelyn.

Hardee took a deep breath. “I bequeath to my dear friend and companion, Miranda Wood.”

“Like hell,” said Noah.

On the street outside Hardee’s office, Noah and Evelyn sat side by side in the car. Neither one spoke. Neither was comfortable with the silence. The others had chosen to walk home, much to Noah’s relief. He needed this time alone with Evelyn.

Noah said softly, “Is there anything you want to tell me, Evelyn?”

“What do you mean, Daddy?”

“Anything at all. About Richard.”

She looked at her father. “Am I supposed to say something?”

“You can tell me, you know. We’re family, that’s what matters. And family stick together. Against the whole world, if they have to.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Noah looked into his daughter’s eyes. They were the same shade of green as his wife’s eyes had been. Here was the one link he had left to his darling Susannah. Here was the one person in the world he still cared about. She returned his gaze calmly, without even the tiniest flicker of uneasiness. Good. Good. She could hold her own against anyone. In that way, she truly was a DeBolt.

He said, “I’d do anything for you, Evelyn. Anything. All you have to do is ask.”

She looked straight ahead. “Then take me home, Daddy.”

He started the engine and turned the car toward Chestnut Street. She didn’t say a word during the entire drive. She was a proud girl, his daughter. Though she’d never ask for it, she needed his help. And she’d get it.

Whatever it takes, he thought. It’ll be done.

After all, Evelyn was his flesh and blood, and he couldn’t let flesh and blood go to prison.

Even if she was guilty.

Her garden had always been her sanctuary. Here Miranda had planted hollyhocks and delphiniums, baby’s breath and columbine. She hadn’t bothered with color schemes or landscape drawings. She’d simply sunk plants into the earth, scattered seeds and let the jungle of vines and flowers take over her backyard. They’d been neglected this past week, poor things. A few days of no watering had left the blooms bedraggled. But now she was home and her babies looked happier. Strangely enough, she was happy, as well. Her back was warmed by the sun, her hands were working the rich loam. This was all she needed. Fresh air and freedom. How long will I have it?

She put that thought firmly aside and swung the pickax into the hardened earth. She’d turn a little more soil, expand the perennial bed another two feet. She leaned the pickax against the house and knelt to loosen up the clods, sift out the stones.

The sun was making her drowsy.

At last, unable to resist the promise of a nap, she stretched out on the lawn. There she lay, her hands and knees caked with soil, the grass cushioning her bare legs. A perfect summer day, just like the days she remembered from her childhood. She closed her eyes and thought about all those afternoons when her mother was still alive, when her father would stand at the barbecue, singing as he grilled hamburgers….

“What a sharp game you play,” said a voice.

Miranda sat up with a start and saw Chase standing at her white picket fence. He shoved open the gate and came into the yard. As he approached, it occurred to her how filthy she must look in her gardening shorts and T- shirt. Framed against the glare of sun and blue sky, Chase looked immaculate, untouchable. She squinted to see his expression, but all she could make out was a dark oval, the flutter of his windblown hair.

“You knew, didn’t you?” he said.

She rose to her feet and clapped the dirt from her hands. “Knew what?”

“How did you manage it, Miranda? A few sweet whispers? Write me into the will and I’ll be yours forever?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I just came from our family attorney. We found a nasty surprise waiting for us. Two weeks ago Richard made out a new will. He left Rose Hill Cottage to you.”

Her immediate reaction was stunned silence. In disbelief she stared at him.

“Nothing to say? No denials?”

“I never expected—”

“I think it’s exactly what you expected.”

“No!” She turned away, confused. “I never wanted a thing—”

“Oh, come on!” He reached for her arm and pulled her around to face him. “What was it, blackmail? A way to keep you quiet about the affair?”

“I don’t know anything about a will! Or the cottage! Besides, how could he leave it to me? Doesn’t it go to his