Presumed Guilty

“Or he found what he was looking for,” said Chase.

Miss St. John turned to him. “And what might that be?”

“A guess?” Chase and Miranda glanced at each other. “The file on Stone Coast Trust,” Chase ventured.

“Ah.” Miss St. John’s eyes took on a gleam of interest. “Your brother’s little campaign against Tony Graffam. Yes, Richard seemed to do quite a bit of writing out here. At that desk, in fact. On my evening walks I’d see him through the window.”

“Did you ever stop to talk to him? About what he was working on?”

“Oh, no. That’s why we come out here, isn’t it? To get away from all those prying townies.” She glanced at Miranda. “I never saw you out here.”

“I’ve never been here,” she said, shifting uneasily under that thoughtful gaze. This matter-of-fact reference to her link with Richard had taken her by surprise. And yet, Miss St. John’s bluntness was far preferable to the delicate avoidance with which so many others treated the subject.

Miss St. John bent down for a closer look at the papers. “He must have done a prodigious amount of work here, judging by this mess. What is all this, anyway?”

Chase bent and sifted through the papers. “Looks like a lot of old article files…. Financial records from the Herald… And here we’ve got a collection of local personality profiles. Why, here’s one of you, Miss St. John.”

“Me? But I was never interviewed for anything.”

Chase grinned. “Must be the unauthorized version, then.”

“Does it mention all my sexy secrets?”

“Well, let’s just take a good look here—”

“Oh, give me the damn thing.” Miss St. John snatched the page out of his hands and scanned the typewritten notes. She read them aloud. “Age seventy-four…holds title to lot number two, St. John’s Wood, and cottage thereon…rabid member of local garden club.” Here she glanced up huffily. “Rabid?” She continued reading. “Eccentric recluse, never married. Engaged once, to an Arthur Simoneau, killed in action…Normandy….” Her voice trailed off. Slowly she sat down, still clutching the piece of paper in both hands.

“Oh, Miss St. John,” said Miranda. “I’m sorry.”

The elderly woman looked up, still shaken. “It…was a very long time ago.”

“I can’t believe he went digging into your personal life, without you even knowing about it. Why would he do that?”

“You’re saying it was Richard?” asked Miss St. John.

“Well, these are his papers.”

Miss St. John frowned at the page for a moment. “No,” she said slowly. “I don’t believe he wrote this. There’s an error in here. It says my cottage lies in St. John’s Wood. But it lies three feet over the line, on Tremain property. A surveyor’s mistake from seventy years past. Richard knew that.”

Chase frowned. “I never heard that, about your cottage.”

“Yes, your family land goes past the second stone wall. It includes the entire access road. So, technically, all the rest of us are trespassers on your private road. Not that it ever mattered. It always felt like a giant family out here. But now…” She shook her head. “So many strangers on the island. All those tourists from Massachusetts.” She made it sound like an invasion from hell.

“Did Stone Coast Trust approach you?” Miranda asked her. “About selling St. John’s Wood?”

“They approached everyone on this road. I, of course, refused. So did Richard. That effectively squelched the project. Without Rose Hill, Stone Coast would own a disconnected patchwork of little lots. But now…” Sadly she sighed. “I imagine Evelyn, at this very moment, has her pen poised over the sales contract.”

“Actually, she does not,” said Chase. “Rose Hill didn’t go to Evelyn. Richard left the property to Miranda.”

Miss St. John stared at them. “Now that,” she said after a long pause, “is an entirely unexpected development.”

“For me, as well,” said Miranda.

While Miss St. John sat back in thought, Miranda and Chase gathered up the rest of the papers. They found more article files, a few miscellaneous clippings, an old financial report from the Herald. Obviously Richard had used the cottage as another office. Was this where he had stored his most sensitive papers? Miranda wondered about this when she came across a whole bundle of personality profiles. Like the page on Miss St. John, the information contained in these files was highly private.

In some cases it was downright shocking. She was startled to read that Forrest Mayhew, the local bank president, had been arrested for drunk driving in Boston. That town selectman George LaPierre, married thirty years, had been treated last year for syphilis. That Dr. Steiner—her doctor — was under investigation for medicare fraud.

She handed the papers to Chase. “Look at these! Richard was collecting dirt on everyone in town!”

“Here, what’s this?” he asked. There was a yellow adhesive note attached to the back cover of the folder. On it was the handwritten scrawl, “Mr. T., do you want more? Let me know.” It was signed “W.B.R.”

“So Richard didn’t write these,” said Miranda. “This person W.B.R. — whoever he was — must’ve done the reporting.”

“You have anyone on staff with those initials?”

“No. At least, not at the moment.” She reached for a manila folder lying on the floor. “Look, there’s another note from W.B.R.” This time the note was paper-clipped to the top cover. “All I could get. Sorry — W.B.R.”

“What’s inside?” asked Miss St. John.

Miranda opened the file and stared. “This is it! The file on Stone Coast Trust!”

“Jackpot,” said Chase.

“There’s no profile of Tony Graffam. But here’s his tax return. A list of bank account numbers and assets…” She nodded. “We hit pay dirt.”

“I think not,” said Miss St. John.

They both looked at her.

“If that file is so important, why did the burglar leave it here?”

In silence they considered that question.

“Maybe our burglar wasn’t interested in Stone Coast Trust at all,” said Miss St. John. “I mean, look at all this nasty information Richard’s been gathering. Snoopy reports on drunk driving. Medicare fraud. Syphilis. George LaPierre, of all people! And at his age, too. These files could destroy some fine reputations. Now, I tell you, isn’t that a motive for burglary?”

Or murder, thought Miranda. Why had Richard gathered such information in the first place? Was he planning an expose on island residents? Or was there some darker reason? Coercion, for instance. Blackmail.

“If someone broke in to steal his own file, then we can assume it’s now gone,” said Chase. “Which means George LaPierre, Dr. Steiner, all the others in this pile didn’t do it.”

“Not necessarily,” said Miss St. John. “What if he broke in and simply substituted a milder version? Mine, for instance. There’s not a thing in my profile that qualifies as scandalous. How do you know I didn’t come in here and destroy a far more venomous version?”

Chase smiled. “I will duly place you on the list of suspects, Miss St. John.”

“Don’t you discount me, Chase Tremain. Age alone does not take one out of the running. I have more up here—” she tapped her head “—than that imbecile George LaPierre had in his prime. If he ever had a prime.”

“What you’re saying, Miss St. John,” said Miranda, “is that we can’t count out any name in this pile. Or any name not in this pile.”

“Correct.”

Miranda frowned at the books. “One thing doesn’t make sense. First, our burglar searches the desk. He throws around some papers, looking for some incriminating file. Why would he then search the bookcase? That’s not the sort of place Richard would keep papers.”

After a pause Miss St. John said, “You’re right, of course. That doesn’t make sense.”