Presumed Guilty

“Over your mother?”

“Of course. Noah’s darling. And Dad could never be a good enough husband.” She snorted. “Not that he tried very hard.”

Chase paused, wondering how to phrase his next question. “Did you know your father was having… affairs?”

“He’s been at it for years,” Cassie said with a wave of her hand. “Lots of women.”

“Which ones?”

She shrugged. “I figured that was his business.”

“You two weren’t very close, were you?”

“Daughters just weren’t his thing, Uncle Chase. While I was working my butt off, getting straight A’s, he was planning for Phillip’s Harvard education. Grooming him to take over the Herald.”

“Phillip doesn’t seem exactly thrilled by the prospect.”

“You noticed that? Dad never did.” She took a few bites of ham, then gave Chase a thoughtful look. “And what was the problem between you two?”

“Problem?” He resisted the urge to look away, to avoid her gaze. She would probably know immediately that he was hiding something. As it was, she’d probably already detected the flicker of discomfort in his eyes.

“The last time I saw you, Uncle Chase, I was ten years old. That was at Grandpa Tremain’s funeral. Now, Greenwich isn’t that far away. But you never came back for a visit, not once.”

“Lives get complicated. You know how it is, Cassie.”

She gave him a searching look, then said, “It’s not easy, is it? Being the ignored sibling in the family?”

Damn this sharp-eyed brat, he thought. He gathered up his empty dishes and rose to his feet.

“You don’t think she did it. Do you?” Cassie asked. They didn’t have to mention names. They both knew exactly what they were talking about.

“I haven’t decided,” he said. He carried the dishes toward the kitchen. In the doorway he stopped. “By the way, Cassie,” he said. “I called here last night about seven, to say I wouldn’t be home for dinner. No one answered the phone. Where was your mother?”

“I really wouldn’t know.” Cassie picked up a slice of toast and calmly began to spread marmalade on it. “You’d have to ask her.”

Chase drove directly to Rose Hill. No detours, no little side trips to pick up suspected murderesses. He had no intention of being distracted by Miranda Wood today. What he needed was a dose of coolheaded logic, and that meant keeping his distance. Today he had other things on his mind, the first item being: Who kept trying to break in to the cottage, and what was he searching for?

The answer lay somewhere in Rose Hill.

So that was where he headed. He drove with the window rolled down, the salt air whistling past his cheek. It brought back all those summer days of his childhood, riding with his mother along this very road, the smell of the sea in his face, the cry of the gulls echoing off the cliffs. How she had loved this drive! His mother had been a dare-devil behind the wheel, screeching around these curves, laughing as the wind tangled her dark hair. They’d both laughed a lot those days, and he’d wondered if anyone else in the world had a mother so wild, so beautiful. So free.

Her death had left him devastated.

If only, before she’d died, she’d told him the truth.

He turned onto the access road and bumped along past all the old camp signs, past the cottages of families whose kids he’d once played with. Good memories, bad memories — they all returned as he drove up that road. He remembered twirling in the tire swing until he was so dizzy he threw up. Kissing buck-toothed Lucy Baylor behind the water tower. Hearing that awful crash of a breaking window and knowing it was his baseball they’d find lying in the shattered glass. The memories were so vivid he didn’t notice that he’d already rounded the last bend and was just now turning onto the gravel driveway.

There was a car parked in front of the cottage.

He pulled up beside it and climbed out. He saw no sign of the driver. Could their burglar have turned desperate enough to pay a visit in broad daylight?

He hurried up the porch steps and was startled to hear the whistling of a kettle from the kitchen. Who the hell would be brazen enough to not only break in, but also make himself right at home? He shoved open the door and came face-to-face with the guilty party.

“I’ve just made some tea,” said Miranda. She gave him a tight smile, not unfriendly, just nervous. Perhaps afraid. She nodded down at the tea tray she was carrying. “Would you like some?”

Chase glanced around the room, at the books arranged in neat piles on the floor. The desk had been cleared, the drawers’ contents emptied into a series of cardboard boxes.

Slowly his gaze shifted and took in the three bookcases. One was already two-thirds empty.

“We spent the morning going through Richard’s papers,” Miranda explained. “I’m afraid we haven’t turned up anything yet, but—”

He shook his head. “We?”

“Miss St. John and I.”

“Is she here?”

“She went back to her house, to feed Ozzie.”

Their gazes met. I try to stay away from you, he thought, and damn it, here you are. Here we are, alone in this house.

The possibilities flooded his mind. Temptation, enemy of reason, danced its devil dance, the way it did every time he was in the same room with her. He thought of Richard, thought of her, thought of the two of them together. It hurt. Maybe that’s why he chose to think of it. To quell the rising need he felt when he looked at her now.

“She — Miss St. John — thought it made sense to get started without you,” Miranda said in a rush, as though suddenly frantic to fill the silence. “We didn’t know when you’d get here, and we didn’t want to call the house. I suppose we’re trespassing, in a way, but…” Her voice trailed off.

“Technically speaking,” he said after a pause, “you are.”

She set down the tea tray, then straightened to face him. Her nervousness was gone. In its place was calm determination. “Maybe so. But it’s what I have to do. We can search together. Or we can search separately. But I am going to search.” She raised her chin, met his gaze without flinching. “So, Chase. Which way shall it be?”

Nine

His gaze was neutral, as unrevealing as that blank wall behind him. More revealing to Miranda was her acute sense of disappointment. She’d hoped to see at least a trace of gladness in his eyes, that he’d be pleased to find her here today. What she hadn’t expected was this…indifference. So that’s how it is between us, she thought. What’s happened since I saw you last? What did Evelyn say to you? That’s it, isn’t it? They’ve gotten to you. Richard’s family. Your family.

He shrugged. “It does make sense, I suppose. Working together.”

“Of course it does.”

“And you’ve already gotten off to a good start, I see.”

In silence she poured a cup of tea, then carried it to the bookcase. There she calmly continued the task she’d been working on earlier — pulling down the books, riffling through the pages for any loose papers. She felt him watching her, sensed his gaze like a prickling in her back. “You can start on the other bookcase,” she said without looking at him.

“What have you found so far?”