Presumed Guilty

“No surprises.” She reached for another book. “Unless you count Richard’s rather weird taste in reading material.” She looked at a book jacket. The Advanced Physics of Ocean Waves. “This one, for instance. I never knew he was interested in physics.”

“He wasn’t. When it came to science, he was functionally illiterate.”

She opened the cover. “Well, this is his book. I see someone’s written him a dedication in the front….” Glancing at the title page, she suddenly flushed.

“What is it?”

“You know the old saying?” Miranda murmured. “About not judging a book by its cover?”

Chase moved behind her and read over her shoulder. “One Hundred and One Sexual Positions. Fully illustrated?”

Miranda flipped open to a random page and instantly flushed. “They meant what they said about fully illustrated.”

He reached around her to take the book. His breath grazed her neck; it left her skin tingling.

“Obviously a dummy jacket,” said Chase. “I wonder how many other disguised books are in that stack?”

“I didn’t really check,” Miranda admitted. “I was looking for loose papers. I wasn’t paying much attention to the books themselves.”

Chase flipped to the title page and read aloud the handwritten dedication. “To my darling Richard. Can we try number forty-eight again? Love, M.” Chase glanced at Miranda.

“I didn’t give him that thing!” she protested.

“Then who’s M?”

“Someone else. Not me.”

He frowned at the dedication. “I wonder what number forty-eight is.” He flipped to the page.

“Well?”

Chase took a discreet peek. “You don’t want to know,” he muttered and let the page riffle shut.

A slip of paper flew out and landed on the floor. They both stared at it in surprise. Chase was the first to snatch it up.

“Dearest love,” he read aloud. “I’m thinking of you every day, every hour. I’ve given up caring about propriety or reputation or hellfire. There’s only you and me and the time we have together. That, my darling, is my new definition of heaven.” Chase glanced at her, one eyebrow raised in a cynical slant.

Miranda looked straight at him. “In case you’re wondering,” she said evenly, “I didn’t write that note, either.” In irritation she took the book and set it down on the nearest pile.

“Then I guess we’ll just file it under ‘interesting stuff,’” said Chase. “And continue with the rest of these books.”

Miranda settled onto the rug. Chase sat in front of the other bookcase. They didn’t touch, didn’t look at each other. Safer that way, she thought. For both of us.

For half an hour they flipped through books, slapped them shut, threw clouds of dust in the air. Miranda was the one who found the next piece of the puzzle. It was tucked away in a financial ledger, in an envelope labeled Deductible Expenses.

“It’s a receipt,” she said, frowning at the slip of paper. “A month ago Richard paid four hundred dollars to this company.”

“For what services?” asked Chase.

“It doesn’t say. It’s just made out to the Alamo Detective Agency in Bass Harbor.”

“A detective agency? I wonder what Richard was after.”

“Chase.” She handed him the slip of paper. “Look at the name of the payee.”

“William B. Rodell?” He glanced at her quizzically.

At least you’re looking at me again, she thought. At least we’re connecting. “Don’t you remember?” she said. “That note attached to Richard’s files.”

Chase stared at the receipt, revelation suddenly brightening his dark features.

“Of course,” he said softly. “William B. Rodell…” W.B.R.

It was easy to see how the Alamo Detective Agency got its name. Willie Rodell was a good ol’boy transplant from San Antonio who split his time between Maine and Florida. Summertime was for Maine, and here he was, sitting behind his old steel desk, books and papers piled up in front of him like the battlements of a fort. The office was strictly a solo affair — one phone, one desk, one man. But what a man. Willie Rodell had enough flesh on his bones to fill the suits of two six-footers. This must be what they mean by Texas-size, thought Miranda.

“Yeah, I mighta done some work for Mr. Tremain now and again,” said Rodell, leaning back in his equally Texas-size chair.

“Meaning you did or you didn’t?” asked Chase.

“Well, you’re holdin’ one of my receipts there, so I guess it means I did.”

“What sort of job?”

Willie shrugged. “Routine stuff.”

“What is your routine stuff?”

“Mostly I do domestic affairs, if you catch my drift. Who’s doin’ what to whom, that sorta thing.” His smirk rearranged the folds of his face into something vaguely obscene.

“But that’s not the sort of thing you did for Richard, was it?”

“Nope. Though I hear tell there was more than enough dirt to dig in his particular case.”

Cheeks burning, Miranda stared down fixedly at Willie’s desk, a battle zone of broken pencils and twisted paper clips scattered among a bizarre assortment of magazines. Hot Ladies. National Locksmith. Car and Driver.

Chase got right to the point. “He hired you to compile files on his neighbors. Didn’t he?”

Willie looked at him blandly. “Files?”

“We saw them, Mr. Rodell. They were among Richard’s papers. Detailed reports on almost every resident along the access road. Each one containing sensitive information.”

“Dirt sheets.”

“That’s right.”

Willie shrugged. “I didn’t write ’em.”

“There was a note attached to one of the reports. It said, ‘Want more? Let me know.’ It was signed with the initials W.B.R.” Chase reached over and plucked one of Willie’s business cards from the desk. “Which just happens to be your initials.”

“Helluva coincidence, hey?”

“He wanted dirt on his neighbors. Why?”

“He was snoopy?”

“So he paid you to write those reports.”

“I told you, I didn’t write ’em.” Willie held up one fat hand. “Scout’s honor.”

“Then who did?”

“Dunno. But I admire his work.”

Miranda, who’d been sitting quietly, focused on one of the magazines on the desk. National Locksmith. “You stole them,” she said. She looked up at Willie’s moonlike face.

“That’s what Richard hired you for. To steal those files from someone else.”

Willie reached up and smoothed back a nonexistent strand of hair.

“You were paid to be a burglar,” said Miranda. “What else were you paid for?”

“Look,” said Willie, holding up both fat hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “Folks pay me to gather info, okay? That’s all I do. Clients don’t care how I get it, long as I get it.”

“And where did you get those dirt sheets?” asked Chase.

“They were part of a bunch o’papers I sorta picked up.”

“What else did you sort of pick up?”

“Financial records, bank statements. Hey, I didn’t exactly steal ’em. I just, well, borrowed ’em for a few minutes. Long enough to run ’em through ol’ man Xerox. Then I put ’em right back where