Presumed Guilty

didn’t want to sell — got one in the mail.”

“Well, they threatened the wrong people here. Deviant lifestyles are exactly what we wish to promote. Am I right, friends?”

The man with the sushi looked up and said, “Ho.”

“He agrees,” said Fred.

“Was the letter signed?” asked Miranda.

“No. It was postmarked Bass Harbor, and it came to our house in New York.”

“When?”

“Three, four months ago. It advised us to sell the camp. It didn’t say to whom, specifically. But then we got the offer from Mr. Graffam, so I assumed he was behind it. I had Stone Coast Trust checked out. A few inquiries here and there, just to find out what I was dealing with. My sources say there’s money involved. Graffam’s just a front for a silent investor. My bet is it’s organized crime.”

“What would they want with Shepherd’s Island?” asked Chase.

“New York’s getting uncomfortable for ’em. Hotdog D.A.’s and all that. I think they’re moving up the coast. And the north shore’s just the foothold they’d want. Tourist industry’s already booming up here. And look at this place! Ocean. Forest. No crime. Tell me some poor schlump from the city wouldn’t pay good money to stay at a resort right here.”

“Did you ever meet Graffam?”

“He paid us a visit, to talk land deal. And we told him, in no uncertain terms, to—” Fred stopped, grinned “—fornicate with himself. I’m not sure he knew the meaning of the word.”

“What kind of man is he?” asked Miranda.

Fred snorted. “Slick. Dumb. I mean, we’re talking really stupid. The IQ of an eggplant. What idiot names a development Hemlock Heights? Might as well call it Poison Oak Estates.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe he got those other suckers to sell.” He laughed. “You should meet him, Tremain. Tell me if you don’t agree he’s a throwback to our paramecium ancestors.”

“A paramecium,” said the woman, Bledsoe, briefly opening her eyes, “is far more advanced.”

“Unfortunately,” said Fred, “I’m afraid the rezoning is a fait accompli. Soon we’ll be surrounded. Condos here, a Dunkin’ Donuts there. The Cape Codification of Shepherd’s Island.” He paused. “And you know what? That’s when we’ll sell! My God, what a profit! We could buy a whole damn county up in the Allagash.”

“The project could still be stopped,” said Miranda.

“They won’t get their hands on Rose Hill. And the zoning could be reversed.”

“Not a chance,” said Fred. “We’re talking tax income here. Conservation land brings in zilch for the island. But a nice little tourist resort? Hey, I’m a CPA. I know the powers of the almighty buck.”

“There are people who’ll fight it.”

“Makes no difference.” Fred sniffed appreciatively at his rose hip tea. The edges of his sarong had slipped apart and he sat with thighs naked. Incense smoke wafted about his grizzled head. “They can scream, protest. Lay their bodies before the bulldozers. But it’s hopeless. There are things people just can’t stop.”

“A cynical answer,” said Miranda.

“For cynical times.”

“Well, they can’t buy Rose Hill,” said Miranda, rising to her feet. “And if organized crime’s behind these purchases, you can bet the island will fight back. People here don’t take well to mobsters. They don’t take to outsiders, period.”

Fred gazed up at her with a smile. “But you are an outsider, aren’t you, Ms. Wood?”

“I’m not from this island. I came here a year ago.”

“Yet they accepted you.”

“No, they didn’t.” Miranda turned toward the door. She stood there for a moment, staring through the screen. Outside, the trees were swaying under a canopy of blue sky. “They never accepted me,” she said softly. “And you know what?” She let out a long sigh of resignation. “I’ve only now come to realize it. They never will.”

There was a third car parked in the driveway at Rose Hill.

They saw it as they walked up the last bend of the road — a late-model Saab with a gleaming burgundy finish. A glance through the car window revealed a spotless interior, not even a loose business card or candy wrapper on the leather upholstery.

The screen door squealed open and Miss St. John came out on the porch. “There you are,” she said. “We have a visitor. Jill Vickery.”

Of course, thought Miranda. Who else would manage to keep such an immaculate car?

Jill was standing amidst all the books, holding a box in her arms. She glanced at Miranda with a look of obvious surprise, but made no comment about her presence. “Sorry to pop in unannounced,” she said. “I had to get a few records. Phillip and I are meeting the accountant tomorrow. You know, working out any tax problems for the transfer of the Herald.”

Chase frowned. “You found the financial records here?”

“Just last month’s worth. I couldn’t find them back in the office, so I figured he’d brought them out here to work on. I was right.”

“Where were they?” asked Chase. “We’ve combed all through his files. I never saw them.”

“They were upstairs. The nightstand drawer.” How she knew where to look was something she didn’t bother to explain. She glanced around the front room. “You’ve certainly torn the place apart. What are you looking for? Hidden treasure?”

“Any and all files on Stone Coast Trust,” said Chase.

“Yes, Annie mentioned you were dogging that angle. Personally, I think it’s a dead end.” Coolly she turned to look at Miranda. “And how are things going for you?” It was merely a polite question, carrying neither warmth nor concern.

“Things are…difficult,” said Miranda.

“I can imagine. I hear you’re staying with Annie these days.”

“Only temporarily.”

Jill flashed her one of those ironic smiles. “It’s rather inconvenient, actually. The trial was going to be Annie’s story. And now you’re living with her. I’ll have to pull her off it. Objective reporting and all.”

“No one at the Herald could possibly be objective,” Chase pointed out.

“I suppose not.” Jill shifted the box in her arms. “Well, I’d better be going. Let you get on with your search.”

“Ms. Vickery?” called Miss St. John. “I wonder if you could shed some light on an item we found here.”

“Yes?”

“It’s a note, from someone named M.” Miss St. John handed her the slip of paper. “Miranda here didn’t write it. Do you know who did?”

Jill read the note without any apparent emotion, not even a twitch of her perfect eyebrow. Miranda thought, If only I had an ounce of her style, her poise.

“It’s not dated. So…” Jill looked up. “I can think of several possibilities. None of them had that particular initial. But M could stand for a nickname. Or just the word me.”

“Several possibilities?”

“Yes.” Jill glanced uneasily at Miranda. “Richard, he…had his attractions. Especially for the female summer interns. There was that one we had last year. Before you were hired, Miranda. Her name was Chloe something or other. Couldn’t write worth a damn, but she was good decoration. And she picked up interviews no one else could get, which drove poor Annie up a wall.” Jill looked again at the note.

“This was typed on a manual typewriter. See? The e loop’s smudged, key needs to be cleaned. If I remember right, Chloe always worked on an old manual. The only one in the office who couldn’t compose on a computer keyboard.” She gave the note back to Miss St. John. “It could have been her.”

“Whatever happened to Chloe?” asked Chase.