Presumed Guilty

“When did you learn?” Miranda asked softly. “That he wasn’t your father?”

“Not until years later, when Dad was dying. He had one of those cliche deathbed confessions. Only he didn’t tell me. He told Richard. Even at the very end, Richard was the privileged one.” Wearily Chase leaned back, his head pressed against the cushions, his gaze focused on the ceiling. “Later they read the will. I couldn’t understand why I’d been essentially cut out. Oh, he left me enough to get me started in business. But that was it. I thought it had to do with my marriage, the fact Dad had opposed it from the start. I was hurt, but I accepted it. My wife didn’t. She got in a shouting match with Richard, started yelling that it wasn’t fair. Richard lost his cool and let it all out. The big secret. The fact his brother was a bastard.”

“Is that when you left the island?”

He nodded. “I came back once or twice, to humor my wife. After we got divorced it seemed like my last link to this place had been cut. So I stayed away. Until now.”

They fell silent. He seemed lost in bad memories, old hurts. No wonder I could never find any hint of Richard in his face, she thought. He’s not a Tremain at all. He’s his own man, the sort of man Richard could never be.

The sort of man I could love.

He felt her studying him, sensed she was reaching out to him. Abruptly he rose to his feet and moved with studied indifference toward the screen door. There he stood looking out at the field. “Maybe you were right,” he said.

“About what?”

“That what happened between you and Richard is still hanging over us.”

“And if it is?”

“Then this is a mistake. You, me. It’s the wrong reason to get involved.”

She looked down, unwilling to reveal, even to the stiffly turned back, the hurt in her eyes. “Then we shouldn’t, should we?” she murmured.

“No.” He turned to face her. She found her gaze drawn, almost against her will, to meet his. “The truth is, Miranda, we have too many reasons not to. What’s happened between us has been…” He shrugged. “It was an attraction, that’s all.”

That’s all. Nothing, really, in the larger context of life. Not something you risked your heart on.

“Still…” he said.

“Yes?” She looked up with a sudden, insane leap of hope.

“We can’t walk away from each other. Not with all that’s happened. Richard’s death. The fire.” He gestured about the book-strewn room. “And this.”

“You don’t trust me. Yet you want my help?”

“You’re the only one with stakes high enough to see this through.”

She gave a tired laugh. “You got that part right.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “So, what comes next?”

“I’ll go have a talk with Tony Graffam.”

“Shall I come?”

“No. I want to check him out on my own. In the meantime, you can finish up here. There’s still the upstairs.”

Miranda gazed around the room, at the dusty piles of books, the stacks of papers, and she shook her head. “If I just knew what I was looking for. What the burglar was looking for.”

“I have a hunch it’s still here somewhere.”

“Whatever it is.”

Turning, Chase pushed open the door. “When you find it, you’ll know.”

Eleven

Fred Nickels had said Tony Graffam was slick and dumb. He was right on both counts. Graffam wore a silk suit, a tie in blinding red paisley and a gold pinkie ring. The office, like the man, was all flash, little substance: plush carpet, spanking new leather chairs, but no secretary, no books on the shelves, no papers on the desk. The wall had only one decoration — a map of the north shore of Shepherd’s Island. It was not labeled as such, but Chase needed only a glance at the broad, curving bay to recognize the coastline.

“I tell you, it’s a witch hunt!” Graffam complained. “First the police, now you.” He stayed behind his desk, refusing to emerge even to shake hands, as though clinging to the polished barrier for protection. In agitation he slid his fingers through his tightly permed hair. “You think I’d go and waste someone? Just like that? And for what, a piece of property? Do I look dumb?”

Chase politely declined to answer that question. He said, “You were pressing an offer for Rose Hill Cottage, weren’t you?”

“Well, of course. It’s the prime lot up there.”

“And my brother refused to sell.”

“Look, I’m sorry about your brother. Tragedy, a real tragedy. Not that he and I were on good terms, you understand. I couldn’t deal with him. He had a closed mind when it came to the project. I mean, he actually went and got hostile. I don’t know why. It’s only business, right?”

“But I was under the impression this wasn’t a business deal, at all. Stone Coast Trust is billed as a conservation project.”

“And that’s exactly what it is. I offered your brother top dollar for that land, more than Nature Conservancy would’ve paid. Plus, he would’ve retained lifetime use of the family cottage. An incredible deal.”

“Incredible.”

“With the addition of Rose Hill, we could extend the park all the way back to the hillside. It would add elevation. Views. Access.”

“Access?”

“For maintenance, of course. You know, for the hiking trails. Decent footpaths, so everyone could enjoy a taste of nature. Even the handicapped. I mean, mobility impaired.”

“You thought of everything.”

Graffam smiled. “Yes. We did.”

“Where does Hemlock Heights come in?”

Graffam paused. “Excuse me?”

“Hemlock Heights. That is, I believe, the name of your planned development.”

“Well, nothing was planned—”

“Then why did you apply for rezoning? And how much did you pay to bribe the land commission?”

Graffam’s face had gone rigid. “Let me repeat myself, Mr. Tremain. Stone Coast Trust was formed to protect the north shore. I admit, we might have to develop a parcel here and there, just to maintain the trust. But sometimes we have to compromise. We have to do things we’d rather not.”

“Does that include blackmail?”

Graffam sat up sharply. “What?”

“I’m talking about Fred Nickels. And Homer Sulaway. The names should be familiar to you.”

“Yes, of course. Two of the property owners. They declined my offer.”

“Someone sent them nasty letters, telling them to sell.”

“You think I sent them?”

“Who else? Four people turned you down. Two of them got threatening letters. And a third — my brother — winds up dead.”

“That’s what you’re leading up to, isn’t it? Trying to make it look like I had something to do with his death.”