Presumed Guilty

Miranda glanced with amusement at Annie’s attire: a torn T-shirt, scruffy running shoes and sweatpants. “Irving likes the casual look?”

“Irving is the casual look.” Annie slung her purse over her shoulder. “We’re sanding the deck this week. Loads of fun.”

“Will I ever get to meet this boat bum of yours?”

Annie grinned. “Soon as I can drag him to shore. I mean, the yachting season’s gotta end one of these days.” She waved. “See ya.”

After Annie had left, Miranda scrounged together a salad and sat down at the kitchen table for a melancholy dinner. Irving and his boat didn’t sound like much in the way of companionship, but at least Annie had someone to keep her company. Someone to keep away the loneliness.

Once, Miranda hadn’t minded being alone. She’d even enjoyed the silence, the peace of a house all to herself. Now she craved the simple presence of another human being. Even a dog would be nice. She’d have to think about getting one, a large one. A dog wouldn’t desert her the way most of her friends had. The way Chase had.

She set down her fork, her appetite instantly gone. Where was he now? Probably sitting in that house on Chestnut Street, surrounded by all the other Tremains. He’d have Evelyn and the twins to keep him company. He wouldn’t be alone or lonely. He would be just fine without her.

In anger she rose to her feet and slid the remains of her salad into the trash. Then she started for the door, determined to get outside, to run around the block, anything to escape the house.

At the front door she halted. A visitor stood on the porch, hand poised to ring the bell.

“Jill,” whispered Miranda.

This was not the cool, unflappable Jill she knew. This Jill was white-faced and brittle.

“Annie’s not here right now,” said Miranda. “She…should be back any minute.”

“You’re the one I came to see.” Without warning Jill slipped right past into the living room and shut the door behind her.

“I–I was just on my way out.” Miranda edged slowly for the door.

Jill took a sidestep, blocking her way. For a moment she stood there, regarding Miranda. “It’s not as if I haven’t been punished,” she said softly. “I’ve done everything I could to put it behind me. Everything. I’ve worked like a madwoman these last five years. Built the Herald into a real newspaper. You think Richard knew what he was doing? Of course not! He relied on me. Me. Oh, he never admitted it, but he let me run the show. Five years. And now you’ve ruined it for me. You’ve already got the police shoveling up old dirt. You think the Tremains will keep me on? Now that they know? Now that everyone knows?”

“I wasn’t the one. I didn’t tell Lorne.”

“You’re the reason it’s all come up! You and your pathetic denials! Why don’t you just admit you killed him? And leave the rest of us out of it.”

“But I didn’t kill him.”

Jill began to pace the room. “I’ve sinned, you’ve sinned. Everyone has. We’re all equal. What sets us apart is how we live with our sins. I’ve done the best I could. And now I find it’s not good enough. Not good enough to erase what happened….”

“Did Richard know? About San Diego?”

“No. I mean, yes, in the end. He found out. But it didn’t matter to him—”

“It didn’t matter that you killed a man?”

“He understood the circumstances. Richard was good that way.” She let out a shaky laugh. “After all, he himself wasn’t above a little sinning.”

Miranda paused, gathered the courage for her next question. “You had an affair with him, didn’t you?”

Jill’s response was a careless shrug. “It didn’t mean anything. It was years ago. You know, the new girl on the block. He got over it.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that. We stayed friends. We understood each other.” She stopped pacing and turned to look at Miranda. “Now Lorne wants to know where I was the night Richard was killed. He’s asking me to come up with an alibi! You’re casting the blame all around, aren’t you? To hell with who gets hurt. You just want off the hook. Well, sometimes that’s not possible.” She moved closer, her gaze fixed on Miranda, like a cat’s on a bird. Softly she said, “Sometimes we have to pay for our sins. Whether it’s an indiscreet affair. Or murder. We pay for it. I did. Why can’t you?”

They stared at each other, caught in a binding fascination for each other’s transgressions, each other’s pain. Killer and victim, thought Miranda. That’s what I see in her eyes. Is that what you see in mine?

The telephone rang, shattering the silence.

The sound seemed to rattle Jill. At once she turned and reached for the door. There she stopped. “You think you’re the exception, Miranda. You think you’re untouchable. Just wait. In a few years, when you’re my age, you’ll know just how vulnerable you are. We all are.”

She walked out, closing the door behind her.

At once Miranda slid the bolt home.

The phone had stopped ringing. Miranda stared at it, wondering if it had been Chase, praying that he would call again.

The phone remained silent.

She began to pace the living room, hoping Chase, Annie, anyone would call. Starved for the sound of a human voice, she turned on the TV. Mindless entertainment, that’s what she needed. For a half hour she sat on the couch among Annie’s discarded socks and sweatshirts, flicking nervously between channels. Opera. Basketball. Game show. Opera again. In frustration she flicked it back to basketball.

Something clattered in the next room.

Startled, she left the couch and went into the kitchen. There she found herself staring down at a plastic saucer rolling around and around on its side across the linoleum floor. It collapsed, shuddered and fell still. Had it tumbled off the drainboard? She looked up at the sink and noticed, for the first time, that the window was wide open.

That’s not the way I left it.

Slowly she backed away. The gun — Annie’s gun. She had to get it.

In panic she turned to make a dash for the living room—

And found her head brutally trapped, her mouth covered by a wad of cloth. She flailed blindly against her captor, against the fumes burning her nose, her throat, but found her arms wouldn’t work right. Her legs seemed to slide away from her, dissolving into some bottomless hole. She felt herself falling, caught a glimpse of the light as it receded into an impossibly high place. She tried to reach out for it but found her arms had gone numb.

The light wavered, shrank.

And then it winked out, leaving only the darkness.

Phillip was banging away at the piano. Rachmaninoff, Chase thought wearily. Couldn’t the boy choose something a little more sedate? Mozart, for instance, or Haydn. Anything but this Russian thunder.

Chase headed out to the veranda, hoping to escape the racket, but the sound of the piano seemed to pound right through the walls. Resignedly he stood at the railing and stared toward the harbor. Already sunset. The sea had turned to red flame.

He wondered what Miranda was doing.

Wondered if he’d ever stop wondering.

This morning, when they’d driven off in their separate cars, their separate ways, he’d known their relationship had gone as far as it could. To go any further would require a level of trust he wasn’t ready to give her. Their amateur detective work had come to a dead end; for now they had no reason to see each other. It was time to let the pros take over. The police, at least, would be objective. They wouldn’t be swayed by emotions or hormones.

They still believed Miranda was guilty.

“Uncle Chase?” Cassie pushed through the screen door and came out to join him. “You can’t stand the music, either, I see.”