Presumed Guilty

“Richard.” Noah, his rage suddenly spent, sank slowly back against the chair. Softly he said, “For Richard.”

“You thought…that I—” Evelyn shook her head.

“Why? You knew it was that — that bitch!”

Noah merely looked away. With that one gesture he gave his answer. An answer that lifted a weight so heavy from Chase’s soul he felt he was floating. It was a burden he could only now acknowledge had been there all along, the burden of proof. With that one gesture, the last blot of suspicion was washed away.

“You know Miranda’s innocent,” said Chase.

Noah dropped his head in his hands. “Yes,” he whispered.

“How?” cut in Lorne.

“Because I had her followed. Oh, I knew about the affair. I knew what he was up to. I’d had enough of it! I wasn’t going to see him hurt Evelyn again. So I hired a man, told him to watch her. To follow her, take photos. Catch ’em in the act. I wanted Evelyn to know, once and for all, what a bastard she’d married.”

“And the night he was killed, you had Miranda under surveillance?” asked Lorne.

Noah nodded.

“What did your man see?”

“Of the murder? Nothing. He was busy following the woman. She left the house, walked to the beach. Sat there for an hour or so. Then she went home. By then my son-in-law was already dead.”

Exactly what she said, thought Chase. It was all the truth, right down to the last detail.

“Then your man never saw the killer?” said Lorne.

“No.”

“But you assumed your daughter…”

Noah shrugged. “It seemed…a logical guess. He had it coming. All these years of hurting her. You think he didn’t deserve it? You think she wasn’t justified?”

“But I didn’t do it,” said Evelyn.

Her words went ignored.

“Why did you bail out Miranda Wood?” asked Lorne.

“I thought if she went to trial, if her story held together, there was a chance they’d start to look at other suspects.”

“You mean Evelyn.”

“Better to have it over and done with!” blurted out Noah. “If there was an accident, that would end it. No more questions. No more suspects.”

“So you wanted her out of jail,” said Chase. “Out on the street, where you could reach her.”

“That’s enough, Noah!” cut in Hardee. “You don’t have to answer these questions.”

“Damn you, Les!” snapped Evelyn. “You should have told him that earlier!” She looked at her father, her expression a mixture of pity and disgust. “Let me set your mind at rest, Daddy. I didn’t kill Richard. The fact you thought I did only shows how little you know me. Or I you.”

“I’m sorry about this, Evelyn,” said Lorne quietly. “But now I’m going to have to ask you a few questions.”

Evelyn turned to him. Her chin came up, a gesture of stubborn pride, newfound strength. For the first time in all the years he’d known her Chase felt a spark of admiration for his sister-in-law.

“Ask away, Lorne,” she said. “You’re the cop. And I guess I’m now your prime suspect.”

Chase didn’t stay to hear the rest. He left the room and headed down the hall to find Miranda. Now it can be proved. It was true, every word you said. They could start from the beginning, he thought. He suddenly strode ahead with new hope, new anticipation. The shadow of murder was gone, and they had a chance to do it over, to do it right.

He rounded the corner eagerly, expecting to see her sitting on the bench.

The bench was empty.

He went over to the clerk, who was typing out Noah’s arrest report. “Did you see where she went?”

The clerk glanced up. “You mean Ms. Wood?”

“Yes.”

“She left the station. About, oh, twenty minutes ago.”

“Did she say where she was going?”

“Nope. Just got up and walked out.”

In frustration Chase turned to the door. You never make it easy for me, do you? he thought. Then he pushed through the door and headed out into the night.

All day Ozzie had been restless. Last night, all that frantic running around and police activity had driven the beast nearly mad with excitement. A day later and the agitation still hadn’t worn off. He was all nerved up, clawing at the door, whining and tip-tapping back and forth across the wood floor.

Maybe it’s my fault, Miss St. John thought, gazing in disgust at her hysterical dog. Maybe my mood has simply rubbed off on him.

Ozzie crouched at the front door like a discarded fur coat, staring pitifully at his mistress.

“You,” said Miss St. John, “are a tyrant.”

Ozzie merely whimpered.

“Oh, all right,” said Miss St. John. “Out, out!” She opened the door. The dog bounded out into the twilight.

Miss St. John followed the beast down the gravel driveway. Ozzie was dancing along, his fur bouncing like black corkscrews. Truly an ugly animal, thought Miss St. John, the same thought that occurred to her on every walk. That he was worth several thousand dollars for his pedigree alone only went to show you the worthlessness of pedigrees, be they for dogs or people. But what Ozzie lacked in beauty he made up in energy. Already he was trotting far ahead and veering up the path, toward Rose Hill.

Miss St. John, feeling more like dog than mistress, followed him.

The cottage was dark. Chase and Miranda had left that morning and now the place stood deserted and forlorn. A pity. Such charming cottages should not go empty, especially not in the summertime.

She climbed the steps and peered through the window. Shadows of furniture huddled within. The books were back in the shelves. She could see the gleam of their spines lined up against the wall. Though they’d combed those books and papers thoroughly, she still wondered whether they had missed something. Some small, easily overlooked item that held the answers to Richard Tremain’s death.

The door was locked, but she knew where the key was kept. What harm would there be in another little visit? She’d always felt just a bit proprietary when it came to Rose Hill. After all, she’d played near here almost every day as a child. And as an adult she’d made a point of keeping an eye on the cottage, as a favor to the Tremains.

Ozzie seemed happy enough, padding about in the yard.

Miss St. John retrieved the key from the planter, unlocked the door and went inside.

It seemed very still, very sad in that living room. She turned on all the lamps and wandered about, her gaze combing the nooks and crannies of the furniture. They’d already made a search of those places. There was no point repeating it.

She went through the kitchen, through the upstairs bedrooms, came back down again. No hunches, no revelations.

She was turning to leave when her gaze swept past the area rug, set right in front of the door. That’s when a memory struck her, of a scene from Tess of the D’Urbervilles. A confessional note, slipped under the closed door, only to be pushed accidentally under the adjacent rug. A note that was never found because it lay hidden from view.

So vivid was that image that when she bent and pulled up the edge of the rug she was not at all startled to see a sealed envelope lying there.

The note was from M. The intended recipient had never found it, never read it.

…This pain is alive, like a creature gnawing at my organs. It won’t die. It refuses to die. You put it there, you