Presumed Guilty

“At last. A word for it.”

“And friends. Most of all, friends. I wish to God it had stayed that way.”

“So do I. At least he’d still be alive.”

She stiffened. Turning back to him she said, “I didn’t kill him.”

He sighed. “Of course you didn’t.”

“He was already dead. I found him—”

“In your house. In your bed.”

“Yes. In my bed.”

“Look Ms. Wood. I’m not the judge and jury. Don’t waste your breath with me. I’m just here to tell you to stay away from the family. Evelyn’s gone though enough hell. She doesn’t need constant reminders. If we need to, we’ll get a restraining order to keep you away. One false move and you’ll be back in jail. Right where you belong.”

“You’re all alike,” she said. “You Tremains and DeBolts. All cut from the same fancy silk. Not like the rest of us, who can be shoved out of sight. Right where we belong.”

“It’s not a matter of which cloth we’re cut from. It’s a matter of cold-blooded murder.” He took a step toward her. She didn’t move. She couldn’t; her back was against the gate. “What happened, exactly?” he said, moving closer. “Did Richard break some sacred promise? Refuse to leave his wife? Or did he just come to his senses and decide he was walking out on you?”

“That’s not what happened.”

“So what did happen?”

“I walked out on him!”

Chase gazed down at her, skepticism shadowing every line of his face. “Why?”

“Because it was over. Because it was all wrong, everything between us. I wanted to get away. I’d already left the paper.”

“He fired you?”

“I quit. Look in the files, Mr. Tremain. You’ll find my letter of resignation. Dated two weeks ago. I was going to leave the island. Head somewhere I wouldn’t have to see him every day. Somewhere I wouldn’t be constantly reminded of what a disaster I’d made of things.”

“Where were you planning to go?”

“It didn’t matter. Just away.” She looked off, past the gravestones. Far beyond the cemetery lay the sea. She could catch glimpses of it through the trees. “I grew up just fifty miles from here. Right across the water. This bay is my home. I’ve always loved it. Yet all I could think about was getting away.”

She turned to look at him. “I was already free of him. Halfway back to happiness. Why should I kill Richard?”

“Why was he in your house?”

“He insisted on meeting me. I didn’t want to see him. So I left and went for a walk. When I came back, I found him.”

“Yes, I’ve heard your version. At least your story’s consistent.”

“It’s also the truth.”

“Truth, fiction.” He shrugged. “In your case it all blends together, doesn’t it?” Abruptly he turned and headed up the cemetery drive.

“What if it’s all truth?” she called after him.

“Stay away from the family, Ms. Wood!” he yelled over his shoulder. “Or I’ll have to call in Lorne Tibbetts.”

“Just for a moment, consider the possibility that I didn’t kill him! That someone else did!”

He was still walking away.

“Maybe it’s someone you know!” she shouted. “Think about it! Or do you already know and you want me to take the blame? Tell me, Mr. Tremain! Who really killed your brother?”

That brought Chase to a sudden halt. He knew he should keep walking. He knew it was a mistake to engage the woman in any more of this insane dialogue. It was insane. Or she was insane. Yet he couldn’t break away, not yet. What she’d just said had opened up too many frightening possibilities.

Slowly he turned to face her. She stood absolutely still, her gaze fixed on him. The afternoon sun washed her head with a coppery glow. All that beautiful hair seemed to overwhelm her face. She looked surprisingly fragile in that black dress, as though a strong gust might blow her away.

Was it possible? he wondered. Could this woman really have picked up a knife? Raised the blade over Richard’s body? Plunged it down with so much rage, so much strength, that the tip had pierced straight through to his spine?

Slowly he moved toward her. “If you didn’t kill him,” he said, “who did?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s a pretty disappointing answer.”

“He had enemies—”

“Angry enough to kill him?”

“He ran a newspaper. He knew things about certain people in this town. And he wasn’t afraid to print the truth.”

“Which people? What sort of scandal are we talking about?”

He saw her hesitate, wondered if she was dredging up some new lie.

“Richard was writing an article,” she said. “About a local developer named Tony Graffam. He runs a company called Stone Coast Trust. Richard said he had proof of fraud—”

“My brother had paid reporters on his staff. Why would he bother to do his own writing?”

“It was a personal crusade of his. He was set on ruining Stone Coast. He needed just one last piece of evidence. Then he was going to print.”

“And did he?”

“No. The article was supposed to appear two weeks ago. It never did.”

“Who stopped it?”

“I don’t know. You’d have to talk to Jill Vickery.”

“The managing editor?”