Читать книгу Presumed Guilty - Тесс Герритсен, Tess Gerritsen - Страница 7

CHAPTER FOUR

MIRANDA stood alone and unnoticed outside the cemetery gates. Through the wrought-iron grillwork she could see the mourners grouped about the freshly dug grave. It was a large gathering, as befitted a respected member of the community. Respected, perhaps, she added to herself. But was he beloved? Did any among them, including his wife, truly love him?

I thought I did. Once….

The voice of Reverend Marriner was barely a murmur. Much was lost in the rustle of the lilac branches overhead. She strained to hear the words. “Loving husband…always be missed…cruel tragedy…Lord, forgive…”

Forgive.

She whispered the word, as though it were a prayer that could somehow pull her from the jaws of guilt. But who would forgive her?

Certainly not anyone in that gathering of mourners.

She recognized almost every face there. Among them were her neighbors, her colleagues from the newspaper, her friends. Make that former friends, she thought with bitterness. Then there were those too lofty to have made her acquaintance, the ones who moved in social circles to which Miranda had never gained entrance.

She saw the grim but dry-eyed Noah DeBolt, Evelyn’s father. There was Forrest Mayhew, president of the local bank, attired in his regulation gray suit and tie. In a category all to herself was Miss Lila St. John, the local flower and garden nut, looking freeze-dried at the eternal age of seventy-four. And then, of course, there were the Tremains. They formed a tragic tableau, poised beside the open grave. Evelyn stood between her son and Chase Tremain, as though she needed both men to steady her. Her daughter, Cassie, stood apart, almost defiantly so. Her flowered peach dress was in shocking contrast to the background of grays and blacks.

Yes, Miranda knew them all. And they knew her.

By all rights she should be standing there with them. She had once been Richard’s friend; she owed it to him to say goodbye. She should follow her heart, consequences be damned.

But she lacked the courage.

So she remained on the periphery, a lone and voiceless exile, watching as they laid to rest the man who had once been her lover.

She was still there when it was over, when the mourners began to depart in a slow and steady procession through the gates. She saw their startled glances, heard the gasps, the murmurs of “Look, it’s her.” She met their gazes calmly. To flee would have seemed an act of cowardice. I may not be brave, she thought, but I am not a coward. Most of them quickly passed by, averting their eyes. Only Miss Lila St. John returned Miranda’s gaze, and the look she gave her was neither friendly nor unfriendly. It was merely thoughtful. For an instant Miranda thought she saw a flicker of a smile in those searching eyes, and then Miss St. John, too, moved on.

A sharp intake of breath made Miranda turn.

The Tremains had halted by the gate. Slowly Evelyn raised her hand and pointed it at Miranda. “You have no right,” she whispered. “No right to be here.”

“Mom, forget it,” said Phillip, tugging her arm. “Let’s just go home.”

“She doesn’t belong here.”

“Mom—”

“Get her away from here!” Evelyn lunged toward Miranda, her hands poised to claw.

At once Chase stepped between the two women. He pulled Evelyn against him, trapping her hands in his. “Evelyn, don’t! I’ll take care of it, okay? I’ll talk to her. Just go home. Please.” He glanced at the twins. “Phillip, Cassie! Come on, take your mother home. I’ll be along later.”

The twins each took an arm and Evelyn allowed herself to be led away. But when they reached their car she turned and yelled, “Don’t let the bitch fool you, Chase! She’ll twist you around, the way she did Richard!”

Miranda stumbled back a step, physically reeling from the impact of those accusing words. She felt the gate against her back swing away, found herself grabbing at it for support. The cold wrought iron felt like the only solid thing she could cling to and she held on for dear life. The squeal of the gate hinges suddenly pierced her cloud of confusion. She found she was standing in a clump of daisies, that the others had gone, and that she and Chase Tremain were the only people remaining in the cemetery.

He was watching her. He stood a few feet away, as though wary of approaching her. As though she was some sort of dangerous animal. She could see the suspicion in his dark eyes, the tension of his pose. How aristocratic he looked today, so remote, so untouchable in that charcoal suit. The jacket showed off to perfection his wide shoulders and narrow waist. Tailored, of course. A real Tremain wouldn’t consider any off-the-rack rag.

Still, she had trouble believing this man, with his Gypsy eyes and his jet black hair, was a Tremain.

For a year she had gazed up at those portraits in the newspaper building. They’d hung on the wall opposite her desk, five generations of Tremain men, all of them ruddy faced and blue eyed. Richard’s portrait, just as blue eyed, had fit right in. Hang a portrait of Chase Tremain on that same wall and it would look like a mistake.

“Why did you come here, Ms. Wood?” he asked.

She raised her chin. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“It’s inappropriate, to say the least.”

“It’s very appropriate. I cared about him. We were—we were friends.”

“Friends?” His voice rose in mocking disbelief. “Is that what you call it?”

“You don’t know anything about it.”

“I know that you were more than friends. What shall we call your relationship, Ms. Wood? An affair? A romance?”

“Stop it.”

“A hot little tumble on the boss’s couch?”

“Stop it, damn you! It wasn’t like that!”

“No, of course not. You were just friends.”

“All right! All right….” She looked away, so he wouldn’t see her tears. Softly she said, “We were lovers.”

“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?”

Miranda nodded. “She knew the article was in the works and she wasn’t crazy about the idea. Richard was the driving force behind the story. He was even willing to risk a libel suit. In fact, Tony Graffam has already threatened to sue.”

“So we have one convenient suspect. Tony Graffam. Anyone else?”

She hesitated. “Richard wasn’t a popular man.”

“Richard?” He shook his head. “I doubt that. I was the brother with the popularity problem.”

“Two months ago he cut salaries at the Herald. Laid off a third of the staff.”

“Ah. So we have more suspects.”

“He hurt people. Families—”

“Including his own.”

“You don’t know how hard it is these days! How desperate people are for work. Oh, he talked a good story. About how sorry he was to be laying people off. How it hurt him just as much as it hurt everyone else. It was garbage. I heard him talking about it later, to his accountant. He said, ‘I cut the deadwood, just as you advised.’ Deadwood. Those employees had been with the Herald for years. Richard had the money. He could have carried the loss.”

“He was a businessman.”

“Right. That’s exactly what he was.” Her hair, tossed by the wind, was like flames dancing. She was a wild and blazing fire, full of anger at him, at Richard, at the Tremains.

“So we’ve added to the pool of suspects,” he said. “All those poor souls who lost their jobs. And their families. Why don’t we toss in Richard’s children? His father-in-law? His wife?”

“Yes! Why not Evelyn?”

Chase snorted in disgust. “You’re very good, you know that? All that smoke and mirrors. But you haven’t convinced me. I hope the jury is just as smart. I hope to hell they see through you and make you pay.”

She looked at him mutely, all the fire, all the spirit suddenly drained from her body.

“I’ve already paid,” she whispered. “I’ll pay for the rest of my life. Because I’m guilty. Not of killing him. I didn’t kill him.” She swallowed and looked away. He could no longer see her face, but he could hear the anguish in her voice. “I’m guilty of being stupid. And naive. Guilty of having faith in the wrong man. I really thought I loved your brother. But that was before I knew him. And then, when I did know him, I tried to walk away. I wanted to do it while we were still…friends.”

He saw her hand come up and stroke quickly across her face. It suddenly struck him how very brave she was. Not brazen, as he’d first thought upon seeing her today, but truly, heartbreakingly courageous.

She raised her head again, her gaze drawing level to his. The tears she’d tried to wipe away were still glistening on her lashes. He had a sudden, crazy yearning to touch her face, to wipe away the wetness of those tears. And with that yearning came another, just as insane, a man’s hunger to know the taste of her lips, the softness of her hair. At once he took a step back, as though retreating from some dangerous flame. He thought, I can see why you fell for her, Richard. Under different circumstances I might have fallen for her myself.

“Oh, hell,” she muttered in disgust. “What does it matter now, what I felt? To you or to anyone else?” Without looking back she left him and started up the driveway. Her abrupt departure seemed to leave behind an unfillable vacuum.

“Ms. Wood!” he yelled. She kept walking. He called out, “Miranda!” She stopped. “I have one question for you,” he said. “Who bailed you out?”

Slowly she turned and looked at him. “You tell me,” she said.

And then she walked away.

It was a long walk to the newspaper building. It took Miranda past familiar streets and storefronts, past people she knew. That was the worst part. She felt them staring at her through the shop windows. She saw them huddle in groups and whisper to each other. No one came right out and said anything to her face. They didn’t have to. All I lack, she thought, is a scarlet letter sewn on my chest. M for murderess.

She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead and walked up Limerock Street. The Herald building stood before her, a brick-and-slate haven against all those watching eyes. She ducked through the double glass doors, into the newsroom.

Inside, all activity came to a dead halt.

She felt assaulted by all those startled looks.

“Hello, Miranda,” said a cool voice.

Miranda turned. Jill Vickery, the managing editor, glided out of the executive office. She hadn’t changed clothes since the funeral. On dark-haired, ivory-skinned Jill, the color black looked quite elegant. Her short skirt hissed against her stockings as she clipped across the floor.

“Is there something I can do for you?” Jill asked politely.

“I—I came to get my things.”

“Yes, of course.” Jill shot a disapproving glance at the other employees, who were still gawking. “Are we all so efficient that we’ve no more work to do?”

At once everyone redirected their attention to their jobs.

Jill looked at Miranda. “I’ve already taken the liberty of cleaning out your desk. It’s all in a box downstairs.”

Miranda was so grateful for Jill’s simple civility she scarcely registered annoyance that her desk had been cold-bloodedly emptied of her belongings. She said, “I’ve also a few things in my locker.”

“They should still be there. No one’s touched it.” There was a silence. “Well,” said Jill, a prelude to escape from a socially awkward situation. “I wish you luck. Whatever happens.” She started back toward her office.

“Jill?” called Miranda.

“Yes?”

“I was wondering about that article on Tony Graffam. Why it didn’t run.”

Jill looked at her with frank puzzlement. “Why does it matter?”

“It just does.”

Jill shrugged. “It was Richard’s decision. He pulled the story.”

“Richard’s? But he was working on it for months.”

“I can’t tell you his reasons. I don’t know them. He just pulled it. And anyway, I don’t think he ever wrote the story.”

“But he told me it was nearly finished.”

“I’ve checked his files.” Jill turned and walked toward her office. “I doubt he ever got beyond the research stage. You know how he was, Miranda. The master of overstatement.”

Miranda stared after her in bewilderment. The master of overstatement. It hurt to admit it, but yes, there was a lot of truth in that label.