Not Guilty (19 page)

P
hil Stratton walked up the driveway, illuminated by moonlight, toward the carriage house where Maureen Chase lived. Although they’d worked together for five years now, Phil had never been invited to Maureen’s home. Not until tonight. And he wasn’t fooling himself that it was a social invitation. Not at this hour. It was nearly midnight. When he got the call about Dylan Bennett, he called to inform Maureen. She’d been irritable when she’d first heard his voice, but when he broke the news about Dylan, she insisted that she couldn’t wait until morning for the details. She had ordered him to go to the hospital, then come right over to her house afterwards to report on what he’d learned.

As he climbed the low fieldstone steps to her door, he thought that this romantic little carriage house was not the kind of place where he would have expected Maureen to live. She seemed like the type who would live in a brand-new condo, with white walls and sleek furniture, by the harbor. This place looked like something out of the English countryside.

Phil hesitated before he knocked. Ever since they’d started working together, he’d been attracted to her and found himself constantly comparing the women he dated to Maureen. She was sharper and prettier than most of the women he met. Most of the women he knew had no idea what he did, and their eyes would glaze over when he tried to tell them. Of course, Maureen had been involved with Mark Weaver when they’d first started working together, and by the time that was over, their relationship had settled into a businesslike groove. Maybe it wasn’t too late to change that, he mused.

Phil reminded himself that she was interested only in his information
about Dylan Bennett. Phil smoothed down his tie and rang her doorbell.

After a few moments, the door to the carriage house opened. At first he wasn’t sure it was Maureen. She was barefoot and wrapped in a terry-cloth robe, and her hair hung in wet ringlets around her face. She looked pale and freckled and plainer than she did at the office, but also softer, more vulnerable.

“Phil,” she said. “Thanks for coming.”

Phil hesitated, waiting for her to invite him in. Over her shoulder, he glimpsed candlelight and plump, chintz-covered furniture. This domestic coziness was a side of Maureen he would never have imagined. There was music playing softly in the background. For a moment, he wondered if the music and candlelight might be for his benefit.

“Well?” she said. “What happened? Is he still alive?”

Her tone of voice burst his fantasy bubble. He realized that she was going to remain right there leaning against the door frame, barring his entry. He reminded himself that any romantic involvement with her would interfere at work and that he was here on business.

“He’s all right. He’s gonna live.”

Maureen’s eyes glittered. “How’d he do it?”

He shook his head. “The kid tried to slit his own throat.”

“Jesus,” she whispered, and she reached protectively for her own creamy neck.

“I know,” he said. “Pretty gruesome.” He thought that now she would step away from the door and invite him in to talk, but she just stood there fingering her throat with her manicured fingertips, deep in thought.

“Apparently, he went down into the basement of his house and used a utility knife while his mother was out. She found him down there when she got home. I spoke to the doctor briefly. It seems that Dylan went into shock at the sight of the blood and missed the major arteries.”

Maureen shook her head. “What a screwup.”

Phil found her remark a little chilling. “I tried to get in to see him,” he continued. “But he’s got a trach tube. Can’t even talk.”

She nodded absently, her eyes narrowed. “Did you talk to the mother?”

“She wasn’t much help. She was a little freaked out, as you can imagine. I told her it could wait.”

Maureen frowned at him. “Phil, you know better than that. We’re trying to nail this kid. A suicide attempt? He’s practically screaming ‘guilty conscience.’ You know you have to close in on them while they’re vulnerable.”

Phil stiffened at the rebuke. “I used my judgment,” he said.

“Well, you used bad judgment. It sounds to me like you got a little weak-kneed at the sight of the pretty weeping widow,” she said angrily.

“The kid is only fourteen,” Phil protested. “He’s obviously messed up. And you know he’s not going anywhere. They’re going to stick him in Blenheim for observation once he heals up. I think if we press him too hard, Lucas Weaver’s going to be all over us.”

“I’m not afraid of Lucas Weaver,” she said.

“I’m not afraid of him either,” said Phil. “But look—it’s not as if we’re pursuing some hardened criminal here.”

“You’re making excuses,” she snapped.

Phil stared at her, forcing himself not to snap back at her. He took a deep breath. “Look—it’s late, and I’ve had a very long day. I’ll let you know what they have to say when I talk to them.” He turned and started down the path to the driveway. He was glad she could not see his reddening face.

“Phil,” she called out, “wait a minute.”

Phil looked back at her. “What?”

Maureen grimaced. “Sorry. I’m a little too . . . close to this one.”

“Well, it’s late,” he said coolly. “We’re both tired.”

“No, you don’t need me to tell you how to do your job,” she said.

Phil shook his head. “Not a problem.”

“Look, why don’t we talk it over later in the week? Have dinner, maybe?”

Phil’s heart turned over, and he felt himself brighten, though he hated himself for it. “I suppose. You buying?” he said, momentarily wanting to punish her for the stinging criticism. But then, almost instantly, he regretted saying it. He didn’t want her to buy. Whatever reason she had for going out with him, it was still his opening, his opportunity with her. But it was too late.

“We’ll let the office pay,” she said, smiling thinly. “Call it business.”

You idiot,
he thought.
What did you say that for?
Just as he was about to apologize, she waved at him dismissively. “Get some sleep,” she said. She closed the door on him, and he was left outside in the darkness. He made his way down the path to his car. As he reached it, he glanced back at Maureen’s curtained window. It was glowing like an ember in the dark.

A
LIGHT WAS SWITCHED ON,
and Keely awoke in a fog, trying to sit up. It took her a moment to realize where she was. And then she remembered. She propped herself up on one elbow. Her spine ached from being pressed against the metal frame of the cot through the thin mattress. Across the room, she saw a nurse hovering beside Dylan’s bed, replacing the bag of clear liquid that was hooked to his IV with a new bag.

“How’s he doing?” Keely whispered.

The nurse turned and gazed mildly at Keely. “He’s doing fine,” she replied, speaking at a conversational decibel level as if it were the middle of the day. “We’ll keep checking on him.” Then she switched off the light over Dylan’s bed.

Keely fell back against the pillow and looked at the illuminated hands of the clock on the wall: 3:45
A.M.
She knew she would not fall back to sleep anytime soon. She could hear muffled noises coming from the hospital corridor outside.

Oh God,
she thought,
what am I going to do? My husband is dead. My son has tried to kill himself. Obviously, he is deeply troubled. I have a baby to worry about.
Her worries chased one another through her mind. The night and the darkness seemed to press down on her. Adrenaline ran through her veins, promising wakefulness but no peace of mind.
No,
she thought,
stop this right now.

Keely sat up and put her legs over the edge of the cot.
Stop this. Lying here for hours brooding over everything isn’t going to help. By morning, you’ll be no good to Dylan at all. And he needs your help.
She thought again about the note he had left her—
I locked the gate
—and thought,
All right, focus on that. What does it mean? If Dylan left the
gate locked, then it means that someone else opened it.
She felt shaky but somewhat calmer pursuing this thought.

Who? And how could she find out?
Think it through,
she told herself. Could Mark have opened it and then left it open accidentally? Maybe he went out there to get something and then the phone rang. Maybe a client showed up and Mark just left the gate open and forgot to come back. It was hard to imagine him doing that, but it was one possibility. What were the others?

Keely felt the need to make a list, to get her thoughts organized. She got up from the cot, went over the closet, and pulled her pocketbook off the shelf. She rummaged inside it and found a lined pad and a pen she always carried.
This will do,
she thought. She sat down gingerly in the visitor’s chair and opened the pad. Dylan rustled in the bed but did not awaken.

All right,
she thought.
How else could the gate have been opened?
What if someone came to visit while she was at the mall? No one else had admitted to being at their house that night. Of course, if they’d realized afterward what a tragic mistake they’d made by opening the pool gate . . . well, it was understandable that they wouldn’t admit to having been there.
But
I
have to know,
she thought,
so, there has to be a way to find out.

Keely wrote numbers on the lines and tapped the paper with her pen.
Number one. Think about Mark. If he was online, he might have been researching a case. Call Lucas and find out what cases Mark was working on. Names and phone numbers of clients. If he’d been talking to one of them at the time of accident, they might have heard what happened.

Number two.
She tried to visualize her house, her yard. The backyard was secluded but the driveway was visible. The front door was visible. Someone could have seen something.
Go around and ask the neighbors if they saw anyone arrive at the house that night.

Number three.
Keely chewed on the end of her pen. If people were coming over to visit, they’d probably call first, she reasoned. Or if Mark did become distracted by a phone call, it was important to know who had called.
Call the phone company,
she wrote. They could probably
give her, in a situation like this, the numbers of local incoming calls. Below that she wrote,
Check the bill for the cell phone. Find out who called.

She underlined the last phrase. That seemed like a good start. She felt better, having done something constructive, having made a list. She put it back in her purse and replaced the purse on the shelf. Then she tiptoed over and kissed her son on his damp, cool forehead. “I’m going to find out,” she whispered to him as he slumbered. She kissed him again and then crept back to the cot. After she pulled the thin thermal blanket up, she was able to fall asleep.

M
orning mist was still on the grass as Betsy Weaver, dressed in forest green Wellingtons, a black Mao jacket, and a straw hat, stood on tiptoe, opened the bird feeder at the foot of her garden, and looked in. A squirrel chattered in the bare branches of a maple tree above her. Betsy gave the squirrel a baleful look. “How much of this did you eat, hmmm? This is for my birds, not for you.” Betsy bent over and lifted up a five-pound sack of birdseed, carefully shaking the contents into the feeder until it was full.

“Mrs. Weaver?”

Betsy turned and started with fear at the sight of the stranger who had materialized on the lawn not ten feet away from her. He was a black man with wild Jamaican-style hair like she’d seen on those Rastafarians when they vacationed at Rosehill near Kingston. “What do you want?” she cried, trying to control the tremor in her voice. “I don’t have any money with me,” she said. She glanced up at the house. Lucas hadn’t gone to the office yet. If only he’d glance outside, notice she was in trouble.

The man eyed her coldly, and she realized that he had blue-green eyes, of all things.

“Believe it or not, ma’am, I’ve not come to rape and pillage,” he replied stiffly in a British accent. “I only want a word with you.”

Immediately, Betsy reddened, ashamed that she had leaped to exactly that prejudiced conclusion at the sight of him. But the man
had
taken her by surprise. She wasn’t about to apologize for being startled, for heaven’s sake. “I’m not accustomed to being accosted in my garden. You might have just rung the doorbell, like any other visitor. My husband is in the house.”

“I don’t want to see your husband. I’ve tried to talk to your husband, but he insisted he can’t help me. I was hoping to find you a bit more sympathetic.”

Betsy clutched the bag of birdseed to her narrow chest and eyed the man with a mixture of curiosity and lingering fear. “Sympathetic about what?” she asked. “If you’re selling something, I can tell you right now—”

“My name is Julian Graham,” he interrupted. “My mother is Veronica Fairchild.”

Betsy gasped. “Veronica? My . . . daughter-in-law?”

“That’s right,” he said, enjoying her dismay. “Didn’t she tell you about me?”

Betsy shook her head.

“There’s a surprise. Yeah, she was my mum, all right. Left me and my dad when I was about a year old and ran off to the States. I’m told she married your son.”

“My son is dead,” Betsy said dully.

The young man frowned. “So I’ve heard. It’s a pity, ma’am. But it’s my mother I’m looking for.”

“Veronica. Are you sure? Maybe you’re mistaken.”

“No mistake,” he said angrily.

“Well, I’m sorry. We never knew you existed. Veronica never breathed a word about you to us. Or to my son either, I’m sure. Well, she wouldn’t, would she?” The young’s man eyes flashed, and Betsy noticed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.” Then she frowned. “It’s just that she wasn’t . . . I never trusted her. Even before she . . .” Betsy’s mind started to drift, but then she forced her attention back to the man in front of her. “Veronica is a very cruel woman. Very cold. I wonder . . . was she . . . did she ever divorce your father?”

“They were never married,” he said, raising his chin defiantly.

Betsy nodded and shook her head. “Hmmm . . . why am I not surprised?” she said. “Veronica.” She heaved a sigh and then looked up and studied the exotic-looking young man in front of her. “Well, you won’t find her here. She left here years ago. Ran off to Las Vegas with some . . . married man. One with money, of course,” Betsy added tartly.

Julian Graham sighed. “Do you have her address?”

Betsy shook her head. “I don’t know where she is, and I don’t care. I’m sorry to say this, young man, but you may be better off not finding her. I can’t imagine it would bring you anything but heartache.”

“That’s for me to decide, ma’am,” Julian said coolly. “I just want the information.”

“Well, I’m afraid that after she broke my son’s heart and ruined his life, we didn’t keep in touch,” said Betsy in a frosty tone. Then, reminding herself that none of it was this young man’s fault, her tone softened. “I’d help you if I could. But it was years ago. She didn’t want anything more to do with us. I asked her for her phone number and her address when she called. Personally, I would have been glad to wash my hands of her, but Prentice . . .” Her voice faltered. Then she squared her shoulders. “He tried to follow her. He went out there, to the address she gave us, and it turned out to be phony. Can you imagine how my son felt . . .?” And then, seeing the hurt in the young man’s eyes, she realized how well he probably could imagine. “I’ve nothing against you personally, you understand. We were all her victims.”

“I’m nobody’s victim,” the young man corrected her.

“No, of course not,” said Betsy. “How do you happen to be here, anyway?”

“I’m come to the States from Britain on tour, actually, with a band,” he said.

“Well, that’s wonderful,” Betsy murmured. “Though I’m sure I don’t know the music you young people like anymore. Would you like to come in? Have a . . . cup of tea?” Her voice brightened at the very idea of offering an Englishman the solace of a cup of tea.

Julian sighed. He gazed up at the imposing house, then shook his head. But his tone was less rueful. “No, thanks. I’ve got to be off.”

“I’m . . . sorry. I hope I haven’t been rude. I just can’t help you . . .”

“Never mind,” he said.

“Good luck . . . Julian . . .” Betsy said, her voice trailing away. She watched him go, then slowly she made her way back to the house, her mind ruminating furiously on the young man’s unexpected visit. Why hadn’t Lucas mentioned Julian Graham to her before? They never kept
secrets. Surely he’d have realized she would want to know. And then she sighed, thinking of all the terrible memories it reawakened. Prentice’s grief. The way he blamed them. Accused them of driving Veronica away, making her feel unwelcome. For months after he’d returned from Las Vegas without her, he hadn’t even spoken to them, had refused their efforts to comfort him. Taken comfort in the bottle. Betsy clutched the sack of seed against the front of her quilted jacket as if it were a baby.

When she walked in the door, she saw Lucas setting the phone back into its cradle. He turned and looked at her. His face was as white as paste, and his eyes were wide and frightened. Lucas rarely looked frightened.

Betsy dumped the seed bag on the table and rushed to him. “Darling, what is it?” she cried. “You look awful.”

“That was Keely,” he whispered.

Betsy frowned. “At this hour? What did she want?”

“She just got home from the hospital. Been there all night. Dylan . . . tried to kill himself.”

Betsy stared at him, shaking her head. “No, that’s not possible.” She grabbed Lucas’s hand. It was cold and clammy. “There must be some mistake.”

“Last night. When she got home from here, she found him. He’d cut his throat.”

Betsy groaned. “Oh, Lucas. Oh no . . .”

He nodded, his lips pressed together grimly. “I’m afraid so.”

“Will he . . . is he going to live?”

Lucas nodded. “Yes. Thank God.”

“How is she? How is Keely?” Betsy asked.

Lucas shook his head. “Holding up, somehow.”

“Oh, poor thing,” Betsy wailed. “Here, sit down. You look terrible.”

“Such a shock,” he muttered as she helped him to a chair, then sat down beside him. They sat there, hands clasped, all too familiar with the despair that Keely was now feeling.

“She told me that he was depressed,” said Betsy.

Lucas shook his head. “I should have known . . .”

“How could you know?” Betsy chided him gently. “You hardly know the boy.”

“You know what I mean,” Lucas insisted. “The pressure on him. The police . . . Maureen Chase. Especially Maureen. And Keely has no idea what was going on . . .”

“You don’t think she knows?” Betsy asked worriedly.

“I’m sure she doesn’t,” said Lucas grimly. “And I don’t want to be the one to tell her.”

“No. No. But it’s not up to you. You’ve done everything you can to protect her,” Betsy reminded him gently. “And we’ll keep on doing all we can. We will. Honestly, when I think of Mark . . . it makes me sick . . .”

“How well can we really know anyone?” Lucas said glumly. They sat silently, clinging to one another.

Betsy sighed. “Lucas,” she said. “Speaking of how well we know someone . . .”

Lucas frowned at her.

“I had a visitor just now. In the garden. A young man named Julian Graham.”

“He was here?”

Betsy nodded. “He said he’d spoken to you.”

Lucas avoided her gaze. “It’s true. He came by the office.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I’m sorry, darling . . . I should have told you. I didn’t want to bring it all back.”

“Didn’t you think I’d want to know? Since when do you make up my mind for me?”

“I know. It was wrong not to tell you. But you’ve had to cope with so much lately. I was trying to protect you. It’s a habit.”

Betsy sighed and nodded. “I know. I know. . . .”

“I told him to try Las Vegas. Although there’s no telling where she’s got to by now. That was years ago . . .”

Betsy frowned, squeezing Lucas’s hand in her lap. “I never liked her. I admit it. It was no secret that I wasn’t happy with Prentice’s choice of a wife. Still, I wish . . .”

“I know,” said Lucas. “I wish the same thing.”

“He always thought we were glad she left him,” Betsy cried.

“Why would we be glad? It wasn’t our choice to make,” Lucas said. “Remember your parents? They weren’t happy when you chose me. That didn’t matter to us.”

“No, it didn’t,” Betsy agreed, smiling in spite of herself. She knew he was right. There was no use in going over it again and again. They had been over it a million times through the years. Nothing could change the past. Immediately, Betsy’s thoughts reverted back to Keely and Dylan Bennett. “Children don’t realize . . . when they suffer, we suffer . . .”

“You’re thinking of Keely,” he said, reading her mind.

Tears came to her eyes, spilled down her cheeks. “How can she bear it?”

“She’s strong,” said Lucas.

Betsy shook her head. “No one’s that strong.”

“Really, she was extraordinary,” Lucas said. “On the phone just now, she was asking my advice about the police, asking me about Mark’s clients.”

“Why?” Betsy asked. “How can she be thinking of anything but Dylan?”

“Well, she is thinking of Dylan. She feels that this investigation into Mark’s death is what drove Dylan to . . . such despair. Her whole focus now is on trying to exonerate Dylan of any blame in Mark’s death.”

“But it was an accident,” said Betsy. “It’s not a question of blame.”

“I know that,” said Lucas. “But there’s no reasoning with her.”

“Well, I can understand it,” said Betsy. “She’s fighting for Dylan’s life.”

K
EELY
CRADLED
A
BBY
in one arm and held the phone to her ear with her free hand. She’d come home only to change and have a few minutes with Abby. She wanted to get back to the hospital as soon as possible. She glanced at the clock on Mark’s desk and whispered, “Come on, hurry up,” as she worked her way through a long sequence of push button options to try to reach a human being at the phone company.
Finally, she got a service representative on the line. The man’s eager offer to help his customer flattened when he heard what Keely wanted.