Not Guilty (7 page)

“It was by the pool,” Dylan muttered.

“What difference does it make where his skateboard was?” Keely asked sharply.

“I’m just trying to establish what happened,” Detective Stratton said calmly.

“You know what happened. You heard what happened,” said Keely.

Detective Stratton ignored her sharp tone and turned back to Dylan. “This has been kind of a tough time for you, hasn’t it, Dylan?”

Dylan shrugged.

“Your stepfather was a pretty good guy?” he asked sympathetically.

“He was okay,” said Dylan.

“Of course, he couldn’t replace your real dad.”

“No,” Dylan admitted softly.

“I’ll bet that was tough for you, what happened to your father—”

“Wait a minute, Detective. Why do you have to bring that up?” Keely demanded. She had a sudden, blinding image in her mind’s eye of the blood, Richard sprawled on the rug, and Dylan huddled in the closet. “These are very painful memories for us.”

“All right, let me backtrack a little,” said Phil Stratton. He studied his leather notebook, tapping on it with his gold pen, and cleared his throat. Then he asked, “Would you say you got along pretty well with your stepfather?”

“Pretty well, I guess.”

“That business with the bike didn’t get him angry at you?”

“He didn’t know about it,” said Dylan.

“You didn’t talk about it when you came home that night?”

“I didn’t even see him,” said Dylan.

“So there was no argument between you two? No threats exchanged?”

“What are you talking about? Who said anything about arguments or threats?” Keely protested.

“No, I told you,” Dylan insisted. “I didn’t see him.”

“And even if he did, what difference does it make?” Keely cried.

Dylan jumped to his feet. His features were distorted with anger, and his reedy body was shaking. “I didn’t, Mom. I just got finished saying that I didn’t.”

A fretful little cry sounded from down the hall. “Keep your voice down,” said Keely. “Look, I’m sorry, Dylan. I’m not blaming this on you. Detective . . . Stratton, is it? Detective Stratton, can’t you just leave us in peace? I told the officer who was here that night, my husband Mark did not know how to swim. It was a terrible mistake for us to have a swimming pool, but they say that hindsight is twenty-twenty.”

“I have a couple more questions to ask Dylan,” he replied.

Keely felt the blood rush to her cheeks. What was this policeman up to? Was he going to make Dylan admit to leaving the gate open? Since when was it against the law to leave a pool gate unlocked? To be forgetful? No matter what the tragic consequences, Dylan didn’t cause the accident. It could have been prevented any number of ways. Abby
might have been in her playpen at the time. Mark might not have been distracted. She wasn’t going to let this man saddle Dylan with that guilt. “Look, if you are trying to find someone to blame for this . . . Accidents happen, Detective. It’s tragic, but it’s true. I can accept that.”

“It’s not a question of your accepting or not accepting it,” he said, and there was a trace of steeliness in his tone. “We just think that Sergeant Henderson may have been somewhat . . . less than thorough in his inquiries in this situation. There are official procedures in a case like this . . .”

Keely did not miss the import of his words. She tried to keep the alarm out of her voice. “A case like this. What are you talking about? It’s obvious what happened.”

“Well, it appeared to be obvious. But what we didn’t know, on the night of Mr. Weaver’s death,” he said carefully, “is that this is the second time you’ve lost your husband in a tragic accident.”

Keely felt as if he had slapped her across the face. It took her a moment to recover her wits. Then she breathed, “How dare you? My first husband’s death, as you must know, since you have obviously heard about it, was a suicide.”

The detective raised his eyebrows and looked surprised. “Apparently your
lawyer,”
he said with a hint of sarcasm, “argued that it was an accident. Argued successfully with the insurance company, if my information is correct . . .”

Abby’s fretting from down the hall turned into a wail. The sound of her baby’s distress made it difficult for Keely to think. “Dylan,” she said, “go and pick her up, please. Bring her to me.”

“But Mom—” he protested.

“Do it now,” she insisted.

Shaking his head and muttering, the boy left the room. In a few seconds, the screaming stopped abruptly. Keely took a deep breath and tried to speak evenly. There was no point in being defensive about this. She had nothing to hide, she reminded herself. “Detective Stratton, let me explain this. There is no question that Richard shot himself. But as you know, many insurance policies specify that there will be no payment in the case of suicide. My husband Mark, who was my lawyer at the
time, convinced me to allow him to suggest that Richard’s death was accidental—”

“So you’re saying it wasn’t an accident.”

Keely started to speak and then stopped herself, trying to think how her words would strike this policeman. Then, she decided not to weigh her words so carefully. “I know . . . I
believe
that he committed suicide.”

“You defrauded the insurance company, in other words.”

His words were deliberately insulting. There was little doubt of that. But Keely struggled not to let the accusation throw her. It could be seen that way, she thought. If she were honest with herself, she had always felt a little bit guilty about collecting that insurance money. Not too guilty—after all, they’d paid their premiums faithfully, and Richard’s death happened only a matter of months from the time when the company would be required to pay, no matter how he died. Still, she knew it could be seen that way. She had to explain. And she had to maintain a calm demeanor. “My . . . Mark explained to me that what I believed about Richard’s death was not the issue—legally. Without a suicide note stating his intentions, it was possible to make a case that Richard’s death was accidental. Apparently, Mark was able to make a convincing case to them that it was . . . might have been an accident,” she said. “They agreed to pay. There’s nothing fraudulent about it.”

“But there’s some question about the truth,” he said, staring at her with his penetrating gaze.

“Not to me,” said Keely, not flinching from his stare.

“Well,” he said, “I’m sure you can see my problem. There are certain-discrepancies in these stories you are telling—”

“Stories!” she cried.

The detective nodded. “Until we are sure about what happened . . .”

“I’ve tried to be cooperative, but really, enough is enough. Please, leave my house,” she said.

“I’m afraid we’re not finished with this,” he said.

“Please go,” said Keely. “Leave us alone.”

“I’ll go for now,” he said, “but this investigation is still open, ma’am.”

She turned her back on him as he walked to the door. She didn’t
look when she heard the door slam. Dylan came into the living room carrying Abby.

“Is he gone?” Dylan asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“What’s the matter, Mom? What does he want?” Dylan asked, and his voice sounded like a child’s.

She needed a moment to get her wits together. The fear in his eyes made her feel angry and helpless. Wasn’t it bad enough that they had to live through this again, without having to be badgered about it as well? However improbable it might seem to lose two husbands in a short span of time, she could testify that it was possible. She walked over to Dylan and lifted the baby from his arms, then set her down on the rug.

Crouched beside the baby, she shook a jingling set of plastic doughnuts on a chain, and Abby shrieked with glee. “It’s a misunderstanding,” Keely said with a nonchalance she did not feel. “Nothing to worry about.”

Dylan stepped up beside her, looming over them in his black shirt and jeans like a dark shadow. “What did you tell him?”

“Honey, don’t you worry about it,” she said, rising to her feet. She looked him in the eyes and said, “I promise you. It’s nothing to worry about.”

A sudden rap at the door made her jump, and Dylan saw the look of panic in her eyes that belied her confident words.

“You think that’s him, coming back.”

“I don’t know who it is. I was just startled,” she said sharply.

“You think something bad’s gonna happen, don’t you?” he demanded.

“No. I said no.” Partly to escape the accusing look in her son’s eyes, Keely strode to the door and opened it.

Jake Ambler stood on the doorstep. “Can Dylan go skating?” he asked.

She was so relieved to see Jake there, and not the detective, that she forgot her rule about homework first. “Sure,” she said. “Dylan, it’s Jake.”

When he did not reply, she turned around and looked at him. He was staring at her balefully, as if she had betrayed him. “Just a
minute, Jake,” she said. She walked back to her son and put a hand on his arm.

“Dylan, whatever it is, I’m sure that once we answer their questions, they won’t bother us anymore.”

“Us,”
he said with a snort. “That’s a laugh. They won’t blame
you,”
he said.

“They won’t blame you, either,” she insisted, but he would not meet her gaze.

“Why not?” he asked. “You do.”

“Dylan!”

He brushed past her without apologizing, then grunted at Jake to follow him.

“That’s not true!” she cried. “Dylan!” But he did not look back.

A
t six o’clock, Susan Ambler called and asked if Dylan could stay for dinner. Keely felt her heart sink at the request and realized how much she dreaded being alone in the house as the evening began to close in. “He has homework to do,” she told Susan, but Susan assured her that the boys were working on it out of Jake’s textbooks, and Keely could see no other reason to insist that he return.

“Send him home by eight,” Keely said. “Before it gets dark.”

She hung up the phone and went into the living room, where Abby was working her way around the room, clinging to ottomans and the coffee table as she lurched along. Keely went over and tried to scoop her up in her arms, needing to feel her warmth, but Abby was intent on her enterprise and began to fuss and push Keely away when she felt her feet leave the ground. Reluctantly, Keely put her back down, and Abby resumed her circumnavigation of the room, oblivious to her mother’s concerns. She concentrated on her task. Keely almost envied her. Abby would not remember her father or have any image of him other than some photos and a couple of videos they had made. The more she grew up, the more she would feel it, of course, the lack of a father. But right now, Abby suffered no grief. Sometimes, she would look around, as if she was seeking that other presence that she was used to, but then she would be distracted by a rustling leaf or a bird swooping by or just the sound of the television.

For a moment, looking at her daughter’s progress, Keely felt tears coming to her eyes, and realized she had to do something to get her mind off her sorrow. There was dinner to fix, and then a pile of bills awaited her on Mark’s desk.
Get busy,
she thought.
Keep moving.

By the time Keely had cleaned up supper, bathed Abby, and put her
to bed, it was deep twilight. She glanced out the front window to see if Dylan might be rolling up the driveway on his bike, but there was no sign of him yet. She went down the hall to the den that Mark had used as his home office and, taking a deep breath, sat down in his leather desk chair. This was where he’d done work he’d brought home and taken care of household accounts.

Keely found the checkbook in the first drawer and began to write out checks, her anxieties increasing as the balance in the checking account diminished. They had spent so much money on renovating the house. It hadn’t seemed like too much at the time, because of Mark’s income. They had thought they had years to pay off these bills. Of course they had good credit, and Mark had a sizable retirement account. She and the children would be all right, she reminded herself, once they got the insurance money and she sold the house. There was no reason to panic. She opened another envelope from the pile and saw that it was an invoice from Collier’s, the jewelry store downtown, not far from Mark’s office. He had bought an expensive smoky quartz bracelet set in gold just the week before his death. She frowned. He’d never given her a smoky quartz bracelet. And then she remembered—their anniversary. Her gaze fell on the John Grisham book, still in the bookstore’s bag, resting on the edge of Mark’s desk where she had left it. She looked again at the bill—the bracelet cost nearly eight hundred dollars. She wondered where he had put it to hide it from her. Or could it still be at the store, being engraved? That was probably it. Well, she could use that money. She would have to check.

The sound of the doorbell ringing startled her. She went to the door and looked out cautiously, only to see Lucas Weaver on her front steps.

“Lucas,” she said, pulling the door open. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“I’m sorry, Keely,” said the older man. “I should have called, but I was on my way out the door when I remembered these papers you have to sign. . . . It’s more estate business. I hate to bother you . . .”

“No, no. I’ve been meaning to call you anyway,” said Keely. It was true. She had. But she felt as if she couldn’t even make conversation these days. “Come in. I’ve just been like a zombie lately.”

“It’s all right. I know,” said Lucas, limping after her into the den, where she indicated a paisley-covered wing chair for him beside the desk. “Betsy’s wanted to call you, too, and invite you all over for dinner. But she’s still so . . . shaken . . .”

Keely smiled briefly at Lucas. “We wouldn’t be fit company for dinner. What have you got for me?”

“Tax documents.” Lucas placed the papers in front of her, explained their relevance, and indicated the various places where she needed to sign. Keely began to read the papers over.

While Keely scanned the documents, Lucas gazed around the book-lined office. He leaned over, removed a volume of military history from a low shelf, and riffled the pages. Keely looked up at him. “You know, Lucas, I’ve been meaning to tell you this. If there’s anything of Mark’s you’d like to have . . .” she said.

Lucas shook his head and hurriedly replaced the book on the shelf. “At my age, you stop collecting things, my dear. Possessions begin to seem . . . a burden.”

“Oh, Lucas, don’t talk that way. You’re not that old,” she said gently.

“There won’t be anyone to sort through our things when Betsy and I are gone,” he said wistfully. “No one who will understand what we treasured and why.”

There was no use in denying what he said. She knew he was not seeking reassurance. He said it matter-of-factly, and when she glanced at him, his eyes were dry, his gaze steady. “I have my memories,” he said.

Keely sighed. “And who among us really needs more . . . stuff,” she said, agreeing. She signed the papers on the desk before handing them back to the attorney, who replaced them in a narrow briefcase.

Keely leaned back in the leather tufted desk chair and ran a hand through her uncombed hair. “You’re awfully kind to come out here, Lucas. You didn’t need to do that. I could have gone to the office.”

“I wasn’t sure you were ready to come into the office yet,” he said.

Keely nodded. Another hurdle to be surmounted, speaking of more possessions to be sorted. Mark’s office. Their wedding picture and a photo of Abby on his desk, the framed antique map she gave him for
Christmas, his extra umbrella, and his spare shirt and tie in the closet. For her, right now, Mark’s belongings were more than just stuff. They seemed electric with life, and it was painful for her to touch them. “I have to get in there and clean it out one of these days,” she said.

“There’s no hurry,” said Lucas, leaning forward, his wiry arms preparing to lever him out of the chair. “You have enough to deal with right now. The office will be there.”

“It’s so hard to face all these things,” she cried. “Every single thing reminds me . . .”

Lucas nodded. “Oh, I know.”

Keely looked at the older man sympathetically. Prentice had died last winter, but Lucas hadn’t even opened the door of his condo until June. Keely had gone with him at Betsy Weaver’s request. Betsy was too distraught to do it, but Lucas needed someone to help him. The sight of the place when they unlocked the door had been overwhelming. While the condo was expensive and overlooked the marina, Prentice had lived in squalor. There was rotting food, piles of unread newspapers, paper bags of unopened mail, clothes, mostly dirty, thrown over every piece of furniture in the house, and an awesome collection of empty liquor bottles. Keely had done what she could to assist him, but the old man had stubbornly insisted on sorting through the mess himself, the last thing he could do for his wayward son. “You do know, don’t you,” she said.

Lucas squeezed her hand. “If you want, I can do the office for you. You know I don’t mind. You were such a help to me when Prentice died.”

Keely placed her hand over his and smiled. “Thanks. But it’s something I have to do myself. The least I can do for him.”

Lucas shook his head and looked away, as if trying to stifle his grief.

Keely hated to see his distress. She changed the subject. “You know, Lucas, there was a detective here today, asking about the night Mark died.”

“Who was he?”

“His name was Stratton.”

“Phil Stratton,” Lucas nodded grimly. “From the prosecutor’s office.”

“He was asking all these questions about Mark and Dylan and even about Richard, my first husband. He said there was some problem with the police report. Do you know anything about it?”

Lucas frowned. “No, but I have an idea.”

Suddenly, there was a loud thud, as if a flying object had slammed into the house. Lucas struggled to his feet.

Keely started, and then laughed, recognizing the sound. “It’s okay. Dylan’s home. He’s tossing the basketball.” Mark had affixed a hoop over the garage door for his stepson.

Lucas let out a sigh. “Been a long time since I heard that sound,” he said apologetically.

“Did Prentice like to shoot baskets when he was a boy?” Keely asked.

Lucas nodded. “But I think Mark actually used the hoop more than Prentice ever did.”

Keely nodded. “You know, Mark talked about those days at your house when he was putting the hoop up there for Dylan. Those were happy times for him,” Keely said gently.

The expression on Lucas’s face made Keely’s heart ache for him. Lucas sighed. “I took it down a few years ago—the basketball hoop. Betsy always hated that thing anyway. Used to rattle all the dishes in the china cabinets.” He smiled with forced cheerfulness. “Well, I’d better be getting along.”

Keely got up and walked him outside. She wanted to see Dylan anyway. “Thank you for bringing those papers. I will come into the office soon.”

“And we’ll get you over to dinner,” said Lucas, kissing her cheek. “Don’t forget. You can call on us for anything. Mark’s death doesn’t change that. You’re still our family.” He waved to Dylan, who was dribbling the ball down the driveway, his leather coat flapping open in the evening breeze. “So long, Dylan,” he called out.

Dylan stopped, and tucked the ball under his arm. “G’night, Mr. Weaver,” he called back.

Keely wrapped her arms around herself and walked over beside her son. “Chilly,” she said. Dylan grunted in assent. They watched Lucas walk
stiffly out to his car and climb, with difficulty, into the front seat. He looked old and tired. Keely and Dylan both waved as he pulled the car down the drive. Then Keely turned to Dylan. “How was dinner at Jake’s?” she asked.

Dylan shrugged and began to bounce the ball away from her. “Okay,” he said.

“Did you two play that computer game you like so much?”

“For a while,” he said. He walked over to the free-throw line that Mark had painted on the driveway and took aim. The ball struck the edge of the hoop and bounced back. He ran to retrieve it. He jogged back to the line and took aim again. His face was a blank. All his concentration appeared to be on the ball and the hoop.

“Dylan,” Keely said. “I want to talk to you about something. About what you said, this afternoon before you left.”

Dylan tried a shot which hit the backboard and came right back to him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

Keely shivered and wished she’d put on her jacket before she came out. “You said I blamed you about Mark.”

Dylan focused on the hoop, and tossed the ball again. Again, he missed. “Damn,” he said.

“It’s getting dark,” she said. “Hard to see the basket.”

“That’s just an excuse,” he said.

Keely nodded. For a minute there was silence while he shot again, and the ball hung above the rim before it sank into the basket. “Anyway,” she said, “I wanted to make this clear: I don’t blame you, honey. I never could. These things happen in life. There’s nothing we can do to change them. It’s a waste of time to even think about it. It’s important to get past this stuff. Not to dwell on it.”

“That’s what you wanted to tell me?” he said coldly.

“I just want you to know that there’s no way I hold you responsible, honey. Do you understand that?”