Tess Gerritsen - Presumed Guilty

“Meaning what?”

“Mill workers.”

“Ah. Dregs of the earth.”

“What is the matter with you, Chase?”

He rose to his feet. “I need to take a walk.”

“Oh. I’ll go with you.” She jumped to her feet, instantly wreaking havoc on all those nicely arranged folds of her dress.

“No. I’d like to be alone for a while. If you don’t mind.”

Evelyn looked as if she minded very much, but she managed to cover it gracefully. “I understand, Chase. We all need to mourn in our own way.”

He felt a distinct sense of relief as he walked away from that front porch. The house had started to feel oppressive, as though the weight of all those memories had crowded out the breathable air. For a half hour he walked aimlessly. Only as his feet carried him closer to town did he begin to move with a new sense of purpose.

He headed straight for the newspaper building.

He was greeted by Jill Vickery, the sleekly attractive managing editor. It was just like Richard to surround himself with gorgeous women. Chase had met her earlier that day, at the funeral. Then, as now, she played the part of the professional to the hilt.

“Mr. Tremain,” she said, offering her hand. “What a pleasure to see you again. May I show you around?”

“I was just wondering…” He glanced around the newsroom, which was currently occupied by only a bare-bones staff: the layout man arranging ads, another one staring at a computer screen, and that sloppy reporter puffing on a cigarette as she talked on the phone.

“Yes?” asked Jill.

“If I could go over some of my brother’s files.”

“Business or personal files?”

“Both.”

She hesitated, then led him into the back office and through a door labeled Richard Tremain, Owner and Publisher. “These aren’t all his files, you understand. He kept most of them here, but some he kept at home or at the cottage.”

“You mean Rose Hill?”

“Yes. He liked to work out there, on occasion.” She pointed to the desk. “The key’s in the top drawer. Please let me know if you take anything.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

She paused, as though uncertain whether to trust him. But what choice did she have? He was, after all, the publisher’s brother. At last she turned and left.

Chase waited for the door to shut, then he unlocked the file cabinet. He flipped immediately to the W ’s.

He found a file on Miranda Wood.

Chase carried it to the desk and spread it open. It appeared to be a routine personnel record. The employment application was dated one year ago, when Miranda was twenty-eight. Her address was listed as 18 Willow Street. In the attached photograph she was smiling; it was the face of a confident young woman with her whole life ahead of her. It almost hurt to see how happy she looked. Her university record was outstanding. If anything, she was overqualified for her job as copy editor. Under the question “Why do you want this job?” she had written, “I grew up near Penobscot Bay. I want, more than anything, to live and work in the place I’ve always called home.” He flipped through the pages and scanned the semiannual employee evaluation, filled out by Jill Vickery. It was excellent. He turned to the last page.

There was a letter of resignation, dated two weeks ago.

To: Richard Tremain, Publisher, Island Herald. Dear Mr. Tremain, I hereby notify you of my resignation from my position as copy editor. My reasons are personal. I would greatly appreciate a letter of reference, as I plan to seek employment elsewhere.

That was all. No explanations, no regrets. Not even a hint of recrimination.

So she told me the truth, he thought. She really did walk off the job.

“Mr. Tremain?” It was Jill Vickery, back again. “Are you looking for anything in particular? Maybe I can help you.”

“Maybe you can.”

She came in and gracefully settled into the chair across from him. Her gaze at once took in the file on the desk. “I see you have Miranda’s employee record.”

“Yes. I’m trying to understand what happened. Why she did it.”

“I think you should know she was here just a short while ago.”

“In the building?”

“She came to collect her things. I’m glad you two avoided a, uh…unexpected encounter.”

He nodded. “So am I.”

“Let me say this, Mr. Tremain. I’m very sorry about your brother. He was a wonderful man, an exceptional writer. He truly believed in the power of the printed word. We’re going to miss him.”

It was a canned speech, but she delivered it with such sincerity he was almost convinced she meant it. Jill Vickery certainly had the PR down flat.

“I understand Richard had a story in the pipeline,” he said. “Something about a company called Stone Coast Trust. You familiar with it?”

Jill sighed. “Why does this particular article keep coming up?”

“Someone else interested?”

“Miranda Wood. She just asked about it. I told her that as far as I know, the story was never written. At least, I never saw it.”

“But it was scheduled to run?”

“Until Richard canceled it.”

“Why?”

She sat back and smoothly flicked her hair off her face. “I wouldn’t know. I suspect he didn’t have enough evidence to go to print.”

“What, exactly, is the story on Stone Coast Trust?”

“Small-town stuff, really. Not very interesting to outsiders.”

“Try me.”

“It had to do with developers’ rights. Stone Coast has been buying up property on the north shore. Near Rose Hill Cottage, as a matter of fact, so you know how lovely it is up there. Pristine coastline, trees. Tony Graffam — he’s president of Stone Coast — claimed he was out to preserve the area. Then we heard rumors of a high-class development in the works. And then, a month ago, the zoning on those lots was abruptly changed from conservation to resort. It’s now wide open to development.”

“That’s all there is to the article?”

“In a nutshell. May I ask the reason for your interest?”

“It was something Miranda Wood told me. About other people having motives to kill my brother.”

“In this case, she’s stretching the point.” Jill rose to her feet. “But one can hardly blame her for trying. She hasn’t much else to grab onto.”

“You think she’ll be convicted?”

“I wouldn’t want to hazard a guess. But from what my news staff tells me, it sounds likely.”

“You mean that reporter? Annie something?”

“Annie Berenger. Yes, she’s assigned to the story.”

“Can I talk to her?”

Jill frowned. “Why?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just trying to understand who this Miranda Wood really is. Why she would kill.” He sat back, ran his hand through his hair. “I still can’t quite fit the pieces together. I thought, maybe someone who’s been watching the case — someone who knew her personally…”

“Of course. I understand.” The words were sympathetic but her eyes were indifferent. “I’ll send Annie in to talk to you.”

She left. A moment later Annie Berenger appeared.

“Come in,” said Chase. “Have a seat.”

Annie shut the door and sat in the chair across from him. She looked like a reporter: frizzy red hair streaked with gray, sharp eyes, wrinkled slacks. She also reeked of cigarettes. It brought back memories of his father. All she needed was a splash of whiskey on her breath. A good old newsman’s smell.

She was watching him with clear suspicion. “Boss lady says you want to talk about Miranda.”

“You knew her pretty well?”

“The word is know. Present tense. Yes, I do.”

“What do you think of her?”