Tess Gerritsen - Presumed Guilty

He saw the silhouette nod sadly.

“Will you be all right?”

“Fine.” She gave a soft laugh. “I’ll be just fine.”

“Good night, Evelyn.”

“Good night.”

He left her sitting there by the window. Only as he moved toward the stairwell did he suddenly notice the sour odor lingering in the hall. An empty glass sat on the foyer table, near the telephone. He picked up the glass and sniffed it.

Whiskey.

We all have our secrets. Evelyn does, too.

He set the glass back down. Then, deep in thought, he climbed the stairs to bed.

“So where were you two last night?” Chase asked.

The twins, busy attacking sausage and eggs, simultaneously looked up at their uncle.

“I was over at Zach Brewer’s,” said Phillip. “You remember the Brewers, don’t you? Over on Pearl Street.”

“What little Phil really means is, he was checking out Zach’s sister,” said Cassie.

“At least I wasn’t holed up in some cave, pining for a date.”

“I wasn’t pining for a date. I was busy.”

“Oh, sure,” snorted Phillip.

“Busy? Doing what?” asked Chase.

“I was over at the Herald, trying to get a handle on things,” said Cassie. “You know, Dad left things such a mess. No written plans for succession. Not a clue as to which direction he wanted the paper to go. Editorially speaking.”

“Let Jill Vickery take care of it,” said Phillip with a shrug. “That’s what we pay her for.”

“I’d think at least you’d care, Phil. Seeing as you’re the heir apparent.”

“These transitions need to be handled gradually.” Phil nonchalantly shoveled another forkful of eggs into his mouth.

“In the meantime, the Herald drifts around rudderless. I don’t want it to be just another church and social rag. We should turn it into a muckraking journal. Shake things up along the coast, get people mad. The way Dad got ’em mad a few months ago.”

“Got who mad?” asked Chase.

“Those stooges on the planning board. The ones who voted to rezone the north shore. Dad made ’em out to look pretty greasy. I bet Jill was quaking in her shiny Italian shoes, waiting for that libel suit to pop.”

“You seem to know a lot about what goes on at the Herald, ” said Chase.

“Of course. Second best tries harder.”

She said it lightly, but Chase couldn’t miss the note of resentment in her voice. He understood exactly how she felt. He, too, had been the second-best sibling, had spent his childhood trying harder, to no avail. Richard had been the anointed one. Just as Phillip was now.

The doorbell rang. “That’ll be Granddad,” said Phillip. “He’s early.”

Chase stood. “I’ll get it.”

Noah DeBolt was standing on the front porch. “Good morning, Chase. Is Evelyn ready for her appointment?”

“I think so. Come in, sir.”

That “sir” was automatic. One simply didn’t call this man by his first name. As Noah walked in the door, Chase marveled at the fact that the years hadn’t stooped the shoulders in that tailored suit, nor softened the glare of those ice blue eyes.

Noah paused in the foyer and glanced critically around the house. “It’s about time we made some changes in here. A new couch, new chairs. Evelyn’s put up with this old furniture long enough.”

“They’re my mother’s favorites,” said Chase. “Antiques—”

“I know what the hell they are! Junk.” Noah’s gaze focused on the twins, who were staring at him through the doorway.

“What, are you two still eating breakfast? Come on, it’s eight-thirty! With the fees lawyers charge, we don’t want to be late.”

“Really, Mr. DeBolt,” said Chase. “I can drive us all to the lawyer. You didn’t have to bother—”

“Evelyn asked me to come,” said Noah. “What my girl asks for, I deliver.” He glanced up the stairs. Evelyn had just appeared on the landing. “Right, sweetheart?”

Head held high, Evelyn came down the stairs. It was the first Chase had seen of her since the night before. No tremor, no effects of whiskey were apparent this morning. She looked cool as aspic. “Hello, Daddy,” she said.

Noah gave her a hug. “Now,” he said softly, “let’s go finish this unpleasant business.”

They drove in Noah’s Mercedes, Evelyn and her father in the front seat, Chase crammed in the back with the twins. How had Richard tolerated it all these years, he wondered, living in the same town with this bully of a father-in-law? But that was the price one paid for marrying Noah DeBolt’s only daughter: eternal criticism, eternal scrutiny.

Now that Richard was dead, Noah was back in control of his daughter’s life. He drove them to Les Hardee’s office. He escorted Evelyn through the front door. He led her by the arm right up to the reception desk.

“Mrs. Tremain to see Les,” said Noah. “We’re here to review the will.”

The receptionist gave them a strange look — something Chase could only read as panic — and pressed the intercom button. “Mr. Hardee,” she said. “They’re here.”

Instantly Les Hardee popped out of his office. His suit and tie marked him as a dapper man; his sweating brow did not match the image. “Mr. DeBolt, Mrs. Tremain,” he said, almost painfully. “I would have called you earlier, but I only just — That is to say, we…” He swallowed. “There seems to be a problem with the will.”

“Nothing that can’t be fixed,” said Noah.

“Actually…” Hardee opened the conference-room door.

“I think we should all sit down.”

There was another man in the room. Hardee introduced them to Vernon FitzHugh, an attorney from Bass Harbor. FitzHugh looked like a working-class version of Hardee, articulate enough, but rough around the edges, the sort of guy who probably had had to sling hash to pay his way through law school. They all sat at the conference table, Hardee and FitzHugh at opposite ends.

“So what’s this little problem with Richard’s will?” asked Noah. “And what do you have to do with all this, Mr. FitzHugh?”

FitzHugh cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I’m the bearer of bad news. Or, in this case, a new will.”

“What?” Noah turned to Hardee. “What’s this garbage, Les? You were Richard’s attorney.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Hardee morosely.

“Then where did this other will come from?”

Everyone looked at FitzHugh.

“A few weeks ago,” explained FitzHugh, “Mr. Tremain came to my office. He said he wanted to draw up a new will, superseding the will drawn up previously by Mr. Hardee. I advised him that Mr. Hardee was the one who should do it, but Mr. Tremain insisted I draw it up. So I honored his request. I would have brought it to your attention earlier, but I’ve been out of town for a few weeks. I didn’t hear of Mr. Tremain’s death until last night.”

“This is bizarre,” said Evelyn. “Why would Richard draw up a new will? How do we even know it was really him?”

“It was him,” confirmed Hardee. “I recognize his signature.”

There was a long silence.

“Well,” said Evelyn. “Let’s hear it, Les. What’s been changed.”

Hardee slipped on his glasses and began to read aloud. “I, Richard D. Tremain, being of sound mind and body—”

“Oh, skip the legal gobbledygook!” snapped Noah. “Get to the basics. What’s different about the new will?”

Hardee looked up. “Most of it is unchanged. The house, joint accounts, contents therein, all go to Mrs. Tremain. There are generous trust accounts for the children, and a few personal items left to his brother.”

“What about Rose Hill Cottage?” asked Noah.