Tess Gerritsen - Presumed Guilty

“For me, as well,” said Miranda.

While Miss St. John sat back in thought, Miranda and Chase gathered up the rest of the papers. They found more article files, a few miscellaneous clippings, an old financial report from the Herald. Obviously Richard had used the cottage as another office. Was this where he had stored his most sensitive papers? Miranda wondered about this when she came across a whole bundle of personality profiles. Like the page on Miss St. John, the information contained in these files was highly private.

In some cases it was downright shocking. She was startled to read that Forrest Mayhew, the local bank president, had been arrested for drunk driving in Boston. That town selectman George LaPierre, married thirty years, had been treated last year for syphilis. That Dr. Steiner— her doctor — was under investigation for medicare fraud.

She handed the papers to Chase. “Look at these! Richard was collecting dirt on everyone in town!”

“Here, what’s this?” he asked. There was a yellow adhesive note attached to the back cover of the folder. On it was the handwritten scrawl, “Mr. T., do you want more? Let me know.” It was signed “W.B.R.”

“So Richard didn’t write these,” said Miranda. “This person W.B.R. — whoever he was — must’ve done the reporting.”

“You have anyone on staff with those initials?”

“No. At least, not at the moment.” She reached for a manila folder lying on the floor. “Look, there’s another note from W.B.R.” This time the note was paper-clipped to the top cover. “All I could get. Sorry — W.B.R.”

“What’s inside?” asked Miss St. John.

Miranda opened the file and stared. “This is it! The file on Stone Coast Trust!”

“Jackpot,” said Chase.

“There’s no profile of Tony Graffam. But here’s his tax return. A list of bank account numbers and assets…” She nodded. “We hit pay dirt.”

“I think not,” said Miss St. John.

They both looked at her.

“If that file is so important, why did the burglar leave it here?”

In silence they considered that question.

“Maybe our burglar wasn’t interested in Stone Coast Trust at all,” said Miss St. John. “I mean, look at all this nasty information Richard’s been gathering. Snoopy reports on drunk driving. Medicare fraud. Syphilis. George LaPierre, of all people! And at his age, too. These files could destroy some fine reputations. Now, I tell you, isn’t that a motive for burglary?”

Or murder, thought Miranda. Why had Richard gathered such information in the first place? Was he planning an exposé on island residents? Or was there some darker reason? Coercion, for instance. Blackmail.

“If someone broke in to steal his own file, then we can assume it’s now gone,” said Chase. “Which means George LaPierre, Dr. Steiner, all the others in this pile didn’t do it.”

“Not necessarily,” said Miss St. John. “What if he broke in and simply substituted a milder version? Mine, for instance. There’s not a thing in my profile that qualifies as scandalous. How do you know I didn’t come in here and destroy a far more venomous version?”

Chase smiled. “I will duly place you on the list of suspects, Miss St. John.”

“Don’t you discount me, Chase Tremain. Age alone does not take one out of the running. I have more up here—” she tapped her head “—than that imbecile George LaPierre had in his prime. If he ever had a prime.”

“What you’re saying, Miss St. John,” said Miranda, “is that we can’t count out any name in this pile. Or any name not in this pile.”

“Correct.”

Miranda frowned at the books. “One thing doesn’t make sense. First, our burglar searches the desk. He throws around some papers, looking for some incriminating file. Why would he then search the bookcase? That’s not the sort of place Richard would keep papers.”

After a pause Miss St. John said, “You’re right, of course. That doesn’t make sense.”

“Well,” said Chase, “I guess we should call Lorne. Though I’m not sure he’d be much help at this point.” He turned to the phone.

He’d already picked up the receiver when Miss St. John suddenly said, “Wait. Perhaps you should hold off on that call.” She was staring at a loose page near her feet. Thoughtfully she picked up the paper and smoothed it across her knee.

Frowning, Chase hung up the receiver. “Why?”

“This is a profile of Valerie Everhard. You remember her, Chase. Our local librarian. And a married lady. According to this, Valerie has taken on a lover.”

“So?”

“The man she’s seeing is our chief of police.” Miss St. John looked up and her eyes had lost all trace of humor. “Lorne Tibbetts.”

“Why did he have these awful reports?” asked Miranda. “What was he planning to do with them?”

They were driving through darkness back to town. The fog had rolled in from the sea and curtained off all view beyond the dim haze of their headlights. Nothing seemed real in this mist, nothing seemed familiar. They were driving through a strange land, through a swirling cloud that seemed as if it would never lift.

“It doesn’t sound like Richard,” said Chase. “Snooping around in his neighbors’ private lives. He committed enough sins of his own. If anyone was vulnerable to blackmail, it was Richard. Besides, who cares if Lorne is having a little fling with the librarian?”

“The librarian’s husband?”

“Okay, but why would Richard care?”

She shook her head, unable to come up with an answer.

“I wonder if any of these people knew about these files. Miss St. John didn’t.” She looked down at the papers on her lap and thought of the terrible secrets they contained. She had the sudden urge to shove the pile away, to throw off that unclean burden. “Chase?” she asked. “How do we know any of this is true?”

“We don’t.” He gave a short laugh. “And we can’t exactly knock on George LaPierre’s door and ask if he’s had syphilis.”

Miranda frowned at the note clipped to the folder. “I wonder who this is. This W.B.R. who got the information.”

“The initials don’t ring any bells?”

“None at all.”

As the darkness flew past their windshield, Miranda thought of all the secrets revealed in these files. The banker’s weakness for whiskey. The doctor’s white-collar fraud. The husband and wife who conversed with their fists. All of it concealed beneath the glaze of respectability. What private pains we nurse in silence.

“Why these particular people?” she asked suddenly.

“Because they have the most to lose?” Chase suggested. “We’re talking old island families here. LaPierre, Everhard, St. John. All of them respected names.”

“Except for Tony Graffam.”

“That’s true. I guess he has a file in there, too…” He paused. “Wait. There’s our link.”

“What?”

“The north shore. You haven’t lived here long enough to know all these families. But I grew up with them. I remember the summers I used to play with Toby LaPierre. And Daniel Steiner. And Valerie Everhard. Their families all have summer cottages out there.”

“It could be coincidental.”

“Or it could mean everything.”

Chase frowned at the highway. The fog was thinning. “When we get back to your house,” he said, “let’s take a good look at those names. See if my hunch holds up.”

An hour and a half later they sat at Miranda’s dining table, the pages spread out before them. The remains of a hastily prepared supper — mushroom omelets and toast — had been pushed aside and they were now on their second cup of coffee. It was such a domestic scene, she thought with a twinge of longing, almost like newlyweds lingering at the dinner table. Except that the man sitting across from her could never, would never, fit into the picture. He was a temporary apparition, a visitor passing through her dining room.