Tess Gerritsen - Presumed Guilty

They waited.

He said softly. “I was the one found him. Draggin’ in the water off Lula ’s stern. I cut him loose…hauled him aboard…brought him to port.” He shuddered. “That was it. Long time ago, fifty years. Maybe more….”

“And this note?”

“It’s a lie, got spread around after…”

“After what?”

“After I married Jessie.” He paused. “Stanley’s wife.”

There it is, thought Miranda. The secret. The shame.

“Mr. Sulaway?” asked Chase quietly. “What did they have on Richard?”

Sully shook his head. “Didn’t tell me.”

“But they did have something?”

“Whatever it was, it didn’t make him sell. Had a hard head, your brother. That’s what got him in the end.”

“Why didn’t you sell, Mr. Sulaway?” Miranda asked.

The old man turned to her. “Because I won’t,” he said. She saw in his eyes the look of a man who’s been backed into the last corner of his life. “Ain’t no way they can scare me. Not now.”

“Can’t they?”

He shook his head. “I got cancer.”

“Do you think he killed his brother?” asked Miranda.

They were walking along the road, through the dappled shade of pine and birch. Chase had his hands in his pockets, a frown on his brow. “What does it matter now, whether he did it or not?”

Yes, what did it matter? she wondered. The old man was about to face his final judgment. Innocent or guilty, he’d already lived fifty years with the consequences.

“It’s hard to believe Graffam was able to dig up that story,” said Miranda. “He’s a newcomer to the island. What he had on Sully was fifty years old. How did Graffam find out about it?”

“Hired investigator?”

“And he used the name ‘Sully’ in that note. Remember? Only a local person would use that nickname.”

“So he had a local informant. Someone with his finger on the island’s pulse.”

“Or someone in the business of knowing what goes on in this town,” she added, thinking of Willie B. Rodell and the Alamo Detective Agency.

They came to a sign that read Harmony House.

“Used to be called Frenchman’s Cottage,” said Chase. “Until the hippies bought it.” Down a rutted road they walked. They heard the tinkle of wind chimes before they saw the cottage. The sound floated through the trees, dancing on the breeze. The chimes were of iridescent glass, sparkling as they swayed from the porch overhang. The cottage door hung wide open.

“Anyone home?” called Chase.

At first only the wind chimes answered. Then, faintly, they heard the sound of laughter, approaching voices. Through the trees they saw them — two men and a woman, walking toward them.

None of the three was wearing a stitch.

The trio, spotting unexpected visitors, didn’t seem in the least perturbed. The woman had wild hair generously streaked with gray, and an expression of placid indifference. The two men flanking her were equally shaggy and serene. One of the men, silver haired and weathered, seemed to be the official spokesperson. As his two companions went into the cottage, he came forward with his hand held out in greeting.

“You’ve found Harmony House,” he said. “Or is this just a fortunate accident?”

“It’s on purpose,” said Chase, shaking the man’s hand. “I’m Chase Tremain, Richard’s brother. He owned Rose Hill Cottage, up the road.”

“Ah, yes. The place with the weird vibes.”

“Weird?”

“Vanna feels it whenever she gets close. Disharmonic waves. Tremors of dissonance.”

“I must have missed it.”

“Meat eaters usually do.” The man looked at Miranda. He had pale blue eyes and a gaze that was far too direct for comfort. “Does my natural state bother you?”

“No,” she said. “It’s just that I’m not used to…” Her gaze drifted downward, then snapped back to his face.

The man looked at her as though she were a creature to be pitied. “How far we’ve fallen from Eden,” he said, sighing. He went to the porch railing and grabbed a sarong that had been hanging out to dry. “But the first rule of hospitality,” he said, wrapping the cloth around his waist, “is to make your guests comfortable. So we’ll just cover the family jewels.” He motioned them into the cottage.

Inside, the woman, Vanna, now also draped in a sarong, sat cross-legged beneath a stained glass window. Her eyes were closed; her hands lay palm up on her knees. The other man knelt at a low table, rolling what appeared to be brown rice sushi. Potted plans were everywhere, thick as weeds. They blended right in with the Indonesian hangings, the dangling crystals, the smell of incense. The whole effect was jarred only by the fax machine in the corner.

Their host, who went by the surprisingly mundane name of Fred, poured rose hip tea and offered them carob cookies. They came to Maine every summer, he said, to reconnect with the earth. New York was purgatory, a place with one foot in hell. False people, false values. They worked there only because it kept them in touch with the common folk. Plus, they needed the income. For most of the year they tolerated the sickness of city life, breathing in the toxins, poisoning their bodies with refined sugars. Summers were for cleansing. And that was why they came here, why they left their jobs for two months every year.

“What are your jobs?” asked Miranda.

“We own the accounting firm of Nickels, Fay and Bledsoe. I’m Nickels.”

“I’m Fay,” said the man rolling sushi.

The woman, undoubtedly Bledsoe, continued to meditate in silence.

“So you see,” said Fred Nickels, “there is no way we can be persuaded to sell. This land is a connection to our mother.”

“Was it hers?” asked Chase.

“Mother Earth owns everything.”

Chase cleared his throat. “Oh.”

“We refuse to sell. No matter how many of those ridiculous letters they send us—”

Both Miranda and Chase sat up straight. “Letters?” they said simultaneously.

“We three have lived together for fifteen years. Perfect sexual harmony. No jealousy, no friction. All our friends know it. So it would hardly upset us to have our arrangement announced to the world.”

“Is that what the letters threatened to do?” asked Miranda.

“Yes. ‘Expose your deviant lifestyle’ was the phrase, I think.”

“You’re not the only ones to get a letter,” said Chase. “My hunch is, everyone on this road — everyone who didn’t want to sell — got one in the mail.”

“Well, they threatened the wrong people here. Deviant lifestyles are exactly what we wish to promote. Am I right, friends?”

The man with the sushi looked up and said, “Ho.”

“He agrees,” said Fred.

“Was the letter signed?” asked Miranda.

“No. It was postmarked Bass Harbor, and it came to our house in New York.”

“When?”

“Three, four months ago. It advised us to sell the camp. It didn’t say to whom, specifically. But then we got the offer from Mr. Graffam, so I assumed he was behind it. I had Stone Coast Trust checked out. A few inquiries here and there, just to find out what I was dealing with. My sources say there’s money involved. Graffam’s just a front for a silent investor. My bet is it’s organized crime.”

“What would they want with Shepherd’s Island?” asked Chase.

“New York’s getting uncomfortable for ’em. Hotdog D.A.’s and all that. I think they’re moving up the coast. And the north shore’s just the foothold they’d want. Tourist industry’s already booming up here. And look at this place! Ocean. Forest. No crime. Tell me some poor schlump from the city wouldn’t pay good money to stay at a resort right here.”