Tess Gerritsen: Presumed Guilty

Ozzie seemed happy enough, padding about in the yard.

Miss St. John retrieved the key from the planter, unlocked the door and went inside.

It seemed very still, very sad in that living room. She turned on all the lamps and wandered about, her gaze combing the nooks and crannies of the furniture. They’d already made a search of those places. There was no point repeating it.

She went through the kitchen, through the upstairs bedrooms, came back down again. No hunches, no revelations.

She was turning to leave when her gaze swept past the area rug, set right in front of the door. That’s when a memory struck her, of a scene from Tess of the D’Urbervilles. A confessional note, slipped under the closed door, only to be pushed accidentally under the adjacent rug. A note that was never found because it lay hidden from view.

So vivid was that image that when she bent and pulled up the edge of the rug she was not at all startled to see a sealed envelope lying there.

The note was from M. The intended recipient had never found it, never read it.

…This pain is alive, like a creature gnawing at my organs. It won’t die. It refuses to die. You put it there, you planted it, you gave the embryo all those years of nourishment. And then you walked away. You say you are doing me a kindness. You say it is better to break off now, because, if it goes on longer, it will only hurt more. You don’t know what it is to hurt. Once you claimed to be love’s walking wounded. Once, I thought to save you. You were the serpent I hugged to my breast. Now you say you’ve found a new savior. You think she’ll make you happy. But she won’t. It will be the same with her as it was with the others. You’ll decide she isn’t perfect. No one who’s ever loved you, really loved you, has ever been good enough for you. But you’re getting old, flabby, and still you think that somewhere there’s a young and perfect woman just longing to make love to your wrinkled old carcass. She doesn’t know you the way I do. I’ve had years to learn all your dirty little secrets. Your conceits and lies and cruelty. You’ll use her, the way you’ve used all the others. And then she’ll be tossed on the heap with the rest of us, another woman terribly hurt. You should suffer where you’ve sinned. A good clean slice—

Miss St. John, still clutching the letter, abruptly left Rose Hill and hurried home.

With shaking hands she made two phone calls. The first was to Lorne Tibbetts.

The second was to Miranda Wood.

Miranda was near the point of exhaustion by the time she climbed up Annie’s porch steps. It had been only a ten-minute walk from the police station, but the distance she had traveled had been emotional, not physical. Sitting alone on that bench, shut out from the fancy deal-making between attorneys and cops, she’d come to the sad realization that Noah DeBolt would never be charged with any crime worse than trespassing. That she, Miranda, was too convenient a suspect to be let off the hook. And that Chase, by walking down the corridor, by joining Evelyn and Noah behind that closed door, had made his choice.

Didn’t they say that crisis brought families together? Well, the arrest of patriarch Noah DeBolt was one hell of a crisis. The family would rally.

Miranda was not, could never be, part of that family.

She stepped in the front door. Annie was still not home. Silence hung like a shroud over the house. When the phone suddenly rang, the sound was almost shocking to her ears.

She picked up the receiver.

“Miranda?” came a breathless voice.

“Miss St. John? Is something wrong?”

“Are you home alone?” was Miss St. John’s bizarre reply.

“Well, yes, at the moment—”

“I want you to lock the door. Do it now.”

“No, everything’s all right. They’ve arrested Noah DeBolt—”

“Listen to me! I found another letter, at Rose Hill. That’s what she was after, don’t you see? The reason she kept going to the cottage! To get back all her letters!”

“Whose letters?”

“M.”

“But Noah DeBolt—”

“This has nothing to do with Noah! It was a crime of passion, Miranda. The classic motive. Let me read you the letter….”

Miranda listened.

By the time Miss St. John had finished, Miranda’s hands were numb from clutching the receiver.

“I’ve already called the police,” said Miss St. John.

“They’ve sent a man to pick up Jill Vickery. Until then, keep your doors locked. It’s a sick letter, Miranda, written by a sick woman. If she comes to the house, don’t let her in. ”

Miranda hung up.

At once she missed the sound of a human voice, any voice, even one transmitted through telephone wires. Annie, come home. Please.

She stared at the phone, wondering if she should call someone. But who? It was only as she stood there, thinking, that she noticed several days’ mail mounded haphazardly by the telephone, some of it threatening to spill over onto the floor. A half-dozen household bills mingled with ad circulars and magazines. Annie’s bookkeeping must be as sloppy as her housekeeping, she thought, straightening the pile. Only then did she notice the newsletter from the alumni association of Tufts University — Annie’s old alma mater. It lay at the edge of the table, four photocopied pages stapled together, personal notes from the class of ‘68, with a mass-mailing label on front. Of no particular interest to Miranda — except for one detail.

It was addressed to Margaret Ann Berenger.

You’re the only M I know, Annie had said.

And all the time, she’d known another.

It doesn’t mean she’s the one.

Miranda stood staring at that label. Margaret Ann Berenger. Where was the proof, where was the link between Annie and all those letters from M?

It suddenly occurred to her. A typewriter.

A manual model, Jill had said, with an e hammer in need of cleaning. It would be a large item, difficult to hide. A quick check of all the closets, all the cabinets, confirmed that there was no manual typewriter in the house. Could it be in the garage?

No, she’d been in the garage. It was barely large enough to hold a car, much less store household items.

She checked, anyway. No typewriter.

She went back into the house, her mind racing. By now Jill might already be under arrest. Annie would hear of it in no time, would know the search for the real M was on. Her first move would be to get rid of the incriminating typewriter, if she hadn’t already done so. It was the one piece of evidence that could link Annie to Richard’s murder.

It could prove my innocence. I have to find it, before she destroys it. I have to get it to the police.

There was one more place she had to look.

She ran from the house and got into her car.

Moments later she pulled up in front of the Herald building. It was dark inside. The latest issue had just been put to bed. No one would be working late tonight, so she’d have the building to herself.

She let herself in the front door with her key — the key she’d never gotten around to turning in. With a twinge of irony she remembered that it was Richard who’d told her to keep it. He was certain he could talk her into returning to the job.

Well, here she was, back again.

She moved up the aisle of desks and went straight to Annie’s. She flicked on the lamp. The top drawer was unlocked. Among the jumble of pens and paper clips she found some loose keys. Which one would open Annie’s locker? She gathered them all up and headed down the stairwell and into the women’s room.

She turned on the light. A flowered couch, mauve wallpaper, Victorian prints sprang into view. Jill’s decorative touch couldn’t disguise the fact it was a closed-in dungeon of a room, without a single window. Miranda moved to the bank of lockers. There were six of them, extra wide to accommodate employees’ heavy coats and boots during the winter months. She knew which one belonged to Annie. It had the sticker that said I’ve Got PMS. What’s Your Excuse?