It bothered her, all that cruel talk flying about town these days. Miranda Wood, a killer? It went against Miss St. Johns instincts, and her instincts were always, always good.
Ozzie bounded through the last stand of trees and shot off toward Rose Hill Cottage. Miss St. John resignedly followed suit. Thats when she saw the light flickering through the trees. It came from the Tremain cottage. Just as quickly, it vanished.
At once she froze as an eerie thought flashed to mind. Ghosts? Richard was the only one who ever used that cottage. But hes dead.
The rational side of her brain, the side that normally guided Miss St. Johns day-to-day existence, took control. It must be one of the family, of course. Evelyn, perhaps, come to wrap up her husbands affairs.
Still, Miss St. John couldnt shake off her uneasiness.
She crossed the driveway and went up the front porch steps. Hello? she called. Evelyn? Cassie? There was no answer to her knock.
She tried to peer in the window, but it was dark inside. Hello? she called again, louder. She thought she heard, from somewhere in the cottage, a soft thud. Then silence.
Ozzie began to bark. He danced around on the porch, his claws tip-tapping on the wood.
Oh, hush! snapped Miss St. John. Sit!
The dog whined, sat, and gave her a distinctly wounded look.
Miss St. John stood there a moment, listening for more sounds, but she heard nothing except the whap-whap of Ozzies tail against the porch.
Perhaps she should call the police. She debated that move all the way back to her cottage. Once there, in her cheery little kitchen, the very idea seemed so silly, so alarmist. It was a good half-hour drive out here to the north shore. The local police would be reluctant to send a man all the way out here, and for what? A will-o-the-wisp tale? Besides, what could there possibly be in Rose Hill Cottage that would interest any burglars?
Its just my imagination. Or my failing eyesight. After all, when ones seventy-four, one has to expect the faculties to get a little screwy.
Ozzie walked in a tight circle, lay down and promptly went to sleep.
Good Lord, said Miss St. John. Im talking to my dog now. What part of my brain will rot next?
Ozzie, as usual, offered no opinion.
The courtroom was packed. Already, a dozen people had been turned away at the door, and this wasnt even a trial, just a bail review hearing, a formality required by law to be held forty-eight hours after arrest.
Chase, who sat in the second row with Evelyn and her father, suspected the proceedings would be brief. The facts were stark, the suspects guilt indisputable. A few words by the judge, a bang of the gavel and theyd all be out of there.
And the murderess would slink back to her cell, where she belonged.
Damned circus, thats what it is, growled Evelyns father, Noah DeBolt. Silver haired and gravel throated, at sixty-six he was still as formidable as ever. Chase felt the automatic urge to sit up straight and mind his manners. One did not slouch in the presence of Noah DeBolt. One was always courteous and deferential, even if one was an adult.
Even if one was the chief of police, Chase noted, as Lorne Tibbetts stopped and politely tipped his hat at Noah.
The principals were settling in their places. The deputy D.A. from Bass Harbor was seated at his table, flipping through a sheaf of papers. Lorne and Ellis, representing half the local police force, sat off to the left, their uniformed spines ramrod straight, their hair neatly slicked down. They had even parted it on the same side. The defense attorney, a youngster wearing a suit that looked as if it cost twice his annual salary, was fussing with the catch on his leather briefcase.
They should clear this place out, grunted Noah.
Who the hell let all these spectators in? Invasion of privacy, I call it.
Its open to the public, Daddy, said Evelyn wearily.
Theres public, and then theres public. These people dont belong here. Its none of their damn business. Noah rose and waved for Lornes attention, but the chief of polices brilliantined head was facing forward. Noah glanced around for the bailiff, but the man had disappeared through a side door. In frustration, Noah sat back down.
Dont know what this towns coming to, he muttered.
All these new people. No sense of whats proper anymore.
Quiet, Daddy, murmured Evelyn. Then, fuming, she muttered, Where are the twins? Why arent they here? I want the judge to see them. Poor kids without a father.
All these new people. No sense of whats proper anymore.
Quiet, Daddy, murmured Evelyn. Then, fuming, she muttered, Where are the twins? Why arent they here? I want the judge to see them. Poor kids without a father.
Noah snorted. Theyre full-grown adults. They wont impress anyone.
There. I see them, said Chase, spotting Cassie and Phillip a few rows back. They must have slipped in later, with the other spectators.
So the audience is in place, he thought. All we need now are the two main players. The judge. And the accused.
As if on cue, a side door opened. The ape-size bailiff reappeared, his hand gripping the arm of the much smaller prisoner.
At his second glimpse of Miranda Wood, Chase was struck by how much paler she appeared than he remembered. And how much more fragile. The top of her head barely reached the bailiffs shoulder. She was dressed unobtrusively, in a blue skirt and a simple white blouse, an outfit no doubt chosen by her attorney to make her look innocent, which she did. Her hair was gathered back in a neat but trim ponytail. No wanton-woman looks here. Those lush chestnut highlights were carefully restrained by a plain rubber band. She wore no jewelry, no makeup. The pallor of those cheeks came without the artifice of face powder.
On her way to the defendants table she looked once, and only once, at the crowd. Her gaze swept the room and came to rest on Chase. It was only a few seconds of eye contact, a glimpse of her brittle mask of composure. Pride, thats what he saw in her face. He could read it in her body language: the straight back, the chin held aloft. Everyone else in this room would see it, too, would resent that show of pride. The brazen murderess, theyd think. A woman without repentance, without shame. He wished he could feel that way about her. It would make her guilt seem all the more assured, her punishment all the more justified.
But he knew what lay beneath the mask. Hed seen it in those eyes two days before, when theyd gazed out at him through a one-way mirror. Fear, pure and simple. She was terrified.
And she was too proud to show it.
From the instant Miranda walked into the courtroom, none of it seemed real. Her feet, her legs felt numb. She was actually grateful for the firm grip of the bailiffs hand around her arm as they stepped in the side door. She caught a kaleidoscopic glimpse of all those faces in the audience if thats what you called a courtroom full of spectators. What else could you call them? An audience here to watch her performance, an act in the theater of her life. Half of them had come to hang her; the other half were here to watch. As her gaze slowly swept the room she saw familiar faces. There were her colleagues from the Herald: Managing Editor Jill Vickery, looking every bit the sleek professional, and staff reporters Annie Berenger and Ty Weingardt, both of them dressed à la classic rumpled writer. It was hard to tell that they were or had been friends. They all wore such carefully neutral expressions.
As her gaze shifted, she took in a single friendly face in the crowd old Mr. Lanzo, her next-door neighbor. He was mouthing the words Im with you, sweetie! She found herself almost smiling back.
Then her gaze shifted again, to settle on Chase Tremains stony face. The smile instantly died on her lips. Of all the faces in the room, his was the one that most made her feel like shrinking into some dark, unreachable crevice, anywhere to escape his gaze of judgment. The faces beside him were no less condemning. Evelyn Tremain, dressed in widows black, looked like a pale deaths mask. Next to Evelyn was her father, Noah DeBolt, town patriarch, a man who with one steely look could wither the spirit of any who dared offend him. He was now aiming that poisonous gaze at Miranda.
The tug of the bailiffs hand redirected Miranda toward the defendants table. Meekly she sat beside her attorney, who greeted her with a stiff nod. Randall Pelham was Ivy League and impeccably dressed for the part, but all Miranda could think of when she saw his face was how young he looked. He made her feel, at twenty-nine, positively middle-aged. Still, shed had little choice in the matter. There were only two attorneys in practice on Shepherds Island. The other was Les Hardee, a man with experience, a fine reputation and a fee to match. Unfortunately, Hardees client list happened to include the names DeBolt and Tremain.
Randall Pelham had no such conflict of interest. He didnt have many clients, either. As the new kid in town, he was ready and willing to represent anyone, even the local murderess.
She asked softly, Are we okay, Mr. Pelham?
Just let me do the talking. You sit there and look innocent.
I am innocent.
To which Randall Pelham offered no response.
All rise for His Honor Herbert C. Klimenko, said the bailiff.
Everyone stood.
The sound of shuffling feet announced the arrival of Judge Klimenko, who creaked behind the bench and sank like a bag of old bones into his chair. He fumbled around in his pockets and finally managed to perch a pair of bifocals on his nose.
They brought him out of retirement, someone whispered in the front row. You know, they say hes senile.
They also say hes deaf! shot back Judge Klimenko. With that, he slammed down the gavel. Court is now in session.
The hearing convened. She followed her attorneys advice and let him do the talking. For forty-five minutes she didnt say a word as two men, one she barely knew, one she knew not at all, argued the question of her freedom. They werent here to decide guilt or innocence. That was for the trial. The issue to be settled today was more immediate: should she be set free pending that trial?