Presumed Guilty by Tess Gerritsen Page B

Okay. Well, I won’t bother her none, then.” Eddie Lanzo turned to go back to his house. “Whole island’s going to pot, I tell ya,” he muttered. “Too many crazies. Last time I leave my keys in the car.”
    “Mr. Lanzo?” called Chase.
    “Yeah?”
    “Just a question. I was wondering if you were home the night Richard Tremain was killed?”
    “Me?” Eddie snorted. “I’m always home.”
    “Did you happen to see or hear anything?”
    “I already tol’ Lorne Tibbetts. I go to bed at nine o’clock sharp, and that’s it till morning.”
    “Then you’re a sound sleeper? You didn’t hear anything?”
    “How can I with my hearing aid turned off?”
    “Oh.” Chase watched as the man shuffled back to his house, still muttering about Peeping Toms and car thieves. It somehow surprised Chase that a grouchy old geezer like Lanzo would show such concern about Miranda Wood. A nice young woman, Lanzo had called her.
    What the hell does he know? thought Chase. What do we ever know about anyone? People have their secrets. I have mine, Miranda Wood has hers.
    He turned and headed for Chestnut Street.
    It was a twenty-minute walk, made invigorating by the brisk night air. When at last he stepped in the front door he found that, except for the lamp in the foyer, all the lights were out. Had no one else come home?
    Then he heard Evelyn call out his name.
    He found her sitting all alone in the darkened parlor. He could barely make out her shadow in the rocking chair. The dim glow of the street lamp through the window framed her silhouette.
    “At last you’re home,” she said.
    He started toward one of the lamps. “You need some light in here, Evelyn.”
    “No, Chase. Don’t. I like the dark. I always have.”
    He paused, uncertain of what to say, what to do. He lingered in the shadows, watching her.
    “I’ve been waiting for you,” she murmured. “Where did you go, Chase?”
    He paused. “To see Miranda Wood.”
    Her reaction was cold, dead silence. Even the creak of her rocking chair had stilled.
    “She has you in her spell. Doesn’t she?” Evelyn whispered.
    “There’s no spell. I just had some questions to ask her, about Richard.” He sighed. “Look, Evelyn, it’s been a long day for you. Why don’t you go up and get some sleep?”
    Still the figure did not move. She sat like a black statue against the window. “That night I called you,” she said, “the night he died—I was hoping...”
    “Yes?”
    Another silence. Then, “I’ve always liked you, Chase. Since we were kids. I always hoped you’d be the one to propose. Not Richard, but you.” The rocking chair began to creak again, softly. “But you never did.”
    “I was in love with Christine. Remember?”
    “Oh, Christine.” She hissed out the name in disgust. “She wasn’t good enough for you. But you found that out.”
    “We were mismatched, that’s all.”
    “So were Richard and I.”
    He didn’t know what to say. He knew what she was leading up to, and he wanted to avoid that particular path of conversation. In all those years of growing up together he had never been able to picture himself and Evelyn DeBolt as a couple. Certainly she was attractive enough. And she was closer to his age than she was to Richard’s. But he had seen, early on, that she had a talent for manipulating people, for twisting minds and hearts. The same talent Richard had possessed.
    And yet, he felt so very sorry for her.
    He said gently, “You’re just tired, Evelyn. You’ve had a terrible week. But the worst of it’s over now.”
    “No. The worst part is just beginning. The loneliness.”
    “You have your children—”
    “You’ll be leaving soon, won’t you?”
    “A few more days. I have to. I have a job in Greenwich.”
    “You could stay. Take over the Herald. Phillip’s still too young to run it.”
    “I’d be a lousy publisher. You know that. And I don’t belong here anymore. Not on this island.”
    For a moment they regarded each