Not Guilty Part 5

"I don't know who it is. I was just startled," she said sharply.

"You think something bad's gonna happen, don't you?" he demanded.

"No. I said no." Partly to escape the accusing look in her son's eyes, Keely strode to the door and opened it.

Jake Ambler stood on the doorstep. "Can Dylan go skating?" he asked.

She was so relieved to see Jake there, and not the detective, that she forgot her rule about homework first. "Sure," she said. "Dylan, it's Jake."

When he did not reply, she turned around and looked at him. He was staring at her balefully, as if she had betrayed him. "Just aminute, Jake," she said. She walked back to her son and put a hand on his arm.

"Dylan, whatever it is, I'm sure that once we answer their questions, they won't bother us anymore."

"Us,"he said with a snort. "That's a laugh. They won't blameyou,"he said.

"They won't blame you, either," she insisted, but he would not meet her gaze.

"Why not?" he asked. "You do."

"Dylan!"

He brushed past her without apologizing, then grunted at Jake to follow him.

"That's not true!" she cried. "Dylan!" But he did not look back.

6.

At six o'clock, Susan Ambler called and asked if Dylan could stay for dinner. Keely felt her heart sink at the request and realized how much she dreaded being alone in the house as the evening began to close in. "He has homework to do," she told Susan, but Susan a.s.sured her that the boys were working on it out of Jake's textbooks, and Keely could see no other reason to insist that he return.

"Send him home by eight," Keely said. "Before it gets dark."

She hung up the phone and went into the living room, where Abby was working her way around the room, clinging to ottomans and the coffee table as she lurched along. Keely went over and tried to scoop her up in her arms, needing to feel her warmth, but Abby was intent on her enterprise and began to fuss and push Keely away when she felt her feet leave the ground. Reluctantly, Keely put her back down, and Abby resumed her circ.u.mnavigation of the room, oblivious to her mother's concerns. She concentrated on her task. Keely almost envied her. Abby would not remember her father or have any image of him other than some photos and a couple of videos they had made. The more she grew up, the more she would feel it, of course, the lack of a father. But right now, Abby suffered no grief. Sometimes, she would look around, as if she was seeking that other presence that she was used to, but then she would be distracted by a rustling leaf or a bird swooping by or just the sound of the television.

For a moment, looking at her daughter's progress, Keely felt tears coming to her eyes, and realized she had to do something to get her mind off her sorrow. There was dinner to fix, and then a pile of bills awaited her on Mark's desk.Get busy,she thought.Keep moving.

By the time Keely had cleaned up supper, bathed Abby, and put herto bed, it was deep twilight. She glanced out the front window to see if Dylan might be rolling up the driveway on his bike, but there was no sign of him yet. She went down the hall to the den that Mark had used as his home office and, taking a deep breath, sat down in his leather desk chair. This was where he'd done work he'd brought home and taken care of household accounts.

Keely found the checkbook in the first drawer and began to write out checks, her anxieties increasing as the balance in the checking account diminished. They had spent so much money on renovating the house. It hadn't seemed like too much at the time, because of Mark's income. They had thought they had years to pay off these bills. Of course they had good credit, and Mark had a sizable retirement account. She and the children would be all right, she reminded herself, once they got the insurance money and she sold the house. There was no reason to panic. She opened another envelope from the pile and saw that it was an invoice from Collier's, the jewelry store downtown, not far from Mark's office. He had bought an expensive smoky quartz bracelet set in gold just the week before his death. She frowned. He'd never given her a smoky quartz bracelet. And then she remembered-their anniversary. Her gaze fell on the John Grisham book, still in the bookstore's bag, resting on the edge of Mark's desk where she had left it. She looked again at the bill-the bracelet cost nearly eight hundred dollars. She wondered where he had put it to hide it from her. Or could it still be at the store, being engraved? That was probably it. Well, she could use that money. She would have to check.

The sound of the doorbell ringing startled her. She went to the door and looked out cautiously, only to see Lucas Weaver on her front steps.

"Lucas," she said, pulling the door open. "What a pleasant surprise."

"I'm sorry, Keely," said the older man. "I should have called, but I was on my way out the door when I remembered these papers you have to sign. . . . It's more estate business. I hate to bother you . . ."

"No, no. I've been meaning to call you anyway," said Keely. It was true. She had. But she felt as if she couldn't even make conversation these days. "Come in. I've just been like a zombie lately."

"It's all right. I know," said Lucas, limping after her into the den, where she indicated a paisley-covered wing chair for him beside the desk. "Betsy's wanted to call you, too, and invite you all over for dinner. But she's still so . . . shaken . . ."

Keely smiled briefly at Lucas. "We wouldn't be fit company for dinner. What have you got for me?"

"Tax doc.u.ments." Lucas placed the papers in front of her, explained their relevance, and indicated the various places where she needed to sign. Keely began to read the papers over.

While Keely scanned the doc.u.ments, Lucas gazed around the book-lined office. He leaned over, removed a volume of military history from a low shelf, and riffled the pages. Keely looked up at him. "You know, Lucas, I've been meaning to tell you this. If there's anything of Mark's you'd like to have . . ." she said.

Lucas shook his head and hurriedly replaced the book on the shelf. "At my age, you stop collecting things, my dear. Possessions begin to seem . . . a burden."

"Oh, Lucas, don't talk that way. You're not that old," she said gently.

"There won't be anyone to sort through our things when Betsy and I are gone," he said wistfully. "No one who will understand what we treasured and why."

There was no use in denying what he said. She knew he was not seeking rea.s.surance. He said it matter-of-factly, and when she glanced at him, his eyes were dry, his gaze steady. "I have my memories," he said.

Keely sighed. "And who among us really needs more . . . stuff," she said, agreeing. She signed the papers on the desk before handing them back to the attorney, who replaced them in a narrow briefcase.

Keely leaned back in the leather tufted desk chair and ran a hand through her uncombed hair. "You're awfully kind to come out here, Lucas. You didn't need to do that. I could have gone to the office."

"I wasn't sure you were ready to come into the office yet," he said.

Keely nodded. Another hurdle to be surmounted, speaking of more possessions to be sorted. Mark's office. Their wedding picture and a photo of Abby on his desk, the framed antique map she gave him forChristmas, his extra umbrella, and his spare shirt and tie in the closet. For her, right now, Mark's belongings were more than just stuff. They seemed electric with life, and it was painful for her to touch them. "I have to get in there and clean it out one of these days," she said.

"There's no hurry," said Lucas, leaning forward, his wiry arms preparing to lever him out of the chair. "You have enough to deal with right now. The office will be there."

"It's so hard to face all these things," she cried. "Every single thing reminds me . . ."

Lucas nodded. "Oh, I know."

Keely looked at the older man sympathetically. Prentice had died last winter, but Lucas hadn't even opened the door of his condo until June. Keely had gone with him at Betsy Weaver's request. Betsy was too distraught to do it, but Lucas needed someone to help him. The sight of the place when they unlocked the door had been overwhelming. While the condo was expensive and overlooked the marina, Prentice had lived in squalor. There was rotting food, piles of unread newspapers, paper bags of unopened mail, clothes, mostly dirty, thrown over every piece of furniture in the house, and an awesome collection of empty liquor bottles. Keely had done what she could to a.s.sist him, but the old man had stubbornly insisted on sorting through the mess himself, the last thing he could do for his wayward son. "You do know, don't you," she said.

Lucas squeezed her hand. "If you want, I can do the office for you. You know I don't mind. You were such a help to me when Prentice died."

Keely placed her hand over his and smiled. "Thanks. But it's something I have to do myself. The least I can do for him."

Lucas shook his head and looked away, as if trying to stifle his grief.

Keely hated to see his distress. She changed the subject. "You know, Lucas, there was a detective here today, asking about the night Mark died."

"Who was he?"

"His name was Stratton."

"Phil Stratton," Lucas nodded grimly. "From the prosecutor's office."

"He was asking all these questions about Mark and Dylan and even about Richard, my first husband. He said there was some problem with the police report. Do you know anything about it?"

Lucas frowned. "No, but I have an idea."

Suddenly, there was a loud thud, as if a flying object had slammed into the house. Lucas struggled to his feet.

Keely started, and then laughed, recognizing the sound. "It's okay. Dylan's home. He's tossing the basketball." Mark had affixed a hoop over the garage door for his stepson.

Lucas let out a sigh. "Been a long time since I heard that sound," he said apologetically.

"Did Prentice like to shoot baskets when he was a boy?" Keely asked.

Lucas nodded. "But I think Mark actually used the hoop more than Prentice ever did."

Keely nodded. "You know, Mark talked about those days at your house when he was putting the hoop up there for Dylan. Those were happy times for him," Keely said gently.

The expression on Lucas's face made Keely's heart ache for him. Lucas sighed. "I took it down a few years ago-the basketball hoop. Betsy always hated that thing anyway. Used to rattle all the dishes in the china cabinets." He smiled with forced cheerfulness. "Well, I'd better be getting along."

Keely got up and walked him outside. She wanted to see Dylan anyway. "Thank you for bringing those papers. I will come into the office soon."

"And we'll get you over to dinner," said Lucas, kissing her cheek. "Don't forget. You can call on us for anything. Mark's death doesn't change that. You're still our family." He waved to Dylan, who was dribbling the ball down the driveway, his leather coat flapping open in the evening breeze. "So long, Dylan," he called out.

Dylan stopped, and tucked the ball under his arm. "G'night, Mr. Weaver," he called back.

Keely wrapped her arms around herself and walked over beside her son. "Chilly," she said. Dylan grunted in a.s.sent. They watched Lucas walkstiffly out to his car and climb, with difficulty, into the front seat. He looked old and tired. Keely and Dylan both waved as he pulled the car down the drive. Then Keely turned to Dylan. "How was dinner at Jake's?" she asked.

Dylan shrugged and began to bounce the ball away from her. "Okay," he said.

"Did you two play that computer game you like so much?"

"For a while," he said. He walked over to the free-throw line that Mark had painted on the driveway and took aim. The ball struck the edge of the hoop and bounced back. He ran to retrieve it. He jogged back to the line and took aim again. His face was a blank. All his concentration appeared to be on the ball and the hoop.

"Dylan," Keely said. "I want to talk to you about something. About what you said, this afternoon before you left."

Dylan tried a shot which hit the backboard and came right back to him. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said.

Keely shivered and wished she'd put on her jacket before she came out. "You said I blamed you about Mark."

Dylan focused on the hoop, and tossed the ball again. Again, he missed. "d.a.m.n," he said.

"It's getting dark," she said. "Hard to see the basket."

"That's just an excuse," he said.

Keely nodded. For a minute there was silence while he shot again, and the ball hung above the rim before it sank into the basket. "Anyway," she said, "I wanted to make this clear: I don't blame you, honey. I never could. These things happen in life. There's nothing we can do to change them. It's a waste of time to even think about it. It's important to get past this stuff. Not to dwell on it."

"That's what you wanted to tell me?" he said coldly.

"I just want you to know that there's no way I hold you responsible, honey. Do you understand that?"

"I understand," said Dylan, hurling the ball into the darkness, beside the garage. "I'm sick of this game." Without another word, he stalked past her, heading into the house.

"Dylan, what is it? Talk to me. I want things to be right between us. What did I do now? I can't seem to do anything right."

Dylan stopped on the path to the front door. Silhouetted by the light from the house, his profile reminded her so much of Richard. Dylan had inherited his father's lanky frame and his even features. Also, she thought, he had Richard's tendency to keep his innermost thoughts hidden, where they could nag at him and plague him. Keely could see that Dylan was trying to form the words to say what was on his mind. Instead, he said, "The phone's ringing."

"Let it ring," she said.

"It'll wake up Abby," he reminded her.

Keely sighed and then ran toward the house, knowing what he said was true. When she reached it, it was only the Realtor, making an appointment for the next day. She dispatched the call as quickly as possible, then went back to look for Dylan. She'd heard the door slam while she was on the phone so she knew he was in the house. But when she called for him downstairs there was no answer. She climbed the stairs and went down the hallway to his room. His jacket lay over the back of his desk chair. His clothes were on the floor. The door to his bathroom was closed, and she could hear the shower running.Drowning me out,she thought. With a sigh, she bundled up his dirty clothes and headed down the hall to the stairs.

7.

Are you sure this is all right?" asked Nan Ranstead breathlessly. Keely forced herself to smile. Nan was a Realtor at the agency where Keely had listed the house. Nan had phoned half an hour ago to say that she had clients in her office eager to look at the house. Keely understood that she was expected to leave when clients were viewing the property, but Abby had fallen asleep only moments earlier and Keely didn't intend to wake her. "Perfectly all right," she said.

"We'll tiptoe around," Nan promised. She gestured with one French-manicured fingernail to the sleek-looking young couple in the driveway. The pair began to walk toward the doorstep where Nan waited.

They probably think I'm the cleaning woman,Keely thought, aware of her sweatshirt stained with baby food and her old jeans. Glancing in the hallway mirror, Keely saw that her shoulder-length, silvery-blond hair looked drab instead of shiny, and the planes of her face seemed gray and shadowy without makeup. She didn't seem to have the heart to fix herself up. It was all she could do just to get out of bed in the morning and make it through the day.

"Abby's asleep in the nursery," she said to Nan. "I'll wait in there. You can just push the door open when they want to look."

"We won't be long," Nan promised.

"Take your time," said Keely.

She walked down the hallway to the nursery, opened the door, and went in. Keely leaned over the rail of the crib. Abby was fast asleep. Her little body was shaped like a pear because of the bulky diapers beneath her pale green corduroy overalls. Keely touched her forefinger to herlips and then brushed it against the baby's warm face. Reluctantly, she pushed herself away from the bars and sat down in a white rocking chair by the window that looked out on the side yard. She could see the front yard of the Connellys' house through the trees that separated the two houses. Evelyn Connelly was guiding her elderly father down the walk to the car. It was hard to imagine that he had once been a respected physician. He was childlike now, and Evelyn seemed to be completely alone in caring for him. Keely could hear her speaking sharply to her father as she bundled him into the front seat.

Evelyn had been distressed to see theFOR SALEsign go up on Keely's lawn and had come over to say so. "You won't find a more beautiful street, or a nicer house," she had warned Keely. "It's perfect for children. I know. I grew up here."

Keely had murmured agreement but secretly wondered if that nostalgia for her childhood was what kept Evelyn going. Surely her present life in that house was mostly sad and lonely. A beautiful house was no subst.i.tute for close relationships.

Keely was thinking about taking the kids back to Michigan once the house was sold. Her brothers and their families still lived out there. Her brothers were much older than she, but still, it was a family bond that she could count on. Maybe she could go back to her old school to teach. And Dylan could pick up where he left off with his old friends. They needed to go somewhere where they would feel as if they belonged. No one would miss them here.

Well, almost no one. Lucas and Betsy would be sorry to see them go. But despite Lucas's a.s.sertion that they were family, without Mark the relationship seemed tenuous. Mark always said that adopting him had been Lucas's idea and that Betsy had agreed to it out of kindness. From what she had seen of Betsy, Keely thought Mark's a.s.sessment was probably right. The Weavers would be sorry, but not sad, to see them move away.

The thought of Ingrid, Richard's mother, on the other hand, made Keely feel positively guilty. Ingrid could have been a Midwesterner. She baked pies, sewed her own clothes, and doted on her grandson. Sometimes Keely thought that Ingrid had been so good about acceptingher marriage to Mark because it meant that Dylan would be living near her. Ingrid was also fond of Abby and never missed a chance to take care of her. Since Mark's death, Ingrid had been a stalwart friend, doing her best to help out. Ingrid would be devastated if they left, Keely thought.We'll buy a house with a guest room,she told herself.We'll invite her for long visits.

The sound of the doorbell ringing interrupted Keely's thoughts. Keely frowned, glancing in the direction of the sleeping baby, hoping the chimes wouldn't wake her. She hurried down the hallway and opened the front door.