Not Guilty Part 37

"Well, maybe I'll stop back later."

"Yes, you should," she said.

"Nice talking with you," he said, extending his hand politely. "My name's Julian, by the way. Julian Graham.

Keely shook his hand. "Keely," she said. And then she stopped herself-before she spoke her last name. "Nice to meet you."

ALL THE WAY OVERto Ingrid's house, Keely's mind was racing. Veronica Weaver. There was no proof that the remains Maureen had planned to exhume were Veronica Weaver's, and yet Keely felt a sickening certainty that they were. She felt light-headed, almost faint at the thought that perhaps it was Veronica Weaver that Richard and Mark had killed.

Oh G.o.d,she thought.Wait until Lucas finds out.She could hardly bear the thought of it. If he learned that Mark had been involved in the death of his daughter-in-law . . .But no,she thought.It couldn't be.She remembered Betsy saying that Veronica had called them from Las Vegas. They'd spoken to her. So it couldn't have been Veronica.

Right,Keely thought as she turned down Swallow Street. That meant it was someone else, not Veronica. Besides, Mark would never have done that to Lucas, the man who had adopted him. He wors.h.i.+pped Lucas. It was impossible. And yet, even as she thought it, she felt her stomach churn. Mark had lied to her so successfully. Couldn't he have lied to Lucas, too?

Keely pulled into Ingrid's driveway, determined to hide her fears from Ingrid. She walked up to the front door. It opened before she could even reach for the doork.n.o.b or tap on the knocker. Dylan stood there, holding the door open for her.

"Hi, sweetie," she said.

"Hey, Mom."

"How are you doing? How was the first day back?"

Dylan shrugged. "Not too bad," he said.

Keely felt a surge of relief.Thank you, G.o.d,she thought.Not too badwas tantamount to enthusiasm at Dylan's age. "Well, good," she said. "I want to hear all about it."

Abby, squealing as her mother came in the door, began to toddletowards her. Keely scooped her up and held her close. Ingrid emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an ap.r.o.n.

"Ingrid, thank you so much," said Keely. "I hope they didn't tire you out."

"Are you kidding?" Ingrid scoffed. "They were perfect. What have you been up to this afternoon? Everything all right?"

Part of Keely wished she could confide in the older woman. She felt such a need for someone to talk to. An image of Dan Warner sprang to her mind again, but she firmly pushed it down. "Nothing much," she lied. She couldn't burden Ingrid with these sordid details about Mark. And especially not about Richard. The older woman wasn't well enough. "I had some business about the estate," she said. The all-purpose excuse.

Ingrid nodded. "No end to the paperwork," she said.

"Dylan, honey, get your book bag. We need to get going," said Keely as she bent down and collected Abby's things.

"I wish you could stay for supper," said Ingrid.

"When you're better," said Keely firmly. "We've imposed enough on you for one day."

Ingrid put her arms out to Dylan, who gave her a fierce hug. Keely was struck, as she always was, at the depth of feeling between them. Ingrid pulled back from Dylan's embrace and looked him sternly in the eye. "You keep your head up and don't you let anybody bother you. They may not appreciate you over at that school, but I do."

"I'll be okay, Grandma," he said, smiling and kissing the top of her head.

Ingrid waved as they went down the walk and got into the SUV. Once they were buckled into their seat belts and the SUV had pulled out of the driveway, Keely glanced at Dylan. "Why did Grandma say that?" she asked. "Was somebody bothering you at school?"

Dylan shook his head. "Not really. She was waiting outside for me in the car and she saw some kid poke me as we were coming down the steps."

"What do you mean, poke you?" Keely asked. "You mean like a punch?"

"No, I mean like a friendly poke," Dylan said impatiently. "Mom, it was nothing. Believe me. I know the difference."

Keely sighed. "I guess you do, honey."

"Trust me, I do," he said.

Keely nodded. "Have you got a lot of homework?" she asked. There was something so soothing to her about the routine questions, the concerns of everyday life.

Dylan rolled his eyes. "Really boring c.r.a.p. I have to do a paper on the separation of powers in the federal government. Everybody's supposed to do one branch. I've got to do research on the Supreme Court."

"That should be interesting," protested Keely.

Dylan made snoring noises.

Keely sighed with relief. Teenage melodrama. It was so . . . normal."Well, I'm sure you'll find everything you need to know about it on the Internet."

"I guess," he said disinterestedly. She glanced over at him. He was staring out the window, but the expression on his face was not stormy.I can manage anything as long as my kids are all right,she thought.

When they reached the house and went inside, Keely heard the phone ringing. Dylan rushed to answer it, but there was no one on the line by the time he reached it. He hung the phone up and checked the number of the last incoming call. "Who was it?" Keely asked as she removed Abby's jacket. Then she got the baby a cup of juice from the refrigerator.

"Dunno," he said dejectedly. "Don't recognize the number."

Keely glanced over his shoulder at the number he had written down, but she didn't recognize it either. She looked at Dylan curiously."Were you expecting to hear from someone?" she asked.

"No," he said, too quickly. "I'm going upstairs."

Keely nodded. She had a feeling he might have been hoping Nicole would call, but she didn't want to mention that the Warners seemed to be away. She knew if she did, he would deny any interest in talking to Nicole and would resent her interference.Okay,she thought.I'll keep it to myself.

After Dylan tramped up the stairs to his room, Keely sat down atthe kitchen table and thought about Mark. Before last night, her every thought of Mark had been one of sorrow and a longing for the life they were making together, a life that had been abruptly destroyed.What a difference a day makes,she thought. Now, when she thought of him, there was a small part of her that felt . . . satisfied that he was dead. Although she could never admit it out loud, a small corner of her heart felt that maybe he had gotten what he deserved.

The doorbell rang, startling her out of her vengeful reverie, and she looked out the kitchen window to see who was at her door. She recognized Phil Stratton's car.Is there no end to this?she thought wearily. And then, suddenly, she remembered that she had asked him to come, to talk to Dylan. She went to the door and opened it. Phil stood on the doorstep looking pained. "Mrs. Weaver, could I come in?" he asked.

Keely made a welcoming gesture with one hand, and Phil walked into the living room in front of her. He sat down. Keely picked up Abby and sat down opposite him, holding the baby on her lap. Abby snuggled contentedly against her mother, chewing on a rubber doughnut.

"Are you here to talk to Dylan?" said Keely.

Phil frowned and hesitated, as if he didn't know where to begin. Finally, he said, "No. It's about Maureen Chase."

"What about her?" Keely asked warily.

"Tell me again why you went over there. You wanted to ask her about some phone calls, you said?"

Keely shook her head. "Look, Detective. When we talked at Maureen's house you suggested to me that she might have been stalking my husband. And I wanted to believe that. With all my heart. But apparently that was not the case. There's no point in beating around the bush. I've since found out that she was probably having an affair with my husband before he died. So if that's what you're leading up to, save your breath. I already know."

Phil looked at her with raised eyebrows.

Keely frowned. "You didn't know that?"

"No, actually."

"Well, I haven't got proof positive, but . . . let's say it seems likely. Iguess it might change your thinking aboutwhyMaureen killed herself-"

"She didn't," he said.

Keely started. "Excuse me?"

"She didn't kill herself."

"But I saw her," Keely sputtered. "You saw her, too . . ."

"Oh, she's dead all right. But not by her own hand."

Keely felt a chill run through her. Abby, sensing the tension in her mother's body, began to whimper. Keely bobbed her automatically in her arms. "Why do you say that?" she asked.

"We have new and convincing evidence that it was a homicide."

"Homicide. But it's impossible. She was . . ."

"I know. In the garage, with the car running . . ."

"In that . . . outfit," Keely said with a grimace.

"We think somebody dressed her in that outfit," he said.

Keely forced herself to remember. Maureen, the bright pink of her complexion, the crooked veil, the wedding dress. "The slippers," she said suddenly.

"Excuse me?" Phil asked.

"That bothered me a little bit, actually. I mean, at the time, it was all so awful I couldn't think. But those slippers . . . Now that you say it, I remember wondering why a woman would wear bedroom slippers with a wedding dress."

"Apparently, somebody else dressed her," said Phil.

Keely stared at him. "I don't believe it. How could someone . . . ? Do you mean she was dead when she was put into the car?" she asked.

Phil shook his head. "No, not dead. She died of carbon monoxide poisoning. That's why her skin was that awful color."

"You've lost me, Detective," said Keely.

"Look, because it's now officially a homicide," Phil said impatiently,"we have to question all the possible suspects and witnesses again. Would you be willing to come in and answer some more questions?"

"Of course. If necessary."

"Just for the record, would you be willing to take a lie detector test?" Phil asked.

Keely glared at him. "I'd be glad to," she said. "Right now. Let's do it."

Phil raised a hand in surrender. "It's enough that you agreed. You have an alibi. We know where you were. I already spoke to the security guard and to your neighbor, Mr. Warner. I reached him at his daughter's house, in Boston. He confirmed that you were at home at the time of Maureen Chase's death. But Mrs. Weaver, did you see anyone . . . pa.s.s anyone in the driveway or on the road to Maureen's house that you can remember?"

Keely forced herself to try to recall that night. "No," she said. "But look, I was pretty upset. I mean, I was going to confront her about all those phone calls. I wasn't looking out for anybody else."

"Did you move anything, throw anything away . . .?"

"I moved Maureen Chase. I tried to save her life."

"I know you did."

"But she was dead," Keely cried. "She was already dead."

Phil nodded, and they sat in silence for a moment.

Then Keely said, "I don't understand, Detective. If she wasn't dead, how did they dress her? How did they get her in the car? She was a pretty tough lady. I doubt she would have gone willingly."

"She was drugged," Phil said with a sigh. "The M.E. found a tiny hypodermic puncture wound in her neck.

"Hypodermic? Are you saying somebody snuck up on her and jabbed her? How could that be possible?"

"We think it was someone she knew. Someone she let into her house, never suspecting."

"I don't get it. You mean someone came to her house with a needle full of drugs so they could knock her out? And then they set it up to look like suicide?"

"They wanted it to look like suicide. Yes. But we don't think it was planned."

"Not planned? Well, who walks around with a hypodermic needle full of drugs? I mean, I guess it could have been a junkie," she thought aloud. "Maureen probably had prosecuted a number of junkies. Although I can't believe she'd invite some known heroin addict into her house."

"No, it wasn't like that . . ." he said.

"How can you be so sure?" she asked.

"The drug," he said.

Keely frowned at him. "What do you mean? What about the drug?"

"The toxicology tests came back. It was insulin," he said.

"Insulin," she whispered.

"It put her into shock. We're a.s.suming the killer was a diabetic who was carrying insulin. I mean, if they'd gone there intending to knock her out, there are any number of other drugs they might use. Not insulin. That had to be a spur of the moment thing. What's the matter, Mrs. Weaver?"

"Nothing," Keely insisted. "It's just . . . I'm just surprised."

Phil stared at her. "You seem fl.u.s.tered. Does the diabetic thing ring any bells?"

"No," she snapped. Her heart was pounding, but she tried to make her voice calm. "No, of course not," she lied.