Presumption of Guilt (7 page)
But he hadn't been found.
He reached above him to move the tree and tried to stand up. Quietly, he set it down beside the box and stretched to his full height. It felt so good to stretch after a whole night crammed into that box. He listened . . .
Was the lady home, or had she gone to work? If she had, he could escape. He could get back to the home, let Bill punish him, and get back to normal.
He heard a television downstairs, and his heart sank. She was still here.
He sank back into the box, afraid to move. He needed to go to the bathroom, and he was hungry, and his body ached, and it was getting hotter in here.
When would she ever leave?
B
eth sat at her kitchen table. Spread out in front of her were the documents she'd collected from Nick about the things the children's teachers had said, as well as the statistics on the rise of burglaries in St. Clair and surrounding cities, and the few citizens who'd mentioned seeing children breaking in. She had spent most of the night transcribing Marlene's interview from the tape, and now she sat with a highlighter pen, marking off quotes she'd use in her story and trying to decide what her lead would be.
The television in the living room was on, and the Tampa news anchor droned on about last night's city council meeting, a fire in Oldsmar, a murder . . .
She tuned it all out and sipped her coffee as she reviewed the transcript of her conversation with Marlene.
“The victim was identified as fifty-one-year-old Marlene Brandon . . .”
Beth looked up, stunned. Through the doorway of the living room, the television flickered, showing footage of the police cars surrounding the house where she'd been last night. Slowly, she got to her feet.
“The murder was a result of an apparent burglary. Ms. Brandon's body was discovered early this morning by a neighbor . . .”
Gasping, Beth dove for the telephone and punched out the number of the newspaper. When her editor answered, she cried, “She was murdered, Phil! The woman I interviewed last night was murdered! Marlene Brandon. What do you know so far?”
“That was the woman you interviewed?” he asked, astounded. “Wow, Beth, all we have is that it was a burglary. The house was ransacked, according to the police.”
“She was murdered because she talked to me!” Beth shouted. “Her brother did it, Phil!”
“Now, wait, Bethâunless you have proof, something we can take to the police . . .”
The floor above her squeaked again, this time twice in a row, and Dodger started barking. Catching her breath, she turned toward the staircase, the phone still clutched to her ear. “Phil, I'll call you back. No! Better yet, you hang on. I keep thinking I hear someone in my house. I'm going upstairs to look, but if I don't come back to the phone in a few minutesâ”
“Beth, you're going off the deep end. You're overreacting a little, don't you think?”
“I'm not overreacting, Phil. The woman is dead. If he killed his own sister, he'll come after me next. Now, hold on, and call the police if I don't come back.”
She set the phone downâand heard the squeak again. She grabbed her gun out of the drawer and, hand trembling, aimed it toward the top of the stairs as she started up.
Dodger tried to follow her, his fat stomach making it nearly impossible for him to pull himself up from one step to the next.His yelping gave her some degree of comfort, though. As long as she could hear it, she felt grounded in reality.
She swallowed as she got to the top of the stairs, crossed her little office, and flung the attic door open.
“All right,” she said, beginning to sweat and tremble as she clutched the gun. “I know you're in here. I've heard you, and you're not going to get away with it, so you might as well come out and show yourself now, or I'm going to start shooting. I mean it!”
She looked around. Everything looked undisturbed. There was no sign of anyone. Mentally, she tried to calculate exactly where she'd heard the squeak. She'd been standing at the telephone, near her kitchen table; directly over that would be that back corner, where the Christmas tree box sat. Was that tree sticking further out than it had been last night?
Her heart pounded in her ears as she stepped closer to the box, breathing so loud that whoever was hiding there would know how terrified she was.
Someone
was in that box. Bill Brandon? Was he in here playing with her, trying to frighten her to death? Was she going to be his next victim?
Terror overwhelmed her, and she cocked the pistol. “I'm giving you to the count of three to come out, and then I'm going to start shooting. One. . . . two . . . three . . .”
Nothing happened, so she slipped her finger over the trigger. “I warned you,” she said through her teeth. “You're underestimating me, Bill.”
She heard a noise behind her and swung around. The gun went off.
The puppy yelped and squirted a puddle onto the floor. He had made it up the stairs, but now he stood there trembling just inches from the bullet hole.
She had almost shot her dog.
For a moment, she thought of dropping the gun and comforting the puppy, but someone was still here. She turned back around, took a step closer to the box, grabbed a branch of the Christmas tree, and in one quick motion jerked the tree out.
The box was empty.
Drenched in sweat now, she backed away, so relieved that she wanted to cry. The puppy got between her feet, almost knocking her over. She picked him up and gave the attic one last look around. Maybe she was losing her mind. Maybe what she'd heard was an opossum on the roof, or a squirrel, or even a rat. Any of those things would be preferable to Bill Brandon.
She left the attic and closed the door behind her, then hurried down to get a towel to clean up the dog's puddle. On her way to the kitchen, she went back to the phone. “Phil? Are you there?”
“Yeah, Beth. What's going on there? Did I hear a gunshot?”
“It was me. I thought I heard someone, but it was a false alarm. Maybe I am a little paranoid. But Marlene Brandon is still dead. I have to go to the police. Who's covering her story, Phil?”
“I don't even know if we're going to print anything about it, Beth. It was all the way in Tampa, and our St. Clair readers wouldn't be that interested. Besides, they're saying it was just a routine burglary.”
“It was
not
a routine burglary, Phil!” she shouted. “She was the sister of Bill Brandon, who's the subject of the story I'm working on. She got killed right after telling me everything. You really think that's a coincidence?”
“Wellâokay, no. But what do you want to do? Do
you
want to cover it?”
She hesitated and tried to slow her thoughts. “I don't know . . . yes. I guess I should go and see what I can find out.”
“If what you're saying is true, Beth, then don't you think your time would be better served by finishing the story? Then the murder of Marlene Brandon will tie in and make more sense.”
Confused, she sat for a moment, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“Yeah, I guess you're right. But would you put someone else on it?
It's important, Phil. We have to know everything about her murder.”
“All right. I'll send Todd.”
“Good. Let me know everything you find out. Even if it seems insignificant.”
“And you finish that story.”
“I'll have it there this afternoon.”
She hung up and started for the kitchen to splash water on her face, but the doorbell rang, startling her again. She snatched up the gun and peeked through the curtain. It was two police officers. Breathing a sigh of relief, she shoved the gun back into its drawer and answered it.
“Can I help you?” she asked, wondering if they noticed how badly she was still shaking.
“Yes,” one of them said. “Are you Beth Wright?”
“Yes.”
He introduced himself and showed her his badge. They were not from St. Clair, but from Tampa. “We'd like to come in and ask you a few questions about the murder of Marlene Brandon.”
T
he two police officers looked around her house as she ushered them in. She wondered if they had been there when she'd fired her gun. “I just heard about the murder,” she said. “On the news.” Her eyes welled with tears. “I couldn't believe it.” “We understand that you were the last one to see her alive.”
She sat down and gestured for them to take the couch. “Obviously someone saw her after I did. How did you know I was there, anyway?”
“Her pastor.”
“Her what?”
“Her pastor spoke to her after you left. Apparently she called him. He said she seemed exhilarated, because she had confessed some things to you. What we'd like to know from you is whether you saw anyone hanging around the house, a strange car, or someone walking up the street. Anything at all.”
She closed her eyes and tried to think. “I didn't see anything, at least not at her house. But I was followed most of the way home.”
“Followed?”
“Yeah. Someone was after me. I called 911, but I lost him before the police got there. And when I got home, I kept thinking someone was in my house. I even had the St. Clair police come out last night to check.”
One of the cops began to jot that down. “Who were the officers?”
“Well, there were several, but I remember Larry Millsaps and Tony Danks.”
They jotted the names down. “What time was that?”
“Around midnight, I think.”
“Miss Wright, do you have any idea who could have followed you home?”
She hesitated, glancing at the table with so much evidence waiting to be printed. If she told them too much, and word got out, the rest of the media would jump on it before she had the chance to get her story into print. Because she was the last one to see Marlene alive, other reporters would piece it together, until they discovered more than she wanted them to know. Still, if she could get Bill Brandon off the streets . . .
“She mentioned that she wasn't getting along too well with her brother, Bill Brandon. And the things she confessed to meâthey had a lot to do with him. Have you questioned him?”
“Yes. Ms. Brandon's pastor indicated that she and her brother were on the outs. But he was home last night. Several people, employees of his, confirmed it.”
“I'll bet they did. Officers, if I were you, I'd check his story out with someone besides his employees.”
“Why? Do you have reason to believe he wasn't at home?”
“I'm just saying that she told me she was afraid of her brotherHe had warned her not to talk to me.”
“About what, Miss Wright? What is the story you were interviewing her about?”
She glanced at the table again and swallowed. “I'm doing a story about children's homes. She used to work with her brother at the St. Clair Children's Home, but I learned that they had parted ways, and I wondered why. They'd had some philosophical differences, and her brother was still hot over her leaving.” It was part of the truth, she thought, even if it wasn't all of it.
“Hot enough to kill over?” the officer asked.
“Maybe. I'm just telling you what I think.”
The two cops exchanged looks, and finally, one asked, “Miss Wright, where were you around eleven last night?”
“Right here,” she said. “I got home at about ten.”
“Did you talk to anyone? See anyone?”
“I told you, I saw the police around midnight.”
“Before that, was there anyone?”
She couldn't believe they were asking for her alibi, but she took it seriously. “Yes, as a matter of fact. Right after I got home, Nick Hutchins stopped by. Call him and ask him. He was here about half an hour.”
They didn't write the name down. “Nick Hutchins. Could you give us a number where we can reach him, please?”
“Yes,” she said, anxious to clear this up. “You can call him from my phone if you want. Check me out. Then maybe you can get out of here and arrest the real murderer.”
J
immy hadn't moved a muscle since the lady had left. He'd been sure she was going to shoot him. He had walked over to the window and had been trying desperately to open it when he'd heard her coming up the stairs. So he had jumped behind a stack of old newspapers and balled himself up as small as he could get himself, and luckily she hadn't seen him. He had heard her say that she would shoot, and then he'd heard her pull out the Christmas treeâand even though he'd braced himself, expecting the gunshot, he had still wet himself when the gun went off. He'd been sure she was about to find him, but she hadn't.
Now he wondered who was downstairs with her. He had heard the doorbell, and there were voices down there. He half expected it to be Billâbut when he got up enough courage to creep a little closer to the window and look out, he saw a Tampa police car instead. Tampa? Were
they
looking for him? Had they tied him to any of the Tampa burglaries?
He had to get out of here. Somehow, he had to make a break for it.
If only he could use her bathroom and get a drink of water.
He heard the door close downstairs, and looked out the window to see the two cops going back to their car. She was out there, too, walking the dog, and he wished she'd walk up the dirt road, far enough that he could escape. But she hung around the front door, as if afraid to get too far from it.
He slid back down the wall, hopeless, helpless.
O
utside, Beth watched the police car drive away as the puppy tugged at the leash and sprinkled every leaf and bush he could find. She didn't want to get too far from the house, for fear that Bill Brandon would jump out of nowhere.
Her eyes drifted up to the window in her attic, and she tried to tell herself that no one was there. She had searched it, and the police had searched last night. Anyone would be paranoid after the events of the last few days.