Not Guilty (11 page)

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Fine,” he said.

“That was terrible,” she said.

Dylan did not reply.

“Honey, I was just talking to Lucas. He thinks the reason they are picking on us is . . . personal. It has to do with the district attorney’s relationship with Mark. They’re just trying to dig up anything to make our lives miserable.”

Instead of answering, Dylan reached over and switched on the radio to the heavy-metal station he favored.

“Dylan, turn that off,” said Keely. “I’m talking to you.”

“I want to listen to it,” he said.

“Look, just because we are being hounded unfairly doesn’t mean its not serious.”

Dylan squinted out the SUV window, drumming on his thighs with his index fingers.

Keely reached out and punched the radio button. The car fell back into silence.

Dylan’s gaze frosted over.

“How come you never told me about picking up the gun? When Daddy died.”

“You never asked,” he said.

I am not the enemy here,
she thought.
Why can’t I talk to you?
But she didn’t say it. She knew it would just lead to a futile discussion. She placed her hands on the wheel and sighed. Then she shifted the Bronco into gear.

“Is there anything else you’re not telling me?” she asked. “I don’t want any more surprises like that one.”

For a few moments, he was silent, and she saw a strange expression cross his face. A fleeting look of . . . guilt. Her heart felt suddenly cold. “Dylan?”

“No, you know everything,” he said sarcastically.

“Dylan, I’m warning you. Don’t take that tone with me.”

“Can you just drive?” he said wearily. “I want to go home.”

We agree on that much,
Keely thought. “We have to stop at your grandmother’s and pick up Abby,” she said.

Dylan straightened up as if jolted in his seat. “Don’t tell her anything,” he insisted.

Keely looked over at him. “Don’t tell her what?”

“Anything. About the gun. I don’t want her to worry,” he said defensively. “Promise me you won’t tell her.”

Keely frowned at him. It scared her to realize how little she understood him. “I promise,” she said.
For now,
she added to herself, hoping as fiercely as he did that no one would ever need to know about any of it.

I
ngrid Bennett still lived on the same quiet street in the same neat, modest house that she and her husband had bought when Richard was four years old. Turning the corner onto Swallow Street always brought back to Keely the memories of her first visit here, when Richard had brought her home to meet his parents and announce their plans to marry. She could still remember the pride she felt, to be embarked on the most adult of relationships, and the anxiety, hoping, though she insisted she wasn’t worried about it, that his parents would approve of her. Although she often wore black in those college years, she had deliberately chosen a pale yellow sweater to wear to that first meeting, and she had made the almost unheard of concession of ironing her blue jeans.

Keely turned the SUV into Ingrid’s driveway and parked behind Ingrid’s little white Toyota. She gazed for a moment at the tidy beige house with its bushes trimmed, its lawn raked free of leaves. Even though Richard’s father was dead now, Ingrid kept everything about the place shipshape, though it became more difficult for her with each passing year.

“I’ll wait in the car,” Dylan mumbled.

Keely looked over at him in surprise. “You know Grandma wants to see you,” she said.

Dylan sighed, then opened the car door and got out without looking at his mother. He walked up the path to the front door, opened it, and walked in. Keely followed behind him. If she were by herself, she would have knocked. She and Ingrid had a good relationship, but there was also a certain formality between them. Dylan, by contrast, always swaggered into his grandmother’s house, calling out to her, certain of his welcome.
Keely tapped on the open door and stuck her head inside. Abby was sitting on the immaculate green wall-to-wall carpet, and Dylan was bent over, enveloped in his grandmother’s embrace.

“How’s my big boy?” Ingrid exclaimed, and indeed Dylan towered over her these days.

“Hello, Ingrid,” said Keely. “How’s your back?”

“Still aches,” Ingrid admitted. “I’m taking a lot of pain medication.”

Keely crouched down on the floor beside Abby, who was playing with a pile of plastic toys Ingrid kept for their visits. “Was she good?”

“Oh sure,” said the older woman. “She was into everything.”

Keely glanced around the room, which was immaculate, every figurine and basket of dried flowers in its place. “Sorry,” said Keely. “She’s at that age.”

“I didn’t mind,” said Ingrid. “She was no trouble.”

Keely put her arms around Abby and kissed her head, feeling protective of her. She knew that Ingrid liked babies and would recount Abby’s doings to all her friends when she had a chance. But there was always that reserve in her voice when she spoke about Abby that was never there with Dylan. Abby, she cared for. Dylan, she loved.

“What did the police want?” Ingrid asked.

Keely looked at Dylan, who gave her a wide-eyed glance of warning. “Just making out their reports about the accident,” said Keely. “You know how it is.”

Ingrid nodded, reassured. “Now hold on a minute,” she said to Dylan. “I want to measure something against you.”

Keely suppressed a smile at the expression of alarm on Dylan’s face. As Ingrid bustled from the room, Dylan caught his mother’s eye. He mouthed the words “Another sweater,” and rolled his eyes. Keely tried not to laugh. Last Christmas Ingrid had knitted him a red sweater with reindeer on it. The only place he ever wore it was to this house, with his jacket zippered over it, and he would complain almost immediately of being too hot and have to remove it.

“Dylan, come in here, honey,” Ingrid called out from the back bedroom, which had once been Richard’s, where she now kept her sewing machine and her plastic boxes full of fabric, knitting needles, and yarn,
as well as Richard’s old computer. Keely had offered it to Ingrid when they moved here. Mark had had state-of-the-art equipment. At first, Ingrid had declined. But then Dylan had offered to hook it up for her and show her how to use it to get online. Now Ingrid e-mailed Richard’s sister, Suzanne, in San Francisco, used it to download patterns, and belonged to groups that exchanged recipes online.

“Coming,” Dylan said, trying to sound enthused. Keely gave him an encouraging smile as he trudged off down the hallway. Keely stood up and walked over to the cherry-wood entertainment center that took up one wall of the living room. The only electronic equipment it held was a small TV and a VCR. The other shelves were filled with framed mementos of the family. In the compartment beside the TV, where Ingrid normally kept her Hummel collection, there were two fat photo albums balanced one on top of the other. Ingrid must be feeling nostalgic today, Keely thought. She opened the top book and riffled through the pages, stopping at a photo of Richard in the front seat of his first car, an ancient convertible, with Mark in the seat beside him. Mark told her that he had practically lived at Richard’s house. In the car photo, both boys were waving and mugging at the camera. The pictures in the album had been carefully arranged in a time sequence, so she found several other pictures of Mark as well, from those years when he and Richard had been inseparable—long before she knew either one of them. It was still so strange to her to think that she had married both of these men, these long-lost friends.

She heard Dylan coming back into the living room and closed the cover of the album. Dylan was modeling a black pullover sweater with a lightning bolt down the front of it. Keely looked at him with raised eyebrows. “That’s pretty nice,” she said.

“Better than reindeer,” he agreed.

“Bring it back in here,” Ingrid called. “It’s not finished.”

“I’m coming, Grandma,” he said. “The sweater’s pretty cool.”

Keely felt proud of him. He wouldn’t hurt Ingrid’s feelings for the world. The doorbell rang as Dylan left the room. “I’ll get it,” Keely called out.

She walked over to the door and opened it. A young man in a white
shirt, jeans, and a blazer stood on the doorstep. He was carrying a black microfiber briefcase. “Mrs. Bennett?” he asked.

“No, I’m her daughter-in-law,” said Keely.

“She’s expecting me. My name is Tom Mercer,” he said.

“Just a minute. I’ll get her,” Keely said.

“Ingrid,” she called down the hall. “There’s a Tom Mercer here to see you.”

“Tell him to come in,” Ingrid called back.

Keely returned to the doorway. “Won’t you come in?”

The young man entered the living room. He saw Abby sitting on the floor. He cooed at her, and she rewarded him with her gummy grin.

Ingrid bustled in, followed by Dylan, and peered at the young man in her living room. “You’re the fellow that called from the
Gazette
?” she asked.

Keely was instantly wary. “The
Gazette
?”

The young man extended his hand. “Tom Mercer. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Bennett.”

Ingrid shook his hand. “Have a seat, Mr. Mercer. Do you want something to drink?”

Keely looked suspiciously at the young man, who was removing a tape recorder from his briefcase. She looked at her mother-in-law.

“I’m sorry,” said Ingrid. “This is my son’s former wife. The one we were talking about on the phone. And this is my grandson, Dylan.”

Dylan shook hands perfunctorily, but Keely frowned and bent down to pick up Abby. “Why were you talking about me?” Keely asked

“Mr. Mercer is doing an article about Richard,” said Ingrid proudly.

“Why?” Keely demanded, and she could hear how rude her question-sounded.

“Why not?” Ingrid asked. “He was a brilliant man.”

“Yes, but Richard’s been dead for nearly five years. Why are you doing this article now, Mr. Mercer?” Keely asked.

“Keely,” Ingrid protested. “What a question.”

“Actually, I was hoping for a chance to talk to you, too, Mrs. Weaver,” he said.

“About what? What do you know about me?” said Keely.

“Obviously, I’ve done some research for this piece,” Mercer said carefully.

Keely could hear the evasiveness in his answer. She looked at him through narrowed eyes. “This isn’t just about Richard, is it?” she said bluntly. “This has to do with Mark’s death.”

“Actually, it’s about both men,” Mercer said in a placating tone. “A human interest kind of story. Two high school friends, successful in their respective fields, both died young and tragically, and they were further linked by the fact that they married the same woman. People want to read about that.”

“We don’t want publicity,” said Keely vehemently. “We want to put this behind us.”

“Mrs. Bennett seemed to be more than willing to talk about her son,” Tom Mercer said stubbornly but politely.

“I’m sure Mrs. Bennett didn’t realize what you were up to,” said Keely, jiggling Abby, who was beginning to fuss in her arms. She did not look at her mother-in-law, who was standing behind her, but she prayed that Ingrid would support her.

“I don’t see what harm it could do,” said Ingrid.

Keely turned to look at Ingrid. She realized the older woman did not know about the ugly questions posed by the detective today. Keely was not about to bring it up in front of this reporter. “I just don’t think it’s appropriate,” she said.

“Well,” said Ingrid stiffly, “you can do as you wish. But I won’t be told who I can and can’t talk to in my own home about my own son. I’ve been looking forward to this. I don’t often get a chance to talk about Richard. Heaven knows, you never mention him.”

Keely felt her face redden as Tom Mercer gave her a sly smile. He sat down on the couch and crossed his legs. Keely shifted Abby to her other arm, picked up her purse, and fished out the keys. She was not about to discuss this with Ingrid in front of a reporter. “Dylan,” she said. “Let’s go.”

Dylan looked warily from his mother to his grandmother. Then he walked over to Ingrid and gave her another hug. “The sweater’s cool, Grandma,” he said. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, darling. I’ll finish it up this week,” she said, kissing his cheek.

Without looking at Keely or the reporter, Dylan walked out the front door.

“Thank you for watching Abby,” said Keely, avoiding her mother-in-law’s baleful gaze. “Mr. Mercer, don’t bother to call me. I have nothing to say to you.”

Keely carried Abby out to the car. The three of them rode home in silence, Abby falling asleep in her car seat during the ride. In the driveway, Keely lifted the baby out and cradled her against her chest. Abby’s tiny fingers grasped a handful of the front of Keely’s silk blouse as she slept.

After they walked into the house, Dylan started up the stairs to his room. Keely stopped him. “Dylan,” she said. “You just steer clear of that man if he comes around trying to talk to you at school or anything. Don’t talk to him. I don’t like this whole thing.”

Dylan nodded. “I won’t. But you know, it’s true what Grandma said. You never do talk about Dad. You act as if he never existed.”

Keely looked at her son wearily. “Honey, it is difficult for me to talk to Grandma about Daddy. But that has nothing to do with how I feel about your dad. You and I can talk about him anytime. I’d be happy to talk about him with you.”

“Yeah, right,” he said, staring over her head.

“Dylan, I loved your father very much.” For a second, she thought about dinner and homework and the time. And then she deliberately put those thoughts aside. “Look, let me put Abby down and get these uncomfortable shoes off and then we can sit down, maybe look at some of our old videos. How about that one of the camping trip, when you were seven? I love that one. Remember when the raccoons took the food and we had to hang the rest of it in a tree?”