"I'm just stressed out," she said.

"Well, chill out. You're being mean to our only friends."

"Sorry," she murmured. She went back into the kitchen to finish making dinner for Abby. The pages from the phone company were lying on the counter. Keely quickly heated up some food for Abby. While Abby ate, Keely sat down at the pine worktable to study the list. It took her a few minutes to figure out the abbreviations and symbols but when she did, she was able to quickly locate what she was seeking. There were no outgoing calls on the night Mark died during the time that shewas out of the house. There were two incoming calls. One of the numbers, she knew by heart. It was the office. The other one, she did not recognize. As she looked back through the records, she realized that the same number appeared on the records every day-sometimes nine or ten times a day.

Keely frowned, trying to think whose number it might be. A client? She went into Mark's office and found the list of clients that Lucas had given her. The frequently appearing number was not on the list. She went back to the kitchen, found the address book, and began to comb through it. She did not find a match. This was no way to find out, she thought disgustedly. Finally, she decided to dial the number. It was the most direct way to find out. She thought about how she would explain to whoever it was who answered. She decided that some version of the truth would be best. She would say she was trying to clear up Mark's affairs. She'd found the number and wanted to know if there was anything . . . anything what? It sounded lame, even to her. She hesitated.

Then she found her resolve. Whatever she decided to say, she had to try. She dialed the number and waited for four rings. Her palm was sweaty as it gripped the receiver. The minute the phone was picked up and the voice began, she knew it was an answering machine. At first, she felt a sense of relief. She did not have to explain. Perhaps she'd hear the person's name. But instead, the voice on the message simply recited the phone number. Then, with a growing sense of disbelief, she thought she recognized the voice as it said, "There's no one to take your call right now. Please leave a number and we'll call you back."

She hung up the phone, then dialed again. Once more she listened to the message. This time, she was absolutely certain. The voice on the tape belonged to Maureen Chase.

36.

It took a few minutes for the reality to sink in. Maureen Chase. Keely flipped through the pages of the bills again. All those calls. There had to be hundreds of them. And Mark had never mentioned it. They rarely spoke about Maureen. Why would they? According to Mark, there was nothing to say. And yet, clearly, he and Maureen were in constant communication. Of course, Maureen was the local prosecutor and Mark was an attorney. But even if they had cases to discuss, why would she call him at night and on the weekends? Keely never questioned Mark when he got a business call. He had a high-profile practice. It made sense that he would have to do some business in the evening. But judging from the volume of calls from Maureen's number, Maureen was the business he was engaged in.

Keely tried to think about Mark as she knew him, but suddenly, he seemed like a stranger to her. A murder in his past. A nightly fusillade of phone calls from his former fiancee. Whathadhe told Keely the truth about? A pain seared up through her as she looked back over her brief life with Mark. What had really been going on?

She couldn't stand it, just sitting there wondering. She had to find out something. And there was one person who would know. She was still holding the receiver in her hand. With trembling fingers, she punched in Lucas's number at home. After a few rings, Betsy answered.

"Betsy," said Keely, trying to keep her voice from shaking. "Is Lucas there?"

Betsy sighed. "No. I saw him for a minute. He got your message. He just hasn't had a moment. He had business out of town all day, and then, when he got home, he had to go out again to meet with a client. But I'msure he's going to call you just as soon as he can catch his breath. Is there anything I can help you with?"

Keely hesitated. Then she said, "Betsy, maybe you can. This is going to sound . . . paranoid. But . . . I've just been . . . doing the bills and . . . going over our old phone records. I know this sounds . . . well, it's just something odd . . ."

"Yes?" Betsy asked.

"Well, it just seems as if there are a huge number of calls here to and from Maureen Chase. Mostly from her. But still . . ."

There was silence from the other end.

Keely's face flamed. "I know. You probably think I'm insane. Being a jealous wife at this point. I mean, there's not much point with Mark . . . gone, but I just . . ."

Betsy made a little strangled murmur of protest.

"Never mind," said Keely "I'm being horrible. I'm sorry I bothered you . . ."

"No," said Betsy with a sigh. "No, you're not being horrible."

"I mean, what does it matter now who Mark called . . . right?"

"Oh, Keely," said Betsy sadly.

Keely's blood ran cold at the commiseration in the other woman's voice. "Betsy, you sound . . . funny," she said.

"Keely . . . I don't want to give you the wrong idea. Lucas and I . . . we didn't know anything for sure."

Keely lifted her chin, as if preparing to take the blow. "What are you saying?"

"Well," said Betsy uneasily. "As you say, it doesn't matter now."

"I want to know," Keely insisted.

"Of course you do," said Betsy. She sighed again. "I wish I could put your mind at rest. But I can't."

"But you were implying . . ."

"There was gossip . . ." Betsy said. "That was all. Just rumors. Lucas told me about it. He didn't want to believe it any more than I did. I mean, that woman was . . . Some people seemed to think that maybe Mark and . . . that woman . . ."

Keely waited, not breathing.

"I never wanted to believe it," said Betsy. "I mean, there was no reason. Anytime I tried to talk to him about it, he would just say he was very, very happy with you. And the children. And it's true. He was happier than I had ever known him to be."

Keely felt as if she had been punched. She sat, holding the phone, stunned by what Betsy was suggesting. "An affair?" she breathed.

"Keely," Betsy pleaded. "It does no good to tie yourself in knots over this now. Oh, I wish I'd never said anything."

"No, it's all right," said Keely woodenly.

"Mind you, we didn't have any real evidence. It was more the change in . . . temperature between them. I mean, considering that he had jilted her to marry you-well, their relations were extremely frosty for a while. And then . . . we noticed a change. They seemed to be . . . maybe they were just being very civilized about things . . .

"I have to go, Betsy," Keely said. She hung up without waiting for Betsy to reply.

A few minutes later, Dylan shuffled into the kitchen, a stormy expression on his face. "I'm taking this bandage off," he announced, and began to peel back the tape on the gauze at his neck. "It itches, and I'm sick of it. It's like wearing a sign saying 'This jerk tried to off himself and he couldn't even do it right.' "

Keely did not reply.

Dylan hesitated, then pulled the gauze off of his throat, revealing the jagged wound just beginning to heal on his throat. He frowned at his mother, who was seated at the table and staring into s.p.a.ce. He dropped the bandage into the garbage, expecting her to protest, but she did not respond.

"What's the matter with you?" he asked.

Keely shook her head. "I . . . I don't know. I'm trying to understand something."

"You look like you're on planet X."

"Dylan, I'm all right," Keely said sharply. "Leave me be."

"Sorry," he said, rolling his eyes. "I'm getting hungry. Is there anything here for supper?" He opened the door of the refrigerator and looked inside. "Slim pickings," he said, shaking his head.

"Make yourself a sandwich, Dylan. I'm sorry. I've had a lot on my mind," Keely snapped.

Dylan looked at her ruefully. "I should have gone out for Chinese food," he said. He began to rummage in the refrigerator drawer for cheese and cold cuts. He slapped together a dry sandwich and sat down across from his mother. Keely looked up at him and winced at the sight of the jagged gash on his throat, on the mend but still angry looking. Dylan noticed that he had her attention.

"So, how come you're in such a p.i.s.sed-off mood?" he asked. "What happened when you went to see the D.A.?"

Keely did not reply.

"With the printout of Dad's letter," he prodded. He took a bite of the sandwich and stared at her, chewing.

"She dismissed it," said Keely.

"Dismissed it," Dylan protested. "Has she got a better idea about what happened? Or is she just determined to pin it on me?"

Keely blinked at Dylan as if he had just awakened her, and an idea began to form in her mind. After all, why had she wanted the phone records in the first place? She wanted to see who might have come to see Mark on that terrible night.

Abby had started to wail. Robotlike, Keely picked her up, wiped her mouth, and set her down on the floor. All the while, her mind was racing. Suddenly, she was seeing everything in a whole new way. What if Mark and Maureen had . . . resumed their relationship? Perhaps it was Maureen who had come calling on Mark that night. Maureen who had a quarrel with him about their relationship. Maureen who pushed Mark into the pool, and then, not yet satisfied with her revenge, tried to blame it on Dylan.

Yes,Keely thought. It made sense, but how would she ever prove it? The police would ignore her. Wade Rovere seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth. She had nothing to go on but the record of some phone calls and her own suspicions. All she had were questions. She kept thinking about her meeting with the D.A. Maureen, insisting Dylan was to blame. And now this. She was being lied to again.Oh no,she thought.Not anymore. I have had enough.

"Mom," said Dylan, stuffing some lettuce back into his half-eaten sandwich. "Tell me what she said."

"It doesn't matter," Keely said bitterly. "She's a liar. Nothing she says can be trusted."

Dylan pushed his plate away, suddenly without appet.i.te, and slumped in his chair. "So it didn't help at all," he said.

"I wouldn't say that," said Keely. "It helped me. It helped me to understand a few things."

"Yeah, but . . ." Dylan shook his head. "She doesn't see any connection, does she? The D.A. She's still trying to blame it on me."

"I won't let her," said Keely.

"You can't stop her," he said.

"Oh, no?" said Keely. She stood up abruptly. "Keep an eye on Abby," she said. "I'm going out for a little while."

"Where are you going?" he asked. "Don't be stupid, Mom. Remember what happened with that car the other night."

"I'll be back soon," she said. "Lock the door."

Dylan stared at her. "I will," he said.

This might be foolish,Keely thought, as she gathered up her jacket, her bag, and her keys. This woman could be dangerous. But Keely was too angry to be afraid of her anymore. It was time to turn the tables on Maureen Chase. It was too late to appeal to her better nature. She had done her best to destroy their lives. Keely was sure of it. She knew it and she was going to stop her, somehow.

Keely got into her SUV, slammed the door, and began to drive. It was too late for the office, but she tried it all the same. The courthouse building was dark and quiet. The security guard at the front desk glanced at the clock and told her that Ms. Chase had left work hours ago.All right,Keely thought.I know where you live.Mark had pointed out the estate where Maureen's house was when they first moved here, and Keely had never forgotten. Every time she drove by that street, she thought of Maureen, even before she knew what Maureen looked like. Keely used to think about how her happiness had come at Maureen's expense, and it had made her feel guilty and lucky at the same time.

Even though Keely knew where to find the house, the driveway ofthe estate was easy to miss in the dark. There was no one living in the main house because the season was over, so no lights illuminated the drive. She pa.s.sed it once before she realized she had gone too far. Then she turned the car around and drove back, turning the Bronco into the driveway over the crunching gravel and rolling slowly up the drive toward Maureen's home.

At first, Keely could hardly believe this was the home of the tough-as-nails district attorney. Keely had expected something modern and boxy. The cottage looked like something off a postcard of the English Cotswolds. The lights were on in the house, making the multipaned windows glow, although Maureen's car was not in evidence. That didn't mean anything, Keely told herself. There was a small, ivy-covered garage behind the house where she probably put her car.

Keely's heart was pounding as she turned off the SUV's engine. As she got out, she tried to rehea.r.s.e what she was going to say, but her mind wouldn't cooperate. All she could think about was Maureen and Mark, deceiving her.

Keely walked up to the cottage door, then knocked. As she waited, she looked around her. The yellow moon hung low in the sky, and the dried leaves rustled noisily as they tumbled across the lawn and the gray stones in the driveway. Against the house, blowsy hydrangea blossoms, dry and leeched of all their color, rustled in the night wind. Bare tree branches bent and made cracking noises all around her. The little house seemed isolated and lonely, and Keely shivered, waiting on the step. When no one answered the door, Keely thought that perhaps her knock had been too timid, so she rapped harder. Still there was no answer. Keely waited for a few minutes, then called out Maureen's name. Still no one responded.

Keely leaned over and looked through the cottage window. She couldn't see anyone inside, but that didn't mean anything. The only room she could see was the great room with its kitchen, fireplace, and chintz-covered sofas. She could see that there were lights on in the other rooms of the house, but the shades were drawn.

Keely frowned. Maureen could have gone out and just left the lights on, Keely told herself. After all, there was no car visible infront. She could have run out to a convenience store or had a date or G.o.d knows what. Or the car could be in the garage and Maureen could be inside the house, in the shower, or wearing a headset in her bedroom.

The heels of Keely's leather ankle boots crunched on the gravel as she walked back toward the garage. She would check to see if a car was there. As she got closer, she thought she heard a murmur of voices from inside the tiny, dark building. Keely stopped for a minute. She could hardly believe it. What would anybody be doing inside a dark garage with the doors closed?

"Ms. Chase," she called out in a harsh voice. "It's Keely Weaver. I want to talk to you."

She expected that the speakers would at least stop to listen, but it did not seem as if there was even the slightest hesitation in their murmured conversation.

Get out of here,warned a little voice inside of her. For a moment, Keely thought about heeding her instincts. But the thought of Dylan's wistful expression, the note of defeat in his voice, the ugly red wound still visible on his neck, spurred her on. As she gingerly took a few steps closer, she was aware of another sound coming from behind the closed door of the garage-a loud, steady hum almost obscured by the murmuring voices, was coming from behind the door.

It took Keely a moment to recognize what she heard. A car engine was running in the garage.

Keely rushed to the side door and peered through the gla.s.s. It was dark inside, but in the moonlight through the window she could see the shape of a car. The driver's door was open. The engine hum was louder. Keely rattled the doork.n.o.b, but the door was locked. She ran around to the front doors, which were crisscrossed with dark timbers, and turned the old-fashioned latch. It turned, and she was able to pull open the door a few inches. She recoiled at the smell of gasoline and exhaust fumes. Holding her breath, she tightened her sweaty grip on the handle and pulled. The right door swung out, and a billow of fumes enveloped her. Keely began to cough. She picked up one end of the foulard scarf she was wearing and pressed it over her face. She could see the blackBMW now. The front door was open on the driver's side. Something white was spilling out the door.

For a moment, she hesitated. It couldn't be a trap. Maureen hadn't known she was coming. This was, Keely thought grimly, exactly what it looked like. She could hear the muted voices clearly now, and, suddenly, it registered on her that one of the voices was Mark's. It was coming from inside the car. It was a tape. Maureen and Mark's voices were murmuring to each other on the tape. A chill ran through her. She took a step backward, but she couldn't run. If there was someone in that car . . . Pushing the other door to the garage open wide, Keely rushed in and cautiously approached the open door on the driver's side, still holding the scarf over her nose and mouth.

Maureen Chase was behind the wheel. Her arms hung at her sides. Her head lolled back on the headrest. Her eyes were closed, as if she were sleeping, and her skin was cherry-colored. Pinned crookedly to her auburn curls was a veil. She was wearing a cream-colored satin wedding dress, the train of which was hanging out of the door on the driver's side.

Keely stifled a scream.Oh my G.o.d,she thought,oh my G.o.d.She reached out to touch the other woman and felt the coldness of her skin. She wanted to turn and run, to try to forget she had ever seen this sight, but she couldn't.She might still be alive,her shaky inner voice insisted.You have to do something.

Holding her breath, Keely reached past Maureen and switched off the ignition. The voices on the tape, uttering sickening words of lovemaking, abruptly stopped in midmoan. Then, she reached into the now silent front seat of the car and grabbed hold of the woman in the wedding dress.

Come on,she thought, as if the unresponsive woman could help her. Coughing from the fumes, she grabbed Maureen under the slippery satin arms of the dress and began to tug her free. The lace veil caught on the gearshift and dislodged from the red curls. Maureen's body was leaden in Keely's arms.

Keely felt sure that Maureen was dead, but still, she continued to wrestle her out of the car. She had to get her out of these lethal fumes.Maureen's rump and then her feet, still wearing house slippers, hit the oil-stained floor of the garage as Keely dragged her outside, into the brown gra.s.s beside the ivy-covered little building.

Calm down,Keely thought.Call for help.She set Maureen down gently on the ground, and Maureen's head lolled lifelessly to one side. Her arms and legs splayed out awkwardly on the gra.s.s. Keely reached into her bag with shaking hands, pulled out the red phone, and punched 911. When the operator answered, Keely tried to tell her what had happened, but her voice was torn by sobs.

"Help is on the way," the dispatcher a.s.sured her. "Do you know CPR?"

"I don't know," Keely wailed. "I took a first-aid course once . . ."

"I'll tell you what to do," the woman said in a rea.s.suring voice.

Keely fell to her knees beside Maureen, still clutching the phone. Then, following the dispatcher's instructions, she leaned over the body and placed her own lips against the cold, cherry red lips of her rival.

37.