Not Guilty by Patricia MacDonald

from poor circulation in his legs, but he kept his condition a secret from most people and pretended the walking stick was merely an affectation. Part of his Wild West collection, it had once belonged to Bat Masterson. Usually, he could pull off his jaunty disguise. Today, it was too much for him. “Keely, I hope you’ll understand if we don’t come back to the house,” Lucas said. “I’ve got Betsy in the car already. I’m worried about her. Last night, she was so distraught. I really got scared. I know we should be there, but . . .” Lucas’s wife was a Mayflower descendant whose bloodlines blueprinted for her a life of wealth and ease, but she had not sprung back after Prentice’s death. There were blows that no amount of privilege could surmount.
    “It’s all right, Lucas,” Keely said. “Everyone will understand. Betsy . . . both of you have been through so much this year. I know she isn’t well . . .” Keely grasped his cold hands in hers. “I want you to know how much I appreciate . . . everything.”
    She embraced him, her arms encircling his frail frame.
    “It still hasn’t sunk in. It’s too awful.” His voice was muffled against her shoulder.
    “Who would have believed it?” Keely murmured as they separated. Lucas stopped to talk to an old associate who had approached them. Keely was about to turn and enter the car when, out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of one last figure in black, lingering among the headstones. She wondered if it was someone too timid to approach her. She knew from experience how difficult it was for many people to express their sympathies. They wanted to speak, but they became tongue-tied in the face of grief. They would lower their eyes and turn away when there was much that they wanted to say. She turned and looked at the last mourner.
    Across several rows of monuments, under the shedding branches of an elm tree, she saw a cast-concrete statue of a disheveled, cherubic boy, wearing a T-shirt and untied sneakers, with angel’s wings on his shoulders. Beside the statue, a trim woman in a black business suit had rested a hand on the stone child’s wings. The woman’s hair was a fiery auburn with gold highlights glinting in the sun. Her even, perfectly made-up features were set in a stony expression. Dark glasses hid her eyes. But her gaze was not downcast. Just the opposite. Despite the dark glasses, Keely could tell the woman was staring at her.
    Keely shivered and touched Lucas on the arm. He was still beside her, accepting condolences. “Lucas,” she said in a low voice. “There is a woman over there who is staring at me. Do you know who she is?”
    Lucas turned to look and then he frowned and muttered, “That’s Maureen Chase.”
    “Oh,” said Keely. They had never met, but Keely was well aware of who she was. She was the district attorney of Profit County, and the woman Mark had been engaged to marry when he met Keely. “I see,” she said.
    “I think that’s the grave where her twin brother was buried,” said Lucas. “Frankly, I’m a little surprised that she’s here. I had the impression that she never really forgave Mark for . . . you know . . .”
    Keely knew what Lucas meant—for breaking their engagement and marrying another woman. “Did she ever mention it to you?”
    “No. Never,” said Lucas quickly. “She’s not that sort of woman. She’s all business. That’s probably why she’s here. Just out of respect for their business relationship.”
    Keely nodded, but in her heart, she doubted that Maureen’s presence here was about business. After all, she had nearly married Mark. She must have had strong feelings for him that still lingered. Keely thought that perhaps she should walk over to Maureen Chase and offer her hand. After all, this was a woman who had loved Mark, and who, presumably, would understand, better than anyone, how painful it was to lose him. And he was lost to them both now. Gone for good. The grave had put