Free Not Guilty by Patricia MacDonald Page A

reminded herself, once they got the insurance money and she sold the house. There was no reason to panic. She opened another envelope from the pile and saw that it was an invoice from Collier’s, the jewelry store downtown, not far from Mark’s office. He had bought an expensive smoky quartz bracelet set in gold just the week before his death. She frowned. He’d never given her a smoky quartz bracelet. And then she remembered—their anniversary. Her gaze fell on the John Grisham book, still in the bookstore’s bag, resting on the edge of Mark’s desk where she had left it. She looked again at the bill—the bracelet cost nearly eight hundred dollars. She wondered where he had put it to hide it from her. Or could it still be at the store, being engraved? That was probably it. Well, she could use that money. She would have to check.
    The sound of the doorbell ringing startled her. She went to the door and looked out cautiously, only to see Lucas Weaver on her front steps.
    “Lucas,” she said, pulling the door open. “What a pleasant surprise.”
    “I’m sorry, Keely,” said the older man. “I should have called, but I was on my way out the door when I remembered these papers you have to sign. . . . It’s more estate business. I hate to bother you . . .”
    “No, no. I’ve been meaning to call you anyway,” said Keely. It was true. She had. But she felt as if she couldn’t even make conversation these days. “Come in. I’ve just been like a zombie lately.”
    “It’s all right. I know,” said Lucas, limping after her into the den, where she indicated a paisley-covered wing chair for him beside the desk. “Betsy’s wanted to call you, too, and invite you all over for dinner. But she’s still so . . . shaken . . .”
    Keely smiled briefly at Lucas. “We wouldn’t be fit company for dinner. What have you got for me?”
    “Tax documents.” Lucas placed the papers in front of her, explained their relevance, and indicated the various places where she needed to sign. Keely began to read the papers over.
    While Keely scanned the documents, Lucas gazed around the book-lined office. He leaned over, removed a volume of military history from a low shelf, and riffled the pages. Keely looked up at him. “You know, Lucas, I’ve been meaning to tell you this. If there’s anything of Mark’s you’d like to have . . .” she said.
    Lucas shook his head and hurriedly replaced the book on the shelf. “At my age, you stop collecting things, my dear. Possessions begin to seem . . . a burden.”
    “Oh, Lucas, don’t talk that way. You’re not that old,” she said gently.
    “There won’t be anyone to sort through our things when Betsy and I are gone,” he said wistfully. “No one who will understand what we treasured and why.”
    There was no use in denying what he said. She knew he was not seeking reassurance. He said it matter-of-factly, and when she glanced at him, his eyes were dry, his gaze steady. “I have my memories,” he said.
    Keely sighed. “And who among us really needs more . . . stuff,” she said, agreeing. She signed the papers on the desk before handing them back to the attorney, who replaced them in a narrow briefcase.
    Keely leaned back in the leather tufted desk chair and ran a hand through her uncombed hair. “You’re awfully kind to come out here, Lucas. You didn’t need to do that. I could have gone to the office.”
    “I wasn’t sure you were ready to come into the office yet,” he said.
    Keely nodded. Another hurdle to be surmounted, speaking of more possessions to be sorted. Mark’s office. Their wedding picture and a photo of Abby on his desk, the framed antique map she gave him for Christmas, his extra umbrella, and his spare shirt and tie in the closet. For her, right now, Mark’s belongings were more than just stuff. They seemed electric with life, and it was painful for her to touch them. “I have to get in there and clean it out one of these days,” she