Free Not Guilty by Patricia MacDonald Page B

said.
    “There’s no hurry,” said Lucas, leaning forward, his wiry arms preparing to lever him out of the chair. “You have enough to deal with right now. The office will be there.”
    “It’s so hard to face all these things,” she cried. “Every single thing reminds me . . .”
    Lucas nodded. “Oh, I know.”
    Keely looked at the older man sympathetically. Prentice had died last winter, but Lucas hadn’t even opened the door of his condo until June. Keely had gone with him at Betsy Weaver’s request. Betsy was too distraught to do it, but Lucas needed someone to help him. The sight of the place when they unlocked the door had been overwhelming. While the condo was expensive and overlooked the marina, Prentice had lived in squalor. There was rotting food, piles of unread newspapers, paper bags of unopened mail, clothes, mostly dirty, thrown over every piece of furniture in the house, and an awesome collection of empty liquor bottles. Keely had done what she could to assist him, but the old man had stubbornly insisted on sorting through the mess himself, the last thing he could do for his wayward son. “You do know, don’t you,” she said.
    Lucas squeezed her hand. “If you want, I can do the office for you. You know I don’t mind. You were such a help to me when Prentice died.”
    Keely placed her hand over his and smiled. “Thanks. But it’s something I have to do myself. The least I can do for him.”
    Lucas shook his head and looked away, as if trying to stifle his grief.
    Keely hated to see his distress. She changed the subject. “You know, Lucas, there was a detective here today, asking about the night Mark died.”
    “Who was he?”
    “His name was Stratton.”
    “Phil Stratton,” Lucas nodded grimly. “From the prosecutor’s office.”
    “He was asking all these questions about Mark and Dylan and even about Richard, my first husband. He said there was some problem with the police report. Do you know anything about it?”
    Lucas frowned. “No, but I have an idea.”
    Suddenly, there was a loud thud, as if a flying object had slammed into the house. Lucas struggled to his feet.
    Keely started, and then laughed, recognizing the sound. “It’s okay. Dylan’s home. He’s tossing the basketball.” Mark had affixed a hoop over the garage door for his stepson.
    Lucas let out a sigh. “Been a long time since I heard that sound,” he said apologetically.
    “Did Prentice like to shoot baskets when he was a boy?” Keely asked.
    Lucas nodded. “But I think Mark actually used the hoop more than Prentice ever did.”
    Keely nodded. “You know, Mark talked about those days at your house when he was putting the hoop up there for Dylan. Those were happy times for him,” Keely said gently.
    The expression on Lucas’s face made Keely’s heart ache for him. Lucas sighed. “I took it down a few years ago—the basketball hoop. Betsy always hated that thing anyway. Used to rattle all the dishes in the china cabinets.” He smiled with forced cheerfulness. “Well, I’d better be getting along.”
    Keely got up and walked him outside. She wanted to see Dylan anyway. “Thank you for bringing those papers. I will come into the office soon.”
    “And we’ll get you over to dinner,” said Lucas, kissing her cheek. “Don’t forget. You can call on us for anything. Mark’s death doesn’t change that. You’re still our family.” He waved to Dylan, who was dribbling the ball down the driveway, his leather coat flapping open in the evening breeze. “So long, Dylan,” he called out.
    Dylan stopped, and tucked the ball under his arm. “G’night, Mr. Weaver,” he called back.
    Keely wrapped her arms around herself and walked over beside her son. “Chilly,” she said. Dylan grunted in assent. They watched Lucas walk stiffly out to his car and climb, with difficulty, into the front seat. He looked old and tired. Keely and Dylan both waved as he pulled the car down the drive. Then Keely turned to