by Dark Harbor
Stone walked around the study, looked at the view of the harbor, looked at the book titles. A remarkable number of them were in his own library. There were silver-framed photographs of Barbara and Esme on his desk. He suddenly felt closer to Dick, remembered his good cheer, his sense of humor, his innate kindness.
“Who are you?” a voice said.
Stone turned to find Caleb Stone standing behind him. He had put on some weight but was still recognizably the twenty-year-old Stone had known, with the same broken nose. “Hello, Caleb. I’m Stone Barrington.”
Caleb stood stock-still for a moment and looked him up and down, then, remembering some vestige of manners, walked over and offered his hand. “Hello, Stone,” he said. “What the hell are you doing here?” The question was made up of equal parts of amazement and hostility.
“I’m here at Dick’s invitation.”
“You mean, he invited you up here to stay?”
“Yes, he did. Along with some friends.”
“You mean there are other people in the house?”
“Three, here and in the guesthouse.”
“Christ, we planned to move in here tomorrow.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to change your plans.”
Caleb ignored this statement. “The boys are home from school to help, and their mother is packing right now.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Stone said.
“Now, you listen to me. I want you and your friends to get out of this house, and I want you on the next ferry.”
Stone walked over to the sofa and chairs by the window. “Caleb, come and sit down for a minute; I need to tell you some things.”
“Jesus, you haven’t been up here in decades, and you’re acting like you own the place.”
Stone sat down and pointed at a chair. “I think you’re going to want to hear this sitting down.”
Caleb sank heavily into a chair facing him. “What have you got to say?”
“The day before yesterday, I received a Federal Express package from Dick, which contained a letter, hiring me as his attorney, and the original of a will he had written and had properly witnessed.”
“What will? I’ve got Dick’s will at home. He made it out eleven years ago, and I’m his executor.”
“I’m afraid the new will supercedes that,” Stone said. “Dick appointed me executor. It’s a simple document: He provided for Seth Hotchkiss and his family, for a few of Barbara’s relatives, and left the rest to a foundation that helps the families of dead CIA officers.”
“Why the hell would he do that? Dick didn’t have anything to do with the CIA. He was a diplomat.”
Stone was surprised that Caleb knew nothing of Dick’s work. “On the contrary, Dick was a career CIA officer, and he had recently been promoted to a high position in the Agency.”
Caleb stared at him, speechless.
“There’s something else,” Stone said. “Dick and Barbara were each other’s beneficiaries, and Esme was to inherit, if they both died. In the event that they all three died, as in an accident, Dick left this house to me for my lifetime and that of my heirs. If I choose to sell it, the proceeds will go to the foundation, and he instructed me to entail the deed so that you can’t buy it.”
“I want to see this will,” Caleb said.
Stone reached into an inside pocket, produced a copy of the will and handed it to Caleb.
Caleb read it. “This will is invalid,” he said, “because one of the witnesses is a named beneficiary. I’m a lawyer, and my specialty is estate planning.”
“Three unnamed witnesses are enough to validate the will in any state in the Union,” Stone said. “You can sue, if you like, but I’m sure you’ve already realized that this is a proper and legal will, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“So you plan to take possession of this house?” Caleb demanded.
“I have already done so,” Stone replied. “Would you like to stay to lunch and meet my friends?”
Caleb got up and walked out without a word, the will clutched tightly in his hand.
Stone got up and went in to lunch.
5
THE OTHERS WERE already gathered at the table in the large kitchen. Stone went over to Mabel Hotchkiss, who was stirring something on the stove. “Hello, Mabel. I’m Stone Barrington.”
She shook his hand. “Hello, Mr. Stone.”
“Just Stone will do.”
“It’ll be on the table in a minute,” she said.
Stone sat down. “Anybody hungry?”
“Was that Caleb Stone I saw leaving?” Lance asked.
“Yes, and I’m afraid Caleb isn’t having a very good day. He had planned to move into this house tomorrow.”
“I take it you disabused him of that notion.”
“I did, and I gave him a copy of Dick’s will. The poor guy has also learned that he’s not inheriting any money from his brother.”
“Does he know how much he’s not inheriting?”
“He probably has some idea.”
“Is he going to sue?”
“If he can think of grounds. Turns out, he’s an estate attorney, with a Boston firm, I suppose.”
“You’d better file that will for probate as soon as possible.”
“I intend to. I have to get a death certificate, though. There’s a state trooper coming this afternoon; maybe he can help me with that. How much do you know about Dick’s affairs, Lance? Did he have a residence in Washington?”
“Not yet. I learned from the DDO’s office that they were house shopping in Georgetown, but they hadn’t found anything yet.”
“How long had they been back in Washington?”
“Less than a week. They sold the house in London, apparently.”
“I guess that means this house was Dick’s only residence, so I can go to the local probate court. Mabel, what’s the name of this county?”
“Waldo.”
“And what’s the county seat?”
“Belfast, up the coast.”
“How long a drive?”
“From Lincolnville, half an hour, forty-five minutes.”
“Thanks. I guess I’ll go up there first thing tomorrow.”
A lunch of shrimp and rice was served, and everyone ate quietly until Mabel left the room.
“What did you learn from Seth this morning?” Lance asked.
“The two women were sleeping in Esme’s room and took two shots in the head, each. Dick was sitting at his desk downstairs and suffered a contact wound to the left temple.”
“Dick was right-handed,” Lance said.
“You’re sure?”
“I worked for him for four years.”
“Seth said that he had a very small pistol with a silencer in his hand when he was found.”
“Sounds like a Keltec .380; it’s one of a number of handguns issued by Agency technical services.”
“Do you have any insight into Dick’s state of mind the past few weeks?”
“I spoke to his deputy, who’s replacing him in London. He said Dick was his usual cheerful self, and he was excited about the new job. He said that he’d had a farewell dinner with Dick and Barbara the night before they left London, and they were in great form.”
Dino spoke up. “Is anybody ready to say this wasn’t a murder-suicide yet?”
“Let’s talk to the trooper first,” Stone said.
AFTER LUNCH THEY went into the study. Lance pointed at a door near Dick’s desk, which sported a dead-bolt lock. “I think I know what that is,” he said. “Let’s find a key.”
Stone fished Dick’s keys out of his pocket and found one that fit the lock. He opened the door to find what appeared to be a small office, containing a computer, a large fax machine and an odd-looking telephone, along with a filing cabinet. “This is strange,” Stone said.
“No, it isn’t. Dick spent a month or so here every year, and this is Agency equipment. The computer is linked to the Agency mainframe, and t
he phone and fax are scrambled.”
“I take it you know how to use such a computer?”
“I do.”
“Do you think you could get me some background on Caleb Stone?”
Lance sat down at the computer. “Sure.”
“I’d particularly like a credit report and any other financial information you can dig up. Also, any criminal record.”
“Give me a couple of minutes,” Lance said, switching on the machine. He picked up the scrambled phone and dialed a number. “Give me your supervisor,” he said. “This is Lance Cabot. I’m authorized by the DDO to conduct an investigation into the death of Richard Stone; that office will confirm. I’m at Stone’s Maine residence now, using his scrambled phone and his computer. I want to use my own access card in the computer. Thank you.” Lance hung up. “It’ll be a few minutes while the necessary checks and setup are done.”
“Let’s lock up this room, then; the trooper will be here soon, and I doubt if you want him looking in here.” He locked the room, and they sat down to wait.
“This is a beautiful house, Stone,” Holly said. “You’re lucky to have it.”
“I haven’t gotten used to the idea yet,” Stone replied. “It’s all very strange. Most of my mother’s and father’s families haven’t spoken to them since long before I was born, and yet I’ve inherited two houses from my mother’s side of the family. The Turtle Bay town house came from my great aunt, who took an interest in me. She also gave my father his first large commission: the cabinetwork and much of the furniture for the house. And now there’s this place. The strange thing is, if I’d built it myself it would be exactly as it is. The whole thing is spooky.”
The doorbell rang, and Mabel answered it. A moment later, she showed a uniformed sergeant of the Maine State Police into the study. Stone introduced himself and the others.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Barrington?”
“I am Richard Stone’s first cousin, his attorney, and the executor of his will. I’d like to know as much as possible about the circumstances of his death.”
“The local constable called my office in Belfast two days ago and said that the caretaker here had found the owner and his wife and daughter dead in the house, apparently shot. I and a crime-scene investigator choppered over here, and when we got to the house we found the wife and daughter in the same bed upstairs with two bullets in each of their heads. We found Mr. Stone’s body at the desk with a wound to the head and a small pistol in his hand.
“We fingerprinted the corpses and had them removed to the Belfast morgue for postmortem examination. We dusted the study and the upstairs bedroom and found only the fingerprints of the occupants and the housekeeper. There were no fingerprints of any other person in the house. The place was locked, and there was no sign of an intruder.
“In the absence of any evidence to the contrary, I judged the circumstances to be murder-suicide, possibly while the mind of the perpetrator was disturbed. I removed the weapon to our offices for ballistic comparison with the bullets removed from the bodies.”
“I notice that the bullet that killed Mr. Stone passed through his head and lodged in the desk.”
“Yes, we were able to extricate that. It will be of less use than the ones removed from the two women, but I think that my preliminary conclusion will be confirmed: that the weapon in Mr. Stone’s hand was both the murder and suicide weapon.”
“Did you investigate Mr. Stone’s state of mind?”
“I interviewed the caretaker and his wife, and they maintained that he seemed normal at dinner the night before.”
“Did you determine the time of death?”
“The medical examiner has put it somewhere between midnight and four A.M. By the way, an inquest will be held tomorrow at eleven A.M. in the Belfast courthouse. You’re welcome to attend, if you like.”
“Thank you. What will be your recommendation at the inquest?”
“Death by murder and suicide.”
“I should tell you that our investigations”—Stone indicated the other people in the room—“have determined that Richard Stone was of sound mind and cheerful disposition and that he was excited and happy about his appointment to a new, high position by his employers.”
“And you consider yourselves investigators?” the sergeant asked.
“A reasonable question. I am a retired officer of the New York Police Department, where I spent eleven years as a detective, specializing in homicides. Lieutenant Bacchetti, here, commands the detective squad at the Nineteenth Precinct of the NYPD, and Ms. Barker is a retired military police officer and chief of police in the state of Florida.” He didn’t mention Lance.
“Well, that’s all very impressive,” the sergeant said. “I’m interested to know what you’ve learned about Mr. Stone’s state of mind, but do you have any other evidence that this was anything but a murder-suicide?”
“Take a look at this,” Stone said, beckoning the trooper to the desk. He took a pencil from a coffee mug on the desk and placed it in the hole left by the bullet. “Note that the angle of the bullet’s trajectory was only about twenty degrees off the vertical. I think that might indicate someone standing over Mr. Stone and firing a bullet into his head. Also, in your scenario, he would have fired with his left hand, and he was right-handed.”
“My crime-scene investigator, an experienced man, concluded that Mr. Stone laid his head on the desk before firing the fatal shot. That would account for the angle. I didn’t know he was right-handed, but there was nothing to prevent him using his left hand.”
“Our consensus, based on Mr. Cabot’s investigation into Mr. Stone’s state of mind in the days and weeks before his death, is that an unknown person shot him in the head with a silenced pistol, then went upstairs and shot his wife and daughter.”
“You’re entitled to your theory, Mr. Barrington, but my investigation has not found any reason to believe that any person on this island had a motive to kill this family. I should point out that they resided in London for many years and they came into contact with the locals only for a few weeks a year and that no one knows of any local who had any animosity toward the family. Indeed, they were very popular summer residents. Also, my investigation revealed that no summer residents had yet arrived on the island at the time of the deaths. Mr. Stone’s brother and his family arrived only yesterday—we have the ferry operator’s testimony for that—and only one aircraft was parked at the airstrip, that belonging to a local. The people who live nearest the strip tell us that no aircraft landed or took off on the day or the day before the deaths. It’s a small island; people pay attention to who comes and goes.”
“Did you take any photographs of the crime scene?” Stone asked.
“Yes, but I didn’t bring them with me. If you come to the inquest, I’d be glad to show them to you, and the gun, as well.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. I appreciate your taking the time to come to the island to brief us. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The trooper handed Stone an envelope. “Here’s the original of the death certificate,” he said. “You’ll need it to file the will for probate.”
They shook hands, and the trooper left.
Stone turned to the group with a questioning look.
“The sergeant has some good points,” Dino said. “He did his job.”
“He didn’t spend much time on state of mind,” Stone said.
“I wouldn’t have spent much more time on that, in the circumstances,” Dino said.
Holly spoke up. “You didn’t mention to the trooper that Caleb Stone had been disinherited by Dick. That’s motive.”
“Not really. It would be motive if Caleb had known that he was about to be disinherited, but there is no indication of that. Caleb was very surprised to learn that Dick had made a new will. I’d be surprised to learn that they’d even communicated in recent months.”
“I can check Caleb’s home and office phone records, as well as Dick’s,” Lance said.
“Yes,” Stone said, “I would like you to do that. Maybe you’d better get started.”
6
LANCE WENT TO WORK on Dick Stone’s Agency computer while Stone called his office.
“The Barrington Practice,” Joan said.
“Hi, it’s me. What’s up?”
“I trust you were met at the airport?”
“Yes, and we’re comfortably ensconced in the house. There are three phone lines, one for the fax.” He gave her all of them.
“How long will you be there?”
“I’m not sure; there’s a lot to do. There’s the inquest tomorrow morning, and I have to file the will for probate.”
“I take it you’re now the proud owner of a Maine house?”
“In a manner of speaking. I can’t seem to get used to the idea.”
“Oh, by the way, for your information, the three witnesses who signed the will, besides Seth Hotchkiss, were the pilot, copilot and flight attendant on the private jet that delivered the Stone family to Rockport the day before they died. Apparently, they were considering buying into some sort of fractional jet program, and the trip from D.C. to Rockport was a sort of test run.”
“Good to know.”
“There’s no interesting mail. Can I reach you at this number?”
“For all of today; tomorrow morning, try the cell. I’ll talk to you sometime tomorrow.”
“Bye-bye.”
Stone hung up and turned to Lance in the little office. The printer was spitting out sheets of paper. “What are you learning?” he asked.
Lance picked up the papers and consulted them. “Our boy, Caleb, is married to the former Vivian Smith; two sons, Eben and Enos, who share a birthday. Caleb graduated Yale and Yale Law in the bottom half of both classes; he is employed by the Boston law firm of Marsh, Andrews, Fields and Schwartz. Note his name is not on the letterhead. He’s been with the firm since law school but took twelve years to make partner. He heads their estate planning division, and given the number of the firm’s employees, I’m inclined to think he is the firm’s estate planning division.
