Dead in the Water

by Stuart Woods

  “I’m not the social director around here,” Stone said with a straight face.

  Kramer laughed. “Can’t say I blame you.”

  “I suppose it will make an interesting footnote to my piece,” Forrester said.

  “I haven’t seen you taking any notes,” Kramer observed.

  “I have a very good memory,” Forrester said. Then he frowned, placed a hand on his belly, and stood up quickly. “Uh-oh,” he said, then ran for the stairs.

  “I guess he wasn’t feeling as well as he thought,” Kramer said.

  “I guess not,” Stone agreed.

  “Stone, you’ve answered all of my questions, but why do I have the feeling there’s something you haven’t told me?”

  “About what?”

  “About this Elizabeth Manning?”

  “I never saw the woman before yesterday; never heard of her, either.”

  “Did she demand money from Allison?” Not until after her lawyer had made her an offer, Stone reflected. “No,” he replied.

  “Was she headed for Connecticut to pursue something with the estate?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” he said.

  “If she had, would she have had a claim?”

  “There’s no mention of her in Paul Manning’s will.”

  Kramer closed her notebook. “Well, I’ll phone this in after breakfast.”

  They ate their food in silence, then Thomas waved some papers at Stone, and he went to the bar.

  “Fax for you,” Thomas said.

  Stone took a stool and read through Libby Manning’s divorce decree, then he laughed out loud.

  “What?” Thomas asked.

  “Nothing,” Stone replied. “By the way, did Libby Manning make any phone calls last night?”

  “Nope; no calls on her bill. Anyway, you told me to unplug her phone.”

  “Right.” Stone was looking at Libby’s divorce decree, at the instructions for alimony. “Plaintiff shall pay to the defendant the sum of three thousand dollars a month on the first day of every month,” he read, “beginning immediately and continuing for a period of ten years.” He checked the date on the decree. Libby Manning’s alimony had run out three weeks earlier. She must have been desperate, he thought, but she had been cool enough to shake down Allison for four hundred thousand dollars, with his help.

  He walked away shaking his head.

  Chapter

  31

  As Stone walked back toward the marina he could not stop thinking about Libby Manning. He was depressed, and he felt guilty, though he could not think why. Certainly a human being was dead, one he had known; but not one he had known well or had come to care about. So why couldn’t he shake the feeling? He boarded Expansive and went below. Allison was putting something away in a cupboard.

  “Libby Manning is dead,” he said.

  “Come again? I don’t think I heard you right.”

  “Libby is dead. Chester crashed shortly after takeoff this morning, and Libby and a local woman were killed, along with Chester.”

  She stood, staring at him for a long moment. “Dead,” she repeated tonelessly. “No chance she might still be alive?”

  “The airplane went down in at least six hundred feet of water. Chester’s body was recovered, but nobody else.”

  Allison sank onto a sofa, looking as if the wind had been knocked out of her. “How could this have happened?” she asked.

  “There was an engine fire, but nobody knows why, and my guess is that nobody is going to know. In order to figure out what made an airplane crash, you need the airplane, or at least a lot of it, and a wing tip was all that was recovered.”

  “Some sort of mechanical problem, then?”

  “Apparently.”

  “What could cause such a problem?”

  “A fuel leak, maybe. I have no idea what sort of rules a pilot like Chester would operate under on this island, but my guess is he was pretty much on his own. He’d have had the manufacturer’s service requirements to go by, but I doubt if there was anybody looking over his shoulder.” He looked at her. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, but she didn’t sound it. “I’m just shocked, I guess. Three people dead.”

  Stone sat down beside her. “It is pretty depressing,” he agreed.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t be depressed,” Allison said. “After all, her death saves me four hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Maybe,” he replied.

  “Maybe? Why maybe? Didn’t our agreement and my check go down with her?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Then why maybe?”

  “Strictly speaking, that money was hers, and her heirs are entitled to it.”

  “Heirs? Libby had heirs?”

  “I’ve no idea, but let’s say, for example, she had a sister, and she left a will leaving everything to her. She’d be entitled to the four hundred thousand. Even if Libby died intestate, that is, without a will, her next of kin would be in line for it.”

  “But there’s nothing. The check and the agreement went with her.”

  “Suppose she called this putative sister last night and said, ‘Guess what? I just got four hundred grand, and I’m going to give you some.’ And she told her sister where and how she got it. Suppose she mailed a copy of the agreement, or the agreement itself, to the sister. Then the sister would come after you, because she’d have evidence of an agreement to pay, but no payment.”

  “But you don’t know if there is a sister.”

  “No, and Libby didn’t make any phone calls last night, according to Thomas, who would have a record of it if she had. She didn’t mail anything this morning either, as far as I know.”

  “So I’m safe.”

  “If you want to be.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean, the proper thing to do would be to search out Libby’s executor, if she has one, and pay him the money. Then he could distribute it to any heirs or family she may have had.”

  “And suppose she didn’t have any heirs or family?”

  “Then it would go to the state of Florida, which is where she resided.”

  “So you’re suggesting I should give the state of Florida four hundred thousand dollars in Libby’s memory? So they could, maybe, put a statue of her in front of the state capitol?”

  “No, but I could have a search for heirs or family done. Then, at least, you’d know.”

  “I don’t want to know,” Allison said. “I think that in the circumstances, that’s a ridiculous idea.”

  “If it will help, I’ll add to the circumstances,” he said, handing her a document. “That’s Libby and Paul’s divorce decree. The judge gave her ten years of alimony, and the ten years expired earlier this month.”

  Allison read the paragraph. “So she was bluffing?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “She had no claim to the estate whatever, and she had the gall to come down here and extort four hundred thousand dollars out of me?”

  “She didn’t extort anything; she responded to an offer, an offer I made her, with your permission, because of circumstances she knew nothing about.”

  “So you’re saying she just got lucky; that she happened to be at the right time and at the right place to come into four hundred thousand dollars of my money.”

  “I think that’s accurate. And while you’re at it, you might remember that it was I who advised you to pay her off.”

  “Stone, I understand why you gave me that advice and, in the circumstances, I think it was the right advice. I’m not angry with you, I promise.”

  “I’m glad you understand all that,” Stone replied, “because I think I gave you the right advice, too.”

  “And now you’re advising me to search out Libby’s relatives and give them the money.”

  “I’m not really giving you advice now; I’m just pointing out to you the legal and ethical burdens of your situation.”

  “But if I just forget abou
t Libby and the agreement and the check, and if I tell you, my lawyer, to forget about it, then…”

  “Then you can keep your four hundred thousand dollars, and the ethical requirements of the attorney-client relationship would prevent me from disclosing any of this to Libby’s heirs.”

  “Did you tell anyone else in the world about that agreement?”

  “No. Thomas witnessed it, though.”

  “Did he read it?”

  “No. If someone subpoenaed him and questioned him in court, he could testify that he witnessed a document, but he could not say what it contained.”

  “Then from a legal point of view, my position is airtight, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll put it this way: if someone, a relative, an heir, a lawyer, turned up here or in Greenwich and tried to press a claim against you or the estate, he would have no grounds on which to proceed. No grounds that I’m aware of, anyway.”

  “So I have no legal obligation to Libby’s heirs?”

  “Yes, you do have such an obligation, but it is unknown to anyone outside the attorney-client relationship, and if it were known it would very probably be unenforceable, unless someone had a copy of the agreement. You also have a moral obligation, but whether or not you meet it would depend on the condition of your morals.”

  “So you’re advising me to pay the money to her heirs, if they exist.”

  “As your attorney, I am required to make you aware of your obligations under the agreement that you signed.”

  “But you can’t make me meet those obligations.”

  “No, I can’t. Probably no one can.”

  “The condition of my morals,” she said, thinking about that. “What about the condition of your morals?”

  Stone blinked. “What?”

  “You’ve got a woman back in New York, or in L.A., or wherever the hell she is, and you’re supposed to be in love with her, but you come down to the islands and jump the first widow you lay eyes on, right?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “And you’re a lawyer who’s fucking his client, not that I’m complaining. Is there some canon of legal ethics that covers that?”

  Stone felt his ears getting hot. “Not the first part of your contention,” he said, aware that he was sounding legalistic and officious, but unable to help himself, “but as to the second part, as far as I’m concerned, there is no ethical requirement for me not to fuck you, unless my fucking you would somehow react to the detriment of your legal position.”

  She burst out laughing.

  “I don’t think that’s particularly funny,” he said, knowing how ridiculous he must have sounded.

  “Oh, yes, it is!” she shrieked. “It’s the funniest thing I ever heard in my life.” She began to get herself under control again. “It’s also very sweet,” she said, wiping the tears from her cheeks, “and I love you for it.” She moved closer to him and placed a hand on his face. “I know now, if I didn’t before, that I have the most legally and ethically proper attorney in the world.” She kissed him. “And you just cannot imagine how that turns me on.”

  She continued to kiss him, then she showed him how turned on she was.

  Later, when Allison was asleep, Stone walked back to the Shipwright’s Arms and called Bob Cantor.

  “Hello.”

  “It’s Stone. Thanks for the divorce decree.”

  “No problem.”

  “I’d like to dig up some more information on Elizabeth Allison Manning. It’s probably going to be best to find a reliable PI in Palm Beach and let him spend a day on it.”

  “Okay; what, specifically, do you want to know?”

  “Next of kin, other relatives.”

  “Has Ms. Manning clutched her chest and turned blue?”

  “Worse. Plane crash, this morning.”

  “I see.”

  “Don’t break the news to anybody you find; we’ll let the official channels do that.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Stone hung up, walked back to the marina, undressed, and crawled into bed with Allison, who was glad to see him.

  Chapter

  32

  Stone sat in his rented room over the Shipwright’s Arms, staring at the screen of his computer, trying to write an opening statement for Allison’s trial, even though he knew that Leslie Hewitt intended to open himself. He felt that he had to be ready with something if Leslie should suddenly veer off into one of his lapses. He had nearly finished a draft when there was a knock on the door.

  “Stone,” Thomas’s voice called from the hallway.

  “Come in, Thomas.”

  Thomas opened the door. “There’re two policemen downstairs wanting you; they wouldn’t tell me what it was about, but they took my guest registration forms for the past week.”

  Stone saved his document and shut down the computer. “Let’s see what they want,” he said. He followed Thomas downstairs to the open-air bar where two starched and pressed black officers waited. “I’m Stone Barrington, gentlemen,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  The taller of the two nodded at an elderly Jaguar in the parking lot. “You must come with us, Mr. Barrington,” he said.

  “Where are we going?” Stone asked.

  “In the car, please.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Get in the car,” the man repeated.

  Thomas spoke quietly. “Do it; I’ll find out where they take you.”

  Stone walked toward the car without another word. The shorter officer held the rear door open for him, closed it after him, and got into the driver’s seat; his tall companion sat up front, too. The car pulled out of the lot and headed inland, toward the capital.

  “Where are we going?” Stone asked.

  “Government House,” the tall officer said. “You in a lot of trouble, man.”

  Stone remembered that the jail was in the basement of Government House. “What kind of trouble?”

  “You see pretty quick,” the man said.

  The remainder of the journey passed in silence. Stone wracked his brain for some notion of what they could be arresting him for, but the only motivation he could come up with was that he was representing Allison Manning. Perhaps in St. Marks that was enough.

  Eventually, the car entered the little city and drove to its center, passing the front door of Government House and going to the side, to the jail door. Stone got out of the car and, with an officer on each side of him, walked to the door. The booking desk was dead ahead. He wondered what, if anything, Thomas could do about this.

  “This way,” the tall officer said.

  Stone turned to his left and found the officer holding open a door that led to a flight of stairs. He followed the man up two stories, with the short officer bringing up the rear. They emerged into a long, broad hallway, cooled by a row of ceiling fans and open to the air at each end, a tribute to the British desire to remain cool in hot places. The building seemed deserted. They marched to the opposite end of the hall, through a set of double doors, and into a waiting room.

  “Wait here,” the tall officer said, then went through another door.

  Stone looked around him. It was a large room, furnished with well-worn leather furniture, and on the wall was a large portrait of the prime minister, a benevolent-looking man who, Stone guessed, had been in his mid-seventies when he had sat for the portrait. He wondered how long ago that was.

  The inner door opened, and the tall officer braced just inside. “This way,” he commanded.

  Stone walked into a large office, and the officer stepped outside and closed the door behind him. Stone was quite alone in the room. A huge desk dominated the office; a single visitor’s chair sat before the desk. In a corner were a round conference table and eight chairs, and the walls were decorated with oils and watercolors, island scenes of a high quality. From somewhere came the muffled sound of a flushing toilet, then, a moment later, a door opened and Sir Winston Sutherland emerged, rubbing his hands briskly with a towel. He was dressed in white linen tro
users and a rather loud short-sleeved sport shirt. He discarded the towel and strode toward Stone.

  “Ah, Mr. Barrington,” he said, extending a huge hand. “How good of you to come.”

  Stone shook the hand. “It wasn’t good of me at all,” he said. “I didn’t have a choice.”

  “Oh, I hope the two officers were not officious,” Sir Winston said, sounding genuinely concerned.

  “Am I under arrest?”

  Sir Winston looked shocked. “Of course not, my dear fellow, of course not. This is merely a pretrial meeting between opposing counsel.” He walked to a set of French doors and opened them wide, revealing a large balcony that stretched across the rear of the building. “Please come outside, and let’s have some lunch.”

  Stone followed the big man onto the balcony and found a table set quite elegantly for two. A uniformed waiter stood at a loose parade rest to one side.

  “Let me get you some refreshment,” Sir Winston said, waving a hand at a bar.

  “Nothing for me,” Stone said.

  Sir Winston snapped his fingers, bringing the waiter to stiff attention. “Mr. Barrington and I will have some champagne.” He turned to Stone. “Surely I can tempt you with a glass?”

  “Oh, all right,” Stone said. “Just a glass.”

  Sir Winston indicated a chair at the table, and Stone took it. A moment later, the waiter was pouring Veuve Clicquot into two crystal flutes.

  “Your health,” Stone said, sipping the wine. It was perfectly chilled. He looked out at the vista, which was over the better part of the town, with green hills beyond and the sea shining in the distance. “Lovely,” he said.

  Sir Winston sat down opposite him. “Yes, we are fortunate on our island,” he said. “God has given us great beauty on all sides.”

  Perhaps not on the side of town harboring the slums, Stone thought. “Oh, yes,” he said. The champagne was absolutely perfect.

  “Bad crash—Chester’s airplane,” Stone said.

  “Yes, a terrible thing,” Sir Winston said, not sounding too sad. “I suppose we’ll have to find someone else to start a ferry service to Antigua.”

  “I suppose,” Stone said. “Have the police found any reason for the crash?”