by Stuart Woods
“You get bequeathed a lot of things, don’t you? Houses, paintings, airplanes.”
“I do. I’m fortunate in my family and friends.”
“Do you want me to tell you about my will?”
“No, I’d rather know nothing, thank you.”
“Not everything is in it. I’d better tell you a few other things. I’d been meaning to write a letter, and I may yet, but mostly it’s about how you would deal with Peter in my absence, should that ever occur.”
“I am statistically likely to precede you into the Promised Land, but go ahead.”
“I’m concerned that Peter might have too much, too soon, and I like your idea of keeping things in trust until he’s thirty-five, so I put that in there. You have the authority, however, to deal with that as you wish, up until he’s thirty-five.”
“Thank you. I’ll try to keep a tight rein on things.”
“I don’t think that will be hard, since he never seems to think about money, unless it’s in connection with his filming budget. I just don’t want a truckload of cash dumped on him before he knows something about handling it.”
“I understand, and I entirely agree.”
They were quiet for a moment.
“Is that it?” Stone asked.
“I’m thinking,” she said. “Give me a minute.”
“All right.”
“Give my jewelry, in reasonable amounts, to Peter’s wife, when he marries. Funny, but I’ve been thinking about Hattie as Peter’s future wife, which is silly, I suppose.”
“We can wish for that,” Stone said. “They seem very well suited to each other.”
“But they’re so young!”
“And getting older every day,” Stone said. “He says she’s smarter than he is.”
“No!” Arrington said. “I’ve never heard him say that about anybody !”
“He’s probably never met anybody who’s that smart,” Stone pointed out.
“There is that,” Arrington admitted. “He’s spent his whole life stunning me, on an almost daily basis, with his precocity.”
“I’m beginning to get used to that,” Stone said.
“Really? I never have.”
“I still have difficulty thinking of him as a child.”
“Well, he is. You’ll see that in him, eventually. It comes out at the damnedest times.”
“He’s going to be gone before I get to know him fully,” Stone said. “I want to spend some time with him in Maine this summer, teach him to sail. He already wants to learn to fly.”
“Fly? He doesn’t even drive yet!”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to let him even take lessons until he’s at least eighteen. Once he starts at Yale, he’ll be too wrapped up in work to even think about it.”
“I hope you’re right, though I think he has traits that will make him a good pilot. He’s organized and detail-oriented, and, of course, he learns with blinding speed.”
“We’ve had only one flight in my Mustang, coming down here, and he seems already to have grasped the avionics pretty well.”
“That’s the sort of thing he does.” She yawned. “I’m sleepy,” she said.
“Then go to sleep.”
“No making love?”
“We’ll save it until the morning.”
“All right.”
“I have a date to go riding with Peter and Hattie at eight. Do you want to come?” he asked.
“No, I’m going to sleep until lunchtime. That’ll give the staff time to make the house pristine again. I don’t want to see it until then.” She yawned again, then her breathing became regular.
Stone was not far behind. He dreamed about Peter and Hattie and, maybe, a grandchild. Then there was something unpleasant, something shocking, but when he jerked awake he couldn’t remember what it was. It took him an unusually long time to get back to sleep, and when he awoke the following morning he was tired, as if he hadn’t slept at all.
50
S tone showered, dressed, and went downstairs to the kitchen, where he sat, alone, at the long table and waited for his breakfast to be cooked. Then Peter and Hattie joined him and placed their orders.
“Beautiful day outside,” Stone said.
“Great day for riding,” Peter replied.
Hattie was quiet.
“Did you sleep well, Hattie?”
“All right, I guess.”
“Ready to greet the new day on horseback?”
“Sure.”
“Did you two have a good time at the party?” Stone asked.
“Oh, yes,” Peter said. “But I knew hardly any of those people.”
“Don’t worry, you won’t have to spend any time with them. I think your mother had the housewarming just so that they wouldn’t be angling for invitations to see the house.”
“Get it all over at once, huh?” Peter said.
“Right.”
“Hattie, did you meet anyone you liked?”
“Not really,” Hattie replied, “but I met someone I didn’t like.”
“And who might that have been?”
“That architect fellow.”
“Ah, yes. I don’t think you’ll be seeing him again.”
“Why? Did someone shoot him?”
“Not yet,” Stone replied.
Peter laughed. “Mom didn’t seem to be very happy to see him.”
“Had you met him before?” Stone asked.
“Just once. He came over when I was home from school last Easter to talk to Mom about how the house was going. I didn’t like him then, either.”
They finished breakfast and left by the rear door to walk over to the stable. A groom had their horses saddled, and they mounted and walked down the trail through the woods, warming up the horses in the chill air before leaving the woods and cantering across the fields.
Kelli Keane got out of bed and tiptoed, naked, into the bathroom and drew a hot tub for herself. David was out like a light, exhausted from the naughty workout she had given him at bedtime. She put her iPhone on the edge of the tub and eased into the hot water, then she turned on the phone and looked up the photographs she had taken at the party. These were too good for the Post, she thought; they’d never run more than one or two. Maybe she should query Vanity Fair for a piece. It couldn’t run until after the Architectural Digest spread had run, so there wouldn’t be any conflict with what David was doing. She needed something, though-a hook to hang the story on. The house wasn’t enough, “Widow of Vance Calder” wasn’t enough. Pity there hadn’t been a fistfight among the prominent guests, something like that.
The three of them rode for nearly two hours, then pulled up under a tree and got down. Peter opened the picnic basket the kitchen had made for them and they had hot chocolate and cookies.
Stone thought about asking Hattie to come up to Maine for the summer but stopped himself. He should let Peter issue that invitation.
They remounted and started back toward the house, taking their time. From a hilltop they could see the horses from the racing stable being worked on the track. They walked their mounts for the half mile, cooling them before they would be given water, then turned them over to the groom and started for the house. From that direction came a muffled bang.
“What was that?” Peter asked.
“Sounded like one of those heavy mahogany doors being slammed,” Stone replied.
“Somebody must be mad about something,” Peter said. The trash from the party was being removed by the back door, so they walked around the house toward the front door. They heard a car start and drive away, apparently in a hurry, but it was gone by the time they reached the front porch. Stone turned and looked down the drive between the oaks and saw some sort of station wagon turn onto the main road and disappear.
They entered by the front door, and Stone stopped in his tracks. On the floor of the main hall, a dozen feet from the front door, lay a beautifully engraved shotgun, a Purdy, Stone thought. Probably worth a hundred thousand do
llars. He turned to his left and looked into the study. The glass front of the gun cabinet had been shattered.
“What’s going on?” Peter asked from the front door.
“Peter, listen to me,” Stone said. “Take Hattie, go into the living room, and wait there.”
“What for?” Peter asked.
“Just do it.” Stone had a terrible feeling, and he didn’t want the couple there. He watched them go into the living room before he continued down the hall.
A huge flower arrangement on a table in the center of the hall blocked the view toward the rear of the house, and when Stone started around the table he saw a white pile of some sort of fabric farther down the hall. It looked like a pile of tablecloths, he thought.
Then, as he continued toward it, the shape became clear: it was a woman in white. Alarmed, he began to walk faster. Then he saw a blob of red on the clothes. Then he saw Arrington’s face, turned toward him.
He ran and knelt beside her. Her eyes were open and he saw her blink, then she seemed to focus on him. She tried to speak but couldn’t.
“Don’t,” he said, his face close to hers. “Just breathe. I’ll get some help.” He felt for his phone on his belt, but realized he hadn’t brought it with him. “I’m going to telephone,” he said, and she managed to nod. Her chest was a mass of blood and tissue.
He ran to the rear of the hall where a phone was on a table and dialed 911.
“Nine-one-one,” an operator said. “What is your emergency?”
“There’s been a shooting,” Stone said. “A woman is critically wounded. I need an ambulance and the police immediately.” He gave her the address. The operator began to ask questions, but he hung up and ran back to Arrington, lifting her head and shoulders, in the hope that it would help her breathe better.
He held her head up. “Just breathe. Help is on the way.” Her mouth formed a word, but no sound came out.
“Peter!” Stone called. “Come here, quickly. Hattie, you stay where you are.”
Peter ran into the hall, saw his mother lying on the floor, and froze.
Stone beckoned for him to approach and kneel beside him.
Peter stared at his mother, speechless.
Arrington’s lips moved again, and it was not difficult to read her lips. “I love you both,” she was saying, then her pupils dilated.
“Mom!” Peter said.
Stone felt at her neck for a pulse but found nothing. He lowered Arrington gently to the floor, then put his arm around his son. “She’s gone,” he said softly.
Peter hugged his father, and they both wept.
51
K elli Keane was beginning to tire of the tub as the water cooled. Then she heard sirens approaching. She stood and wrapped herself in a towel for warmth, then looked out the high window over the tub.
From her left she saw two police cars and an ambulance burning up the dusty road past the inn. She could see them make a right turn at the next intersection. The Barrington house was down that road.
She hurried out of the bathroom and got into a sweater, some slacks, and her boots, then grabbed her coat and her handbag. She ran back to the bathroom for her iPhone, then, as she passed through the bedroom, David lifted his head.
“What’s going on with the sirens?” he asked.
“Trouble at the Barrington place,” she said, grabbing the rental car keys from the dresser. “I’m going up there.”
“Wait for me,” he was saying, but she was already gone.
Kelli jumped into the car and got it started, then raced out of the parking lot, spraying gravel. She made the turn at the intersection and put her foot to the floor. Up ahead, she saw the last of the three vehicles disappear into the Barrington driveway. She slammed on the brakes and turned sideways on the gravel road, but slid past the driveway, and a rear wheel ended up in a ditch. She got out and looked: no way to drive it out. She started running up the driveway.
By the time anyone arrived, Stone had got Peter into the living room and onto a sofa with Hattie, then had gone back to the hall and asked a woman in the kitchen for a tablecloth. He went back to the hall and gently spread the cloth over Arrington’s body, then he went to the front door to wait. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he was determined to be calm. How many homicides had he attended during the ten years when that had been his career?
He saw the sheriff’s cars pull up in front of the house and two young men got out. The ambulance was right behind them. He opened the door and let the deputies in.
“You called nine-one-one about a shooting?” a young deputy asked.
“Yes. The body is at the other end of the hall. Do you have a crime-scene unit at your disposal?”
“Yessir, the county has one.”
“Please call them immediately.”
The deputy ignored the request, walked to the shotgun, and picked it up.
“Put that down!” Stone commanded. “Don’t you know this is a crime scene?”
The young man flushed and put the shotgun back where he had found it. “Jake, call the sheriff,” he said to his companion, then started down the hall.
The second deputy pressed a speed dial button on his phone and put it to his ear. “Hello, Sheriff? This is Jake. I-”
Stone took the phone from his hand. “Sheriff, this is Stone Barrington speaking. My wife has been murdered in her home.” He gave the man the address. “We need a crime-scene unit here at once. One of your men has already picked up a shotgun lying on the floor, so he’ll have to be fingerprinted. You’d better come, too.”
“Is there a suspect?” the sheriff asked.
“Yes, a man named Tim Rutledge.”
“The Dr. Rutledge who’s a professor at UVA?”
“The same. You should question him at the earliest opportunity. Oh, and find out if he drives a station wagon.” He handed the phone back to the deputy.
“Yes, sir, that’s pretty much the situation. No, I’m just going to look at the body now.” He listened for a moment. “Yes, sir.” He hung up the phone. “Milt, the sheriff says to stay away from the body and don’t contaminate the crime scene.”
Milt, who had already pulled back the tablecloth, put it back and walked back to the front door. “Okay,” he said. “What happened here?”
Stone sat down in a hall chair. “Let’s wait for the sheriff,” he said. “I don’t want to have to go through this twice.”
Dino appeared on the upstairs landing, still buttoning his shirt. “What’s happened?” he called to Stone. Mike Freeman and the Eggerses were right behind him, in various stages of dress.
“Dino, you come down here,” he said. “Will the rest of you please wait upstairs until somebody comes to get you? Thanks.”
Dino walked down the stairs, looking at the covered body, and came over to Stone. “Who is it?”
“Arrington. Shotgun.” He nodded toward the weapon, then shook his head.
Dino put a hand on his shoulder. “Who?”
“Had to be Rutledge, the architect.”
“Who are you?” the deputy Milt asked.
“This is Detective Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti of the New York City police department,” Stone said. “Dino, deputies Milt and Jake.”
Dino shook hands with the two young men, then pulled up a chair and sat next to Stone. “I’m so sorry, pal,” he said. “I wish I could tell you how sorry.”
Stone nodded, then took some deep breaths.
Kelli reached the front steps, then ran up them and peered through a window next to the door. She could see a shotgun on the floor, and she thought she knew what that meant, and she could see, farther down the hall, a pair of feet protruding from under a white cloth. The toenails had been painted.
She dug into her bag and found her New York City press pass and hung the cord around her neck, then she got out her iPhone and took a photograph of the corpse’s feet through the window, using the zoom to its fullest.
The sheriff’s car pulled up, and he got out and ca
me up the steps. A young woman with a plastic card dangling from her neck ran over to him.
“Sheriff, I’m a reporter,” she said, holding up the card, which had her photograph on it. “May I come inside? I’ll stay out of your way.”
The front door opened, and Stone Barrington came out and introduced himself to the sheriff. She snapped a shot of them shaking hands.
“Mr. Barrington, this young lady says she’s a reporter and wants to come inside. Do you want her inside?”
Stone looked at the young woman and recognized her from the party. “Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m Kelli Keane from the Post. We’ve talked on the phone.”
“No,” Stone said to the sheriff, “I don’t want her inside.” He opened the door for the sheriff, then closed it behind them, leaving Kelli on the porch.
Kelli went back to the window by the door, switched off the phone’s flash, and took as many shots as she could. Then she moved to the next window and saw the two young people sitting on a sofa together and took some shots of them.
52
S tone sat down in the hallway and began to talk to the sheriff. They were interrupted when the crime-scene team arrived and took their instructions from the sheriff, who then returned to Stone’s side.
“I’m sorry about all this,” he said to Stone, waving his hand at all the people in the hall.
“I’m a retired homicide detective,” Stone replied. “I know what you have to do.” He introduced Dino.
The sheriff listened as Stone related the facts of his morning, carefully and fully. “That’s it,” he said finally, “right up to this moment.”
“I’d like to talk with your son and his friend,” the sheriff said.
“Come with me.” Stone led him into the living room. “Peter, Hattie, this is the sheriff. He needs to ask you some questions.”
“Separately,” the sheriff said.
“Hattie, you come with me,” Stone replied. “Peter, can you answer his questions now?”
“Yes, Dad,” Peter said.
