by Stuart Woods
Stone led Hattie into the study, where they sat down on a sofa.
“I’m awfully sorry, Mr. Barrington,” she said.
“Thank you, Hattie. I’m all right. How do you think Peter is holding up?”
“A lot better than I would be,” she said.
Hattie’s parents came into the room and expressed their condolences.
“Is there anything we can do?” Sean Patrick asked.
“I don’t think so,” Stone said. “The sheriff will want to talk with you, I’m sure. I expect you’ll want to go back to New York this afternoon, and Mike will have room on his airplane for you.”
“I want to stay with Peter,” Hattie said.
“We’d be glad to have you, Hattie,” Stone replied, “but that’s up to your folks.”
They looked at each other and nodded. “You can stay on for the rest of the week, Hattie,” her father said. “We’ll arrange for you to get back.”
“Please let me deal with that,” Stone said. “I’ll need a day or two to handle matters here, then I’ll let you know when we can get Hattie home.”
The Eggerses and Mike Freeman came in, expressed their sorrow, and everyone sat quietly. Shortly, Peter came in.
“Hattie, the sheriff wants to talk with you now,” he said.
Hattie returned to the living room.
Two hours later the sheriff and his people had completed their work, and Arrington’s body was being wheeled to the ambulance.
“I’ve sent people to find Dr. Rutledge,” the sheriff said to Stone, “but so far, they haven’t been able to locate him. He’s not at home, and his car isn’t there, either. You were right, he drives a Ford station wagon. Is that what you saw driving away?”
“It could have been a Ford,” Stone said. “I couldn’t swear to it.”
“Mr. Barrington, I haven’t asked you this yet, but I need to now. How was your relationship with your wife?”
“We were newlyweds,” Stone said, “married on Christmas Day. We hadn’t even had an argument.”
“I understand. I’m aware that your wife was a wealthy woman. Can you tell me about her will?”
“I haven’t read it,” Stone said, “but Mr. Eggers over there wrote it, and he has my permission to tell you whatever you want to know.” He beckoned to Eggers and asked him to speak to the sheriff. Fifteen minutes later the house was empty of law enforcement, and two maids were cleaning the hall floor where Arrington had fallen.
Somes came into the study, where everyone had gathered. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “we’ve prepared soup and sandwiches for everyone, and the table is set in the kitchen.”
Stone saw the others to the table, then, unable to eat anything, went upstairs. He lay on the bed for an hour, trying to empty his mind of everything, which turned out to be impossible. Finally, he took a deep breath, got up, and went downstairs.
Everyone had gathered, and Arrington’s pilots had come to drive them to the airport.
“I’m staying,” Dino said. “I’ll deal with the local law for you.”
His son came over. “I’d like to stay, too, Dad.”
“Ben, I think it’s best if you get back to school,” Dino said. “If there’s a service later, you can come back for that.”
“Thanks, Dino,” Stone said.
When he saw his guests out, Kelli Keane was still on the porch, shivering. “My car is in a ditch,” she said.
“We saw it on the way in,” one of the pilots said. “We’ll get it out for you.”
Everyone made their good-byes and got into the van. They had just driven away when another car pulled up to the house, and a priest got out and introduced himself.
“I’m Dr. Alfred Means,” he said, offering Stone his hand.
Stone took him into the house, allowed him to offer a prayer, then they made tentative arrangements for Arrington’s burial in the family plot, after the release of her body by the medical examiner.
The priest gave Stone the name of the local funeral parlor.
“I’ll deal with them,” Dino said.
“Thank you, Dino,” Stone replied. “Peter and I are grateful to you.”
That evening they gathered in the kitchen for dinner, and everyone seemed to have recovered a bit. Even Stone was able to eat and have a glass of wine.
“I guess we have some things to do this week,” Peter said.
“Yes, we do,” Stone replied. “Eventually, we’ll need to decide about what to do about the house.”
Peter nodded. “I guess we do.”
Kelli Keane returned to the inn, wrote a story, attached some photos to the file, and e-mailed it to the Post ’s weekend editor. She had decided to approach Vanity Fair with the story, but she wanted to get back to New York first. She and David got an evening flight back to the city.
Stone called Joan and explained things to her. “We’ll have some sort of service later this week,” he said to her, “so just wipe my calendar clean until at least the week after. You can reach me on my cell here.”
“Don’t you worry,” she said. “Nothing will happen here that I can’t handle.”
“Call me every day,” Stone said. “I’ll want to hear your voice.”
Stone fell into bed, exhausted, and sleep came more quickly than he would have imagined possible.
53
O n Thursday afternoon a funeral service was held for Arrington at her family church. Nearly all those who had been at the housewarming turned up, suitably dressed and bereaved, and Ben arrived from school. Peter read the text, the priest did his ecclesiastical duty, and Stone spoke of her love of her son, her husband, and of Virginia. The pallbearers, including Stone, Peter, Dino, and Ben, carried the mahogany coffin out the side door of the building, into the churchyard, where a grave site had been prepared in the Carter family lot. Arrington’s remains were interred next to those of her parents. The attendees offered their condolences to her family and everyone went home. Stone handed the priest an envelope containing two checks: an honorarium for himself and a generous donation to the general fund of the church, then he drove everybody back to the house. It had begun to rain.
They ran up the front steps as the rain became a torrent. “I think we’ll wait until tomorrow morning to return to New York,” Stone said to them. “This weather will have moved through by then. Hattie, you can phone your folks and tell them you’ll be home around midday tomorrow. They won’t have to meet you; we’ll drop you at your home.”
“Thank you, Mr. Barrington.”
“Hattie, I think we’re good enough friends for you to call me Stone.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said.
“And no need for the sir,” he said, kissing her on the forehead.
Hattie went to phone her parents.
“Peter,” Stone said, taking out his notebook, “take a walk around the house with me.” The two of them went upstairs and started with Peter’s bedroom, making a list of what furniture and possessions he wanted to send to New York. They then looked over the whole house, Stone listing things-a mirror here, a chair there-that might work in his New York, Connecticut, or Maine houses.
“Who did Mom leave this house to?” Peter asked.
“I don’t know, Peter,” Stone replied. “I haven’t read her will yet. We’ll get together soon with Bill Eggers and go over everything.”
“I don’t want this house or the property,” Peter said. “I’ll always think of it as the place Mom died.”
“I understand. We’ll look into selling.”
The five of them dined at a table in the study, then went to bed.
The following morning Somes drove everyone to the airport and loaded their luggage into the airplane.
“What are you going to do with the Gulfstream?” Peter asked.
“I don’t have any idea yet,” Stone replied, “but I think it’s more airplane than we need, since we already have the Mustang.”
Peter nodded. “I think you’re right.” He walked Hat
tie into the hangar and showed her the interior of the larger aircraft.
Stone preflighted the airplane and got a clearance, then they took off into clear blue skies. They touched down at Teterboro at eleven, and Stone drove Hattie and the Bacchettis home.
“Do you want to have dinner tonight?” Peter asked.
“I think I’d better eat with my parents tonight,” Hattie said. “How about tomorrow night?”
“Sure.” He gave her a kiss and got back into the car.
“Hattie’s quite a girl,” Stone said. “You’re lucky to know her.”
Peter managed a smile, something he had not done often since his mother’s death. “I know that,” he said, “believe me.”
An hour later Stone was at his desk.
Joan came in and gave him a big hug. “I’m so sorry,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“I know we’re going to have a lot of work to do, settling the estate, and I’ll do everything I can to help.” The phone rang, and she answered it. “Bill Eggers for you.”
Stone took the phone. “Hello, Bill.”
“How did things go in Virginia?” Eggers asked.
Stone told him about the service.
“Can you lunch with me tomorrow in my office?” Eggers asked.
“Of course.”
“I think we should go over Arrington’s will and the estate.”
“I’ll bring Peter,” Stone said. “I want him to hear all this from you, not me.”
“I’m glad to have him.” They agreed to a time and hung up.
Stone spent the rest of the day returning phone calls, catching up on paperwork with Allison, and replying to letters of condolence, including one from Herbie Fisher that was more legibly handwritten than Stone would have expected. “How’s it going with Herbie?” he asked Allison.
“We’re seeing a lot of each other,” she said.
“Why don’t you take over his legal work?”
“If he has no objection,” she said.
“I don’t think he’ll have any objection,” Stone replied. “Don’t fill out a Woodman amp; Weld timesheet for that; Herbie is a special case. Give Joan your hours, and she’ll handle it.”
Stone made omelets for dinner for himself and Peter, and they went to bed early.
The following morning they met with a cabinetmaker to look at the plans Peter had drawn for his study, then they walked up to the Seagram Building to see Bill Eggers in his office, where a table had been prepared for them before the fireplace.
They finished lunch, then Stone took Arrington’s will from his briefcase and handed it to Eggers. “Here’s the original,” he said. “Peter, your mother met with Bill to draw up her will, then I sealed it and put it in my safe.”
“That’s true, Peter,” Eggers said. “Stone didn’t want to have knowledge of her estate planning, and he asked for nothing.”
“I understand,” Peter said solemnly.
Eggers broke the seal on the envelope and opened it. “Most of it is boilerplate,” he said. “Peter, that’s just necessary legalese. Your mother left substantial sums to a dozen charities, coming to about twenty million dollars, but the heart of the will is what she bequeathed to you and your father.”
Peter nodded.
“Stone, she left you approximately half of her liquid assets and the Bel-Air property. That’s it. Peter, she left you the remainder of her estate-a little more than half of the total, including the Virginia property and horse farm and all the Centurion Studios stock.”
“Wow,” Peter said softly.
“Because of your youth, all this was left to you in trust. Do you understand what a trust is?”
“I think so,” Peter replied. “It means that someone will be in charge until I reach a predetermined age, and I won’t be able to draw money from the trust or sell any property unless the trustees agree.”
“That’s correct,” Eggers said. “Your mother felt strongly that you should not have unrestricted access to your inheritance until you are thirty-five years old, perhaps earlier, if the trustee agrees.”
Peter nodded.
“Stone is the trustee, and should anything happen to him, I am his alternate. If something happens to me first, Stone will appoint my replacement.”
“I understand. That’s fine with me,” Peter said. “One thing, I’ve already told my dad I don’t want the Virginia property or the horse farm. I don’t have any interest in the horse business, and hardly any connection with the house.”
“I think we’ll put it on the market,” Stone said. “ Architectural Digest will be running a feature on the place soon, and that might spark some interest.”
“Let’s not list it with a broker just yet,” Eggers said. “Properties of this size often create interest among qualified buyers before they’re listed, and if we can sell it directly, you wouldn’t be paying a huge commission to a realtor.”
Both Stone and Peter nodded agreement.
“There are some other things you should know,” Eggers said, “and there’s some good news. First of all, Arrington divided her liquid holdings into two accounts, roughly equal. She left the more conservatively invested account to you, Peter, and the more growthrelated account to you, Stone, so there won’t be any need to have to divide the assets.”
“What’s the good news?” Peter asked.
“First of all, you should know that the total value of Arrington’s estate, as of this morning, is approximately two point six billion dollars. Stone, your share, including the investments and the Bel-Air property, comes to about eight hundred million dollars. It was Arrington’s wish that you bequeath Peter your wealth inherited from her upon your death. Peter, if you should precede Stone in death, your trust will revert to him. Your trust from your mother will amount to approximately one point eight billion dollars.”
Peter’s eyes widened. “Then I’m a billionaire?”
“Not until you’re thirty-five,” Eggers said, smiling.
Stone spoke up. “Let me tell you how we’re going to handle this, Peter. We’re going to manage your trust through the existing banking and investment programs, because they’re doing very well, and we’re not going to touch the principal of the trust until it’s turned over to you, or until there is some other very good, unanticipated reason. All of your needs will be met from my personal funds. When I die, I will bequeath you the remainder of my inheritance from Arrington.”
Peter seemed to be speechless.
“Do you understand?”
Peter nodded. “Yes, I do. Thank you, Dad.”
“Now, you have to do something hard, Peter,” Stone said.
“What’s that, Dad?”
“You have to forget that you’re going to be a billionaire and just live your life like an ordinary person. That won’t be as easy as you might think, but you should start by not telling anyone-and that includes Hattie and Ben-anything about your inheritance. You can just say that you have a trust, and that it won’t be available to you until you’re thirty-five. If people think of you as a billionaire, you’ll find that they-even your very best friends-will have their perceptions of you altered by their knowledge of your wealth. I’m sure you want your friends to like you for who you are, and not what you have.”
“I see,” Peter said, “and I think you’re right.”
“Also, if anyone, such as your school or a charity, should ask you to donate money to them, tell them to call me, that you have no access to substantial funds.”
“All right, I will.”
“Any questions?” Eggers asked.
Both Stone and Peter shook their heads.
“Now the good news,” Eggers said. “Due to an anomaly in the national budget created by the Bush tax cuts ten years ago, a folly of our Republican friends, there are no federal inheritance taxes on the estate of anyone who dies in this calendar year.”
“You mean there’s nothing to be paid?” Stone asked.
“No, not a cent.”
“Wow,” Stone and Peter said simultaneously.
54
S tone was back at his desk when Joan brought him the New
York Post.
“You should see this,” she said, opening the paper.
Stone looked at it. The headline read: VANCE CALDER WIDOW SLAIN IN VIRGINIA SHOOTING. There was only one photograph, a shot of the house down the driveway. He made a little groaning sound, then read the piece, which was bylined Kelli Keane and said that the police were looking for a person of interest. When he finished it he closed the paper and handed it back to Joan.
“Well, that was more restrained than I would have expected from the Post,” he said. “This Keane woman came down to Virginia as the assistant to the art director from Architectural Digest.”
“I thought so, too,” she said. She handed him the Times, open to the page. “They’re even more restrained, and Arrington’s obituary is fairly brief.”
Stone read the two pieces. One line in the obit said, “She is survived by her second husband, Stone Barrington, and a son, Peter, 18, both of New York.” The implication was that Peter was Stone’s son.
“It will be on the AP wire, of course,” Joan said, “but they will pick up the Post piece.” The phone rang, and she picked it up. “It’s the sheriff, in Virginia,” she said, handing him the phone.
It suddenly occurred to Stone that he had not given a thought to Tim Rutledge since speaking to the sheriff at the house. “Good morning, Sheriff,” he said.
“Good morning, Mr. Barrington,” the sheriff replied. “I just want to give you an update on Tim Rutledge. He left town the day of the shooting and left a note for his department head, saying that he was moving to California to take up a teaching appointment there.”
“So, he’s on the run?”
“He is. We’ve sent out a nationwide alert to police agencies. We don’t think there is a teaching appointment in California, and he could be anywhere. He cleaned out his bank accounts last Friday, so that would indicate premeditation.”
“I see.”
