by Stuart Woods
“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 came 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
Stone 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.
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
On 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 Hattie 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 tom
orrow 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 & 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.”
