by Stuart Woods
“Sure.” Stone shook Dino’s hand. “Let me know what’s happening, and give Elaine a kiss for me.”
A moment later, they were driving away, and Stone went back into the house. It seemed suddenly very empty.
Mabel came into the room. “Stone, what should I do about all the clothes upstairs?”
Stone thought about it for a moment. “Take anything that you and Seth want, then pack it all up and give it to some local charity.”
“The church has a clothing drive every summer,” she said.
“That’s perfect.” Stone called Joan and told her to expect Dino. As he was hanging up, the doorbell rang. He opened it to find Caleb Stone standing on the doorstep.
“Come in, Caleb,” Stone said, offering his hand.
“Can I talk with you for a minute?” Caleb asked.
“Sure, come on into Dick’s study. You want a drink?”
I wouldn’t mind a Scotch.“
Stone poured the drink, and they sat down in the big wing chairs before the fireplace. Stone waited for Caleb to speak.
“I owe you an apology,” Caleb said.
“What for?”
“First of all, for the way I behaved that summer when you were up here.”
“That was a long time ago.” It may have been a long time ago, he reflected, but every time he saw Caleb he felt a flash of anxiety and anger at the way Caleb had treated Dick and him that summer.
“It’s been on my mind. Also, for the way I behaved when you told me about Dick’s will.”
“I know it came from out of the blue,” Stone said. “You had a right to be upset. Caleb, I wish I had some leeway in disbursing the estate, but I just don’t. As I’m sure you’ve noted, Dick’s will was so explicit as not to allow any interpretation.”
“I understand that,” Caleb said, “and I’ll just have to learn to live with it. How did the inquest go? I couldn’t bring myself to be there.”
“You’ve another shock in store, I’m afraid. There’s little doubt in my mind that Dick, Barbara and Esme were all murdered by some unknown person. Dick didn’t kill his family or himself.”
Caleb looked stunned. He took a deep swig from his drink. “Well, that’s both a shock and a relief. I couldn’t imagine that Dick had done that, but I can’t imagine that there’s anyone who’d want them dead, either.”
Stone opened the safe, took out the inquest papers and took Caleb through the procedure, showing him the photographs.
“I see your point,” Caleb said.
“I intend to pursue this,” Stone said. “You’re probably not aware that I spent fourteen years in the New York Police Department, eleven of them as a detective investigating homicides. Dino Bacchetti, who just left, was my partner. He and I agree that this wasn’t a murder/suicide, and the coroner has issued an open verdict.”
“I knew you were a cop, but that was all I knew. I’m glad you’ve got the experience to look into this. I want Dick’s killer caught and punished.”
“I’m going to need your help,” Stone said. “Can you think of anyone, on the island or off, who had any sort of grudge against Dick?”
Caleb looked thoughtful but shook his head. “I can’t. Dick wasn’t the sort of fellow that people had grudges against.”
“That’s my memory of him, too. I’d like you to think about this, and if you come up with anything at all, please call me. I’ll be here for a while, and this is my number in New York, when I go back.” Stone handed him a card.
“I’ll certainly do that,” Caleb said.
“There’s something else, Caleb, and I’m glad to say this is good news.” Stone took the insurance policies from the safe and handed them to him. “Dick took out these policies twelve years ago, leaving a million dollars each to his parents and to you.”
Caleb’s mouth dropped open. “Good God,” he finally managed to say.
“Your parents are dead, aren’t they?”
Caleb nodded. “Both of them.”
“Were you and Dick their heirs?”
“Yes, their only heirs.”
“Then half of their policy will go to you, the other half to the foundation.”
“A million and a half dollars,” Caleb said tonelessly.
Stone took the policies back. “I’ll get in touch with the insurance agent and make the claim, and I’ll have the insurance company send you both checks. You’re well equipped to handle the estate and tax consequences.”
“Yes, I can do that.” Caleb stood up. “Thank you, Stone, for telling me about this.”
“I would have told you sooner, but I found the policies only a few minutes ago.” Stone walked him to the front door. “One more thing: As you’re aware, Dick specified that his ashes be scattered in the harbor here; do you want me to take care of that?”
“I’d like to do it myself,” Caleb said. “It’s the last thing I can do for him.”
“I’ve made arrangements with a funeral parlor in Belfast. I’ll call you when I receive the ashes.”
“Thank you.” Caleb dug into a pocket. “Oh, I expect you’ll want my key to this house. Dick gave it to me when he built it, in case of an emergency, but you’ve got Seth and Mabel Hotchkiss here to deal with any problems.”
Stone took the key. “Thank you, Caleb.” They shook hands, and Stone went back into the house. He looked at the key. There was a tag attached to it, and written on the tag was “Dick’s House, all doors.”
Chapter 9
STONE HAD DINNER alone that evening, watched a movie on satellite television and got to bed late. It was after nine when he woke up the following morning.
He was having breakfast when Seth came into the kitchen. “I thought I might take a drive around the island this morning,” Stone said. “You need the station wagon?”
“I’ve got to go over to Camden to pick up some parts for the washing machine,” Seth said, “but Dick’s other car is in the garage, ready to go. The key is in the bunch I gave you.”
“Thanks,” Stone said, pushing back from the table. He got his sunglasses, walked out of the house and opened the garage door. “Wow,” he said, walking up to the little car. A moment’s inspection revealed it to be an MG TF 1500, the last of the classic series, built in 1954. It was silver, with a red leather interior, beautifully restored. Apparently, Dick Stone had not liked newer cars.
Stone got into the car, switched on the ignition, pressed the starter button, and the engine caught. He let it warm up for a moment, then found reverse and backed out of the garage. A moment later he was wending his way down the road toward Dark Harbor, the wind in his hair and a song in his heart.
He stopped in front of the Dark Harbor Shop, went inside and bought a New York Times. The owner, who also was a real estate agent, was working at his desk in the back of the shop and gave him a wave. The young girl working behind the old-fashioned soda fountain smiled at him as he left.
Stone took the little car north until he ran out of road, then turned around and went back by a different route, passing the ferry terminal and the golf course. Soon he was back in the village and on the way home. You could see all of Islesboro in under an hour.
As he approached the house he saw another dirt road forking to the left and, just for the hell of it, turned down it. It immediately began to narrow, but there was no place to turn around, so he continued. After a hundred yards he drove through an open gate, then another fifty yards down the road came to an abrupt halt. A large tree trunk, trimmed of its branches, was stretched across the road.
Stone looked around. He was going to have to reverse for a hundred and fifty yards. He had begun to do so, when the gate behind him swung shut. Now he was trapped on the narrow road between the gate and the fallen tree trunk.
He got out of the car and looked around. He was surrounded by thick woods and underbrush, with nobody and no house in sight. He was about to walk to the gate and try to open it when he saw a tiny red flash, and then he looked down at his chest to find a pinpoint of red light dancing a
round it. Laser gunsight. He hit the ground and crawled behind the car.
“Stand up and keep your hands where I can see you!” a deep voice shouted.
“Are you going to shoot me?” Stone called back.
“Maybe. We’ll see. Now get up.”
Stone sat up and looked over the car. On the other side stood a large, bearlike man somewhere in his sixties, Stone reckoned, with a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair, a large moustache and round, steel-rimmed glasses. He was holding a Sigarms P220 pistol, and the laser sight was still on him.
“I said, ”Stand up,“” the man said.
Stone stood up.
“Now walk to the front of the car and put your hands on the grille.”
Stone did so, and the man walked over and frisked him from his neck to his ankles in a thoroughly professional manner.
The man backed away. “Now stand up straight, turn around and stand still.”
Stone did so.
“Why are you driving Dick Stone’s car?” the man demanded.
“Can I show you some I.D.?”
“Do it carefully.”
Stone produced a wallet with his badge and I.D.
The man snatched it away from him and read it carefully, keeping his aim with the gun. “Your first name is Stone?”
“Dick was my first cousin.”
“And you’re a retired cop?”
“Yes, and you seem to be, too.”
“Not exactly.”
“I’m Dick’s executor. I’m up here to settle his estate.”
The man lowered the gun but didn’t put it away. “Okay,” he said. “You ought to be more careful whose driveway you drive down.”
“I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know it was a driveway; there was no sign or mailbox. I was just exploring.”
The man put the gun in his belt and held out a hand. “I’m Ed Rawls,” he said. He took a remote control from his pocket and pressed a button. The log ahead of Stone swung slowly out of his way. “Explore your way down to the end of the drive, and I’ll buy you a cup of coffee,” he said, then he turned and disappeared into the trees.
The gate behind him was still closed, so Stone got into the car and drove another fifty yards before the drive ended at a sharp turn into a clearing. Stone noticed a large convex mirror mounted on a tree at the turn. Ed Rawls was a very careful man.
He got out of the car and approached a small, handsome, shingled cottage. As he stepped onto the porch, Ed Rawls opened the front door.
“Come on in,” Rawls said. “The coffee is already on.”
Stone stepped into a large room paneled in old pine, with a field-stone fireplace to his right. Two walls were covered in pictures, oils and watercolors of Maine and European scenes and landscapes. Rawls disappeared and came back with a coffee pot and two mugs on a tray.
“Have a seat,” he said. “You take cream or milk?”
“Black is fine.” Stone sat down in a leather chair.
“Good. I don’t have any cream or milk.” He poured them both a mug of coffee, handed one to Stone and sat down himself. “So you’re a retired cop? I wouldn’t have thought there was a cop in Dick’s family.”
“I’m from the black sheep branch,” Stone said. “Since I retired I practice law in New York.”
“You look pretty young to be retired.”
“A bullet in the knee retired me.”
Rawls nodded. “So you’re Dick’s executor? Why, is Caleb dead, too?”
“No.”
Rawls stared at him for a moment, then decided not to pursue that line of questioning. “You gonna be on Islesboro long?”
“As long as it takes.”
“As long as it takes to what?”
“To find out who murdered Dick and his family.”
Rawls looked at him carefully. “And why do you think he was murdered?”
Stone shrugged. “I’ve seen a lot of homicides and quite a few suicides, and I know the difference.” Stone sipped his coffee. “And what are you retired from, Mr. Rawls?”
“You call me Ed and I’ll call you Stone, all right?”
“All right.”
“I’m retired from the State Department,” Rawls said. “Dick and I used to work together.”
“Ed,” Stone said, “I know who Dick worked for, and it wasn’t the State Department.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Oh, yeah. And why do you have all this security and why are you walking around in this lovely place with a Sig P220 in your hand?”
“Well,” Rawls said, “I reckon the folks who got Dick Stone might be coming for me, too.”
Chapter 10
STONE THOUGHT FOR a minute about what Ed Rawls had just said. “So you think Dick’s death was work related?”
Rawls nodded gravely. “Certainly.”
“Why?”
Rawls held up a finger. “One: This island has a population of fifty or sixty in the winter and maybe six hundred in the summer. All of them, local and summer folk, have known each other for years—generations, some of them—and the atmosphere on Islesboro is not the sort to engender grudges that end in multiple homicides. Two: Dick Stone was not the kind of guy that anybody could hold a grudge against. And three: I’m just guessing, of course, but I’d be willing to bet that there wasn’t a trace of any kind of evidence in the house. Am I right?”
“On all three points,” Stone said.
“And the weapon was silenced, right? This was a pro hit,” Rawls said, sitting back in his chair. “No doubt about it.”
“The weapon was Dick’s own,” Stone said.
“Well,” Rawls said, sitting back again, “if you were a pro staging a murder-suicide, you’d use the victim’s own gun, wouldn’t you? Lends plausibility.”
“That brings us to who sent the pro,” Stone said. “Any ideas, Ed?”
Rawls sipped his coffee contemplatively. “You make enemies in that line of work.”
“Which ones did Dick make?”
“Irish? Russian mafia? Islamics? Take your pick.”
“So you have no idea?”
“Not specifically.”
“Who would want to kill you, then?”
“Ah,” Rawls chuckled. “The field broadens. With me, you have to consider domestic sources.”
“Domestic? The Agency deals only in foreign matters, doesn’t it?”
“Well, not any more… not since 9/11, anyway. It did in my day, though, at least mostly.”
“You fear your own countrymen, then?”
“More than anybody else.”
“Why?”
“Let’s just say that my countrymen were not always happy with the way I did my work.”
“I’ve heard your name before, haven’t I?” He knew he had, but he couldn’t place it.
Rawls shrugged. “Possibly.”
“Why would I have heard it, Ed?”
Rawls shrugged again but said nothing.
“Come on, Ed. I can run a check on you half a dozen ways. Hell, I can probably get most of it by Googling you.”
“I suppose you could,” Rawls said. “I was running the Scandinavian station out of Stockholm some years back, looking forward to retirement. I got involved with a lovely Swedish creature who turned out to be a lovely Russian creature. This was before the fuckers all became democrats. They blackmailed me, and I gave them some fairly useless information, but a meet went south, and a couple of my people bought it. I was blamed, and they hung me out to dry.”
“I remember now,” Stone said. “You’re supposed to be in prison, aren’t you?”
“I was, until a few months ago, but a couple of nice things happened. One: The former KGB station chief in Stockholm told the Brits that I had nothing to do with the two deaths, that it was an accident not related to me, and the Brits told our people. Two: Even in the Atlanta pen I was able to do my country a valuable service, and a combination of the two things got me a presidential pardon. And a very nice cash reward, I might add.”<
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“I didn’t hear about the pardon.”
“Almost nobody did. I think they announced it in the middle of the night. It probably won’t be out until Will Lee isn’t president anymore.”
“And how’d you end up on Islesboro?”
“Oh, I’m a fourth-generation islander; my great-grandfather built this house, and I’ve owned it for more than twenty years.”