by Stuart Woods
“I think it’s best to play this straight,” Stone said. “The difference in the effect of your testimony would be small, and anytime you start deviating from the straight and narrow, you open yourself up to getting caught lying. I wouldn’t want to end up with a perjury charge against you.”
“Neither would I,” Forrester said. “God knows what the penalty for perjury is on this island.”
“Can you think of anything else during your evening with the Mannings that might help us at the trial?”
Forrester looked uncomfortable. “Can we talk off the record for a minute?”
“Sure.”
“I certainly don’t want to bring this up at the trial, but it’s the kind of thing that I can’t ignore when I come to write my piece.”
“Shoot.”
“You remember we talked about this dinghy that Paul had flown in from Barcelona?”
“Yes, the Parker Sportster.”
“I didn’t mention this before, but that dinghy can be sailed. I read something in a magazine about somebody sailing one from Norway to Iceland.”
“I’m aware of the dinghy’s sailing capability.”
“Does that suggest anything to you?”
“What does it suggest to you?”
“That Paul Manning could have conceivably sailed the thing back to the Canaries and faked his own death, for whatever reason.”
“That occurred to me, but it’s not possible.”
“Why not?”
“Because the Parker Sportster is still in a cockpit locker of Expansive. I found it there, unused.”
Forrester took a deep breath and let it out. “Boy, am I glad to hear that. I didn’t want to think that Allison could be mixed up in something like that, but…”
“I understand. While we certainly won’t bring this up at the trial, I think it might be very helpful to Allison if you mentioned it in your piece. There will always be people who would think the worst, and it might help her.”
“I’ll certainly do that. It’s the kind of detail that will make the piece more interesting. By the way, I talked with my editor, Charles McGrath, and in light of all the publicity Allison’s story has gotten, they’re more interested than ever in the piece.”
“I’m glad for you.”
“You should be glad for Allison, too; this kind of long, detailed piece will satisfy the curiosity of a lot of people. I know it’s going to be tough for her when all this is over.”
“I know it is, though I haven’t talked about it with her yet. I think she’s got enough on her mind at the moment.”
“I’m sure she has.”
“Have you talked with her at length yet?”
“Twice. She’s remarkably open and forthcoming; sometimes I think she doesn’t really have a grasp of what she’s facing.”
“I know what you mean,” Stone said, “and I don’t see how it would help to make her more aware. She’s been told all the facts and the risks, and if she chooses to be in denial, then who’s to say she shouldn’t be? Certainly not I. If her attitude helps her get through this, that’s fine with me.”
“Let me ask you something for the record, Stone, and I’d appreciate the frankest answer you can give me. Your answer won’t appear until well after the trial, and I’ll hold it in confidence until then.”
“What would you like to know?”
“Right now, at this moment, what do you estimate her chances are of getting out of this?”
Stone sighed. “I don’t really know how to answer that. There are so many variables here, most of which I have no control over, that the situation is entirely unpredictable.”
“Do you think there’s really a chance she could hang?”
“Yes, I do.”
“No kidding, really?”
“Really.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Yes.”
“It just doesn’t seem possible that this sort of thing could happen in this day and age. I mean, if she’d fetched up in the United States, she’d be walking around scot free, wouldn’t she?”
“I believe she would. I don’t think a prosecutor could get past a preliminary hearing in the United States. I’d blow him out of the water. With Paul’s medical records, his note-taking habits, your testimony, and above all, with Allison’s testimony, I don’t think any judge would buy a murder charge for a minute. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if she’d fetched up in Antigua or Guadeloupe.”
“I wonder, too.”
The two men sat silently, each contemplating the worst for Allison Manning.
Chapter
25
Stone sat talking with Jim Forrester. As they chatted he saw a taxi pull up outside and a woman get out. She seemed middle-aged, was tall and fashionably thin, and was wearing a wrinkled silk dress and a straw sun hat. The driver got two suitcases out of the trunk, took some money from her, and drove away. Thomas Hardy saw her, too, and went out to help with her bags.
“Well,” Jim Forrester said, “I’m going upstairs for a nap.” He got to his feet. “I think I might be coming down with something.” He ambled off toward the stairs.
Stone watched as Thomas set the woman’s bags down by the bar and reached for the registration book. The woman signed it, then seemed to be asking Thomas some questions. Thomas’s eyebrows suddenly went up, and he beckoned to Stone.
Stone got up and walked across the restaurant toward the bar, getting a closer look at the woman as he walked. She was, at the very least, in her early forties, he reckoned, and she had on more makeup than suited her.
“Stone,” Thomas said. “This is someone you might want to meet.”
The woman turned toward him. “Are you Stone Barrington?” she asked.
“Yes, I am,” Stone replied.
She held out her hand. “I’m Allison Manning,” she said.
“How do you do,” Stone said. Then the name sank in. “Who did you say…”
“I’m Paul Manning’s widow,” the woman said, “and I’m not very well, if the truth be told. However, I expect to be a lot better quite soon.”
Thomas went upstairs with the bags, leaving Stone alone with the woman.
“I suppose you’re with the press,” Stone said wearily.
“I’m not with anybody,” the woman replied. “I used to be with Paul Manning, but I understand he’s dead. Can you confirm that?”
“Yes, I can,” Stone replied. “Why don’t we sit down?” he indicated his table. “You seem to have been traveling; would you like a drink?”
“Oh, God, yes,” she breathed and headed toward a chair. “A very dry Gibson would be lovely.”
Thomas came back down the stairs, and Stone ordered her drink. When they were settled at a table, Stone said, “I’m afraid you have me at something of a loss, Miss…”
“Mrs.,” she said. “Mrs. Manning. And yes, I suppose you are at something of a loss. You’re representing her, aren’t you?”
“I’m representing Allison Manning,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on here?”
“What’s going on, Mr. Barrington, is that I’ve come to claim my husband’s estate.”
“You’re speaking of Paul Manning, the writer?”
“I am.”
“And you claim to have been married to him?”
The woman opened a large purse, extracted an envelope, and handed it to Stone. “I believe this will answer your question,” she said.
Stone opened the envelope and took out a single sheet of paper. It was a photocopy of a marriage certificate stating that Paul Manning and Elizabeth Allison Franklin had been married in Dade County, Florida, some fourteen years before.
“And you are Elizabeth Allison Manning?”
“Call me Libby; everyone does.”
“May I see some sort of identification, please?”
She opened her bag again and handed over an American passport.
Stone examined it, and it confirmed her identity. He handed it
back. “Thank you,” he said. “And when were you and Paul Manning divorced?” he asked.
“Never,” she replied. “Paul and I were never divorced; we were married until the day he died.”
“I see,” Stone said. He didn’t see at all. “And what brings you to St. Marks?”
“I read of Paul’s death in the papers,” she replied. “I told you, I’ve come to claim his estate.”
“And how do you propose to do that?” Stone asked.
She opened her bag again and produced another document. “This is a copy of Paul’s will,” she said, “leaving everything to me.”
Stone looked it over. It was short and to the point and dated the day after the date on the marriage certificate. He handed it back to her. “Mrs. Manning,” he said, “I’m afraid you’ve come a long way for nothing.”
“Oh? How’s that?”
“Paul Manning’s estate is being handled in Connecticut, and there is another, more recent will leaving everything to another, more recent Mrs. Manning.”
“Oh, I know all about her,” the woman said. “Paul was never married to her, not really, no matter what he told anybody. I am the only woman he was ever married to.”
“Can you give me a little background on all this?” Stone asked, trying not to sound plaintive, though he was feeling very plaintive indeed.
“Of course. Paul and I met when we were both working for the Miami Herald, some fifteen years ago. We fell in love, were married, and…”
“And lived happily ever after?”
She smiled sourly. “Not exactly. He ran out on me some years later.”
“How many years later?”
“Four years later, four and a bit. But we never bothered to get a divorce. Paul continued to support me, though. He sent a check every month.”
“And when was the last time you saw Paul?”
“When he left. After that, I dealt with his lawyer, in Miami.”
“Do you still live in Miami, Mrs. Manning?”
“Libby; please call me Libby; everyone does.”
“Libby, do you still live in Miami?”
“No, I live in Palm Beach. Well, near Palm Beach.”
“And you never remarried?”
“Never.”
“What sort of work do you do, Libby?”
“I write a society column for a local paper in Palm Beach. Doesn’t pay very much, really, but it gets me to all the parties.”
“So you live on the monthly check from Paul?”
“That’s right. Only it didn’t arrive this month, and when I saw the papers, I knew why. I called the lawyer in Miami, but he said he had received nothing from Paul’s office this month. So I figured I’d better get down here and take charge of things.”
“I see.”
“You’re a lawyer, right?”
“Yes, in New York.”
“Well, I guess I’m going to need a lawyer. You want to handle this for me?”
“I’m afraid I’m otherwise engaged,” Stone said.
“Then I’ll just have to find somebody else, I guess.”
“Mrs. Manning…ah, Libby, I’m afraid that getting a lawyer in St. Marks won’t help you in dealing with Paul’s estate. As I said, that is being handled in Connecticut, in Greenwich.”
She stared at him blankly. “You want me to go to Connecticut?” she demanded.
“It’s not a matter of what I want, and I don’t want you to think that I’m giving you legal advice, which I’m not, but it seems logical that the solution to your problem, if there is a solution, is not in St. Marks.” He wanted desperately for her to be anywhere else in the world but St. Marks.
“Well, shit,” she said disgustedly.
“I take your point.”
She stood up. “Right now,” she said, “I’m going to get into a hot bath, and after I’ve had some dinner and a good night’s sleep I think I might just get a second opinion on what you’ve told me.”
Stone stood up. “If there’s anything else I can do…”
“I thought the gist of what you told me was that there’s nothing you can do,” she said.
“That’s pretty much it,” he admitted, trying desperately to think of something to say to her that might make her go back to Palm Beach.
“Well, tomorrow’s another day, and then I guess I’ll see what I can find out about this murder trial. Who’s the DA?”
“It’s being handled by the, ah, local government,” he replied.
“Right. I guess I can talk to them. See you around, Stone.” She picked up her purse and headed for the stairs.
Stone went straight to the bar, picked up the phone, and dialed Bob Cantor’s number.
“Problems?” Thomas asked, ambling over.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Stone replied. He got Cantor’s answering machine. “Bob,” he said, “you mentioned earlier that Paul Manning had been divorced in Florida. Do whatever you have to do to find a copy of the decree and fax it to me at the earliest possible moment, please. I’ve got another Allison Manning on my hands.” He hung up.
“Another Allison Manning,” Thomas repeated, chuckling to himself.
“Thomas, please do whatever you can to keep that woman from ever hearing the name of Sir Winston Sutherland,” Stone said.
Thomas laughed aloud. “Right!”
Chapter
26
Stone marched over to the marina, jumped aboard Expansive, and went below. The saloon was empty. He went aft to the owner’s cabin, and found Allison sound asleep. “Wake up,” he said, patting her on the shoulder.
Allison opened her eyes slowly. “Oh, hello,” she said, reaching for him.
Stone took her hands in his. “Not now, Allison; we have to talk.”
“Talk? What about?”
“Come into the saloon.” He handed her a robe and went ahead of her.
She came in, tossing her hair and rubbing her eyes. “What is going on?” she asked.
“Tell me about Paul’s first marriage,” he said.
“What?”
“Paul was married before he married you; tell me everything he told you about that.”
She took a bottle of mineral water from the fridge, uncapped it, took a long swallow, and settled onto the sofa beside him. “He was married, that’s all. It didn’t work out.”
“When did he get married?”
“When he was a lot younger, in the early eighties, I think.”
“How long was he married?”
“Three or four years. What’s this all about?”
“Do you know exactly when he was divorced?”
“No, not exactly.”
“Have you ever seen a copy of his divorce decree?”
“No.”
“Not even when you went to get your marriage license?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Normally, if you’ve been married before, you have to produce a divorce decree in order to get a license. Where were you married?”
“In New York, at the courthouse, by a judge.”
“You went with Paul to get the license?”
“Yes, but I don’t remember anything about a divorce decree.”
“Swell.”
“Stone, if you don’t tell me what this is about…”
“The first Mrs. Manning has just checked into the Shipwright’s Arms.”
Allison’s face fell. “Libby?”
“Yes.”
“That bitch!” Allison hissed. “What the hell is she doing here?”
“She says she’s come to claim Paul’s estate.”
“Hah! That’s a laugh! She’s not getting a penny.”
“Allison, let me see Paul’s will.”
“She’s not in it.”
“I want to see the will. It’s in Paul’s briefcase, isn’t it?”
“How would you know that?”
“I’m just guessing. Is it in the briefcase?”
“Yes.”
“You�
�d better let me see it right now.”
“Oh, all right.” She got up, went into the aft cabin, and came back a couple of minutes later with a document. “Here,” she said ill-humoredly, handing it to him.
Stone read through it quickly. There were a number of small bequests to organizations—the Author’s Guild Fund and PEN—and to two clubs to which Manning had belonged, and the rest was left to Allison. No mention of his first wife.
“See?” Allison said. “I told you he left her nothing.”
“Did you know he had been sending her monthly checks?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Three thousand dollars a month.”
“Alimony?”
“I suppose.”
“Was it dictated by a divorce decree?”
“I don’t know; Paul called it alimony, though.”
“It’s not a lot of money for someone in Paul’s income bracket.”
“Paul didn’t make any real money until after they were divorced; he was just a newspaper reporter.”
“Let’s see, if they were divorced ten years ago—do you know if there was any time limit on the payments?”
“No, I don’t. Is this really going to be a problem?”
“Maybe; it depends on the decree, if there is one.”
“What do you mean, if there is one? There must be one, somewhere.”
“I’ve got somebody looking into that now. Do you know where they were divorced?”
“In Miami, I guess; that’s where Paul lived at the time. Stone, what’s the worst this could mean?”
“Well, the absolute worst, legally, would be if they were never divorced. In that case, she might have some sort of rights as the wife in either Florida or Connecticut—I’m not familiar with the domestic or estate laws in either. On the other hand, if they were legally divorced and we can get hold of the decree, it shouldn’t be much of a problem. Let’s say the judge gave her three thousand a month for life, or until she marries; then she’d be entitled to claim that much from the estate. Or he might have put a time limit on it. It doesn’t seem likely that the payments were pegged to his income, since he was paying her only three thousand a month; they would have gone up as he became more successful. Did Paul seem to feel any great obligation to her?”