Son of Stone Read online

  Arrington forestalled any more conversation between them by taking Rutledge by the arm and introducing him to someone else.

  Once the flood of arrivals subsided from a river to a trickle, Stone grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing silver tray and circulated, mustering all the charm at his disposal. He was greeted, in most cases, by some warmth, and in others, by a trace of sleet. He would have to ask Arrington later what caused the dividing line. The eyes of the women invariably darted from console to chandelier to carpet, while the men, mostly, looked for a waiter bearing booze, and they didn’t seem to care what kind.

  A bit after seven, when Arrington judged that enough lubrication had been passed among her guests, she nodded at Somes, who produced a silver bell and walked around the house, singing, “Dinner is served. Dinner is served in the dining room!”

  The string quartet sawed away on some Vivaldi while the guests rushed the dining room and the buffet on the groaning board. Half an hour later they were distributed around the ground floor on furniture, the stairs, and on the floor, scarfing up filet of beef or wild salmon and allowing Somes to repeatedly refill their flutes.

  Stone shared a small sofa in the living room with a plump, beautifully coiffed Virginia matron named Vilia.

  “A beautiful name,” he said. “I’ve always loved the Lehár song.”

  “From my mother’s favorite operetta,” she said, smiling broadly at his recognition.

  “I once saw a production of The Merry Widow, due to circumstances beyond my control, entirely in Finnish.”

  “And how did that come about?” she asked.

  “Well, I was in Helsinki at the time, and I was one of at least two Americans in the audience. I know, because they sold us both the same seat. We compared tickets, and he wandered off somewhere.” He looked up to see a woman passing the piano who appeared distinctly of New York and not Virginia. She was tall, slender, and wore a tight, low-cut black dress with a slit up her leg nearly to the illegal limit. She looked vaguely familiar, but out of context. He thought about it and couldn’t place her. As he watched, she set down her flute and produced, from God knew where, an iPhone, and began snapping pictures of the room, in a manner more befitting a backyard barbecue than a haut monde Albemarle County soiree. She was joined by a lanky young man who reminded Stone of Rutledge, the icy architect, and who, apparently, told her to put away the electronics. She reclaimed her champagne and trailed him from the room, teetering on six-inch heels.

  Kelli Keane was having the time of her life. She had been to some good parties, but never anything quite like this. There were men dressed in red hunting jackets, for Christ’s sake, over their black ties, and women in ball gowns! Kelli had a very good memory, and she digested as many names as she could, for matching later with her photos. David was being a prick about the pictures, but she had snapped shots in every room before he stopped her. A change in the music turned her head.

  Two members of the string quartet had exchanged a violin and a cello for a guitar and a banjo, and they were executing an enthusiastic reel. They finished to a big round of applause from the guests, then recovered their original instrumentation and began playing “Good-Night, Ladies,” apparently the signal for the gentry to put down their glasses and get the hell out. The butler and three maids appeared, carrying armloads of coats and, miraculously, found their owners. Twenty minutes later, Kelli and David were in their rental car, headed back to the inn.

  “You were naughty to take photographs,” David said.

  “Then I’ll make it up to you by being naughty when we get to the inn,” she said, stroking the inside of his thigh with her long nails.

  Stone said good night to some guests then turned and spotted Arrington, who had been backed into a corner by Tim Rutledge, and Stone did not like the desperate expression on her face. Stone walked over to them, shouldered Rutledge out of his way, and held his arm out to Arrington, who took it and walked away with him. As they passed Somes, Stone said to him, through a clenched smile, “Find Mr. Rutledge his coat, now.”

  They walked into the library, now empty of guests. “What was that all about?” he asked.

  “Oh, it was nothing,” she said. “Just Tim being Tim.”

  Stone nodded toward the gun cabinet near the fireplace. “I hope those are loaded,” he said.

  “My father always kept them that way,” she replied, “but you keep your hands in your pockets.”

  49

  They lay on their backs in bed, naked, holding hands.

  “Well,” Stone said, “that seemed to go very well.”

  “Did it?” Arrington asked, sighing. “I hardly noticed. I didn’t have the time.”

  “Tell me about Tim Rutledge,” he said. “What did he want from you?”

  “Guess,” she said.

  “Was that all?”

  “Was that all?!”

  “Not to undervalue your virtue, but somehow it seemed more complicated than that.”

  “He wants not just my virtue but my house and my fortune.”

  “Did you explain that those things were already committed?”

  “I did so, and succinctly, but he wouldn’t take ‘No, not now, not ever, now get out!’ for an answer. You arrived just in time.”

  “Are there any other former lovers lurking about that I should be wary of?”

  “No, and he is included in that category because, for a year, you weren’t around.”

  “I wasn’t invited.”

  “Well, I was busy, I guess, and he was around. Constantly.”

  “Did you give him hope for the future?”

  “I did not. On the contrary, I actively and explicitly discouraged any thought of the future.”

  “Good. Then I don’t have to feel sorry for him.”

  “Oh, he’ll have moved on to someone else by next week—probably a married woman, that being his specialty. He’s known among the local matrons as ‘The Prong.’”

  Stone laughed.

  “Oh, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Arrington said. “We have a family plot in the local churchyard. You’re welcome to join us.”

  “Is that where you wish to rest for eternity?”

  “It’s quite pretty, really.”

  “I always thought I’d like to be scattered somewhere.”

  “After cremation, I suppose.”

  “Yes, cremation obviates dismemberment.”

  “Scattered where?”

  “Someplace beautiful. Off the dock at the Maine house would be nice.”

  “I liked that house,” she said. “The cousin who bequeathed it to you had very good taste in houses.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “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 s
aid. “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

  Stone 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 dollars. 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 che
st 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

  Kelli 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.