Son of Stone Read online

  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

  Stone 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.”

  “The shotgun was processed for fingerprints, and the only ones found were those of my deputy. Rutledge apparently wiped it clean. Shall I return the shotgun to you?”

  “No, please give it to the butler at the house. He will send it to me in New York, along with some other items from the house that are being packed.”

  “Just one other thing,” the sheriff said. “The autopsy on Mrs. Barrington revealed that one of her ovaries had been removed, and the remaining one was in the early stages of ovarian cancer. The pathologist says that it’s unlikely that she knew. Whether she would have survived the illness would have depended on how long she waited to be treated.”

  “I see,” Stone said. “She had an examination in December, but nothing was found.”

  “As the pathologist said, the cancer was in the early stages.”

  “What are the chances of finding Tim Rutledge?” Stone asked.

  “That will depend on how well he prepared his disappearance. We know, since he cleaned out his bank accounts, that there was premeditation, but we don’t know how long he was planning this. We’re tracking his credit cards, but nothing has been charged as yet.”

 
; “How much did he take from his bank accounts?”

  “About two hundred thousand dollars in cash, from checking and savings, and a cashier’s check for half a million from investments, including an IRA. That check hasn’t cleared the bank yet. When it does, we’ll find out where he cashed it, and that might help us.”

  “So, he’s not hurting for funds.”

  “No. He left the station wagon in his parking spot at the university, so we think he has a second car, though there is not one registered anywhere in his name.”

  “Finding him may be harder than you think,” Stone said.

  “You could be right. In any case, I will keep you posted on any developments. May I have your e-mail address?”

  Stone gave it to him. “Thank you for checking in, Sheriff.” He hung up.

  “Anything?” Joan asked.

  “Nothing. The man is on the run, he’s smart, and he’s got money. My bet is he’s already out of the country, probably in Mexico.”

  The phone rang again. “It’s Sean Patrick for you,” Joan said. She handed him the phone and went back to her office.

  “Hello, Sean.”

  “Hello, Stone. Thank you for being so kind to Hattie while she was in Virginia.”

  “It was a great comfort to Peter to have his friend there,” Stone said.

  “We were both very taken with Arrington, and we’re sorry we won’t have her as a permanent friend.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Stone, when we left to fly back to New York with Mike Freeman, one of your pilots was kind enough to show me your Gulfstream jet. Mike thought you might want to sell it.”

  “I think so, Sean. The Mustang is adequate for my purposes.”

  “My partners and I have been looking for an airplane to buy, and I think a G-III might suit us very well.”

  “It’s a very nice airplane,” Stone said. “Arrington bought it a little over a year ago, and it had had only one elderly owner up until then, so it’s a low-time airplane. I’d be happy to send you copies of the paperwork she used to make her decision. Mike advised her on the purchase, so he knows a lot about it, too.”

  “Thanks. I’d like to see the paperwork and perhaps have our consultant on the purchase go down to Virginia and see it.”

  “Of course. If you like the airplane, you might consider hiring the crew, too. Arrington was very pleased with them.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Have you given any thought as to what you’ll do with the house and farm?”

  “We’ll sell it, I think.”

  “I’m not in the market for such a place, but I have a lot of very wealthy clients, so I’ll mention it here and there.”

  Stone reminded him to read the Architectural Digest piece, and they said good-bye. Stone asked Joan to make copies of the aircraft material and messenger it to Sean Patrick.

  “I think I’m going to go upstairs and lie down for a while,” he said to her.

  “Aren’t you feeling well?”

  “Just very tired,” he replied. He went upstairs and stretched out on the bed. He’d been having these periods of feeling exhausted since Arrington’s death, and right now, he couldn’t face any further work for the day.

  55

  Stone and Peter got ready to go to Elaine’s for dinner and met downstairs.

  “I’m going to go pick up Hattie,” Peter said. “We’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”

  Stone gave him some cash. “We need to open a bank account for you and set up an allowance.”

  “Thanks, Dad, I’d appreciate that.”

  “Joan will set it up on Monday.”

  They walked to Third Avenue together and took separate cabs.

  Peter wondered what this was about. Ordinarily, the doorman in Hattie’s building would have put her in a cab, and she would have met them at Elaine’s, but Hattie had said she wanted to talk about something.

  He got out of his cab at her building, and she came outside. He opened the door for her.

  “Can we walk for a little bit?” she asked.

  “Sure,” Peter replied. He paid the driver and got out. She slipped her hand into his, and he put both in his coat pocket. They walked up Park Avenue in silence for a couple of minutes.

  “There’s something I have to tell you,” she said.

  “All right.”

  “No one else knows, and you have to keep it a secret.”

  “Of course.”

  Hattie took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m pregnant.”

  Peter stopped and turned to face her. “But we haven’t . . .” He stopped, his mind reeling.

  “It was someone I went out with before I met you,” she said. “It only happened once.”

  Peter thought about that. “I want to help,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she replied. “I’ve already decided to have an abortion, and I won’t brook any arguments about it. If you find that unconscionable, I’ll understand, and you can go your own way.”

  “I want to help,” he said again. “Does the guy know?”

  “No,” she said, “and he’s never going to.”

  “Good,” Peter said.

  “I’ve looked this up on the Internet, and I’ve found a clinic up on First Avenue in the Nineties.”

  “What kind of clinic?”

  “Licensed, part of a nationwide family planning organization.”

  “Have you been there yet?”

  “No.” Her lip trembled. “But I have an appointment after school on Monday. Will you go with me?”

  “Of course,” Peter said, squeezing her hand. “I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

  “The way I understand it is, first, I have an interview, then the procedure is scheduled—there’s a waiting list—and I have to be accompanied by someone.”

  “That will be me,” he said.

  “After the procedure I’ll be kept there for a few hours, until they know I’m all right, then I can go home. But I don’t want to go home.”

  “You can come to my house,” Peter said. “I’ll take care of you there, then take you home later.”

  “What about your father? I don’t want him to know.”

  “There’s a way into the house through the garden. He’s usually in his office, so I can take you upstairs.”

  “We have to face the possibility that something might go wrong. In that case I’ll have to go to a hospital.”

  Peter thought about that. “I don’t see any way that we can keep you out overnight. If you need to go to a hospital, I think you’ll have to tell your parents.”

  “I don’t want to do that,” she said.

  “I understand, but you have to think of them, as well as yourself.”

  “I know, but I’m afraid.”

  “I know you love them, so think about what you’re afraid of—disappointing them in some way?”

  “Yes.”

  “If I’m facing something I’m uncomfortable about, what I do to handle it is, I think about the worst-case scenario,” Peter said. “What is the worst thing that could happen? Then I figure out what I would do if the worst thing happened. Once I’ve decided that, I feel a lot better. What’s the worst thing that could happen in this case?”

  “For my parents to find out what I’ve done.”

  “Let’s think about what that would mean,” he said. “What would they say to you?”

  “They would be shocked, especially my father.”

  “Of course, but how would they react after that?”

  “Once the initial shock was over they would be sympathetic,” she said. “And they’d want to know who the father was.”

  “Would you tell them?”

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “Do you think they would punish you in some way?”

  “Peter, I’m eighteen; they can’t spank me.”

  “Would they ground you? Place some sort of limitations on you?”

  “They can’t do that, either. If they treated me like a child
, I’d move out.”

  “How would you support yourself?”

  “I have a trust fund. I could get by very nicely on the income from that.”

  “You couldn’t take money out of your trust without the permission of your trustee, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Who is the trustee, your father?”

  “No, it’s a bank. They would let me take money out of the trust for living expenses and my education.”

  “I can help, too.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to do that.”

  “You have to let me decide what I want to do,” Peter said. “I have a bank account in Virginia that receives automatic deposits for my prep school fees, but I left prep school early, so there’s something like fifty or sixty thousand dollars in that account. I can write checks on it.”

  “I wouldn’t want to touch that money.”

  “It’s my money now; my mother is dead. Just think of it as a safety net.”

  “All right, I’ll think of it that way.” She smiled. “I feel better now.”

  Peter took her in his arms and held her for a moment. “Don’t you worry about a thing,” he said. “We’ll make this work.”

  56

  The group met at Elaine’s, and Stone’s first thought after they sat down was that both Peter and Hattie were unusually subdued. Normally, they would be talking a mile a minute, and instead, they were staring at their food or just into the middle distance. But, in the circumstances, what did he expect? He was pretty subdued himself.

  “Have you kids thought about where you’re going to live at Yale?” he asked, just to get a conversation going.

  Peter spoke up. “I thought we might look for a three-bedroom apartment,” he said.

  “Hattie,” Stone said, “you’re going to have to speak to your parents about that.”

  “I already have,” Hattie replied. “They’re good with it, as long as I have my own room. After all, lots of college dorms are co-ed, so it’s not very different from that.”